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The desks, a mishmash of transient styles, are strewn with stacks of files, half-empty coffee mugs, and a scattering of outdated office supplies, like typewriter ribbons and correctional fluid.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
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every year on christmas eve, my boyfriend and i go over to his paternal grandparents' house and the whole family gathers and exchanges gifts and eats dinner, you know, the usual. and as the years have passed, his grandma's level of patience has dwindled as the family has grown.
so a couple years ago, after a few hours of visiting and eating and opening presents, she was tired of socializing and wanted everyone to go, so she announced to the whole room, "i've enjoyed about as much of you people as i can stand" and made everyone leave
i can't think of a holiday moment more iconic than that
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Companions of Christmas, Day 2: Mrs. Claus
Mrs. Claus was once better known by her given name, Alba. She was the nymph of the silver fir tree, a captain in the retinue of the Greek goddess Artemis, and she first met St. Nicholas when he came to do battle with her Lady.
Nick was on a campaign to destroy Artemis's shrines and temples in his Asia Minor diocese in order to keep the Christians in his flock from “backsliding” into paganism. In these attempts, he frequently had to fight Artemis and her retinue, including Alba.
Over the years, Nick and Alba often ran into each other on the same errands of mercy, coming to the aid of a child or creature in peril. Although both were pledged to see the other undone, they found themselves allies in these ventures, first reluctantly, then enthusiastically.
Over the course of many decades and many encounters, Alba came to fall in love with Nick because of his kindness, generosity, and, above all, his fierce devotion to and protection of children, which mirrored her own. And Nick fell in love with Alba because of her unwillingness to stand by while the weak were harmed, the patience with which she sought to understand those who were different from her (patience and tolerance both being virtues that Nick clearly needed a lot of help learning), and the unmitigated joy she took from the natural world and its wonders.
Alba brokered a peace between Nick and Artemis (who presented him with her famous flying deer as a sign of peace and a means by which to better undertake his mission), married Nick, and now stewards the great fir forests of the North Pole, acting as protector and champion to the many creatures who find sanctuary there.
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Happy December, friends! Each year around this time I post up drawings of Christmas and other winter holiday figures, along with narratives to explain the practices with which folklorists and holiday buffs might be familiar. When stories exist, I use them; when they don't, I do what I can to piece together what folklore surrounds them to fill in the gaps (or, in some instances, defer to the theories of my friend and fellow narrative reconcilianist Benito Cereno). I hope you enjoy them!
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It is once again time to celebrate my favourite assassination attempt in literature history.
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Christmas Eve Will Find Me
Four: Finn
Somewhere Between Christmas Markets and Heartbreak
Athens, Greece
Christmas was waking back up all around them. Finn felt Sirius’ eyes on him as he went up to an old woman heating pots of spicy smelling tea while another woman set up their stand. Her smile was rather toothless and her eyes were the sparkling kind of joyful. She gifted Finn a cup with a small spoonful of sugar, pushing away his money and putting a hand to his cheek.
You can charm anyone, Finn heard Logan say. Mon Rouge…mon bijou. Une perle.
“Sad,” the woman said in English, swiping a gentle thumb beneath Finn’s eye—he was sure he looked terrible then. Sleepless and red-eyed. “No more.”
Finn’s throat closed up all over again. “Thank you.”
He turned back to their group, watching his breath mix with the steam. The tea was good. Not to sweet and full of clove and cardamon. He felt it try to thaw out the center of his chest that rung with who are you, who are you?
There wasn’t really any point in denying it. For whatever reason, Logan hadn’t known who he was. He hadn’t recognized the number—or he had? Logan had called Finn. He had called Finn, only to ask who is this? Who is this?
Finn wasn’t sure what they were looking for, or how walking around the city was going to help them find Logan and Remus—especially if Logan and, maybe, Remus, didn’t even know them. Finn had to stop walking and close his eyes against the swaying, sickening sadness. He just wanted him back. Before, it had been the most horrible need, but now it might be even worse.
“Warm enough?” Leo asked, falling in at his side.
Finn didn’t bother opening his eyes right away. Leo had already seen.
“Yep,” Finn said. He sighed and looked over at him. “Yeah.”
“The tea is good?”
Finn nodded. He took a sip and let the spices give that chunk of ice another good knock. Nothing.
“I’m sorry none of us could have prepared you for that.”
“What,” Finn began. “The love of my life not knowing me?”
“Well—yes.”
“I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for that.”
Leo’s mouth pulled to the side. “Right…”
“Le,” James called. He was standing with Sirius by a cafe table and gazing up across the street. Finn followed their eyes. A security camera.
“This is where Sirius saw…” Finn began.
“Possibly,” Leo said. “Be right back.” He put a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “And don’t wander.”
Finn watched him cross. Guilt tugged at him. Leo had pressed himself all along Finn’s back last night, trying to stop him shivering. It seemed useless. Finn had shaken himself to sleep, gripping onto Leo’s hand. It had scared him, the tremors. He’d accidentally called Leo—
What’s wrong with me, Lo? he’d said through clenched teeth.
It’s shock, Leo had whispered. He hadn’t commented on the mistake, just held Finn tighter. Maybe he’d been holding Finn together. Finn hadn’t even woken again when Leo slipped out of bed for his turn to go on watch.
Finn too another sip of tea. Another attempted thaw. He caught a glimpse of his wedding ring and then couldn’t seem to look away.
The church was hushed as they entered together. Finn was glad he was holding onto Logan’s arm, glad he had Logan to lead him, because he couldn’t take his eyes off Logan’s face. In his dark green suit, he was gorgeous. Winter, Christmas, green, frozen pond, strength.
Logan’s mouth had fought a smile. “Don’t trip us up.”
Finn couldn’t even remember what music had played. Only holding Logan’s hands at the alter. His brother Alex’s happy brown eyes as he’d handed them the rings. A squeeze to his shoulder.
They knew Logan had—died. God, what would Finn say now? He shook himself, he tried to hold onto the memory. Logan’s hands had been so warm, leaning down to kiss the ring he’d just slipped on Finn’s fingers and drawing awes from the audience. Finn felt tears in his throat. He brought his own fist, the cold gold, to his lips.
In sickness and in health. For better and for worse. For richer and for poorer.
In memory and, what? Forgetting?
Until parted by death. Finn had done no such thing. No part of him had been severed from Logan when he’d thought he was dead. He’d simply been dragged, by his very soul possibly, there with him. It didn’t matter that he had been walking around and talking. He felt very much, upon hearing Logan’s voice, that he’d just taken his first breath in months.
Leo had told him not to wander, but Finn needed to look at something else other than his own mind.
Down a very narrow street, just a few steps away from where the others were gathered, a small bookshop rested, closed just then. It looked like it had been built right into the city’s stones itself. Finn walked towards its window display and crouched to read the Greek titles. Beautiful typography, even if he couldn’t read it. He could see the way the shelves turned and folded into a maze within. If he looked past his own faint reflection in the window—God, he did look horrible—he could see him and Logan there. He could pretend. He could turn the shop lights on in his mind and feel Logan’s hand in his. Logan would have let him drag him around the shelves. Would have pressed him up against one and kissed him. What Finn would do to feel the way Logan kissed again.
And then the memory snapped. The lights turned off and Finn shivered.
Something cold was pressing against the back of his head.
Finn didn’t know how, but he knew it was a gun.
“I told you to stop trying to find me.”
Logan’s voice was right behind him. Finn’s mouth parted. His eyes unfocused, shifting away from the shop’s interior and zeroing back in on his own reflection. His own surprised brown eyes. He looked up. Up, slow, up…
Standing behind him in the window’s watery mirror, there he was.
After months. Months of thinking he was dead. In the pale, grey light of the window, Logan looked unreal. A ghost, completely imagined. No hat, brown hair curling against his neck. Even like this, his eyes were vividly green. Black coat. His gun against the back of Finn’s neck, where Logan had kissed him so many times. Finn dropped the tea. It burned his knee through his jeans but he could hardly feel it.
Slowly, Finn began to turn his head.
The gun dug into his skull. “Don’t move.”
But Finn did. He dropped to his knees. He put his hands up and he turned. Logan could shoot him if he really thought he should. But in that case Finn needed to see him one last time.
“I said stop,” Logan said, but he let Finn turn. The gun was right at his chest now. Logan. Logan had a gun on him, and he was looking at Finn with an expression that Finn had never seen before or at least didn’t remember. Logan hadn’t looked at Finn like he didn’t know anything about him since that first handshake back at college. Ten years of knowing each other inside out and suddenly there was this. Tanned skin, broad shoulders.
“Logan,” Finn said. He didn’t know where this courage was coming from. Logan didn’t recognize him. For all Finn knew, Logan would shoot. “It’s me.”
Hesitation. At least Finn could still read that on Logan’s face.
“You’re Logan,” Logan said. “The phone number. I…I see your phone number.”
Finn shook his head. “No. You’re Logan. Logan Tremblay.”
The gun wavered. If Finn was really smart, or had any sort of training at all, he would try to get rid of it entirely. But it didn’t feel real. For the amount Finn had been around guns—never—it looked like a toy. In Logan’s hand, his Logan, it looked like a toy.
“I’m—I’m Logan,” Logan repeated haltingly. Questioningly.
Finn nodded. How didn’t he know his own name?
“Who are you?” Logan asked.
“Finn. I’m Finn.”
Logan seemed to remember the gun. He raised it back to Finn’s chest. “Why do I see your number?”
“Because you gave it to me.”
“No. No, I didn’t know where it would go.”
“Yes. You gave it to me for emergencies. So we could keep in touch in case… In case anything happened.”
“Why? Who do you work for?”
“I’m a professor of English Literature at King’s College. In London. I moved there for you.”
“Why?” Logan fired the questions like an interrogation, but Finn could see how curious he was.
“For your work.”
“No, why did you move for me?”
Finn thought of Sirius. There had been something said about not saying too much. That it was too much too soon. But just then, Finn couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stand it.
“Logan,” Finn said softly. His hands were still raised, and he hoped Logan would notice his ring. “Lo, we’re married.”
The gun flagged again. Logan just stared at him. His eyes flit to the gold on his left hand.
Finn eased that hand forward, palm up. “We’ve been married for five years. Lo, something’s happened to you—”
Finn broke off when Logan dropped the gun. It rattled on the floor. Logan’s face twisted up in pain. His hands went to his head and he dropped to his knees right in front of Finn with a low cry.
“Lo?” Finn reached for him. Logan sagged against his chest, gasping for air. “Oh God—Logan, what—”
Logan didn’t seem like he could support his own weight. His eyes were closed, teeth grit.
“Logan.” Finn gathered him close, cradling his back, getting his legs under him to pull Logan into his lap. He didn’t care if Logan didn’t know him, he wasn’t going to let him lay on the cold ground. “Logan, can you hear me?” He looked up, searching for Leo or Sirius.
“Finn.”
When Finn looked back down, Logan was staring at him. Finally, a shade of green he knew. A shade that knew him. Logan reached for him. “Finn. Rouge.”
Finn felt his eyes fill with tears. “It’s—It’s me. Oh God—Lo, it’s me.”
Finally, it felt like when Logan was looking at him, he actually saw him. He gripped onto Finn’s jacket and touched his face. Finn leaned his cheek into Logan’s palm.
“It’s me, it’s me,” Finn whispered. “Lo—”
“Listen to me. Listen to me. Salazar—” Logan said, and his face screwed up in pain again. A sound of pain broke in his throat and his back arched in Finn’s arms. He grabbed Finn tighter. “No, no, no, listen Finn, listen—”
“Logan.” Finn held him tighter. “You’re scaring me, you’re scaring me—”
Logan’s nose began to bleed, a thin red trail down his cheek bone, but his eyes opened again. “Tell Leo…” Logan’s fingers dug into the skin of his neck, but Finn didn’t care. He only cared that Logan was looking at him, talking to him.
“What,” Finn said. “Tell Leo what?” Finn’s voice went high through tears. He wiped the blood from Logan’s nose. “Baby, what’s wrong? What happened to you, why didn’t you come home, what can I do—”
“Pascal,” Logan said, and then his entire body went limp in Finn’s arms.
“No—” The word came out strangled. “Logan, Logan—”
“Let go of him, O’Hara.”
Finn’s head snapped up. A man was standing there. Sandy-hair and with a severe face. He had a gun trained on him, held with two hands.
“Throw the gun,” the man said, not lowering his own. “Get up. And no one will get hurt.”
Finn held Logan closer, tilting his face, the blood drying across his cheek, against his chest and away form the cold wind. “Who are you?”
“I said let him go.”
Finn picked up Logan’s gun and aimed it. “Don’t touch him. Who the fuck are you?”
The man just laughed. “You don’t even know how to point that thing correctly.”
“But I do.”
They both turned to see Leo standing there. He had his gun raised at the man, but his eyes went wide when his saw his face.
“Jack?” Leo said. “What the hell? What are you doing here?”
“Stay out of this Leo,” Jack said, and turned back to Finn and Logan. “Tell him to hand over Tremblay.”
“Jack,” Leo said again. “Put the fucking gun down! He’s a civilian.”
“Then he shouldn’t be handling a service weapon,” Jack said. He cocked his own gun. “Let go of him, Finn. Set him down and step away.”
“No,” Finn said. “No.”
Jack grit his teeth and fired a shot into the air. Finn flinched down, curving his body over Logan’s. He’d never heard a gunshot in real life before. At least not like this. His own hand flexed around the handle of Logan’s gun. Jack was right. He didn’t have a clue how to shoot this thing. What if he needed to and nothing happened? Wasn’t there a safety mode?He heard cries of shock from the distant main street at Jack’s shot and tried to imagine someone getting scared because of him.
“Get up,” Jack said.
“No.”
Another single shot rang out and all three of them, Finn, Leo, and Jack flinched. None of them had fired it. Jack looked around wildly and Leo raised his eyes towards the rooftops.
Sirius and James rounded the corner on each other’s heels with their guns raised.
“Jack,” Sirius said, then saw Leo with his gun and raised his, too. He flitted his eyes to Finn and stopped hard when he saw who Finn was holding. “Logan…”
“Who the fuck was that?” Jack demanded, rounding on Sirius. “Who are you working for? What did Lupin say to you?”
James was positioned just out of view behind the street corner, but Finn could see him. “You’re not making any sense, Archer.”
Jack Archer. Finn carded his fingers through Logan’s hair, trying to think if he’d heard that name. Too much of his mind was bleeding bleeding Logan bleeding to remember.
“Remus?” Sirius called out hesitantly, eyes also towards the sky. Had the shot come from the roof? Finn couldn’t tell. “Is that you?”
“We have to go,” Finn said, locking eyes with Leo. “He’s hurt. He’s…” He looked back down at Logan’s face. It was relaxed now, peaceful even, but Finn couldn’t get the feeling of the way his body had contracted in on itself. “Please don’t die,” Finn whispered. “Please, Lo, I can’t, I know I can’t without you.”
There was no reply from above, and Jack fired off four shots, making Leo scream at him to stop. When he didn’t, Leo ran up behind him and disarmed him cleaning in three deadly hits to his shoulder, and elbow.
“What’s going on, Jack?” Leo asked, holding both guns now, pointing them towards the ground.
Jack scowled, eyes on his gun.
“What would Remus have told us?” Sirius asked.
Jack began to back up. “Like I’d give up what we know.”
“Did you know he was alive?” Sirius strode forward fast, gun raised. “Did you?”
Finn didn’t think of Sirius as calm exactly, but he did think of him as collected. He didn’t seem either one just then. He had a snarl to his voice. He looked like he was seriously considering killing Jack if he answered yes to that question.
“Did you?” Sirius shouted, and fired a shot of his own, just beside Jack’s head. It sent Jack running, with no weapon of his own.
The last thing Finn saw of Sirius was the flash of his gray eyes as he gave chase.
“Finn.” Leo’s voice. Finn realized, as he stared at his hands gripping Logan to him, that he was shaking again. Leo’s gloved hands covered his own. He’d put his gun away and he was staring at Logan. Blue. God, his eyes were so very, very blue. Finn had always been a little struck by that. Like water, though water wasn’t blue, was it? Like the sky in water. Though the sky wasn’t blue. Like light.
“He wanted to shoot me,” Finn heard himself whisper.
“What?” Leo said breathlessly. Slowly, he took the gun out of Finn’s trembling hand. Finn let him. “Shoot you?”
“And then he knew me,” Finn said, and Leo’s eyes widened.
“He did?”
“For a second.” Finn stroked the blood off of Logan’s cheek. “For a second, he knew me. He said tell Leo…”
“What?” Leo’s hand tightened. “Tell me what? Tell me what?”
“Pascal,” Finn said. Logan’s eyes moved beneath his eyelids. Delicate. Alive. “And now he’s…” Alive. Alive alive. “Now he’s like this. He said Pascal.”
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12 Days of Christmas - ACOTAR Edition
In the spirit of the Holidays, I will be writing & posting short stories about the ACOTAR characters for the next 12 days. Please note that some will be shorter than others and that this is simply meant to be a fun time for everyone that loves these characters as much as I do!
PS. I'm open to requests.
You can also find this series on AO3 - as well as all my other stories.
8th day of christmas - gingerbread house
CW: Explicit Sexual Content
No Crying Over Spilled Icing (Elriel NSFW)
Elain eyed the gingerbread house in front of her with something akin to misery. Only twenty minutes ago, when she had first taken the dough out of the oven, she had been immensely proud of herself – it had been baked to perfection, neither too dry nor too moist, with a beautiful golden-brown colouring and a smell so sweet Elain had fought herself not to eat the whole thing in one go.
Buttercream had been used to make intricate, delicate patterns on what would be the walls, as well as cute little tiles for the rooftop. Candies, too, had been used aplenty. It had looked promising. Beautiful even.
But that had been before she had realised one of the walls was cut too short – something Elain hadn’t noticed until she started setting everything together – giving the house a sort of crooked, haunted look that made it resemble more a Halloween decoration than a Solstice treat. The icing, of course, hadn’t helped either. The walls barely stuck together, and the rooftop was slowly falling to its demise. Elain watched it all unfold, unblinking.
A great architect Elain did not make.
When she had first told Feyre she’d be bringing her own gingerbread house – and not one of those sets the bakery sold every Solstice – she hadn’t been expecting a building made of dessert to be so damn infuriating. She was set to leave in an hour and a half, and she doubted she had the needed time to try it all over again. She doubted she could find the will to do it in the first place.
“What are you doing?” A deep voice startled her, her eyes finally turning away from the baked mess in front of her.
“A gingerbread house.” If it could be called that. It definitely didn’t look like one.
Azriel tilted his head, eyeing the house with a stoical expression. “Are those the ones from the bakery downtown?” His eyes flickered to hers. “Cassian had mentioned how he wanted to try and build one.”
Elain huffed, suddenly affronted. “Of course not.” Maybe she should have though.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Right. Dumb question.” He narrowed his eyes, eyeing the eyesore with curiosity. “Why is it…slanted, though?”
“Well, first the icing melted,” She explained, hating the way her voice wavered. “And then the wall on the left was too short.” Azriel nodded along as if she was making perfect sense. “And it smelled really good, so I might’ve eaten one of the windows and now it looks weird.” She dropped her eyes again. “By the cauldron, it’s barely salvageable.”
“Why not just take the side of the roof that’s slipping away? It could probably stand, even if it’d be a little crooked.”
She bristled. “Then it’ll be a gingerbread box.” He gave no indication whatsoever that this information alarmed him. “Az, no one wants to eat a gingerbread box.”
Azriel smirked. As if it were funny. “Calm down, princess.” He looked at the mess in front of them, going around the counter so he could stand by her side. “We can fix this.” He said, and Elain watched from the corner of her eyes as he came to stand right behind her instead, his arms going around her as he reached for the gingerbread in front of her.
“What are you doing?” She gasped.
“Why, helping you, of course.”
She highly doubted he was that innocent. His scent surrounded her, the heat from his body resting upon her skin as a gentle caress. It was all Elain could do to keep her eyes open, to follow his hands as he gently studied her creation. She could hear his steady breathing, quickly realising just how close he was to her. His lips were by her ear, his front pressing against her back every so often.
“Maybe we could do a tent instead?”
Elain frowned at the suggestion. It could work, even if it felt lazy to do so. She felt his hands on her hips, caressing her as she mumbled, “I suppose so.”
He seemed pleased by her quick acceptance, the feeling of his lips so faint against her skin, it was nearly unnoticeable. “Or just accept the defeat and do something else instead.”
Elain hadn’t realized she had closed her eyes, but at the sound of his lewd proposal, she snapped them open, promptly stepping closer to the counter and stepping away from him. “You’re distracting me.”
“Am I?” He stepped closer once again, pressing his nose against her neck, his lips a breath away from touching her fevered skin. “You smell good.”
Elain nearly whimpered “That’s just the gingerbread.”
He pressed his mouth against her shoulder, nibbling softly as if he couldn’t help but taste her. “I’m pretty sure it’s you.”
She turned around, ignoring her erratic breathing. “I still need to bake another batch-” She gasped as she felt his hands on her waist, raising her so she was sitting on the counter before she could finish her sentence. “Azriel, we don’t have enough time for that.” Truth be told, she was doing very little to push him away.
Azriel, of course, noticed that as well.
“I think we have more than enough time, princess.” He said, voice raspy as he stepped even closer. Elain wasn’t sure where her body ended and where his began, but as he kissed her jaw, the corner of her mouth, it felt like the most urgent thing that he stepped even closer.
Elain nearly whimpered as he pulled away, panting as he grabbed the hem of her skirts, pulling them up at an agonising speed.
Elain, however, wasn’t to be deterred. “Someone’s cocky.” She said, far too breathy for it to mean much.
He raised an eyebrow, scarred hands trailing up her legs. “Is that a challenge princess?”
Elain ignored the goosebumps raising all over her skin, ignored the craving that seemed to throb with her every heartbeat. “If you’re up for it.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” A smirk was all the warning she got before Azriel pressed his face between her legs. Elain cried out, mindless with want. Her legs quickly wrapped around his shoulders, pressing him closer to her at the first touch of his tongue against her center. She was vaguely aware of leaning back on her hands, accidentally spilling what remained of the icing on the counter.
She couldn’t bring herself to care – she reached for his hair with her other hand, moaning as he devoured her. He moaned her name against her core as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He was a man starved, licking her, and fucking her with his tongue as if this was both the first and the last time he ever got to do this. The feeling of his large, scarred hands pulling her thighs apart, the scratch of his beard against her sensitive skin, it was all too much. Azriel had barely pushed a finger inside her before Elain was tumbling over the edge, his name on her lips as she bucked against his mouth over and over and over again.
“Sweetest fucking thing in the world.” He growled, more to himself than to her. He was panting, eyes dark as he took her in. She probably looked like a mess, panting, hands covered in icing, legs opened in a lewd display of her arousal. Elain felt herself blush under his scrutiny, but any embarrassment quickly faded as he took her mouth, his tongue seeking hers. “Turn around, princess.” He mumbled against her lips, helping her get down from the counter before lightly slapping her ass. “We’re on a schedule.”
Funnily enough, that was the furthest thing from her mind. Nothing mattered – not the party, not the spilled icing, not even the gingerbread house that had somehow ended up splattered on the kitchen floor. There was nothing but him. Not as he pushed inside her, his length stretching her as if it were their very first time together. Her every nerve-ending was on fire, her body craving him even as he filled her again and again. There were only the sounds he made as he rutted into her, the gentleness in his hands as he pulled her by her hair, the wantonness in the way he kissed her.
“You’re making such a mess, princess.” He panted against her ear, pulling down her corset, his hands quickly grabbing into her bare tits.
“Please.”
“Are you close?” Elain could do nothing but nod. He had barely pulled out of her when she was being turned around, her eyes quickly finding his as he pushed back inside in one swift move, as if he had never left. “I need to see you when you come.” And then he was wrapping her leg over his hip, filling her even deeper.
He wrapped his lips around her nipple, nibbling on the sensitive skin as his cock kept pounding into her. The feel of his mouth, of his cock… All Elain could do was scream out his name as she crashed, coming around his cock just as he spilled into her.
“Fuck.” He panted, hips still bucking against her.
Elain giggled, high on his touch. “Think I still have time to bake something?” She asked, shamelessly pressing her lips to his chest, his throat, his lips, taking them between her teeth and pulling gently. He hissed.
“Not if you keep doing that.” His gaze roved over her before finally settling on her eyes with a mischievous glint. “And I don’t think that gingerbread cake is salvageable anymore.”
Elain supposed not, but she wasn’t a quitter.
In no time – and with a lot of effort – Elain was kicking Azriel out of the kitchen, scrubbing every nook and cranny of the counter and busying herself with something else. Something quick that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.
Or so she had hoped.
“Where’s the gingerbread house?” Feyre asked only a few minutes later, eyeing the plain gingerbread cookies Elain had managed to bake in the measly thirty minutes she had been left with. Azriel, at Feyre’s question, gave Elain a heated stare, a smirk blooming on his lips as he casually strolled into the living room without a care in the world. Elain felt her cheeks heat up, pointedly ignoring her sister’s knowing smile. “Had a change of heart?”
Elain cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders as she made her way to the kitchen. “Sure,” she said. “let’s call it that.”
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🎄🎅🏻 2023 Posting Schedule 🎅🏻🎄
We are thrilled to announce the posting schedule for the 2023 1D Christmas Fest! This post will be updated as fics are added to the collection.
We will add links to the fic when publishing begins on 1st December 2023. Fics will be released at around 5pm GMT daily, so do look out for posts and share the love!
🎅🏻 1st December: You Don't Have To Be Lonely Tonight by @neondiamond
🎄 2nd December: A Very Louis Christmas - Basic Beautiful Chaos by @silverstuff50
🎅🏻 3rd December: Does It Ever Drive You Crazy? (How Fast the Night Changes) by @loveyourmum
🎄 4th December: you're my favorite gift by tiredwinter
🎅🏻 5th December: its a holidate by @disgruntledkittenface
🎄6th December: Weather the storm by Evie_LT28
🎅🏻 7th December: Cat Got Your Tongue? by @yoursolosong
🎄8th December: Stuck in Midnight Traffic by @letthemusicmoveyou28
🎅🏻 9th December: Now my life is sweet like cinnamon by @lunaticcat009
🎄10th December: Good Things Come (To Those Who Listen) by a_momentwitme
🎅🏻 11th December: A Christmas At Home by @parmahamlarrie
🎄 12th December: Touch Me (Like Nobody Else Does) by goldensweetmemory
🎅🏻 13th December: Elf on the Shelf Surprise by @megz1985
🎄 14th December: Bah, Humbug by 5secsoflarry
🎅🏻 15th December: jingle all the way by @louisushis
🎄 16th December: Lights! Camera! Love! (Christmas is for Us) by SullenLarry
🎅🏻 17th December: The Twelve Dates of Christmas by celticsky
🎄 18th December: Apparently By Chance by @sweetcreature-taym
🎅🏻 19th December: You are my home, Harry by LouAndHarryAreMarried
🎄 20th December: The Busker by @chelsea-frew
🎅🏻 21st December: Baby, Please Come Home by tiredwinter
🎄 22nd December: Reverse Psychology by heartbreakwthr
🎅🏻 23rd December: You're Already Home by ladylondonderry
🎄 24th December: Have yourself a larry little christmas by enchantedlandcoffee
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Sasori: So I’ve been reading some of these Christmas story books that Deidara gave me, and I have to say, they don’t make a lot of sense.
Kakuzu: I agree. Hidan had me do the same thing. Have you read “How The Grinch Stole Christmas”?
Sasori: Yes! Good lord, never before has a book had me so angry!
Kakuzu: Right?! The Grinch recognized the greed and stupidity of the citizens of Whoville, and sought to correct their self-destructive ways by taking away all their unnecessary material possessions. How could anybody find fault with that??
Sasori: Not only that, but he was clearly suffering from a variety of medical conditions that likely caused the majority of his “bad attitude” and subsequently being ostracized from the community.
Kakuzu: Exactly! The green skin? Clearly advanced hyperbiliverdinemia; the man’s liver was failing!
Sasori: And his heart being too small? Neurocirculatory asthenia? Switching rapidly to Cardiomegaly? It’s a wonder the final scene of the story wasn’t at his funeral.
Kakuzu: And don’t get me started on the citizens of Whoville. The deformed facial features, the errant speech patterns? I could wager that their town was built on a nuclear waste site, possibly one where the radiation levels actively affected all live births in the area.
Sasori: You know, we should re-write the story so that it makes sense. One where the Grinch and everybody else receives adequate medical care to correct their issues.
Kakuzu: A splendid idea! And then we can re-write more of these inane tales as well; I’m sure the brats will thank us for our efforts.
Sasori: Come, let’s go into my lab and we can begin outlining a proper plot synopsis for —
Deidara and Hidan:
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Question question. Anyone interested in a Tim rockford headcanon for Christmas? The tim girlies (me) aren't very well fed on here istg🤕🤞
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TDIH: Jimmy G. Stewart's Medal of Honor
During this Christmas week in 1942, Jimmy Stewart is born. No, not that Jimmy Stewart. True, both Stewarts served in the Army, but this Christmas baby would go on to earn a Medal of Honor in Vietnam.
Jimmy Goethel Stewart was born in West Virginia, but he was living in Ohio by the time he was a high school student. He enlisted in the Army after graduation and was soon dispatched to Germany.
He met his future wife while overseas. The young couple had two boys together, but Jimmy’s life as a father was cut short when he made a “daring one-man stand” in May 1966.
The story continues here: https://www.taraross.com/post/tdih-jimmy-stewart-moh
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UNWRAP ME - A Frankie Morales Christmas One Shot
Summary: You gift yourself to Frankie as his early Christmas present, and he can't wait to unwrap you.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub. Images just for aesthetic, no reference to Reader.)
Word Count: 4.1k
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 - Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral F receiving/Frankie's curls are let loose.
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: Hot, spicy Christmas fun to kick off my 12 Days Of XXX-MAS, with that hot, spicy tamale, Frankie. 🥵 There is some Frankie Spanish, I've not provided translations as it's easy enough to Google if you're curious, but you can probably figure it out. 😉
12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🎄🖤
“I’ve got you something for Christmas, baby. But I want to give it to you a little early.” You call out to him.
You can hear the familial heavy padding of his feet up the stairs, as you slick on a coat of matte lipstick in the ensuite bathroom.
You pucker into the mirror over the sink regarding yourself, and smile at what you see with that devilish glint lingering in your eye.
You can only imagine what he’ll make of it, and that thought pulses hot through your veins in wanton excitement.
You spritz on a faint mist of your favourite scent - one that you know will make his mouth water too - and linger discreetly in the doorway, watching Frankie now rifling around in the wardrobe, completely oblivious.
He has his broad back to you, and you can see him putting laundry away in neat piles on the shelves inside the doors. His grey t-shirt rides up as he reaches into the furthest crevices of the wardrobe, revealing the tanned, fleshed divots of his lower back.
His worn, scuffed jeans are slung low on his hips and those muscles flex and ripple under his skin as he stretches, and your own mouth begins to water.
“Did you do the ironing?” You question, perplexed.
“Yes, I did the ironing,” he grunts, in a voice lazily mimicking yours.
You see him shake his head; those wild curls growing unruly at the nape of his neck. The faded blue cap is slapped on his head in a regular trademark manner. Even when indoors, Frankie can’t abstain from plonking it on to keep his waves under check.
“And it’s not Christmas yet. So, don’t think by giving me a present early that you’re going to get one early, hermosa. Sé lo que estás haciendo.” Frankie confirms, his voice being absorbed into the clothes, but you can hear him smiling as he says it, and that soft snort as he chuckles to himself.
“Are you sure about that?” You question, smirking.
“Si, bebita. I’m not falling for it. You’ve just gotta wait until-”
He glances over his shoulder, stops instantly as though you’ve put him on pause, and then does a slow full turn. His face is unreadable; his lips pursed as his eyes seemingly cloud over for a few moments.
Grinning, you beckon him over, but he’s rooted to the spot; his legs suddenly feeling that if he takes a step forward he’ll collapse prone into the carpet.
Frozen in all the possibilities of what’s unfolding in front of his eyes as he looks you up and down, and his cheeks start to glow brighter than Rudolph's nose.
Frankie swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry and claggy like he’s been licking said carpet all night. Your eyes lock onto his; just as cavernous and darkening, feeling like you can fall right into them as they drink you up.
You study his face; like a chameleon camouflaging against its surroundings, Frankie’s face works through every single shade of shock, astonishment and heated lust there is on the colour scale.
“Well, shit...” He baulks, tossing the wardrobe door shut behind him. “¿Es todo esto para mí?” Frankie questions, barely able to take you all in.
You can see him visibly sweating.
“It’s all for you, baby. Feliz Navidad.” You smile, stepping fully into the bedroom from the ensuite doorway.
“Fuck.” Frankie remarks with a look like he’s just been punched in the scruffy jaw and can’t quite comprehend the audacity of it.
“Are you going to unwrap me?” You ask, with a villainous smirk and he’s utterly lost for words.
Your body is wrapped in scarlet silk and velvet lingerie. Your breasts are sculpted to perfection inside a corset-style basque; the front lined with several velvet bows in the same colour that holds it all closed around your ample mounds.
All tied up neatly and tightly that you’re threatening to spill out over it at any moment.
You’re wearing a matching red thong, along with red lace-topped stockings, and your satin heels that match. A real candy cane dream, all shimmery and scrumptious before him as he licks his lips.
Your eyes sparkle at him through subtle, yet smokey make-up and red lips.
He perches clumsily on the end of the bed, somewhat remembering where it is from muscle memory, and equally missing as he stumbles, sinking backwards, legs buckling underneath him.
His hand navigates over his mouth, scratching at his grey-speckled beard and looking you up and down like he doesn’t know where to start.
Like all his fucking Christmases have just come at one.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Frankie questions, his eyes moving between your breasts and pussy each time he looks you over. Shit, he doesn’t even know where the hell to look.
You come and sit beside him on the bed, resting back on your elbows so he can run his shaky hands up and down the velvet and silken ensemble.
He tweaks at one of the bows, smoothing it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Well, you did do the laundry.” You chuckle, and he tickles across your stomach with those roaming, thick fingers.
“You look-” He stutters out a sigh, eyes big and a smirk on the cusp of cracking his face. He’s staring you down as though you’re a piece of meat he can’t wait to tear into, salivating.
“I know.” You wink at him.
Frankie leans in and kisses you, his lips running over yours smoothly and softly. Soft, gentle clicks fill the room as he kisses all along your bottom lip; suckling it gently before running his mouth across your cheek and towards your neck, inhaling your perfume.
The soft nips in between his lingering kisses from those puffy, pink lips of his begin to engulf you, and your head lolls back as he kisses along your jaw and throat, planting carnage inside your pores.
“Fuck, I’m so hard.” Frankie whispers, looking into your cleavage and then up at your eyes.
His dick, throbbing and swollen, feels like it'll fire off and fly round the room at the sight of you swathed in all this sumptuous velvet and lace, all just for him.
Your hand slips down to his crotch and squeezes gently over the denim. “Mmm... yeah you are.” You grin.
“You kill me, hermosa.” He whines, almost payhetically.
Your heart’s beating faster and louder inside your chest as you lean up towards him slowly; zoning in on his mouth and crush your lips against his. Groaning at the feeling of the way those fuzzy lips graze against yours, coursing electricity through your arms and legs like you’ve stuck your wet fingers in a socket.
You can taste his tongue and the remnants of coffee beans and spearmint gum, as he slips it into your mouth and massages it with his deliciously.
Fuck.
Taking his sweet time, Frankie starts pulling on the top two ribbons, slowly revealing more of that soft, supple skin that smells of flowers and fruit; thoroughly enjoying unwrapping his gift as your breasts spill out at him.
His dark, brown eyes flit up to your face now again to read you, to relish in the feeling of what he’ll find underneath it all; the reward of your perky nipples waiting for him, and that sopping, wet pussy that he can bury his face into for hours and never get bored.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Frankie murmurs into your face; the warmth from his breath settling into your pores. "All for me, all for me..." He sighs, beside himself.
You smile; a slow, insidious beam unfolding on your lips much like The Grinch. "All for you, baby."
The ribbons are undone and your breasts revealed to him fully; it’s like he’s seeing them for the first time all over again, and Frankie could just weep at the sight of them.
He runs his fingertips across them, and you’re watching as they circle tantalisingly around your nipples; the calloused pads of them feeling the tiny bumps rising around your areolas as they harden.
He smooches over them, slipping his tongue around the peak where he sucks it into his eager, hot mouth.
You watch as he flicks that wet, fleshy muscle in his mouth back and forth over it, biting down on your lip as he gropes and squeezes the other inside his hand.
He manoeuvres himself between your legs, sliding carefully on his belly like he would creeping up on the enemy, with a mouth full of your tits.
You pull off his cap and toss it across the bed, running your fingers through his mussed hair as he suckles on you, pulling a little tighter with his teeth, making you hiss.
"Mmm," you sigh out at the feel of it. It tingles all the way down into your clit.
He crawls further up you, running kisses up your throat and the side of your face as he gets close. His long, thick fingers claw up and down your inner thigh, skimming his thumb across the lace at the top of your stockings.
He hums out in dreamy satisfaction and it’s warm inside your ear. You love him like this, free to roam your body and play with it. You’re unapologetically clawing at him and wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him in closer.
You can feel his cock, straining inside the stonewash denim to be freed, pressing heavy against your thigh. Hear how he groans with need as you grind against it.
Your mouths run all over each other; absorbing those sounds he makes snuffling out of his nose and from the back of his throat, creating plentiful melodies inside of your ears that you can tune in to all day. Frankie FM.
His hands are roaming your body, squeezing, kneading, pinching. His lips part and his eyes open up as he stares at you as you feel his fingers trail down to your centre.
You can see the subtle gold flecks inside of his chocolate irises and can make shapes in them; find yourself lost in the galaxy of them, that’s how deep they pull you in when he’s this close and on top of you.
He glances down at his fingers pulling against the thong, and wrenches it upwards. You buck and groan as it grazes against your swelling clit.
“These, are the tiniest fuckin’ panties I’ve ever seen.” Frankie husks as he nips on your lobe.
You giggle.
“I could literally tear them off.”
“I’d rather you didn’t, they’re brand new.” You playfully scold.
“I don’t give a fuck.” He growls as he breathes against your cheek. Momentarily you feel a sharp tug and hear the lace tear with ease. “I’ll open my gift how I want. Esto es todo mio.”
“Mmm,” you whine.
He rolls onto his side and smirks propping himself up on his elbow and pulls a piece of the shredded thong out from under your ass. He tosses it over his shoulder casually and smirks accomplished.
"That's better," he says.
You’re spread wide for him, feeling the yummy tingles of his fingers blaze trails down your body, stroking along your arm, over your hip and teasing around your pussy lips; barely touching them each time he ventures there between your legs.
Ghosting over your labia and avoiding your clit; the tiniest of skin-on-skin contact that makes you shudder and claw at the duvet in anticipation.
"Frankie..." You hiss as the goosebumps flood your skin.
Breathing heavier into his mouth as his tongue swims around yours when he leans over and finds your lips again.
His index and middle fingers split across the outside of your cunt that you can feel is slick and warm, and then when he sweeps back up again, he gently nudges your clit this time, sending your body into a rhythm of tingles and shocks.
“You like that, huh?” Frankie croons in delight at your reaction, he watches your face as he begins circling his middle finger over your swollen clit; tapping at first ever so gently and then rubbing in tantalising circles and applying a little pressure more and more each time he does a three-sixty on it.
"Baby... ah, feels so good." You whine.
You marvel at how he can simply play you like an instrument, plucking your stings, eliciting different tones out of you.
You watch him bring his fingers to his mouth and suck them before he slides them back between your sticky folds.
“Frankie…” You're fisting at his t-shirt.
“What? What do you want, hermosa?” He teases as he probes against your hole, barely dipping in and then withdrawing and rubbing your clit again.
“Fuck, please…” You husk. “Need your fingers inside me.”
“Like this?” You feel him breach, a lone digit sliding all the way in, up to the hilt of his knuckle and then retreating.
“Frankie!” You grab at his wrist, but he subdues you easily, pinning your hands above your head and clutching them together in his other hand.
“Stay still, baby.” He smirks.
He slips his fingers inside you again, pumping in and out slowly, grinning at you with the lewd, wet sounds they make echoing around the bedroom.
“So fucking wet for me…”
You can feel it, the warmth prickling at your limbs as it starts to spread through your bloodstream. He’s stroking deep; you can feel it bloom deep inside your belly, that delicious pressure as he curls his fingers.
It’s beginning to get too much; the intensity of the deep finger fuck pulling and unravelling your seams slowly as you brew and bubble around the edges whilst Frankie stares you down like a lion stalking its prey in the tall grass.
He goes faster, the squelches louder, as he pulls your pleasure out of you with skilled ease.
“That’s it, baby. Come for me… Quiero que acabes para mí,” he soothes.
Your thighs shake as the pressure builds and then erupts, flooding your body with warmth and a tingly glow that makes you giggle through your pants.
He pulls out his fingers and taps against your clit with them as you come. A little trick he likes to indulge in now and again to watch your thighs go berserk as your orgasm is torn from your core and shunted into your clit.
“Oh fuck!” You cry as you shake and gasp.
His other hand on the back of your neck, massages into the skin as your own hands run the length of his tan face and around the back of his head. His middle finger keeps nudging and rubbing on your sweet spot that's buzzing and tingling wildly under his touch.
He then dips his finger inside your hole, drenching it in your slick and back out again, lubing it up and rubbing it over the nub with a slick, circular movement.
Your thighs are constantly quaking, pushing you towards overstimulation as he builds you up again.
“Frankie…” You gasp out on a muted whisper, the sound of your squalls getting lost somewhere inside your throat.
"You've got another one," he husks.
Frankie kisses down the side of your neck and collarbone, before reaching your nipple again and takes it in his mouth, flicking his tongue around it like his finger is with your clit, matching the tempo.
Your hips press up into his fingers, winding around and jolting as he works that magic spell on your happy button as you come again, muttering incoherently into his mouth.
"Si, hermosa..."
He then stops and squeezes both your tits together with his hands, and tongues and sucks the warm nipples inside your swollen areolas as he nestles himself between your legs.
“God, you’re fuckin' hot,” Frankie whispers. You see him reach down and adjust himself over his jeans, and you can see how hard he is for you by that familiar, ominous shadow.
He pushes both your legs up, holding them under the back of your knees, and it pushes your ass and pussy up to his face.
He wastes no time in running his lips over your wet, sticky flesh and tasting you.
Letting his tongue circle around your clit then dip inside your cunt where he can taste that delicious honey pot centre, before suckling back on your clit again.
He licks long, fat stripes up your seam and eyes you darkly whilst he does it.
“Mmm, baby.” You whine, fisting into his messy hair. Curls splay over his forehead and you grip onto his tufts behind his ears, tugging his face further into your pussy.
He groans out contentedly - he fucking loves it when you do that.
You can hear him breathe and pant around your slit drenching him, quenching his thirst. Warm air from his mouth is blown onto it as he looks up at you with those dark eyes as he feasts.
Your fingers weave through the soft silk of his hair, petting him and stroking as he feasts expertly without coming up for air. Your fingers tousle it before you twist it around your fingers.
You tug harder on his silky roots and he grunts in response as he gnaws on your clit, making your legs judder.
“Mmmmaaahhh!” You whine out, your back arching and your body twisting.
His lips are clamped around you; his tongue lapping ferociously, and as you’re coming, he make delicious sounds in satisfaction too.
“Mmm, mmm...” He ribs through his lips.
Frankie clutches onto your stomach, keeping you as still and anchored as he can whilst you thrash about; his fingers slightly pressed into your gut and making you ride that wave and feel it all.
He licks up and down, as one of your hands goes to your head like you can’t believe it; the other still gripping inside his hair and pulling him further onto you, sending your body into a sweet dance of convulsion as he delves deep with his relentless tongue fucking.
“Oh, ohhh… fuuuccck! Frankie!”
He reaches up and grabs your hand as your body trembles and begins shaking about under him; he grips it tight, locking his fingers around yours, and watches from between your legs as you come hard around his mouth, filling it with sweet nectar he drinks down.
The lace from the stockings graze against his scruff and get caught in it as you try to crush his head. It’s a spectacular show of fucks and oh God’s thrown into the air as your body succumbs to his tongue.
"Baby, you're so good at that..." You look down at him smiling, and beside yourself as he fumbles with his belt, pushing his jeans down.
"I know," he replies, smugly. He crawls up your body, his cock dragging against your folds and smearing himself against your skin.
You reach for him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he buries his thick, hard cock inside of you.
That single sheath of him into you takes your breath away, and for a moment it’s like you can’t breathe. All oxygen stripped from the room and floating in a void of nothing where it’s only Frankie.
"Oh my God!" You pant.
He runs his thumb over your bottom lip and you kiss it delicately as he slowly builds his pace; fucking into you with deep, grinding movements so that his cock can savour every inch of your cunt that feels implausible around him.
You cling onto him, feeling his skin burn under your fingertips; the muscular curve of his arms; the smooth paunch of his stomach under his t-shirt as your hands run across him.
You can hear his breath pelting inside your ear as he trails his mouth up to your earlobe before taking it between his teeth and biting it gently, sending your pussy to its knees in subjugation of him.
"Frankie, fuck," you groan.
"Feels so fuckin' good..." he agrees.
You feel those little butterfly kisses from his eyelashes where he blinks against your skin; the soft graze of his patchy scruff catching against your throat.
You both moan out in sweet relief; your foreheads pressing against one another’s, as you’re reconnected, feeling like you should never be separated again.
The tip of his hawkish nose brushes against yours; his mouth crooking into a smile as your pants increase again, and he feels that yummy tightening around his dick, thoroughly enjoying the show of watching you come undone around him.
“Harder,” you whine to him, as he dives deeper into you, feeling every inch of him pack you out; lighting up those sparkly neurons inside your head like triggers leading to an almighty explosion of Christmas glitter and embers.
He pins your hands down above your head, resting his full body weight on them as his hips pummel into you, becoming more intense with each deep stroke.
“Fuck, Frankie!” You cry out as he breathes with you, trying to keep himself under control as you call out his name, but it’s useless; he craves everything you’re giving to him right now - the looks, the sounds, the feel of you tightening and squeezing around his cock.
“You wanted it harder.” He puffs with that crooked grin you want to taste.
Your back arches again as he brushes against the sweet spot inside, and makes it vibrate heavily within you.
Your legs wrap tighter around him, cinching him into you deeper; your fingers reach for his as he lets go of your wrists, interlocking with his digits as he kisses you once more, your mouths exploring each other all over again.
He growls out as you lock your feet together at the ankles as he ploughs deeper and harder into you; the bed creaking and squeaking under you both.
He reaches down, thumbing your clit as he thrusts harder into you. Heels pressed into his butt cheeks as he works you up again, never really letting you wander far from the midst of another enticing, sweet orgasm.
You can hear the sound of his cock inside you; that wet, heavy slapping noise as he fucks harder, works his hips faster.
He can’t keep his eyes off of you, staring at your body cinched up in the basque; all those curves and angles of you accentuated by it, tits bouncing over the top of it.
You gasp, biting down on your lip, your head straining back into the duvet as he feels you explode around his cock again; those little tremors around the head before he feels you squeeze tight around him and then release again.
"Yes! Frankie!" You call with a dying voice.
He wants to come inside you, wants you to feel what you’re doing to him. What you always fucking do to him.
You can see the need he has for you inside of his eyes; frantic and desperate. You push him onto his back and sit on top of him, lowering yourself slowly onto his thick cock.
"Yeah, baby. Like that... oh fuck." He groans as you rock up and down on him, his hands gripping around your hips, moving you into a steadily, deep rhythm that makes him bend and break.
“Ride me, querida!” Frankie hisses, encouragingly. Unable to comprehend that this could ever stop feeling so good.
You twirl and grind down on him as he pushes up with his hips, pulling you down onto his chest so he can kiss you again.
He crosses his arms over your back and hammers up into you. Heels of his feet pressing into the bed as he fucks you hard.
"Oh shit, shit!" You groan.
He ploughs in faster, feeling your slick walls tighten around him and making him work that bit harder to press on through into your cunt as it strangles and contracts around him.
He’s insubordinately beautiful, clutching onto him as you call out his name again and again with each hard stroke that he delivers inside of your squelching hole.
"I'm gonna come, fuck... I'm gonna come!" He wheezes.
Groaning loudly, Frankie’s lost as he comes; like he’s been tossed into a new dimension where nothing makes sense or is recognisable.
He forgets how to breathe for a moment; all he can see is you pulling him back towards you, saving him and rasping out with him as you both combust in tune with one another.
His cock is still twitching as he pulls out, you take a hold of it, pumping him a few times and making him groan and smirk in delight as you feel his spend dribble out of you and seep into the messy, creased duvet.
“Holy shit,” Frankie chokes on a throaty gasp.
He runs his hand around his throat a few times, beside himself before you lean down over him; his body weak and shaky.
You nuzzle into him, planting kisses over his cheeks as his fingers fiddle with the velvet bows on your basque.
His eyes are sleepy looking, like he’s dosed up on some wonder drug called pussy and he never wants off this high.
Frankie pulls you further on top of him; crushing you agaisnt his chest, his cock nestled nicely between your thighs. Sweaty curls are stuck to his forehead and he's never looked so good.
He spends the next few minutes just lost inside your mouth, holding you tight and letting his hand reach down and have a generous squeeze of your ass cheeks.
“Gracias por mi regalo, hermosa.” He sighs, contentedly. “Best gift ever.”
“You’re welcome, baby.” You smile, running your lips over his cheeks and fuzzy whiskers.
12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
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Companions of Christmas, day 6: The Krampus
The Krampus was a rural giftgiver who would deliver presents to good Alpine children, but the naughty ones? Well, he'd stuff them into his basket and take them back to his lair, where they would be forced to spend the next year making toys for good kids.
They'd be released the following Christmas, but even so, a year spent toiling away in the clutches of the Krampus was a pretty terrifying prospect for the children of western Austria, southern Germany, northern Italy, and Bohemia.
When word of this Santa Claus fellow started getting around, kids in these regions, terrified of the Krampus, started writing Santa letters asking for his intercession, and Santa obliged. He and the Krampus had a rumble, and Santa successfully shackled the Krampus with the chains that had once held St. Paul of Tarsus.
Bound by the magic of this holy relic, the Krampus was forced to accompany Santa for the next few years, and in observing his captor came to see that his punitive approach to kids wasn't the best way to ensure their good behavior or long-term character betterment after all. Thus reformed of his kid-beating, kid-stealing ways, the Krampus was released by Santa, but he asked to retain the chains so that they would always remind him of how the best way to put right kids that are straying from the path of goodness, kindness, and charity, would be to practice those tenets himself.
He still has his avuncular sense of humor, and likes to put milder scares into wee ones, so expect to get a light whap with his bundle of switches, and a short ride around the room in his basket.
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K’s COUNTDOWN to CHRISTMAS - 12 days…12 fics
In order to kick off the official countdown to Christmas, I’ve decided that I will be posting a short story/blurb every day from December 14th to December 25th. In total, there will be 12 stories that will have around 1,000 words each.
You can find the list of these stories and their summaries below the cut.
I will fill them in on here as I post them!
I hope you enjoy and that these stories will help to get you in the holiday spirit! 🎄🎁🎅🏼
12/14 - Snow In the Country - Arthur Shelby
In which Arthur, (Y/N), and their son Billy experience snowfall in the country for the first time. Of course a snowman will be made.
12/15 - Home for the Holidays - Tommy Shelby
In which Tommy finds out that (Y/N) - a.k.a the one who got away, happens to be visiting Birmingham for the holidays, and he hopes that she won’t get away this time.
12/16 - The Great Snowball Fight - pre-war!John Shelby
In which (Y/N) and John push it to the limits during their annual snowball fight…and maybe they get a little more than they bargain for.
12/17 - A Kiss Under the Mistletoe - Arthur Shelby
In which (Y/N) finally manages to make a move on her feelings for Arthur…and finds the perfect way to do it.
12/18 - All I Want for Christmas is You - Modern!Tommy Shelby
In which (Y/N) tells Tommy that she doesn’t need anything materialistic for the holidays this year, and instead she only needs him.
12/19 - The Christmas Market - John Shelby
In which John falls in love with (Y/N) all over again as he watches her go around the Christmas market; filled with joy.
12/20 - The Perfect Tree - Arthur Shelby
In which Arthur and his family wait until the last minute possible to find their Christmas tree…will it still be perfect?
12/21 - Back From Business - Tommy Shelby
In which Tommy surprises his family by coming home from business just in time for the Christmas festivities to begin at Arrow House.
12/22 - Baking With the Boys - John Shelby
In which (Y/N) realizes that maybe baking cookies in a house full of boys wouldn’t be as easy as she thought it would be.
12/23 - A Silent Night - Modern!Arthur Shelby
In which Arthur and (Y/N) are able to spend a night by themselves; away from their children and the other craziness that the holdiays bring.
12/24 - Better than Last Year - Tommy Shelby
In which Tommy, (Y/N) and their children spend Christmas Eve at Arrow House the year after the vendetta is finished.
12/25 - The Greatest Gift of All - John Shelby
In which John and (Y/N)’s little family grows by one on one of the merriest days of the year.
———
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Mænd & høns | Men & Chicken (2015), Basic Instinct (Movies), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Elias (Men & Chicken)/Adam Towers
Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Meet-Cute, Christmas, Hugh Dancy/Mads Mikkelsen Character Combinations, Sibling Deaths, Friends to Lovers
Summary:
Adam knew he was the smartest and best looking person in every room he entered which made it much easier to reject the advances of anyone he didn’t deem worthy.
And the minute he met his newest neighbor he knew there couldn’t be anyone less worthy than him.
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