#kill santa one-shot

[safyresky]

Hello hi, sorry to bother. But i'm in the middle fo righting my own ANGST and everything is horrible but i had a thought!

Have you ever had the idea of an AU where Jacqueline just fucking dies at the day of darkness? Just straight up bleeds out to death and dies. Jack is a full on child killer and Blinter is now back to only one kid. CATASTROPHE for sure, and the entire rest of the story never even happens. Everybody would stay frozen for an ETERNITY, Jack would have to go to jail for actual manslaughter, the works. But this idea has me thinking about what would happen anyway.

Im sorry that this thought is just incredibly morbid and sad, but i'm in my fictional world FEELS atm, and im very curious as to what this would look like/mean.

Me reading this:

My fiancé when I read this out loud: ANDIE ARE YOU OKAY?? DO YOU NEED A HUG????

He then IMMEDIATELY ASKS ME WHAT I THINK WOULD HAPPEN, and he kinda let me use him like a rubber duck (because I've thought of a lot of "what ifs" on the day of darkness, but never this what if admittedly bc. Y'know. Magical healing springs and such) so here's what I've got for you on this fine angsty night! It turned into a bit of a drabble...whoops? Anyway.

Enjoy!!!!! I hope it kills us all dead!!! 😊😊😊😊😊😊

__

Jack succeeds in something he never intended to do.

He sees the icicles go right through his little sister's body, all three of them; he sees the blood. He sees the magic on his hand, he KNOWS that it was him. He sees Blaise and Winter make it out of the house.

He panics.

He leaves her there in the snow, and he runs, disappearing into his storm.

Blaise and Winter rush to Jacqueline. They see the blood. They see the icicles. They go into crisis mode.

Maybe they bring her inside and stop the bleeding, but it's too late. Maybe she bleeds out on the spot. Maybe one of the icicles actually hits her heart or another organ that is integral to being alive and she dies before she even knows what hit her.

It'd be nice to think that, wouldn't it?

However it may come to pass, Jacqueline dies. She's gone. Blaise and Winter lay her to rest in Roseterra, hoping that it was fast and quick and that she's being taken care of by someone warm and sweet in Rosehaven. Maybe Mother Gaia; maybe the Goddess herself.

What comes next is hard.

Both Winter and Blaise are overcome with emotion; they've just lost one child by the hands of their other child.

In one fell swoop, they've lost both their children.

Winter freezes almost immediately after the funeral. She's desolate in her sadness; lost not one, but two children because Jack is, in fact, wanted. She has no words. What can she say? All she can do is cry and sob it won't change a thing. It won't bring her back. Nothing can.

Blaise struggles. He now has to apprehend his own son for murder. Murder of his own sister; Blaise's dear, dear little girl.

It hurts.

It hurts to think about how this happened, given that Jacqueline adored her older brother, and he her. He taught her everything she knew up until...that point.

He knows what he needs to do. But he can't bring himself to find Jack and do it. There's just too many emotions. That's his son for the springs sake! But he killed someone. He killed his own sister, Blaise's little snow angel, and murder is murder and it's hard to think that maybe there's some good left when the brightest little sprite is gone thanks to his son. He's all out of hope.

Blaise knows what needs to be done. He knows what he needs to do.

And like he had centuries, millennia before that, he encases his heart in stone.

It's his duty to bring Jack to justice. And he will do what he needs to do to get it done. Emotions be damned.

So both Blaise and Winter are, essentially, frozen over.

And they begin to drift.

Both are frozen; both keep their feelings to themselves. they don't talk like they used to. They focus on their jobs and nothing more.

Winter does as she was meant to do. She keeps the season going. But the winters change. They are cold, so, so, so very cold. Bitterly cold. Temperatures hit negatives that should not be hit. Twenty, forty, sixty, all below zero. They're dry. So very dry. So very dry and cold and there is no snow; just hard ground, cold, cold, cold and frozen. A tundra with no snow.

The joy of the season is gone.

Blaise throws himself into his work. His duties come first. At home, he exists alongside Winter, both numbed by grief and their hardened hearts. At work, he does his governor duties in the morning, and devotes his afternoons to the search for Jack.

The search lasts centuries.

A week after leaving, Jack checks in, as he does in a better timeline, to see if Jacqueline made it. But here, in this timeline, when he pokes around for his dear little sister's link with him, it's gone. It's dead. The spot in his mindscape that once housed the bright blue thread is cold and dead. Empty. The wind howls; beyond the connection, there is nothing.

He knows what he did. He killed her dead. And he knows the consequences, of course; but he refuses to face them. He refuses to face any of the memories, the feelings, the everything that transpired when he flung his hand and shink shink shink and the deep, deep pool of red and the darkness where once there was light.

He stays under the radar. He avoids the Council; he hides. And he is DAMN GOOD at it. Blaise expends so many resources and cannot find the man anywhere.

The years turn into decades; decades into centuries. Blaise intensifies his search for his son, throwing everything he has, all his power as Governor, his connections to other Governors and powerful castors, The Council of Legendary Figures, the operation up North--but he cannot find the man who murdered his daughter. He cannot find his son anywhere, and were he able to feel anything, he'd be furious.

But his heart is stony; all he can focus on is the hunt. Doing his duty. Bringing his little snow angel justice.

"It won't bring her back," Winter says to him one day. Her hair is so frozen it doesn't move; her face cold.

Blaise doesn't reply. Ash floats off his sooty head. His face is stony.

Winter would sigh, if she could bring herself to. But she can't. All she feels is a sadness that is building and building and growing into despair.

The front door opens and closes.

Blaise doesn't look up.

Winter doesn't look back.

---

They drift further and further; they rarely see one another. Winter finds solace in the mountains. Longer and longer stretches. The storms surrounding Bianca's Range grow stronger and stronger. The peaks are obscured constantly, now. The drifting mists from the crystal springs themselves can't even break through the whiteout.

Longer and longer stretches.

One day, she leaves for her new home.

The house, silent before, grows more silent still. Long ago, they had dreamt of filling the house to the brim with little flurries and spitfires.

But that was almost three thousand years ago.

Now it is filled to the brim with ghosts.

---

Jack gets cocky.

Of course he does; Blaise hasn't found him and it's been centuries. He ventures out. Shows up to a Council meeting or two. Plots and schemes and harasses Santa after Santa. Tries to gain the recognition that should be his.

Denial can be quite powerful when you live in it for a millennium and almost a half. You trap the thoughts of what could've been, what you could've done together; what you could've experienced with her. First partner. First major snowstorm. Freeze drying. Taking back the season together. the things you could've done, together!

Down the thoughts go, into the deep dark recesses of his memory until they no longer emerge. He goes about his business, getting closer and closer to taking out Santa, and having some near-misses of his own with the man pursuing him.

But an opportunity comes up; one that's too good to let go. You cause a little trouble here and there, have these amazing standees made of yourself with your own holiday name, and suddenly the entire Council is up in arms. So you go; this will be a fun one to get out of, and maybe Mother Nature will be so distracted by the balance swaying, that she won't think to tip off the authorities. The Authority.

Jack admires Blaise's tenacity. The man has NOT stopped pursuing him. He understands why, of course. Fully. But before he can dwell on it, he shoves the thoughts down down down, as far under the ground as she was now, and continues to do his thing.

And that's when he hears about it. Well, two things.

First off, Santa is stressed. Work is too much and the wife is expecting and he is afraid. He is TERRIFIED even. Jack can see the fear on his fellow Legend's face. He's very familiar with it. He's seen it on many a Santa before. Many a poor soul freezing to death. Falling to their death off a slippery slope. Landing in a heap with three icicles deep through their chest, the blood pouring out--

Down. Down, down, down. Lock those thoughts away. Deep breath. Keep going. Escape Clause?

Escape Clause.

Now that's interesting. Even more interesting when the other Legends don't tell him what it is. That's fine. He's clever. He'll figure it out.

And he does.

And all it takes is a little messing about here, clever words there, frosty meddling on the side, turning Curtis against Bernie, the whole nine yards.

And the family.

Jack chuckles to himself. Humans. So easy to get them upset! Rile them up enough, cause a very upsetting scene, and voila! Trouble in paradise!

A brief segue before this, of course, to follow Santa and the redheaded brat to the Hall of Snow Globes. Waiting just behind the doors and watching the secret door spin; waiting for it to spin back around to get in. Ignoring the very familiar handiwork of the icy walls inside the space and going for the prize.

Bring the man aside at his lowest low, get him to say the magic words, and voila!

Jack was Santa now.

But it didn't bring her back.

---

Not that he thought it would, of course. He'd like to think she was six feet under his long lost memories, but that was a lie.

She was always there. In the corners of his eyes, gone when he whipped around. One room over, gone when he entered it. Ghosts of giggles past and whispers of whoops when she mastered a new technique. Always there. Always in the corners, just out of reach.

So maybe, he had hoped, just a bit mind you, that somehow, doing this would change things!

But it didn't.

She was still gone, and his parents?

As gone as she was when he flipped the script on Santa.

He had it all. He had nothing. And when Scott finally appeared, Jack would've willingly gave it all away and turned himself in--if the man hadn't cut him off.

It was infuriating.

A last ditch effort to fight him for the jacket; a guilt trip that went nowhere (stealing the coat was nothing compared to stealing a life), and they were back.

As if nothing had happened.

And Jack knew that his time had run out.

Blaise had caught up to him.

---

Mother Nature had told Blaise of Jack's presence as soon as she could. Told him he would be staying at the North Pole. He had a large window of opportunity. Mother Nature felt this could be it.

And so had Blaise. His stony heart grew loud; he wouldn't blaze in this time, no. He'd do what needed to be done.

He gathered the Elite Peacekeepers, the Peace Enforcers. The strongest of spell casters. The most ruthless of the fighters. He prepped his staff, making sure he had the right spells himself.

He covered all the exit points of the Pole; pulled some strings to keep his son from escaping.

Murderer, his head corrected.

His heart was silent.

Troops assembling, he made one last trek through the city, past the springs, through the Forbidden Forest and up the Valley to Roseterra.

Her mausoleum was well kept. It always was. Flowers bloomed around it; the most beautiful snow sat on the top, hugging the warm structure. It was all sorts of light blues and yellows, her name written clearly still after all these years.

"I've got him now," Blaise said. "I'll bring you justice, snow angel. I love you."

He presses his forehead against the writing, his hand warm on the inscription. His eyes pricked, but no tears fell; they hadn't in years. He placed his flowers down, the orange lilies and red roses contrasting beside the fresh blue roses and white lilies, little red snow berries in between.

Good, he thought. Winter's okay.

And without a second thought, he kisses the tomb and turns to leave, the moment he had been waiting for for fourteen hundred years finally coming.

---

The Elfficers get him; the Council has him in their grasp. There is no escape. And before anyone can do anything, the Peace Enforcers come in, a stony man leading them, a staff glowing in his hand. His face is steely. Determined. Familiar. Older.

"That's enough," he says, his voice hard and full of a cold rage. "It's over."

"I know," Jack replies, as the Peace Enforcers spin circles of magic and capture him.

He's brought in, finally. Blaise does Santa a kindness and thaws his relatives. He doesn't say anything to the man. Leaves before he can see the family celebrate, together. He doesn't need to see that. He doesn't want to.

Outside, he taps his staff on the floor. It glows a multitude of colours, and Jack can feel so many magical traps and seals settle on him.

The fight is over. Neither sprite have any of it left in them.

And Jack is brought to justice.

He escapes, of course. Multiple times.

But Blaise catches him each time, patching the flaw.

The rehabilitation programs don't work. He keeps trying and trying to escape and a prison, a prison akin to the mortal ones, is made just for Jack.

There are a few more escapes, but they lead nowhere. He's caught each time. Until finally, he stays put. Makes himself comfortable, freezes the building solid with him inside. Brought to justice. (But it didn't bring her back).

Up in the mountains, Winter manages a sigh when she hears the news. Brought to justice. But like she had known the weeks after her darling little girl had passed, like she had told Blaise what felt like eons ago but also, like it was just yesterday, it hadn't brought her back.

And Blaise sits in the empty home, the dust and cobwebs clogging up the surfaces and corners. A sad wind blows through the desolate halls, echoing from bare room to bare room, wailing. He sits at the faded and worn chair at his desk.

He brought Jack in. He caught his daughter's killer. He brought justice.

But it didn't bring her back.

Jacqueline was still gone.

Winter was still gone.

Jack was gone.

They were all still gone, so far gone, and Blaise knew deep down, that he, too was gone.

And nothing could bring him back.

Nothing could bring any of them back.

Not even him.

---

(Comfortably hidden away in the East, The Man chuckles to himself, leaning back in his plush armchair and throwing his feet up on the ottoman below him, a roaring fire crackling in the fireplace. He chuckles to himself. He had heard the news. Blaise had lost everything.

The Man's lips quirked into a sneer of a smile. A simple curse was all it took; and a little bit of time, and boom. Blaise's life? Ruined. The Man closed his eyes, satisfied at last.

He had done it.)

#frowny shots #smile shots #dani writes #tsc #tsc3 #crystal springs #cs #to put this in the tag or not....hmmm...ah what the hell ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ #the santa clause 3 #ENJOY THE ANGST #writing blaise visiting jacqueline's grave made me cry and that is not a joke or hyperbole. wholly fuck. #ANDIE YOU HAVE KILLED ME DEAD WITH THIS PROMPT. I HOPE IT DOES THE SAME TO YOU TOO #THEN WE CAN BOTH CHILL WITH TINY JACQUELINE IN THIS NICE SNOWY FLOWERY GRAVE OF ANGST :) #ask box shenanigans #i'd guess this is a solid uh. 2.5k #GOD WHAT A PROMPT #I;VE THOUGHT OF ALL SORTS OF POSSIBILITIES POST DOD BUT NEVER THIS ONE #SO WHEN I GOT TO THINKING AND RICHARD PROMPTED ME? HOLY FUCK. KILLED HIM DEAD.. KILLED ME DEAD. KILLED JACQUELINE DEAD #WOW! I'm gonna go play more hades now and try to forget the angst I have wrought #jack frost #the frosts #jacqueline frost #blinter #well. nega blinter lmao #they wouldn't divorce but they wouldn't support one another and they'd just drift apart as a result! #might make a happier sequel to this. we'll see! #upon posting this. that is NOT where i wanted the read more #but it'll do #i kinda like it there better #anyway time to go cry and play hades! goodnight everybody!

[avis-writeshq]

01 — better than revenge

summary: “she’s not a saint, no, she’s not what you think. she’s an actress.”  pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn warnings: fluff, angst with a happy ending, Lila is a real piece of work here, VERY CANON COMPLIANT, Spencer’s a bit of an ass :( wc: 10.4k a/n: special mention to @astrophileous for beta reading MWAH SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

“Hey kid, wheels up in thirty.” Derek nods towards you, dropping a case file on your desk. 

You raise an eyebrow, flicking open the case file to the first page. A small laugh of disbelief leaves your lips. “Ooh, Los Angeles, media capital of the world. What’s the occasion?”

“Three murders, all shot in the head executional style.” 

Your face falls into a grimace as you grab your go-bag and tuck the file under your arm, following the rest of the team to the jet. “Spence and Gideon are there already, right? Talk about timing.”

Elle can’t help but grin at your words, slinking an arm over your shoulder. “Looks like you’ll see loverboy a lot sooner than you think.”

A shriek of betrayal leaves your lips as you throw her arm off of you. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Sure you don’t,” JJ all but cackles as she boards the plane, grinning the entire way. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” you grumble, dropping your things on one of the seats in the jet. “Seriously, I mean it. I know how to get away with murder.”

Hotch raises an eyebrow at you, his gaze that of a disappointed yet amused father. “Not the brightest thing to say while you’re in a room full of FBI agents.”

Elle lets out a ‘hah!’ as she sits across from you, crossing one leg over the other as she grins. “Get comfortable, buttercup, six hour flight and you’re not going anywhere.”

“Assholes.” You roll your eyes teasingly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you turn to your case files. “And it’s not like that.”

“Oh, of course not,” Elle snickers, “you’re just friends.”

You throw a pen at her and it bounces off her leg harmlessly. “I can smell the sarcasm.”

“You’ll be smelling more of it,” Derek laughs, ruffling your hair. “Sit tight, kid, we’re in for a long flight.”

Once everyone was settled and the jet was high in the air, the team began to look through the files with Garcia on speaker as usual. 

“First two victims, Wally Melman and Chloe Harris,” You recite dutifully, glancing over the grotesque crime scene images. “Seems like they were both killed in public places.”

“Chloe was killed while walking her dog on the beach in Santa Monica which she did every morning, and Wally was killed outside of a massage parlour,” JJ reiterates, sitting down with a cup of tea in her hand. 

“In Culver City,” Derek adds. 

“Which he went to every Tuesday,” Elle continues.

Derek looks to the rest of the team, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, if he knows their schedules, maybe that means he follows his victims for a while.”

“And not a single witness. So we know this UnSub can blend in,” Hotch mutters. “Regardless of the location, he has the ability to hide in plain sight.”

“So, he’s meticulous.” Elle nods, her eyes drifting from Hotch to the case file. 

“The media is calling Natalie Ryan’s murder the biggest celebrity homicide since Sharon Tate,” JJ adds, looking through the images of the newspaper clippings that were sent to her laptop.

“Great,” You muse, although frustration is clear in your voice. “What does that mean for us?”

Hotch lets out a sigh. “That everybody will be watching.”

***

“This guy is an assassin?” Detective Kim asks with disbelief as the rest of the team reiterates their thoughts once they were in the police department. 

“When you look at the victimology, there’s no obvious links,” Morgan points out. “All the kills were clean except in the instance of the last victim, Jeremy Collins.”

You nod, tucking a strand of hair as you reference the case files. “There’s absolutely no evidence left at the crime scene. Labs have found zero DNA, no manifestation of psychosexual release, and from what we can tell there’s no detectable signature of any kind. These kills are straight forward, almost like he’s on a mission.”

“Remember, our profiles are formulated not just by what’s present at the scene but also what’s absent,” Gideon says to Detective Kim.

“From all the evidence that we’ve gathered, we believe you’re looking for a Type Four Assassin,” Elle explains.

“Type Four?” 

Spencer immediately jumps in to explain, gesticulating throughout his explanation. “Type One’s are political assassins like John Wilkes Booth. Type Two’s are egocentrics looking for simple recognition.”

“Type Three’s are psychopaths,” Hotch continues, “cold-blooded killers who leave far messier scenes. Type Four, our UnSub, suffers from a major mental disorder and is frequently delusional.”

“The closer we come to figuring out that delusion, the closer we’ll get to finding the UnSub,” Reid points out. 

Everyone is left to their own thoughts and you look over to Spencer, a soft grin on your face. “How was your father-son bonding time?”

Spencer gives you a pointed look, but a soft laugh leaves his lips. “It was… fine.”

“Fine? Out of everyone on the team, Gideon chose you to present a talk about behavioural analysis and profiling to the LAPD. You love conferences. C’mon, give me something!” You nudge his shoulder gently. 

“We uh.. we went to an art gallery the other day. We met a movie star, so that was cool…” his cheeks are dusted with a soft pink as he talks and your curiosity only increases. 

“A movie star, huh? Look at you, mingling with the high and mighty.” You poke his cheek with a laugh. “Tell me about them.”

He flushes at the contact, clearing his throat. “Um… her name is Lila Archer. Have you heard of her? She’s–”

“Reid, (L/N), we’re meeting with someone,” Derek cuts in, nodding towards the both of you.

You blink in confusion as you follow him to another room. “Suspect?”

“Someone received a note,” Derek says quickly, glancing over at the note in Elle’s hands. “On a newspaper clipping of the latest murder.”

“Lila?”

A blonde woman was sitting in the next room over, her legs crossed over as she waits. Her eyes light up in recognition and she stands up. You can’t help but be impressed as you give her a quick once over. She’s gorgeous, exactly what you expect from a famous movie star. 

“I’m Agent (L/N),” You say gently, moving from your spot next to Spencer and holding your hand out. “This is Agent Morgan and I’m assuming you already know Doctor Reid. I understand that you received a note this morning?”

She wearily shakes your hand, her blue eyes flitting between you and Reid. “Yeah.”

“We just have a few questions to ask. We know that these things are sensitive, but we promise we’ll try to make the situation as easy as possible for you.” You shoot her a kind smile, excusing her weariness for fear or anxiety. “Is that alright?”

“Sure.” She respond curtly, shooting a smile towards Spencer before walking past you.

“Uh… okay?” You let out a little laugh in confusion and Derek raises an eyebrow at you.

“What was that about?” He asks, frowning.

You shrug your shoulders, watching as Spencer leads her to an empty desk. “Trust me, I have no idea. Maybe she’s just nervous and wants to talk to a familiar face.”

Derek hums in thought. “Maybe. But usually victims like this are more willing to speak to someone of the same gender. It’s strange that she was so direct to you.”

“She’s been through a traumatic experience. If I got a newspaper clipping with a message written in blood, I probably wouldn’t be too thrilled meeting new people either,” You defend, pursing your lips. “She’s probably just… scared, right?”

He doesn’t respond, moving to follow Spencer and Lila further into the police department. A few questions were asks about her relationship with the other victims, only to find that she was in fact the connection between the other victims. Wally Melman was a producer who Lila met with a few times to discuss a role, only for him to cast Natalie Ryan instead. Chloe Harris looked an awful lot like Lila, so it was likely that the UnSub got rid of her in order to ‘ice-out’ the competition. 

“(L/N), may I talk to you for a moment?” Hotch asks quickly, waving you over. 

You blink in confusion but nod, walking over to where he stands by the desk. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I want you to try and get as much information from Lila as possible.” He gestures to where Lila sits in one of the victim waiting rooms. “This is your area of expertise. Try and find out if there’s any distinct information that she’s given to anyone so that we can track the UnSub.”

“Got it.” You offer a smile, fixing your shirt as you agree. “I’ll update you if I get any new information.”

You make your way over to where Lila was sitting, trying to look as friendly as possible. “Hey, Lila. Are you alright? Can I get you anything?”

She glances over you for a second, looking you up and down before shaking her head. “I’m fine. Where’s Spencer?”

Your brows furrow at his words. “Doctor Reid…? He’s currently going through the timeline of events with our colleagues. In the meantime, I was hoping to ask a few questions, maybe shed some light on the entire situation.”

She raises an eyebrow before nodding. “Okay.”

“Alright…” you clear your throat, taking a seat across from her. “You mentioned that you receive a bowl of red anemones on the seventh of every month. Do you mind… telling me why you like those flowers so much?”

She shrugs dismissively, running a hand through her blonde hair. “They’re pretty. I like the colour.”

You nod slowly, writing that down in your notes. “Well that’s understandable; they’re very beautiful flowers. But they’re a little uncommon as a favourite flower, don’t you think? If you like the colour, a more common favourite flower would be poppies or roses… are you sure there isn’t another reason? The meaning behind red anemones is forsaken love and death… does that intrigue you at all?”

She scoffs, “are you trying to accuse me of something?”

“Not at all,” you say quickly, “I apologise if it comes off that way. I’m just trying to find out as much as possible about the entire situation. For all we know, those flowers could have been sent by the UnSub.”

A short silence lulls in the room as well as an awkward tension. So, you try to take things from another angle. 

“I love hydrangeas,” you say gently, a small smile on your lips. “I like the way they’re always bunched together and the colours are beautiful. Only a few people know that I like them though. My close friend and colleagues, my family… do you remember telling anyone about your favourite flower?”

She’s quiet for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know.”

Your face falls and you press a little more. “Are you sure you don’t remember? Maybe… maybe your manager, or a friend of yours?”

“I said ‘I don’t know’, okay?” She snaps, her hands balling into fists as she glares at you. “God, it’s not that hard to understand.”

You lean back in your chair, your gaze hardening. “I understand that this is difficult for you, but any information–”

“I don’t have any information!” Lila huffs, her hands placed in her lap. “Are you stupid or something?”

“The likelihood of these people being murdered because of you is incredibly high,” You say sharply, shutting your notebook. “If you’re withholding information from us it could prove detrimental to the investigation. I’m only trying to do my job. Asking you questions is part of my job.”

Her lips twitch at your words and she scowls. “I already told you I don’t remember.”

“Not remembering and not knowing are two different things, Ms Archer.” You place your card on the table. “If you remember anything, please give me a call.”

You get up from your seat, heading to the door, only to see that it was wide open with Derek and Spencer standing at the doorway. In seconds, Lila’s gaze softens and she runs out of the room, sniffling as she does. Your gaze follows her as she runs out of the police station, a look of disbelief on your features.

“What the…”

“Seriously (Y/N)?” Spencer demands, a frown on his face. 

You gape at his words. “What are you–”

He cuts you off, running after Lila. Derek raises an eyebrow in their direction before turning to you. 

“You okay, pretty girl?” Derek asks gently, patting your shoulder. 

“Honestly? I have no idea,” You confess quietly, biting your lip. “I’ve never seen him get so…”

“Upset? Angry?” he finishes, a small laugh leaving his lips. “You and me both. Look, kid, it’s not your fault. She was clearly being dismissive of your questions and she needed a reality check.”

“It’s not like I’ve never spoken that way when interrogating someone before,” You point out, brows furrowed in frustration. “Even then, Spencer has never had an issue with it. I just– I don’t understand what’s got him so worked up.”

Derek can’t help but laugh. “You’re a profiler. Isn’t it obvious?”

You pause for a moment, thinking through their interaction. “He has a crush on her, doesn’t he? He likes her. Of course he does. Brilliant, now he’s involved.”

Derek pats you on the back sympathetically. “Come on, pretty girl. We’ve got a job to do.”

***

Despite your original hesitancy, Hotch asked you personally to go with the others, meaning that you had no right to refuse. Well, you could, but that would mean throwing Elle under the bus and she would be much more helpful at the precinct than on set. So, before you could fake being sick and bail the investigation, you,  Derek, and Spencer went to check out the set of Lila’s movie, hoping to better observe her interactions with her costars and the staff. 

The inside of Lila’s small trailer is hot. Incredibly hot but relatively empty. As you look around, you gather that she’s either a minimalist or just didn’t have to spend a lot time in the trailer at all. Lila sits in front of the little group, wearing a robe to cover her costume: a cyan sequinned bikini set that she looked absolutely criminal in. Her hair has been styled in a classic blowout and you wonder how much time it took to get it to look so effortless.

“I’m not stopping my life,” she says, her voice almost stern as she steps out of the trailer and back onto the set.

You purse your lips as you glance at the paper in the plastic pocket, now labelled as ‘evidence’. Apparently it was taped up to the door of her trailer. Your eyes shift to Spencer who’s gaze doesn’t leave the door that Lila just walked out of for much longer than necessary. Neither of you have spoken since yesterday’s incident.

You hum thoughtfully, as you pull out your notebook, glancing at the notes you’ve been making. “Well, I guess the only thing we can do is talk to the people on set. Maybe they saw something. I’ll see if I can find out who has access to Lila’s trailer.”

Spencer nods in your direction. “Yeah, that’s… that’s a good idea.”

One of your eyebrows quirk up. “Okay…? Why do you sound so surprised?”

He flushes under your scrutiny, clearing his throat as the three of you begin to walk out of the trailer and towards the set. “I’m not! I– I’m not surprised. You’re good at your job.”

“You didn’t seem to think that yesterday,” You respond lightly, your tone petty and passive aggressive, gaze flickering between the cameras and lights on set. 

Derek coughs awkwardly before excusing himself and entering further into the set leaving you and Spencer alone outside by a vending machine. Spencer falters at your words and he runs a hand through his hair. The harsh Los Angeles sun beats down against your skin and you fiddle with the notebook in your hands. In turn, he fixes up his sleeves, rolling them up to his elbow, giving you a clear view of his forearms and large hands. 

“I’m sorry,” He says softly, chewing on his bottom lip. “I didn’t– I was out of line.”

“You were,” You agree, your gaze shifting between the chilled bottled drinks in the vending machine and him. “Buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.”

A boyish grin grows on his face and he nods, pulling out his wallet. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, awesome. Iced coffee?”

“You know me so well,” you respond with an equally large smile, poking his cheek. “Thank you!”

He presses a few buttons, grabbing a Cola for himself. You can’t help but laugh, giving him a pointed look. He quickly moves to defend himself, “It’s a hot day, okay? An exception.”

“An exception,” You repeat, trying to hide your smile as you crack open the lid of your drink and take a sip. “What happened to ‘Cola has 50 grams of sugar in it. That’s the equivalent of eating two full bars of milk chocolate’?”

He pouts at your words, opening his drink and you watch as a few bubbles rise to the top of the bottle. He takes a swig of his drink, sighing in content. “Shut up.”

You laugh again once you officially enter the set, nudging Spencer with your arm teasingly. He nudges you back, rolling his eyes and poking your cheek. You retaliate by doing the same, swinging your drink as you walk. 

Before you could do or say anything else, Derek taps your shoulder. “Hey, I need to talk to you about something.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just wanted to cross reference answers,” Derek dismisses. 

“Let me pull up my list,” You respond helpfully, grabbing your notebook. “Hey, Spence, do you mind canvassing the rest of the crew? See if anyone pays any special attention on Lila?”

He nods at your words, moving towards Lila, sipping on his drink. In the meantime, you turn towards Derek, a curious look on your face. 

“Little Miss Madonna has been glaring at you since the moment you entered the set,” Morgan says quietly, his gaze flitting to where Lila was making coffee. 

You practically snap your neck as you look up in her direction, watching as she quickly fumbles to make herself a cup of something. You turn away and you could practically feel her gaze burning against your scalp. A frown makes its way onto your face and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You glance over to where she and Spencer were talking, blanching when you watch as she takes a swig of his Cola.

“You don’t mind, do you?” You hear her ask as she drinks and Spencer hurriedly shakes his head.

A quiet scoff leaves your lips and Derek nudges you with a look that reads ‘behave.’ You lift your hands in surrender and follow him over to where Spencer now stands by himself, Lila gone to talk to some other staff member.

“An exception, huh?” You ask Spencer, referring to his aversion to germs and sharing food. Your tone is mostly teasing despite the underlying bitterness beneath it. 

“Shut up.” He mutters quietly, cheeks hot from embarrassment of being caught.

Derek snorts, clapping his shoulder before moving on.

***

The next day, you were going over the evidence that was provided by the LAPD. Considering that it was a relatively young case, there weren’t copious amounts of evidence, meaning that there were still untied strings to go through. The entire situation proved more difficult than necessary; no one seemed to notice anything  amiss when it came to Lila and her relationships, and considering that the actress wasn’t very forthcoming with the information she knew, you were hitting dead-end after dead-end. 

Although geographical profiling was more of Spencer’s expertise than yours, you figured it wouldn’t do anyone harm by triangulating the previous three murders. He was standing beside you, his presence not unwelcome as he guides you step by step on how to plot an understandable and accurate profile. Hotch had asked him to coach you through the entire situation and explain his point of view, as well as his thought process when it came to geographical profiling. With a comfort zone now clearly expressed, you were discussing probable suspects on the phone with Garcia.

“Will Hunter… currently the town hermit, previous criminal record of armed battery and robbery,” Garcia recites, and you pull up his file.

“Mm… maybe? No, I don’t think so. His crimes don’t match the UnSub’s profile. He seems to be messier, uh, tending to use bats and knives than a clean shot to the head. And the profile suggests that the UnSub is able to blend in with the crowd.” You hum in thought, turning to Spencer.

“Hermits like Will Hunter wouldn’t be able to do that,” He explains to Garcia, putting his file into the ‘unlikely’ folder.

Garcia sighs in frustration and you can hear her furiously type away on her computer. “How about–”

“Hold that thought,” Elle says quickly, cutting Penelope off apologetically. “(Y/N), did you know Lila’s here?”

You blink in confusion, slowly shaking your head no. “She’s here? I didn’t get any calls from her.”

Elle shrugs at your words. “She looks like she’s going to burn a hole through your head.”

Your brows furrow and your gaze shifts to the blonde woman through the office window. She has her arms folded over her chest, a scowl on her face, before her cheeks burn in embarrassment of being caught. Spencer follows your gaze, his face lighting up at the sight of the actress. It’s almost as if he has selective hearing when it comes to his celebrity crush, clearly not hearing the part where Elle points out that Lila has been glaring at you the entire time.

“Can we talk outside?” You ask Elle quickly, getting up from your seat, not taking no for an answer.

Spencer opens his mouth to say something before he shuts it, watching as you drag your other co-worker out of the room. Your attention shifts between Lila and Elle, your brows furrowing. 

“What is it?” You ask, your back turned towards the actress. “Why is she here?”

“She gave me a list of people who know what her favourite flower is,” Elle says quietly.

Your ears go red at her words, your eyes practically bulging out of your head. “Excuse me?”

“She called me yesterday,” she explains, handing you the list of people. “She said that she remembers who they were and came in today to give me a list of people.”

You scoff in disbelief, throwing your hands up in the air in frustration. “I gave her my card.”

“She called and asked for me.” 

You scoff again, rolling your eyes. “Oh, so suddenly she can remember everything when she talks to you, but nothing when she talks to me? She’s not very slick.”

The door behind you opens, revealing Spencer who has been listening in the entire time. His jaw is clenched and a frown is etched upon his features as he looks at you accusingly. 

“Maybe she just didn’t remember,” he points out harshly as you and Elle re-enter the room.

An incredulous look makes its way into your face. “Excuse me?”

“She didn’t remember, and now she does,” Spencer says, and from the corner of your eye you watch Elle slowly leave the room once more. The door closes with a soft click.

“That doesn’t change the fact that she went to Elle and not to me,” you respond, trying to keep your voice even and your words clear. You take a deep breath in an effort to calm yourself down.

Spencer scowls at you. “Maybe she has every right to go to Elle after you snapped at her the first time you tried to talk to her.”

“Are you– are you being serious right now?” A humourless laugh leaves your lips as you glare up at him. “Look, Reid, I’m sorry that I’m not her biggest fan and that I don’t kiss the ground she walks on, but I was doing my job. A job that I believe I am quite good at. It’s not like speaking harshly is unheard of when it comes to the retrieval of information.”

He flinches when you call him by his last name but he stands his ground. “If you were so good at your job, you wouldn’t have to speak to her that way,” he argues, and you can see the vein in his forehead begin to protrude.

His words sting and bite you and suddenly you feel your resolve snapping. “You know what?” The words are slow and deliberate as they leave your lips, and you jab a finger against his chest. “I get that you have a crush on her and that you’re finally going through puberty but that does not mean that you can ignore the job you are currently on.”

He swallows thickly and he opens his mouth to retaliate but you push your finger against his chest once more.

“I am not finished.” Your voice is low with frustration and annoyance as you scowl, glaring up at him. “I don’t care who you’re attracted to or who you want to sleep with. I don’t give a damn if that someone is victim in the investigation because it’s not my problem. I do, however, have a problem when you undermine my ability to do my job and do nothing to fix it.

The worst part is the fact that you’re my friend. You’re supposed to be supportive and helpful and– and– and understanding.” Your mouth is moving quicker than your brain can register and you’re stumbling over your words as you snap at him. “I’m supposed to be able to go to you if I’m going through something. I should be able to talk to you if someone or something is bothering me, but now I’m just afraid that you’ll call me crazy and then criticise me all over again.”

His face falls and he looks at you like a kicked puppy as the words slowly sink in. He reaches out to you, his hazel eyes searching your face but the only emotion that you’re showing is anger. You push his hand away, the frown set on your eyebrows. It’s only then when you realise that Garcia has been listening into the conversation the entire time, your heart lurching to a stop when you hear her cough on the other side of the line.

“Um… is now a bad time to say that I didn’t get any other hits for the profile?” She asks tentatively through the speaker, and you feel your face burning.

“I need air,” you announce to no one in particular, before grabbing your files and storming out of the room.

Elle catches your arm on the way out, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. “(Y/N)-“

“Hey. Sorry.” You bite your lip, loosening the grip you have on your papers. “Where’s Hotch?”

“With Derek and Gideon,” she says gently. “Lila got another note and we’re going to check on her manager. Do you want to come with?”

You exhale before nodding. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

“Okay.” She squeezes your arm gently, her eyes flitting between you and Spencer who was inside the conference room, pacing back and forth. “Is… everything alright?”

“Honestly? No.” You offer her a wry smile, shoving your files into your bag. “But it’s fine.”

She chuckles a little in disbelief, leading you to the black SUVs outside. Derek and Gideon were already there, waiting patiently for the two of you while Hotch has already left in another SUV. Apparently the ‘no profiling each other’ rule was thrown out the window as soon as they saw the state you were in, and Derek quickly makes his way over to you.

“(Y/N), are you–”

“I’m fine,” you snap, before closing your eyes tightly and letting out a deep breath. “Sorry, Morgan. I’m okay, just had an argument with Reid.”

At that, his eyebrows shoot upwards. “Since when did you call him ‘Reid’? And what do you mean you had a fight with him? He literally can’t say no to you.”

“Yeah, that was before a Miss Archer walked into the room,” you mutter bitterly. “Shot a literal arrow through his heart. She put her name to good use. I never stood a chance.”

“Hey now, don’t say that,” Elle says, climbing into the SUV. You follow closely behind and she continues. “He’s just confused right now.”

You can’t help but scoff. “I really doubt that.”

Gideon starts the car, looking at you through the rear view mirror. “You’re a profiler. What do you really think?”

The words die at your tongue and you deflate into the seat of the car. You hate to admit it, but Gideon is right. You should be able to figure out exactly what Spencer is thinking. After all, he’s your best friend– you shouldn’t have to be worrying about guessing games when it comes to him.

Hotch is the first to arrive at the manager’s office, watching as your group pull up in front of the building. Once everyone clambours out of the car, they enter the building, a sigh of relief leaving them as they enjoy the air conditioned lobby. With a flash of a badge, the receptionist is quick to tell you which floor and room number Michael was in.

“Floor 11, Room 03,” you mumble to yourself as you scribble it down in your notes.

The elevator ride is silent and you rock back and forth on your feet as the lift begins to rise. Your head is spinning with thoughts and regrets as you consider the harsh words that you spat at Spencer’s face less than an hour ago. You must not have been hiding your frustration well because Hotch finally says something. 

“Is everything alright?” He asks, much like a father would when their child is having a tantrum. It’s fitting.

You shrug. “I will be.”

“Is it to do with Reid?” 

You cough awkwardly, glancing back at the notes in your hand. “That obvious?”

Derek snorts from behind you. “Yeah, a little.”

“Everyone knows you’re in love with him,” Elle adds, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I am– I am not in love with him!” You all but shriek, shooting her a half hearted glare and you stutter out a response. “I mean, I– uh– I like him but–“

“You are a horrible liar,” Derek cackles and you groan. 

Hotch and Gideon watch amused at the interaction, and the latter finally pipes in.

“Profiling isn’t something you can just turn off,” he explains to you, his tone gentle. He reminds you of a grandfather giving advice to their youngest grandchild, and a small smile makes its way onto your face. He continues to speak, “it’s subconscious and it becomes a habit. The only time it stops is when you either need it most, or when you don’t want to see anything.”

The elevator comes to a stop on the eleventh floor and Michael’s office wasn’t far away. The writing on the frosted glass reads ‘1103, Michael Ryer & associates, talent management’ and Elle raps on the door.

“Hello?” 

“Mr Ryer?” Gideon calls.

She knocks a few times again before opening the door entirely. “Michael–”

You’re met with Michael Ryer, dead in his arm chair and shot to the head, just like all the other victims. Despite having faced these circumstances before, you still feel sick to the stomach as you stare at Michael’s lifeless body and soulless eyes. It’s unnerving.

“Up until now every victim was a person who could be perceived as a threat to Miss Archer,” Hotch comments as they enter the room, pulling out his phone.

“Yeah, but Michael was a friend,” Elle says with a frown.

You look up from your notes. “He was a threat to the stalker.”

In less than twenty minutes, the LAPD dispatched forensics and evidence teams to the office. Lila and Spencer were on their way back to her house, deciding that it was best to deny the stalker access to her. You rifle through Michael’s belongings: his schedules, his files… everything until you come to one particular manila envelope. 

“Morgan, Elle, look at this,” you murmur, pulling the photos out of the envelope. “Pictures of Lila… nude.”

A flash of a grimace passes along Elle’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. “He was probably paying someone to keep them out of the press.”

“The name on the file says Joe Martinez,” Derek mutters, turning the envelope over.

The name must have struck a chord, because Detective Kim’s head immediately snaps around to look at you. “Paparazzo?”

You blink. “You know this guy?”

“Yeah, I deal with him a lot,” Kim responds, his face stoic. 

“We should follow that lead,” You comment, tucking the photos back in the envelope and looking over at Detective Kim and Derek. “I’m ready to go when you are?”

After an okay from Hotch, you, Derek, and Detective Kim make your way over to the Joe Martinez’s place. After knocking on the door to his place multiple times, Derek decides to open it in the way he knows best: by kicking it down. You grip your gun, holding it out in front of you as you travel through the hallways. 

“Clear!” You yell out upon pushing another door open, seeing nobody inside.

“(Y/N), you need to check this out,” comes Morgan’s call, and you follow the direction of his voice

Pinned above a small desk are picture upon pictures of Lila Archer. When she has lunch, when she’s out with her friends… it’s almost as if this person has completely documented her life. It’s a little nerve wracking, knowing that someone could follow you and take photos without anyone even realising.

“Hey is that–” you pause, pulling a piece of paper off the wall. “This is Lila’s schedule.”

Derek blinks in surprise. “I’m guessing he’s not supposed to have that?”

“No,” Detective Kim responds, and your gaze shifts to the table.

“Hey, isn’t that–” you feel your heart practically stop as you see who’s in the photos. 

“That’s Reid,” Derek mutters.

Kim shifts through the photos. “There’s a whole bunch of them,” he says, pulling out at least five or six print outs. “Is he a target now?”

Derek scoffs, throwing the photos on the table and pulling out his phone, making a beeline for the exit. “Not if I can help it.”

You and Detective Kim follow him out, making your way to the SUV. 

“Reid? Hey, it’s Morgan. Listen, you gotta watch your back over there, we just found a bunch of close-up photos of you at this guy Joseph Martinez’s studio. It looks like he could be the UnSub.”

As he speaks you feel your heart pound in your ears. Your head is dizzy with fear and you’re following after Morgan who’s walking unbelievably quickly. 

“He has a ton of photos of Lila and Nathalie plus a call sheet for Lila’s show,” Derek continues, the speed of his walk not wavering. “(Y/N) and I are on our way right now but I need you to be real careful until we get there, all right?”

You look down to shove your notes back into your bag when you hear it. The distinct vrooming of a motorcycle engine. You don’t think too much of it, only turning your head to look over your shoulder, your hand finding the handle of the car door. That’s all it takes for the motorcyclist to drive straight toward you and the others, pointing an arm out.

“Gun!” You manage to scream, just before the UnSub open fires, hitting Detective Kim. 

You dive behind the car, grimacing when your knee collided roughly against the pavement. By the time you manage to recover and grab your gun out of its holster, the UnSub is long gone. You stare as Morgan fires a couple shots before watching the motorcyclist ride off into the LA traffic,  and you turn to Detective Kim.

“You got hit. Where?” You ask, shoving your gun back into its holster.

He grunts in pain, his entire weight on the car as he groans out, “yeah, it’s fine. Just my shoulder.”

“Derek, call for help,” you order, pressing firmly at the wound with your hand to lessen the bleeding. He lets out a cry of pain and you wince. “Sorry, it’s bleeding a lot. Gunshot wound to the shoulder, no exit wound. Seeing as you’re not already dead, I don’t think it hit any major arteries, but it might have busted your collarbone. You’re lucky if that’s the extent of the damage. The shoulder contains a bunch of important and major bloodlines, as well as nerve endings.”

Derek turns to you with a wry smile. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“You spend four years with him, you’ll start to learn a few things,” you respond with a humourless laugh. You continue to press against Detective Kim’s wound, murmuring an apology. 

“You should talk to him,” Derek prompts.

You scoff, “we have a detective bleeding in front of us and the thing you’re worried about is my love life?”

“Isn’t the first rule of relieving pain through distraction?” He asks. You shoot him an unimpressed look and he quickly nods his head. “Okay, sorry.”

Ten minutes later, Detective Kim is hoisted into the ambulance. You cringe as you wash his blood off your hands, once, twice, then a third time to make sure everything is gone. Your shirt has a couple of blood spots and you can’t help but frown; you liked that shirt. At least the stain isn’t too big– just a few splotches here and there. 

“It’s a good thing you held the wound,” an EMT praises, working quickly to secure Kim’s shoulder. “He shattered his collarbone, but you seemed to have managed to control the bleeding.”

If it weren’t for the circumstances, you would have shouted a clear ‘I told you so’ to both Derek and Detective Kim, but you keep your mouth shut.

Hotch, Gideon, and Elle arrive moments later, speaking to Derek about the detective’s injuries. 

“You okay?” Elle asks gently, squeezing your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, wringing your hands together. “Just a little jumpy. I’ll be fine.”

“We need to get to her house,” Gideon mutters, glancing at the group. 

Without another moment to lose, you’re clambering into an SUV, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white. Elle climbs into the passenger seat beside you, her brows knitted together in concern. She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it, watching as you start the car and speed off into the direction of Lila’s house. 

After slamming the door shut and gripping the gun firmly in the palm of your hand, you follow Derek through the back entry of the house. You weren’t even sure if it could even be counted as a ‘house’; the place looked like it had at least five bedrooms on both floors. Derek glances at you, signalling to be quiet, then another to keep your eyes on him. A quiet splashing in the pool alerts your attention, and despite his attempts of getting you to not look, you do. And as soon as you do, you really wish you hadn’t. 

You are met with the sight of Lila Archer in her bikini-clad glory, in the pool with Doctor Spencer Walter Reid. Doctor ‘pools are incredibly unhygienic, harbouring more than 50 million different types of bacteria’ Reid. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, you watch as their lips touch again and again, his hands cupping her face and her hands arms around his neck. 

Spencer pulls away from the kiss, his breath heavy and his head spinning. This is wrong. He’s not supposed to being do this. His brain is short circuiting and it’s even worse when he considers all the germs that could be in this pool. His head spins with the names of viruses and bacteria that could be festering in the waters he was currently in, and then he remembers he has more pressing matters to attend to. Namely the girl who was literally pressing her lips to his. 

He pulls away, stammering over responses. “We can’t– we shouldn’t. I’m a federal agent and you’re–”

Lila stares at him, amused, with her hands cupping his neck. “There’s no one here.”

“I’m supposed to be protecting you,” Spencer tries again, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. This is wrong. Unprofessional. Then his mind wanders to you and the nagging voice in the back of his mind urges him to do something. 

“There are police out front,” Lila says, kissing him again before continuing, “there are coyotes out back.”

“This is completely inappropriate,” Spencer stutters out, his hands reaching for her shoulders. Her skin is cold from the summer night’s breeze, even more so considering how they’re submerged in disgusting chlorine-filled pool water. 

“This?” She presses her lips to his once more. “What’s this?”

“This isn’t–” he swallows thickly, his cheeks flared. “No, there’s this thing called transference–”

Lila pulls away, her stare drifting from his eyes to his lips as she asks, “you don’t like me?”

Spencer blanches at the question. “What?”

“You don’t like me,” Lila repeats, more sure of herself now. “It’s because of her, right?”

He frowns at the insinuation. “‘Her’? Who’s ‘her’?”

“The other person on your team,” Lila says, her words bitter. “You like her don’t you?”

His mouth goes dry and he opens and closes it like a fish out of water. “What?”

“Let me change your mind,” she whispers, bringing her lips to his for the nth time. 

Spencer barely has time to react, his hands moving to the side of her face and he imagines that she’s you. But she’s not you and you would never kiss him in the middle of the pool. You would never pull him in by his tie and cut him off when he’s speaking. He pulls away. 

“Stop. Stop, Lila, I’m sorry, I have to– I have to tell you something.” His mind is blanking. Why is it that when he needs it, his brain shuts off?

“What?” Lila asks, her lips moving to his cheek and then to his jaw. 

“I didn’t want to tell you this before because I was a bit worried.” He’s screaming at himself in his head, kicking himself because ‘why the hell did he just say that?!’ Regardless of the way he wishes he could shut his mouth and run out of the pool, he continues, “I don’t know how to say it but I can’t not tell you.”

“What is it?” She finally pulls away and Spencer lets out a breath of relief.

The relief is short lived because he starts to blab, “Your manager, Michael–”

“What?”

“Gideon went to check on him but he got there too late.” Spencer thinks he’s going to hurl, his mind running a million times an hour and screaming, ‘No you idiot! No, no, no! Out of all the things you could say–’

Lila scrambles out of the pool, clearly distraught, and he reaches out to touch her arm… only to be swatted away with her sobbing and telling him not to touch her. He figures he deserves that and follows out of the pool after her. 

“How could you– how could you not tell me?” Lila demands, her tears mixing with the pool water already on her face. 

“I was afraid you’d be upset,” Spencer says lamely, water dripping from his trousers and he just wants a towel. 

“You– you knew what you knew and… how could you not…?” She’s on the verge of hyperventilating and she looks at him before looking away. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says quietly, not knowing what else to say.

Lila retreats into her house, shutting the glass sliding door behind her and Spencer can only watch as she throws a pillow at the wall before going up the stairs to her room. He stands there, in the cold, dripping wet from the pool water and he wipes his face with his hand. His gun sits on the table, damp, and he has the urge to scream. Before he could do something exceedingly stupid, the sound of footsteps alert him and he spins around. 

“Elle?”

“We found him in the bushes,” she says to Spencer, nodding to the guy being cuffed by Derek. 

“I told her she should cut those.” He says dismissively, wiping his gun with a towel. He looks at her and then at you. He swallows thickly, noticing the way your eyes look him up and down, the disapproval oozing in your stare. “I– uh– I fell in.”

“Yeah,” you respond, holding the camera up and a sarcastic smile blossoms on your face. “I’m sure there are plenty of photos of it.”

He sighs, “(Y/N)–”

“Hey, stop shoving me, man!” Joe snaps as Derek pushes him to walk forward.

“You’re a suspect in the murder of Wally Melman, Natalie Ryan, and Jeremy Collins.”

You watch as Joe’s face comically contorts from annoyance to confusion as he jumps to defend himself. “Murder? What? Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa–”

“Just shut up with the ‘whoa’. We know for a fact that you have hundreds of photographs of Lila Archer and Natalie Ryan on the walls of your studio. You have Miss Archer’s daily schedule on your desk. You’ve been stalking her.”

“Look, guy, hold up. Every paparazzi’s a celebrity stalker,” Joe says and the rest of the group turn to look at him incredulously. He continues to speak undeterred. “If you don’t stalk them, you don’t get the shot, and if you don’t get the shot, you don’t sell no pictures.”

“Yeah, well this one’s gonna cost you,” you hum, holding the camera in your hands and ripping the film out despite his yells of defiance.

Derek steps forward, pushing Joe to keep him walking. “Tell it to your lawyer.”

“Wh– I’m still being locked up?”

“That’s right, at the very least you’re trespassing.”

Elle and Derek walk Joe out of the premises, and you push the pulverised film against Spencer’s chest. He grips it in his hands, a soft ‘oof’ leaving his lips at the contact. 

“You’re welcome,” you mutter, albeit a little bitterly, as you turn to follow the rest of your team out.

“(Y/N), listen, it didn’t mean anything,” he says softly, squeezing the film in his fist tightly while the other hand reaches out to you. 

You roll your eyes, opening up the sliding door. “I told you, Reid, I don’t care who you sleep with.”

He splutters a little, pushing his hair away from his face. “We didn’t– I didn’t– we didn’t sleep together, you know that.”

“Even more reason why I shouldn’t care.”

His hand grips onto your shoulder, turning you around so that you’re facing him. “But you do. ‘Shouldn’t’? You care. You clearly obviously care, (Y/N).”

“I don’t,” you deny, pushing his hand away. “Reid–”

“Stop calling me that.”

“–it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m leaving.”

He grabs onto your arm, stopping your retreat. “Why are you being like this?”

“I am not ‘being like’ anything!”

“(Y/N).”

“Doctor, this is highly unprofessional.”

He has to stop the frustrated groan that was moments away from leaving his lips as he stares at you. His eyes ghost over your frame, stopping directly at the dark red splotches on your shirt.

“What happened?” He demands, taking a step closer. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Who’s blood is that?”

“Detective Kim’s.”

“What– were you shot at?” 

His hands fly to your face, trembling and cold, and you would have thought it was romantic if he didn’t do the exact same thing less than twenty minutes ago with another girl. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you dismiss quietly. 

“Don’t say that.”

“God, you act as if we’re dating or something!” You snap, pulling away from him. 

He stops short, his cheeks and ears reddening at your words. His mind goes blank and suddenly he feels very warm at the idea. Dating you? Every moment he had with Lila in that pool is nothing compared to the idea of dating you.

He watches as you roll your eyes before tugging your arm out of his grip. He wants to cry out again, to say something, but his head just seems to repeat the words ‘we’re dating’ over and over again. 

“Just forget it, Reid.” You look to the house and your gaze grows steely once more. “Your girlfriend is calling.”

*** 

“I want to try and talk to some of Lila’s close friends,” you say to the others after getting off the phone with Garcia. “According to Penelope, there’s a girl named Maggie Lowe on the list that Lila gave us and they’ve known each other since college. Apparently, they spent a lot of time together and Lila helped her get a job.”

“I’ll go with you,” Elle says instantly, climbing into the car. “Why Maggie?”

You start the ignition, backing out of the driveway and onto the main road, following the GPS directions. “They spend almost all of their time together. I mean, she must have noticed something off, you know?”

Elle nods slowly in understanding. “She knows about the red anemones, right?”

“Yeah. And she was the one who found the note taped to the door.” You pause, thinking through the evidence again. “Her apartment is right in the middle of the comfort zone.”

“You think she could be the UnSub?”

“It all seems too convenient. But then again, we didn’t profile the stalker as a woman. There have got to be some inaccuracies or things we overlooked because of the gender,” you murmur, stopping at a red light. “Call Garcia for me.”

The phone rings once before Penelope’s unmistakable voice chimes through. “Speak my pretties, and you shall be heard!”

“Hey, Pen, can you check what vehicle is registered under Maggie Lowe’s name?” You ask into the speaker, parking in front of the apartment.

“Checking, checking… aha! It’s a Honda Motorcycle, she just got it serviced six and a half months ago.”

“That’s the vehicle that the UnSub was driving when they shot at us,” you mumble in realisation. “Call the others, the UnSub might be Maggie Lowe. We’re checking the apartment now.”

“Gideon and Derek are at the art gallery to talk to Parker Dunley,” Elle points out. “I’ll let them know we’re at her apartment.”

There’s a typing on the other side of the line and Penelope chimes in once more. “Bad news, my loves. The cameras report Lowe’s motorcycle leaving the apartment complex half an hour ago.”

“Garcia, call Reid and tell him what we know. Elle and I are going into the apartment. We might find evidence or clues on who the next victim might be.” 

With that, you hang up, getting out of the car and running up the stairs with Elle hot on your heels. 

“Maggie Lowe?” You call through the door, knocking once then twice. 

You’re met with silence and you grimace, deciding to do Derek’s favourite move: kicking the door down. With a crash, the door slams open and you grip your gun a little tighter in your hand. Bathroom, clear. Kitchen and pantry, clear. Lounge, clear. Bedroom, clear– you stop short. Pictures– framed pictures– of Lila hung around the wall. A cork board with newspaper clipping and magazine cut outs were pinned meticulously to the cork backing, each one with Lila’s face and name circled with bold red marker. 

“Holy shit…” Elle whispers, holstering her gun and staring at the wall. “This is… this is beyond obsession.”

“You’re telling me,” you respond, putting on a blue glove and flipping through the cork board. “Call the others, Maggie is definitely the UnSub. Someone this obsessed must have…” you pause, filing through the desk on the other side of the room, “… a diary. Each murder was described to detail in each entry, as well as her feelings towards Lila.”

Elle grimaces as she looks over your shoulder to read the diary entries. “Grim.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah.”

Above her desk are images of Lila. Every single show she’s been in since Julliard, every time she was mentioned in an article, posters, newspaper clippings of the murders… the entire ordeal makes you feel sick. 

Elle sucks in a breath, staring at the desk. “She’s got Lila’s entire life documented.”

“And she’s probably already at Lila’s house,” you mutter, grabbing your phone. “We need to get over there, now.”

*** 

“The city of angels everything you thought it would be?” Derek asks amusedly, leaning against the wall of the jet as he watches you pour your third cup of coffee in the past three hours. 

It’s a couple days after Maggie Lowe was apprehended and the team were on the jet home getting some much needed rest. The aircon was put on full blast and you couldn’t be more grateful for it, enjoying the coolness on your skin in contrast to the hot Los Angeles weather. 

“I’m never coming back here,” you quip, your gaze shifting to where Spencer sits. He’s reading a book but he hasn’t turned a page for the past thirty seconds. “If I were to overthrow America, Los Angeles is the first place to go.”

Derek snorts, his eyebrows raising. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you huff, finally looking at him. “I’m serious!”

“Sure kid. Totally believe you.”

He’s teasing, a knowing smirk on his face as he watches you chug the coffee with a grimace. Your tongue burns and you fill the cup with water and chug that as well, ignoring the amused look Derek keeps sending you. From the corner of your eye you see Spencer reading his book. At least, it would appear that he was reading to someone who didn’t know him. But you know him. He’s been staring into the pages for the past minute now and that alone was enough to let you know that he was paying more attention to your and Derek’s conversation than to the words on the page. 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you sit beside Elle who is already fast asleep. You envy her for a moment as she leans against the plane window, blissfully unaware to your mental torment. Stupid Spencer and his stupidly pretty face. From where you’re sitting you can see the back of his head and you glare at that the ridiculous mop of brown on his head. 

The rest of the plane ride is uneventful and by the time you make it back to the office it’s already late. It’s nearing one in the morning and everyone begins to head home. Derek is yawning as he leaves the office and Elle has a look that screams ‘Don’t talk to me’. Gideon is long gone and Hotch was in his office, packing up the last of his papers and files. 

Spencer is sitting at his desk, combing through the paperwork and stashing a couple pages into his satchel. He bids farewell to Derek and the others before shoving his train pass into his pocket. 

“You’re taking the train?” You ask, finally speaking to him.

His eyebrows raise in surprise and he shifts on his feet, gripping the strap of his bag. “Um, yeah. I took the train here, so...”

“Oh.” You nod, glancing at the clock. “No you’re not.”

He huffs out a laugh. “What?”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you get onto a train at one in the morning,” you say, pointing with your chin to the elevator. “You might be a man and all, but it doesn’t change the statistics.”

You know his weakness. Statistics. Facts. Spencer hates the fact that you know him so well. 

He relents, getting into the elevator with you. “I thought you were mad at me.”

He hears you scoff, pressing B1 on the elevator. “Just because I’m mad at you, doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you do something potentially dangerous.”

He hates the way your words makes his heart flutter and he continues speak. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you did,” you respond curtly, watching as the elevator doors open. “Come on, my car is that way.”

Spencer flinches at your tone. “I’m sorry.”

You laugh. “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

“I–” the words die on his tongue as he wracks his brain. “I thought it was because you didn’t like Lila.”

“That’s true,” you murmur, unlocking the car. “Look, Reid–”

“Please,” he cuts you off, his voice cracking as he practically begs. “Please stop calling me that.”

He doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker to him as you tug the car door open. “You want me to stop calling you by your name?”

Spencer’s nostrils flare as he gets in the car. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

You laugh again as you start the engine, glancing at the mirrors. “Everyone calls you Reid. It shouldn’t be any different for me.”

He huffs. “But it is different. You’re… different.”

“How?” You challenge, backing out of the parking spot and getting onto the main road. You’ve memorised the route from Quantico to Spencer’s apartment in DC– an almost one hour drive and you understand why Spencer hates driving to and from work. 

He falters before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just please don’t call me by my last name again.”

“Spencer,” You try again, missing the visible relief in his eyes, “I’m not mad at you because of something as miniscule as a girl. You’re entitled to your own relationships outside of work.”

“I don’t under– oh.” The realisation dawns on him when he recalls all the words you threw at him at the precinct. “I wasn’t a very good friend, was I?”

“No, Spencer, you weren’t.” You don’t hesitate to say it and Spencer winces at how quickly you agree with him. “You were unfair and let your emotions get in the way of the case. You criticised me and undermined my authority and then you had the absolute nerve to act as if nothing was wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, the lump in his throat getting bigger. 

“It hurt, Spencer,” you say, and your voice cracks as well. “It hurt because you’re my best friend and I would have supported you through everything. You know that. And I get that friends fight, but I thought that we wouldn’t fight about something as stupid as who you hook up with.”

“I didn’t hook up with her,” Spencer says quietly, and he thinks he might cry. “I’m serious, (Y/N), I didn’t hook up with her. She kissed me–”

“It doesn’t matter.” Your gaze shifts to him for barely a second before it’s back on the road. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter who you’re attracted to. I just didn’t think it would effect our friendship.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says again, holding onto his bag. 

You’re quiet before continuing, “ I know you are. I know that. I’m sorry that you thought that you needed to justify your feelings to me.”

He swallows thickly, watching your face carefully. You didn’t do anything to make him feel like he had to justify himself. If anything, it was Spencer’s conscious that made him feel the need to explain himself. The guilt that he felt after kissing Lila was enough to get him to feel sick. The guilt that he felt after knowing how badly he hurt you was enough to make him want to grovel at your feet. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He mumbles, wetting his bottom lip. “You had– have– every right to be upset.”

“I don’t want to be upset anymore,” You say as you continue to drive down the freeway. 

He’s quiet before he finally says, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

He swallows the lump in his throat and he presses the pads of his fingers into the corner of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

You finally park in front of his apartment, leaning against the chair. “I know. I know, I’m sorry too. I said… a lot of things.”

“I deserved it,” he says, a small laugh leaving his lips as he finally looks at you. “You’re right, I wasn’t being fair.”

You hum, leaning over the console to give him an awkward hug. He presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing in your vanilla perfume. His arms wrap around your middle and he realises how much he missed this. How he missed being close to you. 

“I won’t do it again,” he promises. 

“I know.”

“I really am sorry.”

“You need to stop apologising.” Your words come out like a laugh and he realises how much he misses that sound too.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says into your shoulder. “Coffees for a month. I’ll even get you those croissants you like, even though they’re really overpriced.”

You laugh again and he smiles. 

“You apologising is already good enough,” You say, squeezing his arms. “Now go get some rest, Spence.”

His smile widens at the nickname and he finally pulls away. “Good night. Thank you for driving me home.”

You smile back. “Good night. Don’t mention it.”

The next morning, you find a steaming coffee on your desk and a freshly baked croissant in a brown paper bag. Spencer waves at you and you can’t help the goofy grin on your face as you take a bite into the croissant. 

next part →

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reblogs are always appreciated!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mattew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds x reader fluff #mgg #mgg x reader #mgg x reader fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader angst #criminal minds angst #criminal minds x reader angst

[ellemj]

Candy Cane: 12 Days of Smut #4

Bucky Barnes x Reader One-Shot

Warnings: profanity, stuck in an elevator, mentions of death, teasing, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

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

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: I usually hate everything I write but this sure felt like some good shit while I was writing it. Hopefully it feels the same for whoever may read it. Thank you sooo much to @mashedpotatooooos for this beyond perfect prompt, as soon as she submitted it to me I was SCREAMING. So creative, so inspirational, thank you for feeding me with this brilliant idea.

A fucking candy cane. A fucking peppermint treat from the 1840s. That’s what’s going to be the Winter Soldier’s undoing? No. Really, it’s you. It’s the way you’re sucking on the damn thing. The way you’re wrapping your lips around it so sensually, savoring the taste with an innocent little gleam in your eye. That’s what’s going to kill him. He’s had enough.

            The sound of a chair scraping along the hard floor breaks you out of your trance. Pulling your half-finished candy cane out of your mouth, you lift your gaze and look across the room to see Bucky silently disappearing down the hallway. God, he’s moody today.

            “I bet that’s why they called him the Winter Soldier.” Sam scoffs. You raise an eyebrow at him as you resume your work on the candy cane. “Because his mood is always so damn icy.”

            “That’s cute.” You say, refusing to dignify his bad joke with a laugh, although you have to admit, it was kind of funny. He’s right though, Bucky’s been a little extra moody this week. You’re not really surprised that he’d be someone who hates Christmas, it’s very on brand for him. It’s only three days away now and he hasn’t said a thing about it. The rest of you have been watching Christmas movies, having hot cocoa way too often, and at the very least pretending to be festive most days. But Bucky’s been staying in his room excessively more and frowning enough to end up on Santa’s naughty list. Something’s up with him. You’d have already asked what was wrong with him if you weren’t so annoyed at his inability to spit it out unprompted. The man is over a hundred years old but still has the communication skills of a teenager.

            Only a few hours later, Bucky’s just finished up taking his frustrations out in the gym when you’re coming back from a run to the grocery store. You needed a few ingredients for the Christmas cookies you plan on baking tomorrow and there’s no better time to hit the grocery store than at night.  Of course, just as you’re coming inside the tower, you see the elevator doors sliding shut. You rush forward, throwing your hand out to hold the elevator. Bucky lets out an audible sigh when he sees you step into the small space. He thinks about darting back out before the doors close both of you in, but he knows he’d have to explain himself if he did something that childish. So, he remains.

            Bucky keeps his gaze trained on the screen above the doors, watching as it slowly counts each floor that you’re carried past. You, on the other hand, keep your eyes trained on him. He’s clearly just come from the gym, as evidenced by his dark athletic shorts and sweaty t-shirt. He doesn’t wear short sleeves often, so you take the rare moment to steal a look at his black and gold arm. That’s when he finally decides to give you a sideways glance. You’re just about to break the unusual silence by saying whatever pops into your mind first when the sound of grinding metal fills the air. You don’t even have a moment to brace yourself before the elevator practically skids to a screeching halt and throws you and your bag of Christmas ingredients sideways into one of the walls. You closed your eyes on impact, and when you blink them open again, you’re thrust into darkness. The power must’ve gone out. After just a couple of seconds, the very dim emergency lights kick on and you straighten yourself up, stepping away from the wall and trying to fully comprehend the situation that you’re in. Bucky’s analyzing you as you stand there, staring straight ahead in thought. You don’t look to be injured or very frightened that you’re trapped in such a small space, so he feels it’s safe to say that you’re not claustrophobic.

            “The button to call the fire department isn’t even lighting up.” You say quietly, more to yourself than to the super soldier who stands a foot to your right. That means you’ll have to try your phones, and if those don’t work then you’ll be trapped in here until someone realizes that you and Bucky have been missing for too long.

            “I’ll call Sam.” Bucky fishes his phone out of the waistband of his shorts and quickly types in his passcode, easily finding Sam’s contact since it’s one of the very few that he has saved. He’s just about to hit the button to put the call through when he notices the top of his phone displays a “no signal” alert. Shit. “No service.”

            “Of course, no fire department and no phone service.” There’s a hint of nervousness creeping into your voice but you try your best to tamp it down. “W-what floor were we on before it stopped?” You know Bucky was watching the floor counter.

            “Fourteen.” Suddenly, you can picture the elevator plummeting all the way down to the ground floor, killing you both on impact. However, the more rational side of your brain reminds you that elevators have emergency braking systems specifically designed to keep something like that from happening. You inhale a shaky breath and try to come up with at least a semblance of a plan in your mind, something to keep you from thinking too much about how you’re trapped so high above the ground in a little metal box. Bucky watches you closely as you move to sit on the floor, letting your back rest against the back wall and drawing your knees up to your chest. You begin rummaging through your little grocery bag and when your hand wraps around what you were searching for, you pull it out and begin opening the small package. Even in the dim light, Bucky can tell exactly what it is. Fucking candy canes.

            “Do you want one?” You hold one out to Bucky but he gives you an almost displeased look as he shakes his head, staring down at the candy cane in your hand with disdain. So, not only does Bucky Barnes hate Christmas, but he even hates the most basic Christmas candy. You almost laugh to yourself at how ridiculous he is. He’s turning out to be an actual scrooge.

            “Fine, more for me.” You unwrap the candy cane and lift it to your mouth, beginning to suck on the straight end of it. You’re not paying Bucky any attention now, so you don’t notice the way his jaw clenches and he averts his gaze as soon as the candy hits your tongue. He remains standing but leans back against the elevator wall, hoping the cold metal against his sweaty t-shirt might have the same effect as a cold shower.

It doesn’t.

Two minutes later, you’re still quietly working on your candy cane while Bucky has gone absolutely rigid. He has the back of his head pressed against the wall now and he stares up at the ceiling actually wishing that the emergency brakes would fail and the elevator would go crashing down to put him out of his misery. Why does it take you so long to eat those damn things? And how the hell do you not realize what you’re doing? Are you that naïve?

“Are you okay, Bucky?” Your voice is the last thing he wants to hear. He doesn’t even make a move to look down at you, because the fact that you’re already on the floor at the level of his dick and the fact that he knows what you look like when you’re sucking on something you really like will only make this situation that much worse. His cock is already fully erect in his thin athletic shorts, painfully so. The only reason you haven’t noticed yet is because you’ve been distracting yourself with your little snack and because Bucky’s shorts are so dark.

“Fine.” He croaks the single syllable out in just the right way to let you know that he is in fact, not fine.

“Okay, what is it?” You demand to know. Did Tony skimp on having emergency brakes installed and Bucky knows your death is imminent? Is the big scary man secretly afraid of heights or small spaces? “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I said I’m fine.” Bucky repeats the words through clenched teeth. Who would’ve known that such a private man would be such a bad liar? You push yourself up off the floor now and stand to your feet, turning to face him head-on. You’re just about to threaten to stab him with your little candy cane remnant when your eyes land on what it is that’s got him so worked up. The bulge in the front of his shorts is on full display, pulling the seams of the fabric so tight that you imagine Bucky’s incredibly uncomfortable right now. But…why would he be so turned on in such a shitty situation? Is it the fear? The adrenaline?

“Bucky—”

“Stop fucking talking.” He cuts you off sharply, finally snapping his eyes open and meeting your gaze. Even in the dim lighting, you can see the frustration painted over his features.

“No, tell me what’s up with you.”

“We’re stuck in an elevator.” He says plainly, closing his eyes once more. He really does suck at communicating. Obviously, you can see that he’s aroused. He knows that you can see it, but he’s still standing here in front of you pretending like he isn’t. As you stare at the stubborn ass that you’ve just barely come to know over the past year, all you can think about is getting on your knees and sucking the bad attitude right out of him. Maybe that’s what he needs. He clearly needs something. However, the fact that he won’t simply speak his mind and instead chooses to act like a moody fifteen-year-old most of the time still irks you. You want him to open his damn mouth and speak.

“Look at me.” Your voice is so calm and even that Bucky immediately wonders what you’re up to, but he doesn’t open his eyes. You take two steps so you’re standing right in front of him, and then you repeat yourself. “Bucky, look at me.”

“What part of stop fucking talking doesn’t make sense to you?” He snaps, opening his eyes. When his gaze meets your face, he’s met with the sight of you, dragging your tongue along the side of that damn candy cane and he nearly cums right there. He’s thankful that you can’t have possibly seen the way his cock practically jumped in his shorts when his eyes landed on your tongue.

“It’s the part where you think you can mope around here constantly and treat people like shit that doesn’t make sense to me.” You suckle on the end of your candy cane for a short second before pulling it back out of your mouth and adding one bold part to your little tiff. “It’s also the fact that you’re standing here with a hard dick while simultaneously acting like you can’t stand me. That really doesn’t make sense to me.”

Bucky lets out a sound of annoyance at the way you’re matching his attitude. He’s especially annoyed that you actually mentioned his dick, but he’s a lot more focused on fighting the urge to reach out and snap your precious candy cane into a thousand tiny pieces. You see the way his eyes keep flitting to your mouth as you enjoy your candy. Honestly, once you see the look in his eyes and pair that with the huge tent in his shorts, you don’t know how you didn’t put it together before. Maybe it’s because you fear you could die in this elevator, or maybe it’s because you’ve always sort of wanted to know what it’d be like to have such a strong effect on a man like Bucky, but an idea pops into your head that you just can’t seem to shake. You want to make him tell you what he wants. You want to force him to communicate with you, and then you want to reward him with everything he needs. Besides just being an irresistibly hot idea, it’s also a sure way to keep you from thinking about the elevator plunging into the basement at any given moment. You both need this.

That’s what leads you to sink down to your knees at Bucky’s feet. He thinks he’s hallucinating at first, but when he hears your light little laugh as you pop the candy cane back into your mouth, he knows it’s real. Your pretty eyes stare right back up at him as you slowly pull the candy cane out of your mouth, keeping your lips pressed tightly around it.

“Fuck…” Bucky mutters, screwing his eyes shut tightly as he feels a fresh wave of heat rush through his body. You haven’t even touched him yet he feels like he could have an orgasm on the spot. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not? You don’t like this?” You tease. You push the candy cane past your lips once more but he’s refusing to look down at you, so you take matters into your own hands. You hold the candy cane with your left hand while your right hand lands lighly on Bucky’s thigh, dangerously close to where he needs your touch the most. He inhales sharply and snaps his head forward to look down at you again. “Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

“I need you to stop with the candy canes.” He says harshly, giving you an icy stare. You laugh, but you can’t deny that he actually communicated something. So, you remove your hand from his thigh and fix the wrapper around your candy cane as good as you can before leaning over to drop it back in your grocery bag.

“Was that so hard?” You ask, returning to your position on your knees at his feet. He lets out an exasperated sigh, wondering why the hell you’re not getting back up.

“Are you going to stay down there until the elevator starts up again?” He narrows his eyes at you. You shrug your shoulders.

“Until the elevator starts up again or until you tell me what you really need, whichever comes first I guess.”

“I told you already.”

“Right, but that wasn’t all you needed.” You point out. He watches as your eyes leave his face and coast down his neck and torso, until your gaze lands on the taut fabric of his shorts. You’re perfectly eye level with his hard-on and it’s not making this situation any easier on him. He feels his cock twitch again from the way you’re looking at him. He weighs his options in his head. How bad would it be for him to cross this line? To tell you how badly he needs you to suck his cock the way you’ve been sucking those candy canes the last couple of days? It couldn’t possibly be that bad if you’re already on your knees offering it. If anything, he can at least feel better knowing you crossed a line first. Besides, what if you two never make it out of here? He knows you will, people get stuck in elevators all the time and you rarely hear about it killing people. But, what if? He can’t deny himself this potentially one, final pleasure.

So, Bucky learns to communicate.

“Fix the problem you created.” Bucky’s stare is cold and calloused, but the way his chest rises and falls at a quickened pace and the way his pupils dilate as he looks down at you makes you feel powerful. You test the waters, sliding your palms from his knees up his thighs and then curling your fingertips beneath the waistband of both his shorts and boxers. He remains focused on you, not giving you indication that he wants you to stop. So, you tug his shorts and boxers down until his cock springs free, nearly slapping against his lower stomach as your drop his shorts to his feet. Your eyes are glued to his impressive length, taking in the way precum is beginning to drip down his shaft and the way his balls look so full and heavy between his legs. He’s growing impatient, wondering if you plan to sit there and stare at it or do what you really want to do to it. He’s just about to showcase his impatience with you when you reach up and wrap your right hand firmly around his cock, holding it with just the right amount of grip as you give it one long stroke from the base to the tip. You tighten your fist around the head and let his precum lubricate your palm before stroking back down to the base and spreading the wetness around his shaft. The way his head falls back against the wall makes you feel high. You like having this kind of power over him. You wonder how much more power you might have if you used your mouth, but why wonder? Leaning forward, you continue stroking his cock with your right hand while you plant your left hand on his thigh and press your lips to the tip.

“Shit.”  The curse falls from his lips so freely that you can’t stop yourself. The next thing you know, his cock is sliding past your lips and the tip is brushing against the back of your throat as you nearly fully deepthroat his entire length. You only have an inch left to go but you aren’t sure you can fit it all. Bucky looks down and sees your hesitation. He knows he should’ve restrained himself. He knows he should’ve let you take this at your own pace, but he needed it. He needed to feel your throat tighten around his cock. He needed to see how fucking pretty you’d look with every inch of him in your mouth. So, Bucky gently placed his right hand on the back of your head and applied a little pressure. Just enough pressure to make you swallow the rest of his cock. As soon as he felt your nose brushing against his skin, he pulled you back by your hair. His eyes roam over your face now, checking in to see if you’re okay. Your eyes are wide but your pupils are blown with lust. Not only are you okay, but you’re on cloud fucking nine. With the tip of his cock still in your mouth, you nod up at him, letting him know it’s okay to do it again.

Bucky guides his cock into your mouth again, pulling your head closer and closer to him until he feels your throat tighten as you gag around his length. When he tries to pull you away this time, you grip both of his thighs and stare up at him so hungrily that he groans at the sight. You don’t want him to go easy on you, you want him to take what he needs. It’s only a second later that Bucky puts both of his hands on your head and holds you firmly in place as he begins thrusting his cock into your mouth. He’s slow and careful at first, trying not to give you more than you can handle. But the first time you moan around his shaft, slow and careful goes out the window. He fucks your throat, letting his balls rap against your chin with every deep thrust. The obscene sounds and the way you fight to maintain eye contact with him sends him straight to the edge of his release so much sooner than he expected.

“I’m gonna cum.” He rasps, praying that you won’t want him to pull out. Although, he could easily picture himself cumming all over your pretty face. Your only response is to grip onto his thighs even tighter while you look up at him so submissively. That’s all it takes. Bucky gives your mouth one more thrust and then holds your head in place, with your lips wrapped tightly around the base of his cock. You feel every drop of cum as it trickles onto your tongue and down your throat. After a few more seconds, Bucky releases your head and watches as you sit back on your knees, swallowing everything that he gave you. When you lick your lips he swears he could go for round two already.

“That was so much better than a candy cane, Bucky.”

TAG LIST: @gyokujyn @mrsjoequinn @thealloveru2 @nixxaswrld @ordelixx @sweettae02 @frombkjar @hellfirebabe @edelweissbarnes @claireelizabeth85 @fandomsfeminismandme @sunnyhummingbee @jenniferpendragon @siciliano13 @crist1216 @wlkdead

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

[yawnderu]

Lorelei — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | Part V

1 2 3 4 5 6

Synopsis: Aware of the way his lifestyle doesn't align with your dream life and unwilling to quit his life as a soldier, Simon breaks things off with you. It isn't until a year later that he sees you again, a tiny carbon copy of him held in your arms.

This chapter can be read as a one-shot without having to read the whole story! :)

"Are you staying for Christmas?" You ask casually, decorating the cookies you baked with Simon's help. Your daughter is sleeping peacefully in her crib, a small Santa Claus onesie on her, preparing her for the celebration even when there's still a few hours left.

"You want me to?" He asks with a raised eyebrow, brown eyes fully focused on decorating the head of one of the cookie figures, steady hand drawing a skull pattern with ease.

"It's her first Christmas, I think she'd like having her father around." I want you around as well. He's lucky you're focused on decorating your cookies, missing the way his face lights up with a proud smile. It's a lot of progress.

''Right. I got you both some presents in the car.'' He washes his hands on the sink, giving his daughter one last look before leaving the house, trying to gather as many of the gifts he bought as possible. ''Some presents'' was clearly an understatement— he has been building a pile of gifts for months, his car full of boxes and bags for both you and your little girl.

''Jesus Christ.'' You wash your hands and go help him as you see him struggling to carry the pile, taking some from him and putting them under the Christmas tree.

''There's more in the car.'' He seems almost sheepish as he confesses, giving him a small pat on the arm as you go outside to help him. You almost laugh as you look inside, the entire backseat full of presents. It's almost ridiculous, yet so charming how much he wants to make both of you happy, knowing how much it the holidays mean to you, especially now that you have a daughter.

''Isn't this... a bit overkill?'' You joke, earning you a playful pat on the ass now that your arms are busy. You miss the kick thrown his way, jogging after him with a smile when he playfully gets on the other side of the couch to avoid you getting revenge.

''I still got one more present coming, but that's for later.'' He walks back to the kitchen once he made sure you weren't going to kill him for patting your ass.

''I swear to God, Simon, if it's another d—'' He interrupts you by smearing frosting on your cheek, shooting you a cheeky smile that gets erased the moment you do it back— smearing way more than you should have all over his cheek.

''Bastard.''

Your baby was up by the time it was midnight, excited to see her mum and dad opening up presents and even joining in, tiny hands clearly struggling with the wrapping paper, yet somehow managing without help.

''Strong girl, like her mum.'' You smile softly at his words, looking at the way your daughter stares curiously at one of her last presents; a cactus activated by sound.

''Say 'hello'.'' Simon says, getting closer to the toy until it activates, dancing around and lighting up. Astrid looks confused as she looks at it, brown eyes looking up at you before looking back at the toy.

''Hello.'' He repeats, a warm smile on his lips when the toy starts dancing again, much to your daughter's confusion. She babbles at it, tiny hands reaching out to touch it once it starts moving and playing back her sounds, giggles escaping her lips as the toy imitates her laugh.

Simon's phone vibrates in his pocket, getting up from the couch before looking down at his phone with twinkling eyes.

''My mate's here, I'll be right back.'' He doesn't wait for you to reply, already out of the house before you can even say anything. Your focus is back to your daughter, happy that she enjoys playing with the toy rather than being scared of it like you've seen in videos online. Brave girl she is, not a single lick of fear in her.

Simon comes back a minute later, holding a big German Shepherd that can definitely walk on its own. You give him a questioning look as he sets it on the floor, holding his collar just in case.

''Absolutely not.'' You try to protest, yet your gaze softens when you see Astrid crawl to the dog.

''Wa-wa!'' She points out, tiny hands reaching up to pet the dog the same way you've taught her, gentle. The dog doesn't react much besides laying down on the floor for your daughter to pet it, making it much easier for her.

''His name's Riley, he's a retired K-9. Look, I'll pay for his food and even for someone to come take care of him when I'm not here, I just... want you to be safe.'' There's hints of pleading on his tone, eyebrows slightly furrowed as he looks at you.

''... I'll take care of him.'' You say with a small sigh, knowing Simon wants nothing else than for both of his girls to be safe, especially when he's deployed.

''We gave him extra training to deal with kids and emergencies. Big geezer's patient and good.'' He keeps trying to sell it as if you didn't say yes already, a small giggle escaping your lips before giving him a reassuring smile.

''We'll keep him, don't worry.'' You crouch down to pet the dog, who is clearly enjoying the attention from your daughter, allowing her to rest on his side while petting his head.

There's a smile on his face as he looks down at his family, hands fumbling with the small box in his pocket.

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[charmac]

He faked cancer, he's been shot robbing his own bar, he's been arrested for arson, he bit open the jugular of a mall Santa in an attempt to kill, he kidnapped a bar critic with a hammer in a fit of rage, he gifted a woman a box of spiders and a man a box of hornets, he tried to chuck a woman out a window, he beat up a group of children for stealing his friend's bike (and might have killed a kid). He lives in a filthy one-room apartment with a rich old man and they keep cans of piss stored in every corner, because he boarded up the bathroom (toilet is noisy) and the bedroom (rooms behind other rooms are creepy). He can't read or write, but he's insistent on writing speeches and signing contracts. He makes up songs in fits of anger and to release his trauma when he's high, he created a play about his CSA, but it was actually just a cover for a marriage proposal to a woman he's stalked for a decade, and he continues to stalk her for another decade. He's an alcoholic janitor who huffs chemicals daily, and he'd happily skin someone alive while hallucinating, just as easily as he cut open his own arm in an attempt to win a made-up game.

He is a terrible man

#iasip #charlie kelly #this is a love appreciation post #for the real charlie kelly #dont get it twisted #there are so many more things i could add #but i didnt wanna make it too long lmfao

[whatsnewalycat]

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure. 

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact. 

So it begins. 

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office. 

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?” 

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.” 

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?” 

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.” 

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.” 

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.” 

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.” 

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat. 

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.” 

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her. 

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings. 

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor. 

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface. 

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?” 

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?” 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers. 

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.” 

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you. 

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that. 

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant. 

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it. 

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm. 

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray. 

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait. 

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer. 

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open. 

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him. 

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?” 

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort. 

So fucking professional. 

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.” 

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.” 

“I can smell.” 

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional. 

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. 

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.” 

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door. 

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do. 

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning. 

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor. 

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy. 

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again. 

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest. 

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything. 

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy. 

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford. 

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided. 

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh. 

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes. 

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?” 

“What’re the options?” 

“Chicken roulade or salmon.” 

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder. 

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?” 

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.” 

“Dining room or room service?” 

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.” 

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?” 

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—” 

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.” 

“But still—” 

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.” 

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.” 

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.” 

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way. 

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you. 

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation. 

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table. 

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting. 

“Dieter.” 

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?” 

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?” 

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.” 

“You could eat out here.” 

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.” 

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him. 

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.” 

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.” 

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality. 

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you. 

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?” 

“I… shouldn’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision. 

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there. 

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.” 

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping. 

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass. 

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable. 

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile. 

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.” 

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.” 

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?” 

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?” 

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.” 

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to. 

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.” 

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head. 

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.” 

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.” 

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like. 

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.” 

— 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING 

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting. 

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?” 

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.” 

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?” 

“Help yourself.” 

“Do you want one?” 

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy. 

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial? 

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office. 

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?” 

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape. 

“Right now?” 

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question. 

“Can I shovel first?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room. 

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?” 

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest. 

What a fucking nightmare. 

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?” 

“The fan doesn’t work.” 

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.” 

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life. 

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches. 

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.” 

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales. 

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.” 

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake. 

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?” 

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit. 

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?” 

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.” 

“Whadda you mean?” you frown. 

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie. 

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?” 

You shake your head. 

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?” 

You nod. 

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.” 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon. 

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.” 

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?” 

“Because we’re snowed in.” 

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.” 

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter. 

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—” 

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.” 

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?” 

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat. 

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.” 

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?” 

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?” 

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?” 

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?” 

“Here is fine.” 

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise. 

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box. 

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open. 

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. 

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”  

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?” 

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.” 

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.” 

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.” 

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?” 

“In pictures.” 

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.” 

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble. 

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still. 

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter. 

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white. 

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party. 

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you. 

“Hey, you alright?” 

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling. 

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern. 

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire. 

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.” 

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him. 

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.” 

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.” 

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.” 

“Is that the shitty one?” 

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.” 

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.” 

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.” 

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”  

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.” 

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable. 

You have a big fat crush. 

So fucking professional. 

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face. 

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring. 

Curiosity prods your heart. 

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob. 

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut. 

Dusting it is. 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity. 

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like: 

He-doesn’t-like-you 

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage. 

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him. 

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds. 

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something. 

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him? 

Can’t get far enough away from you. 

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock. 

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die. 

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock. 

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible. 

Well, he seems chipper. 

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area. 

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss. 

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway. 

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?” 

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.” 

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases. 

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!” 

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on. 

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.” 

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES. 

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room. 

“Want me to carry that?” 

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested. 

“No, I got it.” 

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.” 

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder. 

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms. 

“Were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet. 

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.” 

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table. 

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside. 

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames. 

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?” 

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing. 

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.” 

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.” 

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs. 

He doesn’t, though. 

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment. 

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.” 

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?” 

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter. 

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?” 

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor. 

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone. 

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?” 

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.” 

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.” 

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?” 

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?” 

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?” 

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.” 

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.” 

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.” 

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down. 

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?” 

“Will you be joining me?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease. 

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?” 

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.” 

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?” 

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?” 

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room. 

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?” 

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him. 

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation. 

“Fuck it, why not?” 

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.” 

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?” 

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.” 

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?” 

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters. 

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?” 

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other. 

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.” 

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”  

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair. 

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.” 

“To the possibilities.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM 

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad. 

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more. 

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.” 

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?” 

“Can I open another bottle?” 

“Go for it.” 

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway. 

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark. 

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself? 

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room. 

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle. 

“Sorry. Habit.” 

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?” 

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.” 

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable. 

“Palm reading?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?” 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?” 

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.” 

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs. 

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod. 

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm. 

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting. 

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy. 

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.” 

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.” 

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?” 

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them. 

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you. 

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though. 

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite. 

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his. 

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.” 

You do. 

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.” 

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy. 

But really, you know he’s right. 

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life. 

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face. 

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?” 

“But what if it’s right?” 

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in. 

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth. 

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer. 

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp. 

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake. 

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine. 

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap. 

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.  

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?” 

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle. 

“Underwear too?”

He nods. 

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.” 

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.” 

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello. 

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.” 

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.” 

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching  him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?” 

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.” 

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.” 

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly. 

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?” 

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length. 

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face. 

“God yes, please, baby.” 

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down. 

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair. 

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin. 

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in. 

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob. 

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan. 

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.” 

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?” 

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.” 

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.” 

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?” 

“Is that weird?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing. 

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?” 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you. 

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. 

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen? 

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut. 

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful. 

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions. 

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his. 

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.” 

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe. 

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?” 

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.” 

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving. 

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?” 

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?” 

“What’re you freaking out about?” 

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?” 

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?” 

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.” 

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug. 

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?” 

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.” 

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.” 

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?” 

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart. 

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.” 

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter. 

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.” 

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.” 

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter. 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday. 

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras. 

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen. 

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work. 

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky. 

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work. 

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner. 

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since. 

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it. 

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial. 

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?” 

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.” 

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.” 

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.” 

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.” 

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body. 

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.” 

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.” 

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302. 

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room. 

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp. 

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face. 

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.” 

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair. 

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.” 

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?” 

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader

[rileyslibrary]

Masterlist:

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

📙gn!reader📗f!reader

———————————————————————

Multi-chapter works/Mini Series

Living with Ghosts (9/9)📗

The new Lieutenant (3/3): Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3📗

Be gentle, man! (2/2): Part 1 / Part 2📗

Lazy Sunday with Simon (2/2): Part 1 / Part 2📙

The hot seat (2/2): Part 1 / Part 2📗 (fanart by @hanjyukutamago)

The Log Cabin (3/3)📙 (fanart by @23652 and 3D render by @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot)

Oneshots/Drabbles/Requests etc. (sorted: new to old)

Mary Mart📗

First Solo Mission📙

Go away Mr. Reaper📗

Bravo Unit has barracks?!📗

New Year’s Resolutions📗

Operation “Santa”📙

Ghost’s secret collection📙

Taking the piss out of Ghost📙

Ghost is jealous📗

Non-verbal communication📙

The captain’s birthday cake📙

The after effects of alcohol📙

This or That📗 (Render by @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot)

Sensing something is wrong with you📙

Weighted Blanket📙

Killing Bugs 📙

Assembling Furniture📙

Seeking comfort in the command tent📙

Pickle jar troubles📗

The wedding📗 (fanart by @hanjyukutamago & render by @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot)

Career fair📙

Hangry📙

Nice haircut📗

Heat Exhaustion📙

Elevator chat 📙

Chest candy📙

Happy birthday, Lieutenant📙

Penny for your thoughts📙

Ghost forgets reader’s birthday📙

Peppa the dog📙

Ghost teaching you how to ride a bike📙

No fun allowed📙

Take a deep breath📙

Team-building exercise📗

Moving in together📙

One for one📙

Taser training📙

Snack Attack📙

Somebody’s something📙

Soldier down📙

Paper cranes📙

Get well soon, Captain!📗

Interrogation shenanigans📙

Lift and learn📗

Invincible📙

Easter Bunny📙 (fanart by @hanjyukutamago)

One bed📗

Taking initiative📗

April Fools📙

Succession prompt📙

Promise me📙

No, soldier, no📙

Your opinion isn’t part of the recipe, Sergeant📙

Here’s a rose, now piss off📗

Ghost and the kitten📙

Aggressive mimicry📗

Ghost showering (imagine)📙

You spy with your little eye…📙

Campfire kisses📗 (render by @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot)

Meal, Under-the-Stars📗

An unlikely duo📙

Temptation📗

Eyes on the road📙

Nice shot📗

Simon’s armchair📙

What a lovely way to burn📙

The smile behind the mask📙

Pull my hair📗

Where’s my pen, Lt.?📗

Mirror📙

———————————————————————

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader

[morallyinept]

Sleazy Santa - A Dieter Bravo One Shot

Summary: Have you been naughty or nice? Sleazy Santa Dieter will find out... Come sit on his knee, baby, and tell Santa what you really want for Christmas. If you've been good, he might just give it to you. T'is the season to be sleazy...

Pairing: Sleazy!Dieter Bravo x MenaceF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.) Reader is referred to as 'Cookie' on occasion. You'll see why when you read... and has hair long enough to pull.

Word Count: 5.3k of Christmas sleaze

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

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral M & F receiving/drug use/anal play/lots of smutty dirty talk/verbal degradation - Dieter calls you a whore & slut and you love it/(im)proper use of a candy cane/Dieter being absolutely lewd and trashy whilst being a mall Santa. Reader is up for this and wants it all. Dieter is not an actor in this story. Just a dirtbag.

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.

Author’s Note: (I intended to get this out on the 1st Dec, but this week has completely run away from me, so better late than never! 🫠) I just know Dieter would be the trashiest Santa. So here he is. Ho(e). Ho(e). Ho(e). 🎅🫦

☝🏻This is not a direct follow on from Back Alley Bang, but is the same Sleazy!Dieter.

Read Back Alley Bang!

I wrote this a little while back in prep for my Christmas stories to release throughout December. Since then, the lovely @cerridwen007 dropped a Frankie fic called Candy Cane, which you should totally read because it's bloody amazing! And hot! 🔥 Seeing as both our stories mention some lewdness with Candy Canes, I want to shout about hers, because it's epic. And so is she. 🥰🖤

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.

🎄MASTERLIST🎄

Enjoy! 🖤

“Come sit on Santa’s knee, baby.” He smirks at you under the grizzle of greying, scruffy facial hair, sprawled across his jawline like a patch of overgrown weeds in a neglected alley.

Each bristle of his moustache seems like a picket in a fence, guarding the secrets of his expressions, a formidable barrier to anyone attempting to decipher the stoic visage he wears, despite the adept grin crook shanking it's way out from underneath it at you now.

You joust a sharp glance at him, sitting back lazily on the throne, manspreading and reaching down to adjust the swell of his cock inside his red velour pants, brazenly.

In a worn-out wife beater, that's seen one too many spin wash cycles, tinged grey with sweat around the hem and underarms, braces dangle loosely over Santa’s broad shoulders, contributing to a somewhat dis-reputational vibe.

Boots, covered in dirt and scuffs, complete the unkempt look, and a lingering rolled cigarette, possibly a joint by the herbal stench emanating from it and how tightly it’s tobacco stuffing is packed into the thin papers, add a touch of nonchalance to the unconventional ensemble.

The once jolly twinkle in his tired and bloodshot eyes he had for the children and parents queuing up all day to meet him excitedly, now carries a mischievous, darkening glint polluting the soft browns into a deep onyx as he regards you.

You can feel the heat, running moist and sticky across your body in all those fleshy crevices, as his eyes traverse all the curves and shapes of you gluttonously and leaving you stained.

It feels as if he devours you with his gaze, eyes chomping through your bones; each hungry look a bite into the forbidden fruit of your supple skin, leaving you with a sense of exposure that’s both invasive and titillating.

You feel it pulse on the end of your clit and bite back a wayward groan as you squeeze your thighs together.

You pull off your elf's hat, ruffling your hair out of your tight pony that’s been threatening to scalp you all day, and smirk at him suggestively. 

He leers back, through full lips chapped pink, under that greasy moustache hidden behind a fake silvery beard all day. A sly grin twists those pert smackers up as he looks you up and down in your cute fuzzy elf ensemble, complete with annoying bells that jingle when you walk.

A crude name tag is pinned to your lapel, flecked with glitter that says Cookie. And you can't help but wonder at how he'll make you crumble.

The Grotto’s decor transports visitors to a whimsical realm where the spirit of Christmas thrives in a rammed-down-your-throat abundance. Faux snow covered branches, adorned with twinkling lights that frame the entrance, complete with fibreglass reindeer with beady eyes, creates an archway that beckons families into the enchanting space within the hustle and bustle of the shopping mall. 

Inside the main cabin, the walls are adorned with festive murals depicting scenes of Santa's workshop; his cheerful elves, and his sleigh chock full of presents for all the good boys and girls.

Glittering ornaments in hues of red, green and gold hang from the ceiling, casting a warm and festive glow as they twirl and sway. Garlands of pine branches intertwine with fairy lights, adorned and wrapped around every available surface, filling the air with the invigorating scent of Christmas pine to the point you want to choke.

Eager youngsters, with their big awe-struck eyes, gravitate around your knees all day and hearing Let It Snow play on repeat is starting to grate on your last nerve by lunch time.

A two bit job in a shopping mall Grotto for the season to help pay the rent on your shitty apartment, isn’t exactly the high point of your mundane life, but being assigned as Santa’s personal elf in the Grotto this year seems to have an unexpected appeal. 

Especially when under the hat and beard Santa is a fucking grimy feast for the eyes, in all of his sordid, dirty appeal. 

“Oh, he’s kinda hot.” You whisper to the other elves, Sugarplum and Cinnamon, when you overhear them talking about him. “In a scummy sorta way.”

You watch as he chortles and pushes crudely taped gifts with lopsided bows into tiny, waiting hands. 

“I saw him out of the suit having a smoke round back. He looks like he spends all day injecting.” Cinnamon the elf remarks, wrinkling her nose. 

Sugarplum snorts distastefully in agreement as she pushes another child through to meet the magic man himself. And you can’t help but grin.  

Who is this guy? 

He stands out like a sore thumb in the mall full of Christmas card perfect families, with two point four bratty children, not the type to be cast in the role of Santa. He looks like he shouldn’t be anywhere near the vicinity of children at all. 

He’s an obvious stain on the holly-jolly, a blot; a malignant smear with his dark appearance and equally dark aura that radiates and flashes in neon green above his head like a Sims character, that he’s a bad, rotten egg. 

And yet, there’s something about him that piques you and your pussy’s interest as you can’t look away. 

You wonder where they hired him, possibly off the street by the way he looks; hair a fluffy mess as he runs a giant paw through it when he takes off the Santa hat for a reprieve. Slick with sweat around the neck and ears after being swamped in the furry suit all day.

But amidst the cheerful chatter and the jingling of bells, you and Santa start to engage in risqué repartee through exchanging heated glances, hidden within the joyful chaos that swarms around you both.

He watches as you bend to greet the children, deliberately pointing your ass, clad in tight, striped hosiery, in his line of sight, and throwing him a steely glance over your shoulder as you smile innocently around your glittery lipstick. 

You suck on candy canes to rile him up as he waits for the next toddler to enter the Grotto, and tease him with how far you can get it down your throat. 

You can see the effect it has on him all day as he has to adjust to himself constantly and refuse that any more kids sit on his lap, opting to just talk to them on their level instead.

Your eyes often fall onto that heavy bulge between his legs as you lick up the red striped cane suggestively. 

You, the teasing little elf, pretend to inspect a list of wishes, shooting Santa a sultry look. "I must say, Santa, you're on everyone's 'Nice' list, but I can't help but wonder what it would take to get you on the 'Naughty' list for a change…"

And he takes that as a direct challenge. 

After the Grotto is closed to the public for the day, you see him head into it and follow, lured like he’s dropping gingerbread crumbs for you to snort up.

Lights are out in the Winter Wonderland area; a few amblers doing their late night Christmas shopping still linger around the mall, but no-one would obviously know you're heading in as your toes jingle with your quick steps in the shadows. 

And it’s where you find him now, sitting back in Santa’s grand throne, legs akimbo and waiting for you as he tokes; running his thick mitts around the chintzy scruff of his real beard.

His eyes crinkle with mirth as you shut the Grotto door behind you. You reach into the basket of candy canes and he watches as you unwrap one, sucking on the stripey end of it as you step up towards him, when he pats his thick thigh again at you. 

Perching on him, dwelling inside the mist of hazy smoke that lingers above your heads and makes you feel lighter as you breathe it down into your lungs, you flutter your eyelashes as you take him in. 

Thick arms, speckled with tattoos of triads that look coloured in with a Sharpie, speak of a past etched with both labour and skirmishes. His hands, large and calloused, possess a certain coarseness, evidence of a wayward journey through life's grittier back alleys with short, chewed on nails. With shoulders that may slump a touch, he carries an weight of shady roughness on them; his belly and thighs telling stories of indulgence, and perhaps a few late night brawls.

Thick fingers are stacked with silver rings that are covered with Santa’s cotton gloves throughout the day. His hawkish nose adds a touch of defiance, completing the image of a man with a scuffed exterior, rough around the edges, yet somewhat intriguing in his lived-in authenticity. An unpolished diamond in some scummy rough. 

But who needs a diamond, when a zirconia is just as good, right? 

In the twinkly lights, the grazed hair on his face appears not as distinguished silver, but rather a mishmash of unkempt greys woven in, like shadows playing on a weathered canvas or someone forgetting to water their garden in patches.

His cocoa bean eyes, though sharp, carry a glimmer of adept slyness, a snake waiting to strike and latch it's fangs to your calf, as if they've witnessed more than their fair share of venomous dealings. 

The pierced ear, with its slightly tarnished hoop you're longing to suck into your mouth, feels less like a statement and more like a relic of some practised rebellion; a declaration of nonconformity, a middle finger raised to polished appearances.

And it's here where your eyes settle, on his fingers as he brings the joint up to his lips to inhale again, and you marvel at their thickness, their startling turgidity, clenching internally.

He inhales on the end of the blunt, smoke billowing around his face in misty, gossamer trails that beckon you further into him, and his eyes, dark and beguiling with blown pupils, are still on yours.

“Have you been a good girl this year?” There’s a coarse texture to his speech, a visceral quality that mirrors the scuffed exterior of a life lived on the fringes.

He’s watching your lips around the candy cane as though hypnotised by the talent of it. You pull it out of your mouth, sticky - the red bleeding into the white - and smile sweetly.

“I’m always a good girl,” you remark with a minty grin. 

Santa shakes his head. “I hear differently. I hear you’re a very naughty girl.” 

You mock pout as he leans forward and sucks the end of the candy cane you’re holding into his own mouth. He smacks his lips around one another after tasting it and hums out. “Filthy,” he adds. 

“Dirty.” You confirm with a singular nod. 

“I like ‘em dirty.” He agrees, looking up at you, chin jutted out in a provocative challenge. 

You stroke under it, scritching your nails in the softly coarse hairs there.

He flicks your name tag and smirks. “Cute.”

“What’s your name?” You ask curiously. 

“Dieter,” he exhales again, and you can taste the smoke settling on your tongue. “But you can call me Santa, baby.”

You nod willingly. 

“Santa wants to touch you, Cookie. You gonna let him?” He queries.

You nod again, smiling. 

“Say it, baby. Say you want Santa to touch you.”

“Touch me, Santa.” You simmer. Your body tenses waiting for his hands - those giant, fucking hands - to get acquainted with you.

He finishes the joint, before squeezing the end to extinguish it, and plops it on the floor. “You gonna let Santa fuck you too?”

“Yeah," you nod again like you can't stop. "I want Santa to fuck me with his big, hard cock.” You reach down and give it a squeeze over the velour Santa pants, and he hisses. “Mmm, so big.” You say, sucking on the cane again, hooking your finger around the curved end of it.

“Fuck, baby. You want it bad don’t you? Slutty little elf…” He states.

Dieter runs his hand up your thigh, your stomach and stops at your breast giving it a good squeeze over your outfit; a grunt of approval rippling low in the back trench of his throat and he massages and gropes.

Clawing his fingers of his other hand over your thigh and grabbing at the pliable skin of your ass cheek, he squeezes a generous handful of it, pulling and smirking at you. 

“Lemme get a look at these tits, fuck.” Dieter says, immediately running his tongue over them as you pull off your elf top. He yanks down your bralette, tearing at the flimsy material making you gasp around the candy cane. 

Mouthing and licking around your nipples, flicking them with his hot, wet tongue, you moan and trail your fingers through his greased up hair. And Santa can’t help himself but to motorboat them, making you giggle as you squirm in his lap. 

“Fuck, look at these,” He says groping them in his giant hands. He brings them together moaning and groaning as he licks and sucks them some more. Running his scruffy jaw over them, greedily like all his Christmases have come at once. He bites down on one and you hiss, feeling it fizz between your legs. 

“How ‘bout a little kiss for Santa, hmm?” He croons at you, craning his face into yours. "Mmm, my lil' sugar cookie..."

You lean in, slipping your cool, sweetly sticky tongue inside his mouth as he kisses you. He strokes over your breasts, squeezing more and groaning as you suck on his tongue. 

He tastes of weed, and something else strong and tart laced around his teeth. But you devour him, feeling that long tongue search around your mouth tasting you, and filling you with his muffled grunts.

“You know, Santa can fill your stocking with whatever you want, right?” Dieter smirks at you as he runs his fingers up down the striped nylons.

You grin, as you pop the candy cane back in your mouth.

With both hands, he tears open your pantyhose from your apex, and smirks at the damp patch there between your legs. You can feel it, all wet and sticky between your thighs. 

You’ve made a mess of yourself all day watching and lusting after him, and now he can see it and knows exactly what he does to you. Knows how you've been craving that filthy dirtbag - who looks like he rolled out of the gutter - they hired to play dress up for the kids.

God, you wanna ride him so fucking hard. 

“You been this wet for me all day?”

You nod. “Drenched.” You tease. 

“Fuck…” he husks approvingly. 

“You make me so wet, Santa.” You say, still innocently sucking on that darned candy cane.

His fingers swipe over the front of your panties, feeling it and pushing the damply soiled material against the folds of your swollen pussy lips. 

He groans as he feels that warm slick seep through onto his fingertips. He brings them up to his nose and sniffs before putting them in his mouth and sucks them, looking at you the whole time as you flare.

Then, he runs them all over your seam again, pressing in and applying pressure to the protruding, swollen bump of your clit. Those grubby, filthy hands pawing greedily all over you, just as you wanted.

“Mmm,” you whine as he strokes and circles over your clit that’s buzzing and pulling tight. A tinge of an ache that makes your thighs tense in the most delicious of ways as he strokes over it, lewdly.

“Santa’s little slut, aren’t you?”

You nod, smirking.

He takes the candy cane from you, and slots it in his own mouth, sucking on it as he inspects between your legs like a letch. You hear it clack against his teeth as it rolls from side to side across his mouth. 

Sucking on it, the stripy tip turned fully white now, he runs it in your folds, and you gasp at the coolness of the mint.

He dips it in, sliding the candy cane into your hole and pulls it out, sucking it back into his mouth, tasting you around the peppermint treat. 

"Mmm, you taste so good." He praises.

He does it again, fucking you slowly with the candy cane and watching as you bite your lip as he slides it in as deep as it’ll go, before holding the sticky treat out for you to taste.

You eye him as you suck it clean of your slick, your tongue lapping down the length of it, and he groans.

“So fucking nasty,” he says with a glint in his eye.

You crunch on the end of it, breaking off a chunk into your mouth as you chew and he discards the rest onto the floor, breaking into pieces that scatter upon impact. 

“Let me get another look at that pussy.” He wrenches your panties aside again, and spits on his fingers, rubbing them over your dripping cunt. 

“That feel good?” He slides up and down your folds, teasing your clit with slimy circles of your slick and tapping it. 

“Yeah. I want those dirty fingers in me.” You whine. 

“All the way in?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get those panties off. Santa wants you spread open on his lap, baby.”

You lift your ass up as he tugs them down and you watch as he stuffs them into his pocket with a cockamamie smirk. You can only imagine all the sordid things he'll do with them later.

“Oh my God…” You gasp as he slides in two thick fingers, thumb running over your clit. 

“You like being a dirty little slut for Santa, don’t you?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod.

“Look at you, spread wide with my fingers in your cunt.” He looks down at the wet patch on his pants where you cream for him. 

“I love it.” You nod. "I love being your slut, Santa."

“Yeah you do. Kiss me again, baby. Gimme that tongue.”

He sucks on your tongue before he pushes in a third finger, and you moan at how full you feel. He pumps them in and out of you, garnering a tempo that leaves flames licking down your spine as you writhe against them. 

“Such a tight little cunt,” he whispers, pulling on your bottom lip and sucking it. 

“Mmm, yeah… that feels so good.” You mewl.

You can hear your slick squelching around his fingers and leaving them shiny as he pulls them out. You watch as he separates them, leaving strings to break before he sucks them in his mouth. 

“Santa’s got a gift for you in his sack, baby.” He reaches down into a bag, just as dirty and grimy as he is, and pulls out a battery powered wand with a bulbous head. 

You’re stunned as you giggle, and he raises his eyebrows. 

“You carry that around with you all the time?” You say, bewildered. 

A filthy grin lances across his face, the type that could impregnate women. And looking at him, he probably has. A harem of single mothers waiting on alimony cheques that’ll never come.

He clicks the wand on and pushes it to your cunt. 

“Oh fuck!” You drool as you feel it pulsing deliciously against your clit immediately. He sucks your nipple back into his mouth, whining at the taste of your skin. 

The vibrations, like soft, tingly ripples, spread from the device and explore every facet of your nerve endings. Tiny electrical pinpricks; a bubbling conduit of glittery bursts that intensify the more pressure he applies against you.

"That feel good?" You hear him graze at you.

“Mmm, I feel like I could come right now.” You sigh, gripping onto his broad, tan shoulder and enjoying being so close falling off the ledge already.

“This little toy gonna make you come, baby? Make you come for Santa?” You watch as he tongues your nipple, flicking it back and forth fast.

“Yeah. I’m almost there.” You shudder. "Mmm, fuck." You grab a hold of his hand, pushing the wand tighter against you. You can feel it pulsing in the centre, a deep winding sensation behind your abdomen; bunching and tightening. 

He clicks it up a notch, the vibrating head faster and louder against your clit. 

“Oh fuck. Yes, yes, yes!” Nails digging into the back of his hand as you grind against the wand head.

“Yeah. Come for me, baby. I wanna see Cookie come for Santa like a good slut.”

“Feels so nice like that… fuck!” You say your eyes rolling back, jaw tight and teeth clenching as you shudder and burst. Eyebrows furrowing and biting down on your lip as you come around the wand’s head. “So good, Santa… fuck, so, so good,” you pant. 

His eyes flash with wild encouragement, yet they contain a sense of addictive danger as he kisses across your breasts that taste salty with sweat and glittery fragments that stick to you as you shake.

“Such a good little elf, coming for Santa aren’t you, baby?”

He glances at you as he suckles and kisses your nipple, and pulls your face towards his for a swamping kiss that tastes acidic and makes you dizzy with it all. 

You reach down and squeeze his cock as he tosses the wand onto his bag. Stroking him over the red velour pants. He has an oily smirk; slick and fast, matching the tempo of how quickly he gets his cock out for you. Thick, veiny and pink, with a nice fat head, oozing just for you. 

“Is this all for me, Santa?” You marvel at the lack of boxers or briefs under the pants.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got such a big cock. Mmm, that’s gonna feel so good in my tight pussy.”

“Gonna stretch you out, baby.” He takes your hand and wraps it around him, pumping.

“Fill me up.”

“Yeah, Gonna fill this slutty pussy up till you're dripping me down your thighs.” 

Your eyes are drawn to the ominous swell of his cock in your hand, astounding in its size and girth with a puff of grizzly dark hairs at the base of it. You’re trying to understand the science of how the fuck he’ll fit inside of you.

“I feel so fucking good, Cookie. So hard.” He whispers with a beguiling whip around his gritty cadence.

“Mmm,” you say, mesmerised by jerking him off. Watching as he drips for you and smearing it around his head with your thumb. 

“You wanna feel it? Feel it in your pussy, baby?”

Biting your lip you nod and grin. “Yeah.”

In a flash, he sits you on the throne, your legs hanging over the arm rests and spread wide for him.

"Fuck, look at you," he sighs at how spread and soaked you are for him.

Dieter jerks his cock as he runs his tongue up and down your slit, sucking on your clit hungrily. He swirls his tongue round and round, speedily as it flicks across your clit and makes your thighs twitch. 

“God, you taste so fucking good.” He groans.

“Like candy canes.” You giggle.

“Yeah. So sweet.”

You yank his head forward, clutching at the roots of his greying curls. His nose snuffles against the top of your mound as you feel him penetrate your hole with his tongue. 

“Fuck!” You drone as he fucks you with it.

He licks down and then runs back up again, this time gliding his nose in your folds too. Slick gathers on the end of it, shiny as it passes over your clit. 

“God, I wanna fuck this tight, little pussy.” He growls, wiping your juice from his nose and licking it away from his palm. 

Dieter pulls off the pants fully, then stands, crouching with legs spread; thick thighs supporting him as he lines himself up with your slit.

You can see the swell of his belly where the wife beater rides up and you reach forward to stroke it, feeling the galaxy of soft hairs that lead in a trail down to his cock.

You wince as he pushes in, fisting onto the hem of the vest. 

“What, huh? Too big? You can take this big cock. Come on, baby.” He looks down to see he’s halfway in; your cunt sucking him in as he traverses the fleshy, wet walls crushing around him. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Mmm, God!” You groan, reaching for him as he pushes in all the way, deep into the hilt of you and there he stays for a moment, unmoving, just feeling you pulse and contract around him. 

He wiggles his hips and watches you breathlessly gasp. 

“Fuck me,” you plead. 

He pulls out and then slides deep again, over and over until he works up a tempo that has you panting; clawing at his arms and soaking around him. 

You sit up on the edge of the throne, legs wrapped around his lower calves as he slows into a more laboured pace. Sliding his cock in as deep as he can get it into you. He nips at your neck, running his tongue over the skin and sucking it between his teeth, marking you with purple welts.  

It’s a deep, somewhat brutal fucking, as he flexes his hips and pounds into you with determination. Taking your breath away as the jolts of your body stop you sucking more oxygen in. 

You hold onto the arm rests to steady yourself as he fucks into you. His own breath getting lodged in the back of his throat. 

You look up at him, jaw slack and eyes glazed over in ecstasy as his thighs slap relentlessly against your ass cheeks. His face his taught, veins bulging around his neck and eyes focused on you. Lined forehead coated with a sheen of sweat and you want to taste on your tongue. 

“You like this don’t you, getting fucked by Santa?” He queries with a dark smirk. 

“Aah fuck! Yeah, give it to me!” You wail. 

You can feel the weight of his balls pendulum against your ass as he thrusts relentlessly. 

"Santa fucking his little whore." He puffs.

"Fuck yeah!" You cry.

“Get up baby,” he instructs, wincing as he stands upright and clutching his lower back. 

He sits on the throne and pulls you onto him, but facing away. You hoist yourself up, feet flat on the seat either side of his thighs and lower yourself, squatting onto his cock standing tall and thick beneath you. 

“Oh, that’s it. Sit on Santa’s fucking lap, baby!” He gushes, pulling you all the way down until your cunt is flush with the base of him. 

“Oh shit, Dieter!” You cry as you feel him plunge deeper than he's already been. It forces the breath out of your lungs as you sharply inhale. "Shit, shit!"

"Call me Santa, baby." He teases.

His hands hold onto your waist; thick fingers curling around towards your belly button as you move up and down, using the arm rests to push yourself upwards. 

“Fuck, you’re so deep.” You groan as you work faster with the aid of him pushing your hips. 

“Yeah, fuck my cock, baby.” He grunts from behind you. 

You reach forward and stroke his swollen balls, groping and squeezing gently as he groans in delight. You run your hand across the both of you; feeling him plunge into your pussy, moving up to your clit as he fills you. 

“Yeah, yeah, baby. Oh fuck yeah!” He’s groaning behind you, hissing and puffing. The throne creaks and rocks under you both. 

The burning in your thighs stops you momentarily, and you step down off the throne and ride him harder, leaning forward on his thighs. 

He’s watching, hands on your ass cheeks, splaying you apart so he can see his cock delve deeper into your pussy, shiny and drenched with your slick. 

He sucks his thumb and notches it against your tight, puckered hole. You squeal in delight as he breaks through and hooks it into your ass.

“So fucking dirty baby.” He praises as you tighten around his cock. “Wish we had that candy cane now so I can put it in your ass.” 

“Oh my God…” You sigh deliciously at the seedy thought.

“You gonna come? Come with my thumb in your ass like the dirty slut you are?” 

“Mmm, yeah!” You coo. 

“Fuck yeah!” He hollers as you start to shudder and ripple around him. 

Your voice wanes, becoming nothing but a husked whisper scraping against the back crevices of your throat. But the most fascinating thing of all to him, is the way your body shakes uncontrollably on the end of his cock as he strokes the inside of your ass. 

The dreamy, heady feeling crawls over you like smoke in the dimly lit corridors of the back of the mall, choking you up. The colours of Christmas in the Grotto take on a seedy glamour, as if you're witnessing the world through the tinted lens of a noir film.

It's a sensory whirlwind, where every touch, taste, and sound carries a palpable sharpened edge, laced with a hint of danger that adds to the thrill of the fuck between you both.

His cock bottoms out in you constantly, filling you full of him and you can’t get enough. Panting and whining for more.

The knotting and binding cinches tighter and you start to fall, not into a soft cloud; it's a smokescreen of desire and kinky vice. It's the kind of state where the boundary between illusion and reality blurs, and you find yourself entangled in the gritty allure of forbidden pleasures.

Fucking Santa in a children's Grotto, and you giggle at the absurd, yet vividly decadent rapture, as your orgasm takes you and turns you out. 

“Yeah come all over my cock,” Dieter cajoles as you whine and screech, riding yourself through it until you buck and shake, unable to keep yourself up right on legs that feel like mush.  

Dieter bends you over the throne this time, kneeling on the plush seat as you cling to the back of it whilst he stands behind you, pummelling into you and seeking his own finish.

“You like taking Santa’s big cock like this?” His voice pelts the back of your neck; hair bunched and knotted around his fist.

“Yeah!” You cry out, literally clawing at the gold paint finishing. You’ll find it under your nails later. “Harder.” You whine. 

“Oh, you want it so hard, you greedy cock slut.” Wheezing like he’ll need an oxygen machine for the rest of his life, Dieter speeds up.

Obscene slapping of sweaty skin-on-skin fills the Grotto. If security were to trundle on by, there’s no mistaking you'd both be caught and the thought makes you flare. 

“Spank me, Santa!” You urge over your shoulder. 

“You want me to spank you?”

“I’ve been a very bad elf…” You pout coyly. 

“So fucking bad, baby.” He slaps across your ass, the sting making you moan out as it traverses your body.

“Mmm, yeah! More!”

“More?” He does it again, harder and it leaves a mark where you can feel the burn. 

Another slap has you screaming as you push back on his cock, meeting his every thrust. 

The sweat sheen on your back shines at him and he leans over you running his tongue up your spine to taste it. The action pushes him deeper and you both cry out in unison.

He works his hips, shunting back and forth in small, quick bursts as he fucks that tight, pretty hole and makes you mewl and gasp. 

A savage rhapsody of his unrelenting stamina that pummels you continually; all you can do is take it, whining and groaning and seeing the phosphenes glitter around your vision as he builds you up again.

It’s soaking between your legs, immensely sticky and you can feel it dripping between your thighs. You reach under yourself and stroke your clit that feels like it might explode with the simplest nudge.

It feels so good, too good, and you’re coming again, legs shaking and your back feeling like it might break in half, as he twists and pistons into you with all that he’s got.

“Where’d you want Santa to finish, baby?” He grunts desperately. 

“In my mouth.”

“Oh fuck!”

“Watch me swallow it all down, Santa.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

He pulls out and jerks his cock a few times before coating your waiting tongue with warm, thick spurts of him. 

“Take Santa’s load,” he groans. “Yeah, lick the tip clean, suck it. Oh yeah, that’s it… fuck. Clean me up with that slutty mouth, baby.”

He reaches down, smearing his thumb over your lips that are sticky with his pearly come. Cock in hand still, he strokes the side of your face as you look up at him and run your tongue over his length. 

“Next time, you can fill my ass.” You wink.

“Fuck,” Dieter chuckles. He has a large dimple on the left side of his face when he smiles; an almost perfect crescent, like the moon in its waxing phase. You decide instantly that it's kinda beautiful.

Standing, your hands on his chest - the wife beater drenched with sweat - you kiss him, slipping your salty tongue into his mouth and he whines, groping your ass and crushing his softening cock between you both. 

You feel him pick you up, wincing around his teeth a little, as he strains, hands splayed under your ass cheeks as he plonks you down on the counter where all the treats are kept, namely the basket of candy canes.

You groan contently into the seedy warmth of his mouth once more as he latches onto your lips, tongue exploring the wet crevices of your mouth. You cup the back of his head, yielding to the undercurrent of surrender, willingly.

Dieter takes one of the candy canes, unwraps it and slides it into your mouth. You feel his fingers stroking through your wet swollen folds, gathering it and swirling it around the rim of your ass as he puts one of your ankles on his shoulder. 

It's a feeling that goes beyond the physical, a warmth that stirs the echoes of desires you might not want to admit, but have willingly embraced nonetheless.

You want more of him, want more of this grimy bastard filling you up, and judging by how grunts, licking around your teeth and gums hungrily, Santa’s not done yet with you either. 

“Get it nice and wet, baby. That’s it.” He encourages you as you slurp and suck around the candy cane.

He takes it from you, and you bite down on your lip as you feel it pushing against your rim.

“Santa’s gonna make it disappear, baby.” Dieter, the Sleazy Santa chuckles at you, with a sly, twisted grin as you crush his rancid lips to yours once more. 

Thanks so much for reading more of Sleazy!Dieter. I hope you enjoyed him! Stay tuned for more of him in the future.🖤

MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #dieter bravo #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo the bubble #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo smut #christmas fic #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fanfiction #jett's writing #dieter bravo fic

[cormorant-red]

I played 999 recently at @xivu-arath's recommendation, and I had so much fun that (inspired by that one polygon video) I illustrated my liveblog about it!

If you haven't played 999 and you are even a little bit intrigued by a puzzle/mystery visual novel with multiple timelines that all guide you towards wild plot twists...probably don't read the text! 999 is the kind of story that is best experienced with no knowledge besides the basic premise.

Transcript below the cut:

Cormorant: characters in this game really just say shit like "have you heard the story about the crystallization of glycerin?"

as a matter of fact i haven't, june, please enlighten me

Storm: "I know we're stuck in a freezer but. let's talk about weird mythical science!"

Cormorant: it's also killing me that junpei is dressed like marty mcfly and isn't sharing any of his jackets

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Cormorant: this game is leading me to arrive at mathematical concepts on my own. what the heck

Storm: kshgushhsg

I take it you're having a good time then

Cormorant: trying to check lotus's work and it turns out that no matter what group i arrange to take through a door, the people left behind will always have the same digital root

so to get through door 7 with snake missing, i could either send a group with sum 16 (junpei, ace, clover, and june) or with sum 25 (clover, june, seven, and lotus), but it doesn't matter because the remainder always have root 9 and can't get through doors 3 or 8! wild!

Storm: yeah the numbers and which doors end up barred to you is so cleverly deliberate

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Cormorant: i'm glad i finally checked what novel mode meant, because this is way more fun

Santa cocked his head to one side, like an inquisitive bird, and looked at them.

After several long moments, during which it became apparent that Santa had no idea what the cards meant, June took pity on him.

i'll have to go back and redo the beginning after i get to the first ending

Storm: oh yeah! as I recall that was done differently when it was originally a dual screen game... but it's much better when in novel style. gimme all the descriptions

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Cormorant: I had a long day of sitting though presentations and so I entertained myself by calculating digital roots

I discovered that adding 9 or any multiple of 9 to a number has no effect on the digital root, which is awfully interesting bc I got to the part where snake gets killed. Assuming door 3 was opened with 12 and not 21, the options are 7+3 (motive?), 6+4 (they’d both have to be REALLY good actors), or 9+1. And if bracelets work without a body attached, and if ace picked it up in door 5…

That would be a really useful tool to get around the 3-person minimum without altering the digital root

I’m also very intrigued by the theory that zero is also in the game but I don’t know what to do with that yet

Storm: forlornly having to keep myself from saying literally anything

Cormorant: Understandable, please don’t give me any hints! I’m just calling shots for the joy of being wrong

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Cormorant: and how do you know that, my traitorous friend?

Santa: “The RED doesn’t need a person, you know.”

Santa: “All I need is the bracelet.”

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Cormorant: y’know what i think he’s bluffing. he does need June specifically and that’s why he refused to consider leaving her when they first found door 9. if all he needed was a hostage, he could have grabbed junpei and forced ace to come along, and then he would be dealing with two people under duress instead of three

i peeked at a guide and apparently i found the ending adjacent to the true ending(?) first, oh well. time to see the others!

santa: i said i don't want to leave seven alone

me: bud you can't do a heroic sacrifice too, it'll mess up all the math

reader, he was not doing a heroic sacrifice

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Storm: got any character opinions or theories to share so far?

Cormorant: hmm I’ve got soft spots for santa and lotus maybe just because they were in the first group I went with. I like that the game makes a point of showing that lotus is quick with the math/technical knowledge. I warmed up to clover and seven more than I expected to! I have no evidence to mistrust ace….but I don’t trust him

Snake died before I before I could say two words to him

Or…didn’t. Forgot clover said he didn’t

I got info about the previous experiments from clover and I wonder if we’re like…reenacting the past somehow? Experiencing morphogenetic resonance with the last voyage?

Again no evidence i just wonder where the pseudoscience is going

Storm: santa was so my type as soon as I started playing that I just picked all rooms with him on my first run skugrhsghu

Cormorant: AHAHA that makes me feel better about going “yeahhh door 4 I like the cut of this guy’s jib”

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Cormorant: “the bracelet comes off when your heart rate reaches zero” interesting then that we’ve brought up cryostasis

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Cormorant: i simply don't trust him not to have a spare bracelet in his pocket!!!

They climbed into the elevator and Junpei listened to it creak and rattle its way to the bottom deck. Only Junpei, Ace, and Lotus were left.

As the elevator rumbled out of sight, Ace spoke.

Ace: “Lotus, would you be so kind as to go with me?”

Cormorant: “bad end” YEAH I’LL SAY

Storm: lkksghr yeah there's a few of those!

Cormorant: santa was really quick to declare that he, june, and seven needed to go with clover. waht's his game

june and ace could have done it just as easily

Storm: they could have! good catch

maybe he just thinks seven is cooler than ace,

Cormorant: i'm imagining clover taking all her grisly trophies to the door only to find it already engaged, because lotus needed no persuading,

and regarding the true ending requirements, it's also funny that santa's like "i hate this bookmark! get it out of my sight!" and this is a huge help in junpei befriending the girl who's otherwise about to snap

Storm: load bearing bookmark

Cormorant: good thing you threw that tantrum bud or you would have been killed with an axe

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Cormorant: in my suspicions i forgot a critical detail, which is that he didn't actually go into the door with the body this time

of course seven has been propping doors open, so it really could have been anybody

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Cormorant: "where have these 16 boys and girls disappeared to?" eight for each game and then an experimenter? again with the idea that zero might be in the game...

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Cormorant: bad endings complete! on to the normal ending, which hopefully has less of junpei getting stabbed to death

puzzling over who could have done all those murders, especially in the sub ending...or did everyone get killed? clover thinks that snake's death was faked. or did snake do all the murders, since he was the only one unaccounted for?...and then i remember what kind of game i'm playing. can't discount the ice mummy as a suspect.

Storm: you truly cannot ignore the possibility of the ice mummy

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Cormorant: ah no, so santa's sister was the kid that died...

i can't figure out the connection between events! why did the last games have the veneer of a science experiment, while this one has no context given? why was it all kids last time, and a random mix of ages this time, with some repeat subjects?

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Cormorant: called it!!!!

Junpei: “Ace, Guy X, and the 9th Man’s bracelet.”

Junpei: “That was all you needed to open door [3].”

Cormorant: called it before i even got to an ending ehehe

what i’ve been saying!!

Ace: “(9) is a potent ally in the Nonary Game.”

Ace: “Adding (9) to any set of numbers won’t alter the digital root.”

Ace: “As you can see, (9) is a very useful number here.”

Ace: “With it, one can go anywhere, with anyone.”

Ace: “It is, I suppose you could say, a game changer.”

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Cormorant: okay, normal ending finished! junpei did not get stabbed but we also didn’t resolve much…I’m now thinking that ace with his pocket drugs could have easily played dead in the sub ending

glad to see that snake is okay and hopefully can stay okay in the true ending. where did clover get that riddle, and will she still have it?

0=6. how much do I read into this

still don’t understand how we get from here to santa hostage situation. he’s been so consistent about not even considering betraying or abandoning people, so either he’s a better actor than ace…or it’s staged. are he and june in cahoots

Storm: augh so close now!! soon I can actually say things

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Cormorant: O FUCK

Seven: “Santa’s always in the room with her. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

Snake: “Yes, that’s right.”

Clover: “What about it…?”

Snake: “That’s quite simple, really.”

Snake: “You told me that the first time you came to this room…”

Snake: “…Santa was the first to refuse to leave June behind.”

Snake: “Now, doesn’t that beg the question “why?” Why would Santa do such a thing?”

Snake: “The answer is easy.”

Storm: B)

Cormorant: i've been thinking of them as a pair because it makes the math easier! if you've got 3 + 6 + 8, just cross out the ones that make 9 and don't even bother with the addition, your root is 8

Storm: B) B) B)

Cormorant: but god!! they are a pair, do not separate (or the jig is up)

Storm: they hid it soooo well

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Cormorant: was wondering when we would see the last cradle guy and oh duh, he was guy X

i did think it was odd that santa phrased it as "i need to leave two of you behind" rather than "i need three of you to come with me," but if he was responsible for everything (most things?), he knew that snake was there, and he was setting up a group that could follow him. excited to see where this is going!

[dreamy sigh] this game is so elegant. what a little puzzle box

Storm: yeah it is, it's just so wonderfully crafted. so little is wasted!

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Cormorant: oh boy [akane vision label]

"through the morphic fieldset we were resonant, and we were as one" i don't think i've mentioned it before but i'm constantly pleasantly surprised by the narration in this game. it's not flashy but it's evocative in a way that's really working for me

Storm: this is where the port falls short a bit of the original version... the ds really worked well with this aspect

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Cormorant: the number of times i thought "this will be totally wrong but i'll say it to storm anyway"

hello??? [arrow pointing back to the message “I wonder if we’re like…reenacting the past somehow? Experiencing morphogenetic resonance with the last voyage?”]

Storm: Y E A H

Cormorant: laser-guided spitballing

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Cormorant: man i said that 4+6 would have to be really good actors if they were the ones that opened door 3...and while they didn't kill snake, i sure underestimated our queen of the stage akane kurashiki

the baseline was NOT where i thought it was

Storm: no one does it like her

#zero escape #999 #999 spoilers #'i'm calling shots for the joy of being wrong' <- girl who just correctly identified the murderer #i wanted to include more back-and-forth but i didn't have enough notes and illustrations to pad it. storm still got the last word in hehe #talk tag #THIS is what the waiting until the ink is dry post was about. #i went and got a new kneaded eraser because my old one was fossilized. are you all happy

[cranberryjuice-posts]

“Why do You love abby so much”

Abby is such a complex character. She is surrounded by the WLF with so much respect love and adoration. But she still needs to kill Joel, no matter how much she’s given she still needs to avenge her father.

Abby is willing to do anything for people she loves, love isn’t just romantic to this character it’s familial, platonic and romantic. For example in her flash back with Owen when their still together she jumped off the Ferris wheel to make-sure he was ok. But I think she eventually fell out of love with him. Her passion for hunting down Joel over came whatever she might had felt for him.

I fucking hate Owen (look at my other post I’ll link where I talk abt why I don’t like him) but the parallels between him and Dina are relevant, Dina lost Ellie to revenge, Owen lost Abby to revenge. These characters wanted to make things work but ultimately couldn’t because of revenge.

Abby’s character is one that’s caring, she immediately try’s to help Mel when she got shot she looks out for Owen by ignoring Issacs orders and goes out searching for him, she protects lev when Isaac threatened to shoot him and more.

Another thing I want to add is that Abby fell out of love with Owen, she cared for him like a friend but she knew he still had romantic attraction to her so she kept her distance, when he found Mel I’m 1000% sure she was happy for them and when she found out Mel was pregnant at first she was stand-off ish by just the fact they had agreed to bring Mel whos now pregnant to a dangerous setting like this with the chances of miscarriage high. But I believe she was also happy for them happy owen moved on happy for Mel happy they are going to have a family.

After Abby killed Joel you could see that a sense of burden had been taken off of her compared to earlier flashbacks. She never planed on having Ellie watch she didn’t even know she was there until after Joel was dead and she turned around since she was so tuned out after torturing him.

The boat scene. The boat scene shows us a lot about Abby, you can see on her face she immediately regrets what’s happening since it’s a betrayal to Mel and herself. I’ve previously said that the boat scene was just an escalation of years of her and owens emotions Just crashing down. It was a form of closure so abby could move on just like how she needed closure from killing Joel to move on from her fathers death.

This is so clear in the Santa Barbara scene where she’s happy, her face is glowing she’s smiling she no longer has the effect of her fathers death, her breaking owens heart and she’s finally free to do what she wants with a character that’s like her brother lev

Abby is such a complex character that I’m still figuring out but I love her on so many levels, do I think Abby is queer or likes women yes, I can’t give her an exactly sexuality since it’s never been revealed but yes I do think she’s into women more much more then men

#lesbian #wlw #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby the last of us #abby tlou #the last of us #tlou #tlou2 #the last of us 2

[yanderepuck]

@faust-bite and I were talking about this for a few hours.

But the mansion + the castle is doing secret Santa. Everyone pulls a name. BUT. rather than a gift they have to do a PowerPoint presentation on the person, just going off of what you can find in history books. You cannot talk to the person for information.

Minor rules:

The writers can't do each other

The Frenchies can't do each other

The castle trio have to do someone in the mansion

The brothers can't do each other

Sebastian will obviously not be part of this, but he is enjoying every single moment.

Theo got stuck doing Will. Which he was really upset about, but now he's invested.

Vincent is doing Charles...the lil angel baby is up there talking about ALLLL the shit Charles has done. Faust is covering Charles ears every now and then so he doesn't have to hear.

Leonardo: I hated researching you

Mozart: ...what the hell did you find

Leonardo: WHY would you write to your sister about SCAT

Mozart: ....

Leonardo: AND YOU MEOWED AT PEOPLE. Goddamn catboy

You also have to take a shot every time there is immense trauma.

Theo and Mozart bonding over how much they loved their wives

Arthur and Dazai bonding over being awful to their wives

Theo: you may be into scat.. but at least you were nice to your wife

Mozart: forget everything you've ever known about me.

Vlad is doing Dazai, aka Sebastian is saying half the word because this man can't say a damn thing in Japanese.

Vlad: here's a list of Dazai's drug abuse

Dazai: is it in alphabetical or chronological?

Also take a shot every time Leonardo attempts to say Mozarts full name. Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart

Dazai got Jean and he starts out with "So Jean is a woman."

Mozart is doing Napoleon and the title screen just says "Panty Sniffer". The weirder your title the more points you get

Mozart: so he wrote a self insert love novel

Will: yeah...ARTHUR MADE US READ IT

Dazai: it was the worst thing I read

Oh. The writers pregamed for this. They've been drinking all day just for this.

Theo starts his presentation on Shakespeare and Will sits up like "Shit. I wish I was sober for this one"

Theo: there's not much on his childhood...but he did get married as a minor

Arthur: you WHAT

Theo: he got a woman pregnant and then rushed to get married...she was 8 years older than him or something

Will: what can I say. I'm hot.

Jean got Isaac. That poor boy. He's not able to say anything of these science words.

Faust: ..and in conclusion Vincent killed himself

Theo: THAT'S WHAT THE PUBLIC THINKS??

Napoleon got Vlad and the funny thing is...he isn't in history..so he's searching for Vlad the Impaler

Napoleon: He once ate a meal and watched a kid and the parents slowly slide down wooden stakes and made the rest of the town watch it

Vlad: oh come on! Comte you know I didn't do that

Comte: *still mad at him about something from earlier* I don't know that actually

Leonardo: I said he did it

Comte is now getting everyone therapy for Christmas. That's what everyone truly needs

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp theo #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp dazai #ikevamp jean #ikevamp shakespeare #ikevamp comte #ikevamp sebastian #ikevamp vlad #ikevamp faust #ikevamp charles

[peachdues]

SEASONS IN LOVE (PART II)

Sanemi x F!Reader (modern college AU)

Sanemi meets Y/N in January and isn't a fan. As the seasons pass by, their evolving relationship becomes defined by a handful snapshots from the various holidays throughout the year.

CW: modern college AU • 6.6k words • tooth-rotting fluff • college typical drinking and debauchery • some mildly suggestive content • Sanemi is a massive simp

PART ONE HERE

December 24th – Christmas Eve.

Sanemi was hunched over, back turned against the icy wind that threatened to shred through the layers of his coat and sweater, as he waited for someone to answer the door.

A few weeks ago, he would’ve said to anyone that he hadn’t minded the snow — after all, the snow is what led to Y/N smiling — at him, no less — for the first time since he’d met her, and that memory had been more that enough to keep him warm through the fall of every snowflake coating the earth.

He took it all back. Y/N’s smile was a damn pretty sight, but absolutely nothing could insulate him against the near sub-arctic winds that cut through him like a knife as he shifted impatiently from foot to foot on the Kanroji’s front porch.

“God dammit, Mitsuri,” he growled. He unwound a stiff arm from where it’d been tightly tucked against his chest, prepared to start pounding against the oak of her parents’ front door, when the pink party host threw it open, her smile bright and cheerful and warm in a way that Sanemi was not.

“It’s about time!” She chirped, standing aside to let her scowling friend through and into the front entryway of her home.

Mitsuri held her hand out as she waited for Sanemi to pass her his coat. “Everyone else is here already — help yourself to any snacks you want.” Mitsuri snatched the gift-wrapped package lodged under his arm before he could say anything. “I’ll take this,” she waved it, nose crinkling with amusement at Sanemi’s indignant glare. “And I’ll put it with the others!”

Before he could respond, his pink-haired friend traipsed away back to the open floor plan of her living room and kitchen, leaving Sanemi to brush the snowflakes that had gathered on his trousers and remove his boots and leave them with the others’ scattered by the closet of Mitsuri’s parents’ home.

Every year, the bubbly and exuberant pinkette hosted a Christmas Eve for her friends at her parents’ complete with an absurd array of holiday-themed snacks, games, and Secret Santa.

In years past, Sanemi only ever deigned to show up as a courtesy to his friend, eagerly awaiting the day when he could blame needing to take care of his siblings on Christmas Eve as an excuse not to go. After his family had been killed, however, Sanemi had begun spending the Christmas holidays with Kyojuro’s family, along with Tengen, and so, he’d been forced to continue the tradition, given the enthusiasm his flame-haired best friend had for the over-the-top celebration.

This year, however, was Y/N’s first time attending Mitsuri’s annual fete; and curiously, Sanemi found himself growing more and more excited as the time for the celebration drew nearer.

That excitement only bubbled in his gut as he padded towards the Kanroji’s packed living room, eyes scanning for the sight of the one he was most eager — and anxious — to see.

Y/N spotted him from her position on one of the overstuffed leather armrests by the fireplace and shot out of her seat, nearly toppling Shinobu in the process.

“You made it!” Her smile was blazing, a now permanent fixture on her face that Sanemi found himself sneaking furtive glances at throughout the day, afraid that he would miss it.

“Wait,” Y/N stopped an arm’s length from him as she ran her eyes over his form. “Are we matching?”

Sanemi looked down at the outfit he had thrown on (carefully selected) prior to leaving his apartment and back to the amused woman before him. She was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, tucked into a pair of belted, vintage, loose jeans that she had cuffed to show her festive Christmas socks.

“Just the turtleneck. I don’t do jeans.” Sanemi snorted, flicking her nose affectionately.

Y/N, however, looked better than he. Her hair was loosely secured with a clip at her neck, and she wore no accessories save for a pair of oversized gold framed glasses that she claimed were to help with blue light strains, but Sanemi was convinced she just liked wearing them for fun.

He tried very hard not to stare too long at her full lips — painted a bright, festive red that Sanemi found he really liked.

“I should’ve brought my lipstick along, then we could’ve really twinned,” Y/N’s eyes were alight with her mirth as she teased him.

Had Sanemi been a tad bolder, he would’ve cheekily suggested another way he could get her lipstick on his mouth, but he wasn’t, so all he could do was grumble, a faint red staining his cheeks.

Mitsuri clapped loudly over the chattering group. “Friends! Dearly beloveds! Snacks are over there,” she pointed to a long table packed heavy with various holiday goodies. “And the hot chocolate bar is open! Get a snack and get settled before secret Santa!”

“When you say ‘bar,’ ‘Suri,” Tengen prodded.

The pinkette nodded solemnly. “Yes, you can make spiked hot chocolate, Tengen.”

The flashy, silver-haired man let out a whoop for joy as he made a beeline for the hot chocolate bar carefully organized by their pink-haired host. Before long, Tengen had blessed each of their drinks with a healthy splash of Irish cream, though Sanemi suspected the loudmouth’s own mug was nothing but the festive liquor.

“Nope,” Sanemi fought to keep the grimace off his face as he took a swig of his hot chocolate, the bitter burn of alcohol making him pucker. “Giyuu, drink this — it’s plain.”

The quiet, raven-haired man gratefully accepted the steaming mug from his friend and took a hearty gulp of it, frowning slightly when he realized Sanemi had indeed given him his own spiked drink.

Sanemi pretended to look affronted at Giyuu’s accusatory stare. “What? I thought you’d need it — aren’t you going home to Kocho’s after this?”

Giyuu considered Sanemi’s words for a moment before tipping his head back and swallowing the remainder of the mug’s contents.

Y/N came prancing over from the kitchen, her own mug of hot chocolate cupped between her hands, to where Sanemi now sat on the large sofa, but before she could sit down, Gyomei plopped down, nearly crushing her in the process.

“Apologies, Y/N,” the gentle giant said upon hearing Y/N’s squeak. “I didn’t realize you wanted to sit beside Sanemi.”

If Sanemi hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn that was a blush spreading across her cheeks. “No worries!” She chirped, twisting around awkwardly to find a new spot.

Sanemi grimaced. He was about to tell her to sit on the arm rest of the sofa next to him, but Shinobu called her over first, the two girls squeezing into a single-person armchair, as Shinobu threw her legs over Y/N’s lap to make room.

Secret Santa proceeded without much fuss. Sanemi was happy to receive a box of high-quality matcha from his anonymous gift-giver, though Shinobu’s lack of a poker face gave away who’d gifted it. Sanemi winked at his tiny friend, clutching the tea box tightly to his chest.

Y/N was practically buzzing with excitement. Mitsuri had hardly discerned the name scrawled on the tag of her giftbox before she’d lunged forward, nearly toppling Shinobu out of her lap.

“My turn!” The expression on Y/N’s face was that of a greedy child’s as she wriggled her fingers demandingly at Mitsuri in anticipation of her present.

The pinkette dropped the heavy box into her friend’s eager hands, Y/N giving a small oomph! against the weight of the gift.

Sanemi watched his best friend tear into her present with vigor, similar to the way a hyena tore into its prey, tufts of wrapping paper floating down beside her as she beheld the grocery store box within.

“What the—?” Y/N’s eyebrows were drawn together as she turned the container over in her hands, eyes squinting as she read the label printed on the cardboard.

“No fucking way,” Her eyes blew wide as she held the box closer to her face in disbelief. “No fucking way!”

Y/N’s laugh bordered on maniacal as she clapped her hands, ripping into the cardboard as she produced one, fat candy bar, wrapped in unfamiliar purple foil.

“My chocolate!” She crowed, dumping the contents of the box out onto her lap. A dozen large, heavy candy bars thudded to the floor, the packaging on each bearing some foreign language and description. “I can’t believe my Secret Santa found them!”

Sanemi smirked quietly to himself. Sure, he’d rigged the Secret Santa pool to ensure that he magically drew Y/N’s name from the hat full of paper Mitsuri had passed around at their weekly dinner a few weeks prior, but he’d only done it because he’d already ordered Y/N’s Christmas gift from overseas.

For ages, she’d not shut up about a particular kind of chocolate that she’d had while abroad with her family one summer. Y/N had moaned to everyone that chocolate at home just didn’t taste the same, and she longed to have just one more taste of the candy she’d come to love while on holiday, though she hadn’t been able to track it down online.

But Sanemi had; he’d found a website that put him in contact with a local, who then used his bank information to clear out an entire grocery store’s supply of the confectionary. It was risky, but he was a man in love, so what else could he do but chance it?

“Over my dead fucking body —“ Y/N threatened, as Mitsuri tried to snatch a bar from her hand.

As Sanemi sat there, smugly sipping his non-spiked hot chocolate, he mused that the look of pure glee on Y/N’s face was well worth his account getting hacked not even a week after his order arrived.

—————————————————————————

The Christmas Eve party continued until the late afternoon, at which point the group of friends began to help their host clean up the discarded snacks and empty mugs of hot chocolate before each of them set off for their respective homes for the night.

Y/N was the only one in their group who had to take a train back to her parents’, her hometown being over three hours away from campus, and so, she was the first who had to leave the merry fete.

Sanemi had offered to drive Y/N the forty-minute trip to the train station so she wouldn’t be stuck paying for an Uber, and truthfully, he was glad to have nearly an hour of uninterrupted time with her before she went home for the week.

“Ready?” He asked her as he looped his wool scarf over his head, bracing himself to be smacked in the face by the icy wind that howled outside the warmth of the Kanroji house.

Y/N finished tugging on a pair of gloves before sliding into her emerald green wool coat. “One sec!”

Y/N darted back to the living room where their other friends exchanged goodbyes and flung her arms around her pink-haired best friend’s neck.

From where he stood near the Kanroji doorway, Sanemi could see the pinkette whisper a few words of encouragement into Y/N’s ear, her face uncharacteristically serious as she squeezed her best friend one more time. Sanemi knew that Mitsuri had been comforting Y/N leading up to her first holiday season at home since her brother died, and he felt a rush of gratitude for the girl as he saw Y/N’s shoulders visibly relax under the warmth of her words.

Y/N returned, her eyes sparkling with unshed emotion that she quickly tried to wipe with her gloved hands. “I’m ready!” She said thickly, plastering a smile on her face.

Sanemi sighed, but slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly into his side before releasing her. Y/N nodded in gratitude, sniffing once, before wrenching the front door of the Kanroji house open, allowing the icy winds beyond to whip across their faces.

The drive to the train station was uneventful, though Y/N had been sure to provide him with “entertainment” by singing loudly, off-key, to every Christmas song that crackled over the ancient speakers in Sanemi’s beat-up station wagon.

He wouldn’t have traded the smile emblazoned in her face, nor the sound of her raucous laughter, for the world however, not even for the sake of his ringing eardrums.

The duo parked and Sanemi heaved her suitcase out of his trunk. As they made their way towards the train platform, Sanemi fought the urge to take her hand in his, as the snowflakes swirled around them.

“So, how did you find it?” Y/N asked after a moment, her train turning the corner into the station right on time, slowing in the distance as it prepared to stop.

Her snowy-haired friend played dumb. “Find what, exactly?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Sanemi. You’re the only one who would’ve paid attention to me when I complained about some foreign chocolate that you can’t get anywhere but that country. Of course, it was you.”

Sanemi gave her a wry grin. “My credit card may’ve been hacked, but it was worth it. Got ya the whole store shelf, didn’t I?” He nudged her elbow playfully with his own and she giggled.

He would never tire of hearing that sound.

Y/N’s train slowed into the station terminal, and she sighed, parking her small suitcase next to her as she stepped forward and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Merry Christmas, Sanemi.” She whispered, squeezing him gently.

It would’ve been nice to say it back — to say anything at all, but Sanemi found himself unable to make a sound, a hand only able to come up and awkwardly pat her back just as she pulled away. Whether or not his awkwardness affected her, Y/N didn’t show, for she only gave him one more radiant smile before boarding her train home.

“See you at the cabin!” She said brightly, stepping through the double doors, suitcase in hand.

Sanemi was still standing on the platform in bemusement at his inability to say or do other than stare at her, as though his brain had become nothing but a smooth rock rattling around inside his skull.

Y/N turned to wave at him, the doors to the train still open for the last few stragglers to board, but her smile slid from her face as she beheld him, staring at her with a fiery intensity.

What’s wrong-“ she started.

“I’m in love with you.” He said breathlessly, and to his horror, she froze, her mouth parting and her eyes going wide.

“What?”

But Sanemi could not answer her; he could not even make his traitorous mouth work as the doors slid shut and the train began its slow pull out of the terminal.

Y/N stood there, just past the doors, staring at him with that same, stunned expression until the train car rounded a corner and pulled her from sight.

————————————————————————-

More than an hour later, Sanemi arrived at the Rengoku family home where he was to spend Christmas Eve and the following morning. He kicked his boots off inside the festively decorated entryway, greeted Kyojuro’s parents, and stomped downstairs to the furnished basement where he knew his two friends would be gathered.

Tengen and Kyojuro were sprawled across the plush L-shaped sofa, both silent as they huddled over former’s phone as they listened to whomever was on the other end.

Kyojuro saw Sanemi first and smacked Tengen on the shoulder, the latter looking up as both his friends went wide-eyed.

“Obanai — hold on, he just got here.” Tengen muttered.

“What?” Sanemi demanded, a heat creeping up the side of his neck as his friends stared at him, mouths open.

Tengen pointed at his phone. “Obanai’s on. Apparently Y/N has been talking the girls for the last hour and a half because someone —“ he narrowed his eyes at Sanemi. “Decided to tell her they were in love with her right as her train was leaving?”

Sanemi wondered, briefly, whether it was possible for one’s stomach to fall out of their ass.

“Are you stupid?” Tengen asked, and Sanemi resented the fact he’d almost sounded serious.

“Put Obanai on speaker,” Sanemi muttered, flinging himself down on the sofa next to Kyojuro.

Tengen rolled his eyes but did as Sanemi asked. In the background, Sanemi could hear a faint, shrill voice ranting, and he felt his gut clench. Mitsuri.

“-and now, it’s Christmas Eve and instead of spending it with our girlfriends, Giyuu and I are playing chess for the third fucking time, because that’s how long the girls have been on the phone with Y/N.” Obanai drawled. “Not that it hasn’t been entertaining — ‘Suri is convinced Y/N should’ve pushed you onto the tracks, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi grit his teeth. “What did Y/N say, Obanai?”

His friend muttered something under his breath that sounded like an insult, but Sanemi said nothing, waiting as he heard Obanai’s voice grow smaller as he left the phone in favor of approaching the girls.

Sanemi’s stomach dipped at the renewed sound of indignant screeching that crackled through the phone, Tengen and Kyojuro snickering.

“Fine, alright, okay, stop yelling,” Obanai’s reedy and exasperated voice grew louder as he neared the phone again, though Sanemi could still hear the muffled sounds of Mitsuri squawking in the background.

“Mitsuri said you’re gonna have to man up and talk to Y/N yourself,” Obanai relayed, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. “And Shinobu said she doesn’t care enough about you to break girl code.”

Sanemi groaned, throwing an arm over his face as he leaned back into the sofa cushions, wishing he’d saved Y/N the trouble, and jumped in front of her oncoming train himself.

“How do I unfuck this?” He intoned to no one in particular, lifting the arm over his eyes to squint at his two friends as they continued to suppress their shit-eating smirks.

“You could try texting her,” Kyojuro offered, though Tengen shook his head in disagreement.

“You can’t just send a text right after confessing your undying love for her as her train was leaving,” the flamboyant man chided, clicking his phone off and kicking his feet up on the coffee table before him. “That’s like begging her to curse your ass out.”

Sanemi grumbled but he knew Tengen was right; whatever conversation he would have with Y/N would have to be in-person. She deserved that much, at least.

Tengen leaned back against the sofa, twiddling the toothpick wedged between his teeth, eyes narrowed at Sanemi in contemplation. “I thought you two hooked up back over the summer?”

Sanemi snorted, shaking his head, as Kyojuro quipped, “You’re thinking of Obanai and Kanroji.”

Their silver-haired friend looked back to Sanemi, eyebrow raising in incredulity. “You’re telling me, all this time, you two’ve been making eyes at one another and you haven’t been fucking?”

“Watch it,” Sanemi bristled, and Tengen held his hands up in surrender.

“Jesus you move slow,” he mumbled, and Sanemi chucked one of the decorative pillows lying next to him at his head, Tengen effortlessly batting the projectile away. “Is she coming to the cabin next week?”

He was referring to the spacious cabin their group had rented up in the snowy mountains to celebrate New Year’s Eve together, wanting a place large enough to accommodate them all, yet secluded enough that they wouldn’t cause too much harm when one of them inevitably set a tree on fire while drunkenly trying to set off fireworks.

Sanemi nodded, and Tengen’s smile turned smug. “Then I guess you’ll have to wait ‘til then to find out what she thinks.”

—————————————————————————

December 31st – New Year’s Eve

Sanemi Shinazugawa had never experienced torture, but the seven-day stretch between Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve was about as close as he’d thought he’d ever get.

By the time he, Tengen, and Kyojuro had loaded up his station wagon with their duffel bags and enough booze to open their own traveling liquor store, Sanemi thought the anxious buzz in his blood would make him jump out of his skin.

He’d not spoken to Y/N since saying goodbye to her at the train station — not really. He’d responded to her Merry Christmas! text in their larger group chat with his own holiday well-wishes, and she’d simply reacted to the message. Otherwise, his phone had remained remarkably silent, without so much as a meme from the woman who held his heart.

He knew that he couldn’t assume her silence meant the worst, even as his brain tried to convince him it was all it meant. After all, Y/N was experiencing her first holiday season without her brother, and Sanemi knew the emotions of such a milestone were far more likely to hold her attention than his pitiful love confession.

He felt nearly sick by the time he pulled into the circular driveway of the enormous log cabin, seated up the hill and a way back from the main road, surrounded only by an endless stretch of snow-covered trees and forest. As he helped Kyojuro unload the cases of beer and bottles of champagne from his trunk, Sanemi spied Mitsuri’s pink Volkswagen parked at the other end of the driveway, next to Gyomei’s Hummer.

Sanemi’s stomach flipped as Tengen unlocked the back door of the cabin, loudly calling out to their friends in greeting in that booming voice of his. Giyuu and Mitsuri leaned over the bannister of the staircase leading to the second floor, waving as the remainder of the friend group straggled through the door, stomping shoes against the welcome mat to clear themselves of any lingering snow.

Sanemi’s eyes met Mitsuri’s and the pinkette’s narrowed, as she promptly turned away from him with a pointed harrumph.

Kyojuro snorted as Sanemi sighed, and they heaved the case of beer they’d brought into the kitchen and on the counter.

It was going to be a long day.

—————————————————————————

Y/N emerged from the room she was sharing with Shinobu and Mitsuri not long after he’d arrived, decked out in some sparkly get-up of Mitsuri’s that was more suited to wearing out at the club than it was for staying in, though Sanemi wasn’t about to complain.

She’d cheerfully greeted every one of their friends with hugs and her smiles until she came to him. Thankfully, Y/N was far less awkward than he, and she’d only hesitated for a moment before giving him a hug that Sanemi found did not last nearly long enough.

As the group settled in with their drinks and grazed at the smorgasbord of food and snacks laid out in the kitchen, Sanemi caught sight of Y/N watching him, eyes expectant. He tried to muster the courage to approach her, to ask her if they could talk in private, but Sanemi balked at the weight of both Tengen and Mitsuri’s knowing stares as they flicked back and forth between himself and Y/N.

He couldn’t do this with an audience; he could only hope that Y/N would understand.

Yet, Y/N looked slightly hurt at the way Sanemi turned and struck up a conversation with Obanai and Gyomei, and Sanemi could feel at least one pair of eyes hurling daggers into his back as he remained turned away, no doubt from Y/N’s pink, livid best friend.

This was going to be damn near impossible, and yet, it was entirely his fault to begin with, as he’d been the one to stupidly blurt out that he loved Y/N to her without properly preparing himself for the moment; and now, it was his situation to un-fuck.

Somehow.

And so, Sanemi merely opened another beer and took a hearty swig of its contents, hoping to gain the liquid courage he’d need to finally confront her head-on.

—————————————————————————

Sanemi had downed two flutes of champagne since the sun had set and he still found himself jittery and uneasy as he continued to dodge Y/N’s pleading looks.

He felt like an asshole, especially right then, as the year wound down to its last half hour. Sanemi was standing in the kitchen alone, turning over a bottle of champagne in his hands as he debated taking it along with him when he went to find Y/N, and work things out between them. Perhaps they could open it in celebration if it turned out that she returned his feelings; if not, he could always drown his sorrows in the bubbly.

“If you don’t grow a pair and talk to Y/N, I’m making out with her at midnight,” Shinobu threatened, brushing by Sanemi to grab another bottle of cheap champagne to uncork. “Right in front of you.”

Sanemi shot her a shit-eating smirk. “Don’t think your boyfriend would be a fan of that idea,” he challenged, grabbing the opened bottle from Shinobu’s hand and pouring himself another glass of sparkling wine.

“I support it,” Giyuu called out from the living room, much to his girlfriend’s satisfaction and Sanemi’s irritation.

Shinobu tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned sharply away from him on her heel. “I rest my case.”

At that, Shinobu departed with a shrill reminder for him to man up! and Sanemi was left alone in the kitchen once more. With a deep inhale, Sanemi lifted his champagne flute to his lips and tipped back its contents, swallowing his champagne in a single wet gulp, before setting the glass back in the counter, and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

He set out to find Y/N.

—————————————————————————

He found her outside, leaning up against the side of the cabin as she nursed her own flute of champagne, as she stared past the line of trees where their friends had begun assembling the various rockets and fireworks they’d gathered to mark the start of the new year.

Sanemi felt his tongue go thick at the sight of her, so pretty in the snow, though he didn’t know how she wasn’t shivering; she didn’t even have on a coat, and the only thing on her legs was a thin pair of nylons and her platform boots she insisted made her “nearly” as tall as him.

He joined her in leaning against the cabin on the opposite wall of her, though she did not acknowledge his presence past a small inclination of her head, her gaze instead falling to the glass clutched between her hands.

The silence stretched endlessly between them, making him shift his weight from leg to leg as he squirmed.

“Where’s that pretty smile o’ yours?” Sanemi finally broke, and Y/N looked up at him, a frown pulling her painted lips into an adorable pout.

He may have been a tad buzzed from the champagne, but his head felt clear, and his heart felt full as he looked towards his beautiful best friend, so very underdressed for the single-digit weather and snow in that sparkly two-piece Mitsuri had insisted she wear, even though it was just them at the cabin, celebrating.

“Back at the train station,” she mumbled after a moment, returning to her own champagne flute, swirling the liquid around.

Sanemi felt his gut sour, and he found his tongue incapable of forming any words, much to his embarrassment.

Neither said anything for a moment, the distant echoes of their friends cheering as they set up the fireworks magnified against the snowy backdrop of their mountain retreat.

“Why’re you avoiding me?” Y/N’s voice was so small, so unsure that Sanemi felt his heart ache because he hated that he’d been the cause of her doubt.

“I mean, how can you tell me that — what you said, a week ago, and now you can barely meet my eyes?”

“Y/N-“ Sanemi sighed, but Y/N cut him off once more.

“I understand if you didn’t mean it; I get it’s easy to get caught up in the moment, but just tell me that.” She pled.

Sanemi exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I was worried about your reaction,” he confessed after a moment, and Y/N’s frown deepened.

“I was also pissed at myself for doin’ it that way — I had a whole plan, I was gonna take you out somewhere nice, like you deserve, but, well,” Sanemi trailed off, awkwardly. “You just looked so happy at the Christmas party, and then you hugged me, and I guess I went a bit stupid.”

Y/N was silent, only staring at him with wide eyes, her champagne flute dangling precariously from her loose hand as she gaped at him.

“Y-you meant it? You really meant it?” She breathed.

Sanemi looked to her and rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he answered, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’ve been waiting…a long time, to hear you say that.” Y/N admitted, a tentative grin spreading across her face.

Sanemi met her smile with his own, and he began to advance slowly towards where she leaned against the cabin wall. “Sorry to make you wait, princess.”

Y/N responded with an airy laugh. “I expected I would have to break the ice,” her heart thundered against her sternum as Sanemi boxed her in against the logs with his arms. “I’ve been openly flirting with you since the snowball fight.”

Sanemi snorted. “And I’ve been putty in your hands since Halloween. Probably longer.” His hand rose to rest on the small, exposed sliver of her waist and Y/N shuddered at how warm his touch was.

“You sure know how to keep a girl waiting, then.” Y/N’s eyes narrowed in on the proximity of Sanemi’s lips to hers. Though felt the warmth of his breath caress her face, he maintained just enough distance between their lips to tease her.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Sanemi murmured, his thumb stroking the small patch of exposed skin above her hip.

Y/N smirked. “Then warm me up.”

Somewhere beyond the trees that dotted the property, Sanemi and Y/N’s friends began the countdown to midnight; but the two of them did not react to the impending new year, instead only holding one another’s gaze, steadily in the snow.

Their faces were titled towards one another, both still teasingly withholding the satisfaction of being the first to close the marginal distance between their lips from another. But in the distance, Sanemi vaguely heard his friends cry “ONE,” and so, right as the New Year arrived, he finally gave in, and he slanted his mouth over Y/N’s.

Later, Sanemi would muse over the fact that that had been the second time he’d missed a fireworks show with his friends, but he would not be able to care.

Because no display of colored sparks in the sky could compare to the feeling of Y/N’s lips moving fervently against his; could not compare to the way her fingers buried in his hair, or how she felt beneath his palms as he pressed her against the cabin wall and kissed her for all she was worth.

When they finally broke apart, the winter night had fallen silent once more, but it did not remain so; in an instant, their friends erupted into applause, with Tengen letting out a very loud Finally!

Y/N laughed and wrapped her hand around the collar of Sanemi’s jacket, hauling his mouth back to hers. As their friends made suggestive oohs, both Sanemi and Y/N stretched their hands out and simultaneously flipped the group off.

“It’s about damn time, you two,” Tengen drawled as the group made their way inside the warmth of the cabin.

“If you find a rocket in your bed tonight, Tengen, I want you to know it was me.” Sanemi replied smoothly, not taking his eyes off Y/N as she blushed under the hand he kept on her cheek.

—-———————————————————————

It was after two in the morning, and most of the revelers had finally drifted off to bed, drunk and happy and partied out. Only two couples remained awake, not quite yet ready to let the sparkling night fade to black.

One couple was seated on the ornate leather couch before the cabin’s lit Christmas tree, talking and giggling softly to themselves. Mitsuri stifled a sleepy yawn behind her hand, settling in against Obanai’s side as her eyelids drooped.

The ebony-haired man smiled to himself as Mitsuri’s breathing slowed, the beautiful girl finally nodding off against him as the excitement of the weekend lured her to sleep. Slowly, so as not to disturb his girlfriend’s peaceful rest, Obanai turned his head to watch the other couple still awake, though they were in the adjacent reading room.

There, standing before the large bay window of the cabin, Sanemi slow-danced with Y/N as the sound of some old holiday song crackled through the old record player of the cabin’s study. Y/N’s back was to Obanai, but her head was resting against his friend’s chest as Sanemi rocked them from side to side, his lips pressed against the girl’s hair. After a moment, Sanemi bent to murmur something in her ear, and Y/N drew back from his chest and nodded, causing his grin to spread wide across his face.

Obanai turned away from the sight of his friends, a small smile creeping onto his face, as Sanemi led his new girlfriend to his room.

—————————————————————————

Everyone was slow to rise later on New Year's Day, in no short part due to the previous night’s indulgences.

The last to rise, however, was the friend group’s newest couple, and it was with no small amount of delight that the friends saw Y/N emerge from Sanemi’s room, dressed in his sweater from the night before and a pair of men’s briefs. She padded into the kitchen, happy to accept the steaming mug of coffee that Shinobu handed her with a knowing smirk, while flipping off Tengen as he’d loudly asked her if she’d enjoyed her night.

When Sanemi finally entered the kitchen, a dark purple bruise seared into the side of his neck, the whole gang erupted into applause, much to the couple’s laughter and slight embarrassment.

Mitsuri sidled up to her best friend, nudging her with her shoulder. “Shinobu and I had a bet as to who would show up this morning with hickies. She owes me $5.”

Y/N’s returning smirk was naughty as she brought the steaming mug of coffee to her lips. “You just can’t see mine.”

Mitsuri giggled and Y/N couldn’t help but join her, feeling too warm and happy as her eyes met her now-boyfriend’s while he watched her from across the counter. As she’d swiped a donut from one of the several boxes scattered around the table, Y/N felt Sanemi’s fingers shyly brush against her own, and the pair exchanged small, sweet smiles before resuming conversation with their respective roommates.

Later, as the group loaded up cars with their luggage in a haphazard game of suitcase Tetris, Sanemi caught Y/N’s eye again and winked, prompting the latter to blush.

As they piled into their cars and drove away from the cabin, Sanemi realized he was the luckiest man in the world.

—————————————————————————

Epilogue — New Year’s Day, 2 years later

“He just texted me — they’re walking up,” Kyojuro whispered, and the group dissolved into renewed giggles and excitement as the snow drifted lazily outside.

“Shush!” Shinobu urged over the tittering group, as they all crouched in the dark, excitement buzzing among the friend group as they waited anxiously in Sanemi and Y/N’s apartment.

Mitsuri rocked on her heels beside Shinobu, squatting behind the couple’s sofa, her hands fluttering in glee. “They need to hurry up! I can hardly wait!”

“They’re almost — shut it!” Shinobu hissed at the unmistakable sound of a key entering a lock on the front door.

There was a wash of light from the apartment hallway as the door swung open, and Shinobu and the others burrowed deeper into their hiding spots. Only as the door clicked shut, and Sanemi flipped the light switch to their living room, did the group erupt.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Every one of them — Mitsuri, Obanai, Shinobu, Tengen, Gyomei, Kyojuro and even Giyuu sprung from their various crouching spaces behind furniture and closets as they greeted the newly engaged couple.

Y/N’s hands flew to her face in surprise and joy, her cheeks bright red as she laughed. On her left hand, a beautiful, emerald ring sparkled.

The blushing bride-to-be turned to her fiancé and smacked him lightly on the chest. “You ass! Is this why you’ve been so weird and secretive over the last few weeks?”

Sanemi caught his fiancé’s hand and brought it to his lips, prompting the young woman to flush even further. Before she could return the gesture, Y/N was nearly knocked over by the flurry of pink and green that hurtled toward her, locking her arms around her neck and sobbing with joy.

“He was afraid he was gonna blow it,” Tengen offered, though he flinched at the sharp glare the scarred man shot his way. “Okay fine — he thought we would blow it.”

“I can’t imagine why he’d be concerned,” Y/N shook her head in mock-solemnity over Mitsuri’s shoulder. “After all, Giyuu did spoil Gyomei’s 22nd birthday.”

Giyuu made some sound of indignation as the tips of his ears reddened. Kyojuro thumped Sanemi on the back in congratulations. “I still think it would have been much nicer to have us all there when you finally popped the question, Shinazugawa!”

Sanemi rolled his eyes. “Like hell was I gonna let you shitheads ruin a romantic moment.”

Mitsuri, who’d not yet unwound her arms from Y/N’s neck, leaned in close to her best friend’s ear. “Did he cry?” She whispered conspiratorially.

Y/N’s grin widened. “Like a baby. He got down on one knee and started blubbering.”

It might have been a slight exaggeration — though her snowy-haired lover had gone misty-eyed as he’d knelt before her in front of the large Christmas tree in the city square and poured his heart out. As he pulled her in tight against him after sliding the delicate ring on her finger, Y/N had felt the wet droplets of his joyous tears as he’d buried his face into the side of her neck.

But Y/N couldn’t resist the chance to make it known amongst their friends that Sanemi Shinazugawa had the softest heart out of any of them.

The pair of best friends dissolved into giggles, before Mitsuri pulled away and the two hummed and hah’ed over Y/N’s engagement ring, Shinobu joining in as they marveled over the way the emerald shone.

Beside them, both Obanai and Giyuu looked accusingly at their smug friend. “Neither of them are gonna shut up about the ring now. Thanks, Shinazugawa.” Obanai grumbled.

Sanemi locked an arm around his friend’s neck and ground his knuckles into the top of his head. “Please. Like you don’t have a Pinterest board titled ‘future wedding’ for when you decide to have the balls to ask ‘Suri to marry you.” He grinned. “I’ve seen your phone, dude.”

“Jackass,” Obanai mumbled, though any ire he felt towards the snowy-haired man was quick to dissipate, because he couldn’t remember the last time Sanemi had smiled as broadly as he did right then.

He was happy — really, and truly happy.

Because Sanemi Shinazugawa loved many things.

He loved Saturday mornings, when there was no alarm or no obligations, and he could just exist peacefully in his bed with his woman wrapped snug in his arms. He loved when his phone had zero notifications, because that meant he was being left the fuck alone, and in peace.

He loved his friends, that wonderful group of people whom he’d known for most of his life, who’d always supported him or provided a good kick in his ass whenever he needed it.

But most of all, Sanemi loved New Year’s Day, and the snow, because it had brought him Y/N — his fiancé, and the great love of his life, and all her smiles that he had to look forward to every day, for all the days to come.

#demon slayer #sanemi shinazugawa #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny sanemi #kny x reader #kny fanfic #sanemi x reader #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #kny fic #demon slayer fanfic #kyojuro rengoku #tengen uzui #mitsuri kanroji #giyuu tomioka #shinobu kocho #gyomei himejima #obanai iguro

[eeunoia]

ENHYPEN Series

sinag | psh.

chapter ten

pairings: park sunghoon x reader

synopsis: waiting for a great plot twist in your life, the ruthless and powerful mafia boss park sunghoon forced his way in to it.

word count: 2.6k

warnings: contains harrassment, violence, guns, killings, abuse, obsessive love & other stuff. if you can't take this stuff, feel free to scroll away. let me know if i missed some.

note: there’s a slight change from the original one shot. anyway, please send me asks and reblogs are highly recommended! thank you so much, ily.

eeunoia 2024 © all rights reserved.

“We found these inside her suite room, Boss.”

Sunghoon rests his liqour over the small table near him then pressed his lit cigarette at the ash tray. His toned muscle flex at his every move. He reaches over the small card Icarus was handing him.

With brows furrowing downward, he silently read the printed name of the company you seem to work at. He didn’t utter a word and just plays with it, falling deep into his own thoughts. The name of the place you’re currently employed in rings a bell. A bit familiar. Like he heard it before.

“We also managed to gather some of her personal belongings.” his eyes darts lazily at the things he laid over the table.

Some identifaction cards and also your passport. He licked his lower lip and stretches his arm to grab your passport. He opens it, revealing your information to him. Your name, birthday, nationality... everything.

“You may take your leave. Make sure there are men guarding her floor.” he instructed without sparing a glance to him. He saw him bowing from his peripheral before he take his leave.

The cold breeze blew towards Sunghoon, making his slightly long hair sways beautifully along with it. His eyes are fixed at your picture and his thumb gently caress it, a ghost of smile spreading across his face.

“Aelia...” he mumbled your name for the very first time. “My Aelia.” he added afterwards.

He tilts his head and clenches his jaw hard before fishing his phone from his pocket.

“Brother! I figured you’ll give me a ring sooner or later.” Jake’s voice hints teasing from it.

“You...” he starts, but halts his words.

Sunghoon couldn’t make out his emotions properly. He’s feeling so pissed for his friend keeping something very important to him, but at the same time still overwhelmingly happy after finding you.

“Well,” he can almost hear his smirk from the other line. “did you like my gift for you?”

He threw his head back then heaved a sigh.

“Since when?” he shortly replied, wanting to know more about this sneaky move his friend just pulled. He should’ve known something’s up from how his friend’s been so weird.

“Ever since I tried to sell the company to you.”

Another big and heavy sigh emits from Sunghoon after he realized how long was that. He almost lose his mind searching for you and all this time, his friend knew where you are. He felt betrayed, but a part of him are relieved to know that you are safe.

He flutters his eyes open, brows furrowing hardly at the realization.

“You sold it to me for 10 million? Do you fucking think she’s worth just that?” he seemed insulted like as if he was the one being priced and sold at a lower price. Not that he really sell you, its practically the company but Sunghoon’s being very dramatic.

Jake chuckles finding it hilarious how he didn’t even got mad at him for selling it at a very expensive price. He got offended for taking the interpretation that you only worth that price.

“Dude, I asked for that so I can take care of your girl while you’re busy taking care of some other things.” he finally explains. It made him more calmer, his jaw’s still hardly clenched but at least the idea of beating the shit out of his friend starts to subside.

“Meaning all these time, its you and your money whose taking good care of her. She’s living comfortably thanks to your resources.” he sounded like he’s trying to convince a kid and tricked him into believing that Santa is real.

Sunghoon fell silent, trying to sink Jake’s words inside his mind. He did a good job on revisioning the company and even made it perform well. He’s been updating him about the status of it even though he doesn’t really give much care of it as he was pretty focused on putting the Kwon’s down.

All this time, its not just the company. It was his way of letting him know that his girl is okay and living pretty well.

He draws in a big sigh, totally calmer than before.

“Thank you.”

Jake’s the one silent this time. He was expecting him to appreciate his effort, but not to this extent. He was expecting an earful of curses and death threats from him, but instead this is what he got.

He was amused. Beyond amused how you’ve already started to affect him. He lets out a scoff, couldn’t believe that you have this effect on him. It was just a hunch that you indeed have the potential to soften and tame the monster, but you are powerful. You have this power over him.

“The fuck? Not even a day of meeting her and you’re already under her spell? Who are you? Where’s the real Sunghoon? The real one would’ve cursed me out and will be super pissed at me.”

Sunghoon smirks and rests over the railings of the balcony. His eyes settles beneath the quiet road, it was almost empty as its already three in the morning.

“I am pissed at you.” his stern tone makes it obvious how he means.

“But since you kept her safe 'til this day, I’ll let you go.”

Jake smirks, “Even if your meet up is a little set up?”

“What’s important now is she’s here. She’s really here.” relieve was not the only thing you can hear from his tone. Some are curiosity on what’s about to happen next.

He can think nonstop about the things he wanted to do with you, but first he has to think of how he would explain everything to you. Because from now on, you will live your life with him.

You let out a heavy sigh before grabbing your phone and dialed your boyfriend’s number. Your jaw clenched when you've been directed over to his voice mail. It’s been three days ever since you two talked and you even argued. This is your last night here and so far its so good. Surprisingly nothing bad happened to you, and you don’t want to jinx it at all.

“Hey, Luke.” you said after the beep to leave him yet another voice mail. You didn't know how many you left already but still, you decided to do it again.

“I know you're upset baby. Please let’s talk once I get back there, hm? I love you.” you mumbled and ended it.

You grabbed your coat and key card of your hotel room. It was stressing you out so you wanted to get some fresh air to relieve some stress. It was already late which makes it a bit scary, especially that you're in another city. But you knew you needed some for tonight.

You breath in the fresh air you thought you’ve been needing for a while. You tried smiling as you watch the stars above you shines brightly. You were enjoying your time without even realizing what’s about to unfold.

After finally calming down and clearing your mind out, you decided to head back to your hotel.

On your way, you had this weird feeling that you're being followed. Your heart started thumping fast, specially that there are less people around this area. Terrified that someone really is stalking you, you hurried your steps.

But even before your can reach back to your hotel, you felt a strong grip over your arm. Your heart sank as you open your mouth to shout only to be covered by your captor. He held you firmly then covered your nose with a handkerchief making your eyes grew big and you tried to get away from their grip but it was too late.

The last thing you remember is how you slowly lose your strength, knees falling weakly. The person held you close to him and even whispered things you couldn’t understand as you lost consciousness. In the end, you felt them carrying you.

Sunghoon smiles as he stared down at your unconscious body over his arms. His men opened his car door for him and he puts you inside carefully.

“Have you prepared the hotel room I asked you?” he asks Icarus as he checks if your position inside his vehicle is okay.

“Yes, boss.”

He nods and Sunghoon walks around towards the driver’s seat. He glanced at your side before smiling again, reaching over your face to gently brush away the hairs covering it.

At the arrival to the hotel, Sunghoon parked his sports car right in front while his men's vehicle surrounds his for protection. The staffs of the hotel hurries themselves to stand right in front of it to welcome him. They've been informed about the vip that will stay at the top floor of the hotel, and after knowing its Park Sunghoon they couldn't help but to feel nervous.

After-all, he’s known for his bad temper.

“Welcome Mr. P-Park.” the head of the hotel stutters as he bows along with his staffs.

Sunghoon didn’t pay much attention to them as he asks for his room card. Some of the staff noticed him carrying your unconscious body, tears on the sides of your eyes. Just by the looks of it, they knew you didn’t come here voluntarily.

None of them asked anything about you, nobody even dared to look at your direction longer than fiver seconds.

The moment he managed to get the keys to your room, Sunghoon struts towards the elevator along with Icarus and some of his men.

“Should we tie her hands?” Icarus asks.

Sunghoon’s eyes darted at your wrist. His assistant is already getting ready to tie her when he stopped him.

“No. I don’t want it hurting her wrists.” he says too softly and then sat at the side of the bed to look at your sleeping state.

He wiped off the tears at the corner of your eyes and using his thumb, he caress your cheeks.

“My love, you are finally here with me.” he whispers.

He sighs, “You are so beautiful.” and he roams his eyes over your pretty face. He’s still in trance. Despite being able to hold you and touch you like this, sometimes he still can’t help but to think that he is dreaming.

Scared that this are just his illusions, he somewhat wished not to wake up from this. If it means he will be with you, he don’t want to leave. He wants to be where you are and where he can have you like this.

“Sir, Mr. Sim called saying he needs to discuss something with you.” he sighs and nods his head before standing up.

“Leave some of our men inside the room incase she tries to escape or do something that can hurt her.” he reminds his men before leaving the room.

With a low grunt, you slowly opened your eyes only to be greeted by an unfamiliar room. Your head aches in attempt to recover memories from last night. It was just then you remembered that you were abducted.

Fear spread across your chest as you roamed your eyes around, sitting up from the bed. There are men wearing familiar suits. You’ve seen it before, you just don’t have any idea where.

“W-Where am I? Who are you?!” you asked frantically and tears spreads across your face.

Even when you are crying, they seem to don't mind. They are just standing at the corners of the room, two by the door.

You don’t know how many hours that you’re passed out, but you knew its been a while. Your throat felt dry from crying and screaming. One of them did offered water, but you refused. You’re afraid that they put something in it.

The fact that this is happening on your last day of the trip makes you go crazy. Nothing good really happens whenever you go out of the country. Everything seems to be find until you got abducted by these people. This time, you think this will really be the end of your life.

Dark thoughts starts to occupy your mind. Will they kill you and sell your organs to the black market? Probably. Or put you into slavery. That’s just so awful. A lot of bad scenarious flashes through your mind and it was making you feel much terrible.

The door then burst open, making you jolt a bit. Soon, a man walks inside. His eyes looked at your way and he bows politely which caught you off-guard. The other guys around seems to look up on him so you assumed he have more power than them, so why is he bowing at you?

“The boss will see you in a bit.” Icarus said, informing you about Sunghoon’s plan to visit you.

The boss? Your brows furrows hardly at his statement, but kept your mouth shut. Tears still pool your eyes, cries a little more silent than before. If he isn’t the boss, you can still try to convince him to let you go. You can beg him. Tell him that your you have terrible health so your organs won’t sell good.

“Please let me go.” you begged him softly, eyes glistening with so much emotion.

Icarus stared at you with blank look over his eyes. He sighs and glanced away, trying to talk to some of the men reminding them of what to do next once the boss arrives.

Your heart fell. He didn’t even say anything or even talked to you.

Not long after, you heard the door opening and it revealed some ethereal looking guy. His hair was brushed up and it looked so soft, his face blank and seems like he’s the one in-charge. So much power he holds just by walking inside the room.

You can’t properly describe it. He just have this aura. He’s wearing a suit that perfectly fits him, showing off his model like proportions. It feels so illegal to see him walking here and not on runways.

Both of your eyes met and you are a bit taken aback because he’s very good-looking! His skin was fairly white and his features were beautiful altogether. He’s very intimidating too.

“Did you hurt her?” his voice ringed inside your head. He was asking the guys around but his eyes never left yours.

You gulped and even if you’re feeling very scared and intimidated, you raised your chin up and stared back at him. You glared and clenched your jaw to keep them from shaking.

“No, boss.” one of them answered. As expected, he is the one in-charge.

He nodded and slowly walked closer to you. If he’s good-looking from afar, he’s breath-taking up close. He looked so handsome and intimidating at the same time. Those moles all over his face sure add some charms in him.

“I’ve been searching the whole world for you, love.” He softly mumbled before he raised his hand to caress your cheeks carefully like as if you’re something so fragile.

Something about his caress lit something inside your stomach go crazy. It was definitely wrong because he was the one who abducted you and he’s probably a bad guy. Not to mention that you have a boyfriend but for some reasons, you cannot help it. There’s something about his gentle touch and his staring expressive eyes.

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#enhypen #eeunoiaverse #eeunoia #eeunoiawrites #enhypen imagines #yandere enhypen #enhypen fic #enhypen park sunghoon #enhypen sunghoon yandere #enhypen sunghoon x you #enhypen sunghoon x reader

[fic-heaven]

Enemies to lovers with König and witty reader? I don't know if you also write about him so imma leave this here

Answering two anons at the same time lmao

Say my name (König x witty! Reader)

Pt.2 now!

🐥 The first time König appeared on my drafts was when I was making my last Reyes x Reader fic and um... I kind of wanted to keep doing lmao so here it is. Sorry for my broken English-

Angst/ SOCIAL ANXIETY/ slight nsfw/ open ending (if you guys want a part two and this short gets some attention)

⚠️ I still picture König as Lee Pace ⚠️

.

They say you transfered from SpecGru to KorTac because you simply wanted a change of airs. But it couldn't be that simple. Why were you so simple?

As antisocial as he seemed to be, König was well aware that a bond between teammates was needed in order to sync and function properly during missions. He wasn't the best at striking up conversations and never intended to improve on this aspect either, often trying to figure people out from the distance, he only approached them if he had questions about their character. Horangi once said it was weird but König frankly didn't care about what was socially accepted or not, he just made the effort to know his team because it was expected of him, and as great as it would be to have friends, he struggled socializing and had given up trying ages ago. König was paid to kill, not to make friends. And as far as his interactions went with his teammates, the only one who gets his game and could be considered his friend is Horangi. But you?

He had tried to investigate you, even going as far as using his position as colonel to gather as much information from your background to understand you without having to make any awkward approach. But nothing he found explained why you changed factions or why you behaved the way you did. You had a normal childhood, went to a good school, graduated being top of your class... Jesus you had a rabbit called Mr. Whiskers, even the deepest info given was borely normal. No trace of trauma or any mental disorder.

König begun studying you like a biologist would to a newfound species and got more and more invested and frustrated the more information he gathered, because he simply couldn't excuse your... Well, your everything.

He approaches you one time during morning drills, looks you up and down as you stretched, ignores the flirty comment you shot his way, because what the fuck is your problem? You don't know him. Then König proceeded to mouth the first thing he ever said to you, one of the main questions he had on his head as to why you would behave so strangely. And it goes like this: "Do you have any mental illness, hm?"

"I might have, yeah."

And you said it so casually. Do you, though? Are you being sarcastic or... God he hates you. Why can't he figure you out!? Why do you smile at him so much? Why do you flirt so much with him? Do you flirt with the others the way you do with him?

That new question made him observe your body language around others and listen carefully to any interaction you had and found nothing but your enchanting witty self. Of course you teased other members, but never so bluntly like the way you flirt with him. The colonel felt weirdly relieved at this. Maybe he liked the attention given? Scratch that, or course not!

One time after a tiring mission in Barcelona, Spain, König approached you with a bottle of water, you thanked him with a wink and he watched you swallow the whole thing before he proceeded to ask you the second question that plagued his mind: "Do you perhaps hide some secret trauma that permanently changed your behaviour, using sarcasm, smirks and jokes to protect your scared inner child in order to not get hurt again?"

"Hmmm... The day I found out my mother was Santa Claus I went bananas, but I wouldn't say it scarred me for life. Do ya want an M&M, colonel?"

He fucking hates you. He hates you. König aggressively snatched a handful of M&M's and stormed away. That night he swore he could hear your laugh echoing inside his head. Why couldn't you leave his fucking mind? What was it with you? Were you doing it on purpose?

_____

You were definitely doing it on purpose.

You have to be patient with König. But he was so hilarious and scary, it thrilled you to watch the two meter tall behemoth of a man walk near you and sneak watchful, calculated glances your way when he thought you weren't looking. If someone dared to ask, you'd easily answer with the honesty everyone knew you posses: You'd fuck König without a thought.

He's so feral in battle, so demanding and intimidating on the comms. His ridiculous voice made him all the more adorable contrasting with his appearance. Oh fuck that. Even his appearance was ridiculous, he looked like the red guy from that creepy show called "Don't hug me, I'm scared" or one of those executioners from the Shrek movie. But he was HOT, with that slutty waist accentuated by his bulky back, those long slender arms that could lift anything on his way, you saw him lift a fucking car a few inches so an injured woman could scape, and as she cried of relief you could feel your pussy crying as well at the sight. And oh his hands... The way he used them, so elegantly but rough, they'd make a beautiful necklace. His voice, as unfitting as it sounded coming from this KorTac monster, made you itch to hear more, his accent was so attractive that it quickly made you addicted to sound of it and your brain pondered on how he'd sound while doing other things. Lucky you, when the stars aligned and you two coincided in the gym you made sure to be close enough to hear the quiet grunts and sighs from the colonel as he trained, to your surprise he never moved away as if he knew what you were doing and thought nothing much of it. Safe to say, you'd gladly eat whatever interaction König graced you with with a speck of salt.

Though, when you begun paying attention to the details (because it was hard to guess his thoughts without seeing his face) You noticed a few things about the colonel that indicated he had a severe case of social anxiety. The way he self isolated, how he forced himself to interact with people resulting in very awkward conversations that led to him coming up as rude to what he got frustrated and scaped the scene, how he loved his job because you were convinced that he thought he was only good at killing. That made you wonder if he had other hobbies... It's funny to imagine a tall, muscly guy like him baking or making origamis.

______

Today you saw the ultimate signal that your big crush wasn't a people's person.

You two were on a meeting with some other KorTac members. König was peeling an apple and had finished it rather quickly as all of you spoke, but he spent ten minutes with the remnants of the fruit slowly browning and drying on his hand, so you decided to test your theory by walking to the near trash can to throw a random paper you crumbled quickly, after a few seconds König abruptly stood up to throw the dried fruit remnant, the tall Austrian glanced your way before he sat again and kept to himself. Okay, so judging by this and how stiff he looks, König doesn't know exactly what to do with his body around people, he needed an excuse to stand up and throw the finished apple so he waited for anyone to use the trash can to go after, BUT he waited a few seconds to stand so he wouldn't look like he was waiting. Must be stressful to be on his shoes. Interesting, but maybe you were overthinking too much, so you decided to do a final test that would definitely tell you if what you thought was right. You didn't want to come to this unless it was really necessary... You'll probably have to apologize later.

You directed all the attention to König by asking a number of things, (obviously work related) that caught the attention of everyone in the room taking the poor colonel by surprise, his cristal blue eyes widened for a minute before he composed himself answering everything you asked with a professional tone until you spotted the tremble on his hands, poor König noticed your attention drift to his hands so he slid them under the table. That's how you knew it. He couldn't handle being the center of attention for prolonged amounts of time. Your poor baby...

You gave him a sympathetic look that again took him by surprise, but by that time König had called the meeting over, gathered his things and walked out before you could approach him.

Damn you and your stupid beautiful voice and worried eyes trying to comfort him discreetly.

Gloved hands fidgeted with the bracelet on his wrist. König remembers the little girl who gifted him said thing. The day him and his team rescued her and some other orphans from a building about to explode, the worried colonel spent a few minutes comforting the little girl until she pulled the orange bracelet from her small SpongeBob backpack, he chuckled at the gesture and had never taken it off since. They even shared some letters from time to time, he held a piece of little Astrid in the form of a cute bracelet and she held a piece of him in the form of sweet spoken letters.

König saw her kind eyes in yours and it squeezed his heart so much he felt suffocated. Why would a teasing little vixen like you have such kind, gorgeous eyes? It was weirdly comforting that someone would look at him so softly like he wasn't a monster for once after so long.

His heart begun beating faster, his head was so full of questions about you it infuriated him. Long legs carried the colonel to the gym absentmindedly, like his body craved to ease some tension, but at the last minute he turned to the left corridor further from the gym, went to the right and finally approached the shooting range's door.

"Scheibe..." König cursed lowly, he could have very well bursted the door out of it's hinges, his gloved hand (still a bit shaky) took his favorite riffle from the top right corner of the shelf while he shot a backward kick to push the metallic door closed. He spent fourteen minutes shooting targets while mauling at your last interaction, rage swirled his insides and yet he couldn't fully hate you for asking questions, after all it was work-related, and the last soft gaze you gave him spoke volumes that you didn't want to advert all the attention to him out of malice. König was reloading his sniper rifle when he heard a gentle thud indicating someone had entered the room.

"You'd make an amazing sniper." You spoke softly trying not to startle him.

"You come to mock me? Laugh all you like. I'm well aware I'm too huge to be a sniper." He spoke in resentment over his shoulder before redirecting his focused gaze to the target ahead.

"I always say size doesn't matter! As long as you know how to handle your weapon, you'll make any girl blush."

Your dark humour takes König by surprise and he misses the dummy's head, he tries to hold back the chuckle that threatened to spill from his hidden lips. Luckily the shirt he wore as a mask shielded his face enough to make it look like he was holding in a cough or a sneeze but you weren't stupid. When he turns to face you placing the riffle to the near table he gets startled by how close you are, the smirk accompanying your lips as you weaseled close to his very sacred personal space made him curse lowly in his mother's tongue. The tall Austrian stepped back and you rose your hands in mocking defeat.

"Alright, I get it, personal space. Jus' wanted to hear ya laugh..."

"I didn't." He hisses.

"Didn't ya? I thought I heard it, must have been the wind."

Your sarcasm often infuriated König who never seemed to get a good grip on his English, so it was hard for him to detect when you were being serious or just pulling his leg. His hands flex on his sides, tiny waist move side to side as he balances his weight before he crosses his arms and leans his back to the wall. König raises a brow when your smirk morphed into a sincere apologetic smile as you admired his stance six feet apart from him.

"I'm sorry for what happened back there." You said honestly, he sucked in a breath. "Didn't want t' put ya on the spot."

The Colonel's cerulean eyes widen in surprise before directing his gaze to your tank top blinking rapidly. It was easier to listen if he wasn't looking directly at your eyes. "König..." Your voice was honey making shivers run up his spine and his skin erupt in goosebumps, his hands trembled even when he fisted them on his crossed stance. "Why don't we start again? Call me paranoid, but I feel like there's tension between us and not the type I'd like."

König wasn't shy, he wasn't, but that last line of yours made him feel like it, and it wasn't an ugly feeling? But it was a little uncomfortable, foreign, it squeezed his heart in a suffocating way, his hands were clammy, he felt weirdly light like if it wasn't for his tapping foot on the floor he'd float away. König understood what you were saying and it comforted him that you were on the same page, the weird unsteadiness between the two of you becoming rather unbearable and a constant topic on both your minds, it was relieving that you thought the same way. Suddenly the ugly anger he had for you quieted down.

The colonel lifted his hand your way offering you a handshake you took with mirth.

"I'm colonel König. Y-you are...?"

"Goddamn. Ain't your parents bit' egotistical? Namin' their baby boy 'king' in their native language." You say with a snicker shaking his hand. He takes it back abruptly but you don't flinch. "I'm Sargeant (c/n). My name is (y/n) (l/n). Is König the name written on your birth certificate or were you called somethin' else?" You press.

König is taken aback by this. When was the last time someone had asked the colonel his name?

"I am..." It tasted foreign on his tongue, like he had forgotten the sound of it, the taste of his own name on his tongue. "My name is Andreas Dobler. That's... That's my name." His name wasn't König, he remembers the man he left behind all those years back, the man under the dark cloak. Before things went to shit, before becoming colonel König.

"Andreas. What a curious name, never heard of it-"

"Say my name again." König interrupts. His voice weak but demanding and desperate. He loved it. He loved the sound of his name on your lips. It was strange, sweet... Arousing, even.

You blinked angling your head up to take a better look at his half-lid eyes. This time König didn't look away, your eyes met and suddenly the ugly tension from before was morphing into another type of tension, your heart beats faster in sync with his. You didn't know you were getting closer until König placed a hand on your waist and then the other, not pushing, not pulling, he simply laid them there and it came so naturally, your playful smile wavered slightly as your hands landed on his shoulders, he shivers. You tilted your head to the side and he was so lost in you, your aroma, your eyes, your lips, your touch, he didn't realize he was returning the head tilt.

Your lips parted, pink tongue darting to hydrate your dry lips until your pearls were visible from the gap, and his eyes catch every movement your mouth makes when you whisper "Andreas."

"Again."

"Andreas-"

"Again..."

"...Andreas..." Your hands slowly move to his chest, his breath hitches. His name has never sounded so sensual whispered by anyone's mouth. You were... You...

"You..." He isn't sure what to say. You are not sure either, suddenly your wit has abandoned you it seems. "You intrigue me." He decides to huff out, accent heavily pronounced.

There's a thousand thoughts swirling on König's mind, he has shared his name but it suddenly didn't feel enough, he wanted to show you who he was, his past, his thoughts, his hopes and dreams, even his face. How can a simple woman like you make König feel so much? Because you were no simple woman. That's why when he felt your small hands slide up his chest to the hem of the shirt that composed his mask, König didn't tense up, in fact, his shoulders relaxed embracing the touch of your fingers gently feeling his neck under the cloth, his stubble, his chin, his high cheeks... Gloved hands grab your wrists.

You stop, still looking up at him noticing the heaving of his chest and how lost in awe his gaze seemed.

"Not yet?"

"I-i... Do not..." Mind. He didn't want to refuse your touch but at the same time it was so overwhelming.

You give a small nod, König lets go of your wrists and you take this opportunity to nuzzle his cheeks, he gasps landing his hands on your waist once more, squeezing the flesh over your tank top. The feeling of your fingers on his face was so foreign it felt like you were touching a piece of his soul.

"Don't you worry, darling..." König lets out a small whimper at this. "I'm rushing things ain' I? We were just getting on the first name basis and I had to screw it all..." You wanted to sound apologetic, you promise, but it was so hard when your colonel was practically purring at the feeling of your soft hands scratching his stubble.

König was putty on your hands, he has never felt this way. His cheeks burn in embarrassment, he tries to move back but remembers he's already against the wall, and you, a small thing like you have him cornered like a honey badger hunting a lion. His lip wobbles and he tilts his head to the side as he feels your hands massage and explore his neck and jaw in long, gentle motions.

"Shy lil' thing... Aren't you pretty hiding under there? Maybe you are too beautiful to allow anyone the pleasure of a simple look. Like a sweet Ferrero Roche firmly wrapped and ready to be eaten." You whisper, voice raspy before you chuckle when his Adam's apple bobs with a swallow. Your body is now pressed compleatly against his, your dear colonel's hands tremble on your sides as he fists your tank top. He's nervous, he's shy, but you know he is enjoying this judging by the way his teary, half-lid eyes blink slowly every time you feel a new inch of skin.

"...Sag bitte mehr, ich flehe dich an..." (Say more please, I beg you.) König moans out, his german accent so strong masking how weak he was feeling at the moment.

He loved your voice, your touch... Your everything. The colonel ran his fingers on your lower back encouraging to continue, meanwhile he very slowly tilted his head higher allowing you more space on his neck to massage and scratch. You chuckle darkly feeling his member poking at your belly, your body instantly pressing harder against his cornered torso.

"You like the sound of my voice, colonel?" You humm, he makes a small noise. "Andreas...?"

His shoulders shake with the force of his shiver, nails digging deliciously on your lower back, you chuckle delighted at the sight tilting his chin to the other side to feel his nape, his ear and some locks of hair. "ich begehre dich..." The Austrian groans, his member now fully erect twitched delighted by the delicious pressure of your torso against it and your soft ministrations to his neck.

Both your radios churr alive until a voice breaks the static, a random operator checking on the comms. König almost knocks you over with how fast he straightened his back and the way his strong grip held you back, his chest heaving fast, eyes wide and vulnerable. You take the opportunity to grab him by the hem of the shirt he uses as a mask.

"Wait-..."

König freezes when he feels cold air hit the heated skin from his neck. You had lifted a portion of the cloth revealing the part you were previously massaging, caressing and scratching. His head moves up to the side trying to hide from your touch, his hands shoot backwards planting on the wall as if a force had taken them from the previous grip he had on you.

"I hope you can forgive me colonel... Can't help it..."

There's a long gash on his neck, a very old scar that seemed to be product of a knife fight or even a bullet, it's crocked and it goes up probably to his right ear. You lean close on tiptoes because he couldn't crouch due to how shocked he still felt, and you planted your wet lips on the surface of the sensitive scar. König's throat rumbles with a groan, his powerful hands finally make the move to take you, to cage your body impossible closer to his. A hard roll of his hips make him gasp in relief and you loudly huff when he handles you to where he was previously caged, his hands soon making small effort to lift you up, both legs wrapped around his waist and he THRUSTS. You are still kissing, licking and nibbling his neck, your hands exploring the long bulky surface of his back, König moans delighted at one particular bite until-

"Shit."

König turned his head back so fast you are sure his neck is rotatory, two pairs of eyes look in shock at Horangi who is standing there holding the rifle König had previously left before all of this happened. Your colonel was frozen in embarrassment his shaking hands still held you up and his boner was no longer stabbing you, the thing died at the speed of light.

"Jesus Christ. You gonna keep staring or you wanna join us, tiger?"

König snaps his head back at you comically fast, icy eyes glare in surprise, horror and astonishment.

"As fun as that sounds I'll leave you two to your games... 'sides, I don't think you'll be able to handle König alone, imagine the two of us. We'd ruin you." The Korean's response made you laugh enchanted with his wit, he walked out the door in quick strides leaving you two alone once more.

König huffs glaring at the wall behind you. The sudden unwelcome presence of his friend seemed to had robbed the magic from the moment. Your Colonel's body shagged slowly lowering your body, and the moment your heels touched the ground his head leaned down falling to the crock of your neck, the feeling of the warm cloth of his mask made you humm. He kissed your clavicle over his mask and you ran your hands to his shoulders until König slowly retrieved.

He took two steps back, with a very noticeable defeated look.

"Hey. We can keep going whenever yer up to. Don't look at me like that, sweet thing." Your voice carried a playfulness that comforted him from the sudden feeling of defeat.

König couldn't meet your eyes, his voice was shaky "I'm just not like this-..."

"Andreas-"

"DON'T -...!" He barked, startling you both.

It was too much, too sudden, too weird, too suffocating. He liked it at first but... König couldn't put into words what he was feeling right now. He hated that the moment was cut short, he hated that he felt like it was his fault and he hated the way you are looking at him with so much concern like when you two were at the meeting.

"Verzeihen Sie mir." He muttered giving you a final short glance before he rushed out of the place leaving the door open and your startled self still leaning on the wall.

You recognized those words even if you didn't know much of German.

"Forgive me." You translated in a whisper.

Will you?

#call of duty modern warfare #cod #witty reader #konig x reader #konig cod #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader angst

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

The vampires before Christmas

______________________________________________________

Christmas was, in many ways, just like any other day. Nothing special about it, nothing to celebrate even - in fact, if you'd ask Marko, Christmas sucked a lot because it was so much harder to hunt during the holiday. It wasn't until Laddie had joined them that the thought of celebrating Christmas even crossed their minds.

None of them had fond memories of the day, whether that was because there were none or because they'd all forgotten over time was something they didn't question. But Laddie - he loved the day. He loved the lights and the treats, the songs and the fact that if he had been good - and he tried very hard to be good - he might get a gift from Santa Claus himself.

It was the twentieth of December, the warmth of the day still lingering in the cave, when Laddie woke up with a bright smile. "Do you think Santa will know I live in a cave now, and not a house?"

David looked at the kid, not ready to deal with questions like these in the early morning. He just shrugged. "I don't know."

"You never got something from Santa?"

"We're not very good, are we?"

Laddie thought about that before nodding slowly. Being banned from the boardwalk, banned from several stores, and killing people in order to survive didn't exactly meet the requirements for being on the nice list.

"Do you think I might be on the nice list?"

"Why wouldn't you be?" Dwayne had entered the cave, carrying some boxes with takeout.

"Well, David said he didn't know if Santa would know I lived here, and yeah..."

"You don't have to worry about that. You've been good. There's no need to stress about christmas."

With that, Laddie visibly relaxed. The rest of the night went as usual, with them going to the boardwalk, tormenting Max for a bit, and just having fun. It was only later that night, when Laddie had been brought to bed, that the boys brought it up again.

"You do realise we need to do something, right? Laddie would be heartbroken if he found out Santa isn't real because we forgot to get him some gifts." Paul noted, as he turned the sound of the radio up.

"What do you want us to do then? We got no tree, no fireplace, no nothing where the kid can even hang a stocking or something."

"Well, we've already got the Grinch, so that parts covered."

David shot a deadly look at Paul, who just grinned. "Seriously, I don't care what you think, I'm making sure we got a proper tree in here on Christmas eve. Laddie doesn't need to hate Christmas, just because we don't like it."

"Fine."

"Careful there," Marko grinned, "or your heart might grow three sizes."

Dwayne had already decided that he would take care of the gifts, realising not only that Laddie would want some toys and possibly some new clothes, but that Laddie would very much like the boys to have some gifts as well.

It was the 24th, and Laddie hadn't been able to shut up about Christmas. "Don't you have Christmas music?" He'd asked Paul one evening, only to be disappointed when the closest thing to Christmas music was a song called Holly Jolly Slaughter - something that Paul decided wasn't appropriate for a young child's ears.

Later that evening, after Dwayne had taken Laddie to the boardwalk, the other three boys spent their time getting the cave ready for Christmas. As promised, Paul had acquainted a nice tree - although you shouldn't ask where he got it from, he would deny everything - and after he put it on top of the fountain, the whole cave was basking in the golden glow of the Christmas lights. David had, after some grumbling, agreed to atleast wrap the gifts and put them under the tree. That left Marko, who absolutely hated what ha was about to do. He despised it. He would rather take a walk in the sun, than to do this - especially with the other boys present - but Laddie had in a way asked for it.

One night, Laddie had told him that he'd always hoped to see Santa one evening so he could thank him for bringing him to the boys. Marko absolutely despised Christmas and Santa even more, but he didn't want to deny Laddie his Christmas wish. So, whenever everyone else was asleep, he took some red velvet, his sewing kit, and some patterns, and he worked away at creating a realistic Santa costume. It was practically done, and he decided to wear it tonight, when everyone was asleep. He'd make some noise, making sure Laddie would wake up, and play the part of Santa.

When Laddie and Dwayne got back to the cave, Laddie was jumping around the Christmas tree the second he saw it. Singing Christmas songs, dancing with Paul, and enjoying some Christmas cookies, Laddie was already certain that it was the best Christmas eh had ever had. "Thank you," he hugged David, knowing that even though the others organised it, that David had allowed it to happen.

That morning, when the sun was still low on the horizon, and everyone was asleep, Marko got up. He got dressed in his Santa suit, padding it with some pillows. He'd put on a fake beard, borrowed Paul's boots and was certain that Laddie would be delighted.

Quietly, he walked to the main part of the cave before loudly putting down the gifts beneath the tree. He was quiet for a moment and heard the soft noise of someone walking on their toes. He continued putting down the last gifts when Laddie stood next to him.

"Santa?!"

Marko grinned. "Hi, kid."

Laddie held a slight frown, but said nothing. "I thought you always came at night?"

"I come when children are sleeping, which you should be young man."

Laddie giggled. "Santa? Do you think you can give some gifts to David, Dwayne, Marko and Paul? I know they've been naughty, but they've been really good to me."

Marko smiled. "Don't worry kid."

"Santa?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you sound like Marko?"

Crap. Marko didn't know what to say.

"Did Santa ask you to help because the reindeer didn't know how to find the cave?"

Marko sighed with relieve, thank god for Laddies imagination.

"Yeah. He did."

"I like your costume."

"The elves made it for me."

Laddie smiled. "Marko?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks for doing this. I love Christmas."

#the lost boys #marko #david #paul #dwayne #marko the lost boys #tlb 1987 #david tlb #marko tlb #paul tlb #dwayne tlb #tlb #laddie the lost boys

[kale-theteaqueen]

A03 Masterlist

A list of all my worked completed and ongoing in the ACOTAR-verse!

Nessian

Post-ACOMAF:

Will You Let Me Hold You? -- Submission for day 4 of Nesta Appreciation Week 2024, a 5+1 of times Cassian shows Nesta physical touch, and one time she reciprocates. Nessian. One shot, completed.

Post-ACOWAR:

Lady Death and Her Kingdom -- Nessian in which Nesta sees the dead, multichapter fic, ongoing

And Now She Becomes Death -- Nessian, in which Hybern revenge kidnaps Nesta for beheading the king, multichapter fic, ongoing.

Post-ACOFAS

To Pay a Debt --Nessian, in which Nesta leaves Velaris after seeing that she hasn't been included in Feyre's paintings, but her mother has, multichapter fic, ongoing (also includes gwynriel, nezriel brotp, Archeron sisters, Valkyries)

The Whole Truth -- Nessian, in which Elain reveals that their father sold Nesta multiple times when they lived in the cabin, multichapter fic, ongoing (also includes nezriel brotp, rhysta brotp, and focus on the Archeron sisters)

Post-ACOSF/ACOSF-Fix It

Burning From the Inside Out -- Nessian, in which it is revealed that Nesta has chronic pain/illness, multichapter fic, completed, (also includes gwynriel, Valkyries, Archeron Sisters)

The Hike, Alternatively -- Nessian, alternative take on the hike, in which Nesta attempts suicide, multichapter fic, completed (also includes nezriel brotp, nesszriel brot3)

Of Death and Resurrection, Nessian/Rhysta Brotp, in which Nesta sacrifices her life to save Feyre, but can't be fully killed due to her power, thus requiring Rhys to go into her mind to save her, multichapter fic, completed (Also includes gwynriel, feysand, Valkyries, nezriel brotp)

Of Open Wounds and Retribution, Nessian, set in the ODaR-verse in which Nesta meets Tomas Mandray at a peace summit between humans and fae, and the family discovers what he did to her, two shot, completed (bonus chapter in progress) (includes feyre/nesta relationship, Rhysta brotp, feysand, nezriel brotp)

The Consequences of Normality, Nessian, in which Nesta tries to conform to IC expectations post-ACOSF, and Cassian realizes that he prioritizes them over her, three shot, completed (bonus POVs in progress) (also includes Valkyries, Nezriel brotp)

Like Fire, She Raged -- Nessian (ish), In which Emerie calls out the IC for their treatment of Nesta/treatment of Illyrian females, two-shot, completed (also includes Valkyries)

Three Little Words -- Nessian, in which Nesta asks Cassian if he loves her, because he didn't say it during ACOSF, one shot, completed. (also includes bat boys, Valkyries)

Modern AUs

The Humble Art of Gift Giving -- Gift for ACOTAR Secret Santa, in which Nesta takes gift giving very, very seriously, and Cassian loves her all the more for it. One shot, completed.

Nesta-Centric

Moments in the Evolution of Nesta Archeron -- Submission for day 2 of Nesta Appreciation Week 2024, consisting of snippets in Nesta's life from childhood to post canon. Spoilers for HOFAS, includes nessian at the end. One shot, completed.

A Practice in Self Care -- Submission for day 3 of Nesta Appreciation Week 2024, in which Nesta is learning self care. Post- ACOSF. Nessian. One shot, completed.

Wolf Mentality, to a Fault -- Submission for Day 5 of Nesta Appreciation Week 2024, 3+1 of times Nesta self sacrifices to protect her family, and one time they return the favor. Post-ACOSF, mild HOFAS spoilers. Nessian. One shot, completed.

A Quiet Kind of Birthday Girl -- Submission for Day 6 of Nesta Appreciation Week 2024, in which Nesta kept her birthday a secret and once her family found out, received a big birthday bash. However, in the quiet moments afterwards, she struggles to feel she deserved it. Post-ACOSF. Nessian. One shot, completed.

Gwynriel

Of Shadows and Light, Gwynriel, a sequel to Of Death and Resurrection that follows the development of Azriel and Gwyn's relationsip, multichapter fic, completed (includes nessian, mor/emerie, feysand, Archeron sisters, Valkyries, nezriel brotp, rhysta brotp, bat boys)

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar series #a court of silver flames #acosf #nesta archeron #nessian #nesta x cassian #azriel x gwyn #gwynriel #masterlist #fic masterlist #archive of our own