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#with garlands in her hair
questionzee · 5 months
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i get it now. why i'm still alive even though everyone else is dead.
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timothylawrence · 2 years
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okey... here she is... my bl oc zouhour in da sims :) left is her everyday look vs the right a pandoran coming of age ceremony :)
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also bonus nose side profile cus um <3 shes cute!
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auroras-blend · 2 years
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The Borghese Family "To live life as a devil is to leave a legacy of misery..."
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mx-paint · 6 months
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Some of you really go read a book that is about the authors experience with racism and trauma and...are surprised...when the book...is about racism and trauma???
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radiantcrown · 2 years
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        tag  drop.
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flamingpudding · 5 months
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Fictober23 Prompt: 20 - "This better be good."
Fandom: DPxDC
Rating: T
Warnings: -
A green Vortex swirled in front of them and Constantine held his breath. This was not like any of the summonses he usually did. He looked over his shoulder at the others present, wondering if he could somehow bullshit his way out of this. But one thing was clear, whatever he had summoned was not one of his demons.
The Vortex continued to swirl before them, slowly greenish smoke started to rise out of him. Then suddenly a melody started to echo around them and Constantine felt like face palming.
"Uh… isn't this the Melody of This is Halloween?" The Flash asked aloud, exchanging glances with the others present.
"Constantine." Great Bats was getting grumpy, the JL Dark member thought, refusing to turn around to face any of the heroes. Ignoring them might make them stop questioning what was happening with this summon. It wasn't like there were any pressing situations, forcing this summon in hopes to prevent whatever interdimensional war Trigon was about to start. No, they hadn't forced him out and away from the curse he had been working on. Not like there were other members of the JL Dark, Constantine clearly knew the big bad Bat liked to work more with than him.
Humming resounded from the vortex now too, clearly depicting the chorus of the well known Halloween song, and John's eye twitched. The fuck kinda demon spirit did he summon now? Was whatever he summoned making fun of him just because that being got summoned in October? The rising smoke started to move, taking on a shape that appeared more humanoid as the humming started to become clearer though it sounded like it was filtered through static as it still sounded somewhat distorted.
"Shadow is the one hiding under your bed, teeth ground sharp and eyes glowing green! Spectra is the one hiding under your stairs, fingers like snakes and spiders in her hair."
The voice echoed sounding like a mix of static and white noise but became clearer the more or the green smoke escaped from the vortex. None of them really knew what was going on and Constantine was cursing up a storm in his mind. What the hell was happening right now, he just wanted to get the Spirit of Balance to help them out with Trigon? They were supposed to symbolize balance, surely they would have the easiest time to fix that imbalance the demon was about to wreck across dimensions.
"In this zone we call home, everyone hails to the ghost-like song! In this zone, don't we love it now? Clockworks' waiting for the next surprise!" The smoke was twirling around and moving like they were picking something up from inside the vortex, its shape still smokey but slowly Constantine was able to make out certain shapes of the head and arms as the voice continued to hum and then sing the static was more and more receding.
"Freakshow is the clown with the thermos to his face, sucked up in a flash and gone without a trace. I am the who when you call, 'Who's there?'. Dani is the wind blowing through your hair. Dan is the shadow on the moon at night, Frighty filling your dreams to the brim with fright!" The voice was now very clear, no interference, the smoke had fully formed a human-like body and appeared to be a white haired teen boy, though John noted, his summon was turned with his back to them appearing not to notice him or the heroes in the room and holding… Was that a Halloween party garland?
"This is Halloween, this is Hallo- who the fuck are you guys?" Mid lyrics the kid appeared to have turned around his arms raised like he was going to hang the garland of cut out pumpkins on a wall. White green eyes stared at them before the summoned eyes went to the garland in his hands that were then quickly hidden behind the teens back.
"Spirit of balance-"
"It's Ancient actually."
The spirit, ancient, cut in and Constantine hurried to correct his mistake. "Ancient of balance, we are the Justice League and have summoned you to seek your help…" Constantine started his usual spiel, ignoring Green Lantern's mutter of if that kid really was the spirit of balance as well as the judging looks and burning glare he felt on his back from Batman. He was not going over with them again about the fact that demon, spirits, ghost and the likes can look like whatever the fuck they wanted.
"Okay, stop!" The summoned teen held up a hand before John could continue. "I was in the middle of an important Halloween themed stabilization party preparation! To finally celebrate Dan after Dani pestered him for months! So this better be good, to get in the way of my first fight free weekend in years!"
"A war with demons is about to start." Constantine's head whipped around to glare at Batman, does he need to hold another course of how to properly communicate with interdimensional beings?
"That's Demon Realm Issues, not Ghost related. Could you humans stop mixing us up? I am not even from the same dimension as them and we have enough troubles with them breaching the Ghost Zone borders every month!" The summoned teen arched an eyebrow at them, crossing his arms and bringing that damned Halloween garland back into view again. They clearly didn't want to be here and if Constantine knew anything about unwilling summons then one wrong world could screw them all over right now.
"Trigon is the one starting it." Batman added and once more the JL Dark member sent the Dark knight a seething glare. That hypocrite put him through a lecture about hero behavior and cautions before, John would return the favor once the crisis was handled.
"Trigon?" His head whipped around to look at the suddenly very interested ancient of balance floating over to Batman.
"What did that big toddler do now?" It appeared like the Ancient was talking to themselves more than them as he crossed his arms completely forgetting about the wall decoration in his hands as they tilted their head in thoughts and started to ignore them. They were mumbling something John couldn't hear, for once he wished Superman was around so he could tell them with his super hearing.
"I have no idea who you guys are but, fine! I will help but only because Dan mentioned wanting to fight that overgrown toddler again. That's going to be his stabilizing day present! He can't complain this way that I got him something lame."
Constantine was about to sigh a breath of relief until he noticed the Ancient of Balance opening a good damn vortex and pulling out a snarling, red glowing eyed and blue flamed haired spirit by the neck. He paled then realizing that the being of balance just pulled the Spirit er Ancient of Wrath into their dimension. John then also noticed what appeared to be a little girl hanging like a koala of Wrath's back and then remembered a passage in the summoning text of the Spirit of Balance, he apparently had carelessly ignored.
Summoning Balance, Wrath and Mischief always stuck together. Sweating heavily, Constntine ignored any and all looks sent his way, because he was sure he might have just doomed their Dimension or at least plunged them into chaos for the time being.
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netherfeildren · 3 months
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Meet Me in the New Year
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Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Summary:  “We’re havin’ a baby this year,” voice boyish and shy and full of excitement and love. 
You peer up at him, cheek smushed against the ball of his shoulder. “We are.”
“Ready?”
You nod, slow, pulling his head down for another kiss. “Happy New Year, Joel.”
-OR-
The New Year's Eve AU
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; New Year's Eve AU; Devoted Joel Miller; Established Relationship; Ringing in the New Year with your baby daddy like God intended; More fucking in your childhood home shenanigans; Pregnancy sex; Needy behavior; Older man/Younger woman; Daddy kink; Unprotected PIV; Creampie; Meet me in St. Louis is the best Christmas movie ever; Breeding Kink; Pregnancy Kink; Size Difference; How does one tag fingering?; Fluff and Smut; Praise Kink; PWP
A/N: One last post for 2023, and of course, I had to do a few of my favorite things; daddy Joel, creampies and pregnancy sex, yeehaw. Here's to a new year of more of the same, but WORSE and nastier.
I should be put in prison next year probably like omg but whatever. Have fun, I love you all lots!
This is a sort of follow up to Evermore
Word Count: 2.4K
Read on AO3
Ko-fi
MEET ME IN THE NEW YEAR
“Joel, what time is it?”
He looks down at you, tender look in his eye, dragging that big hand of his through your hair. Tresses slightly sleep damp and warm at the roots and gradually growing cooler towards the ends. Your parent’s living room is dark, only the warm shine of the Christmas tree coming from the front hall peering in around the corner into the comfortable, warm den. Meet me in St. Louis plays on mute on the flatscreen, Judy Garland rushing over to give John Truett a piece of her mind on Tootie’s behalf. “Look who it is. Thought I’d lost you for the night.” 
You groan, stretching your legs as far as the couch allows, knees popping hollowly, little toes splaying wide within the sweaty confines of the fuzzy Christmas socks he’d put in your stocking and which you’d been sporting for the past six days. You yawn wide, nose scrunching up at him and turning to nuzzle your face into his lap where you’ve been on and off dozing for the evening. Dinner had been so, so good, browned butter steak and baked potatoes and heirloom tomato, mozzarella salad, and you were so full and so warm and so content beyond imagining. “No… I’m awake,” you mumble against his thigh. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight, I reckon.”
You turn to look up at him, giving him a scrunchy faced smile, “Didn’t miss it, ha. Knew it.”
“Oh, did ya?” His palm moves over the bowl of your skull to cup and squeeze the tender nape of your neck, big fingers gently kneading the fine, tight muscles there. “Gonna ring in the New Year with me, sweet girl?” Mhmm, you moan, nuzzling further against his sweats and the thick heaviness of his half hard cock. 
“You’re hard, daddy,” you whisper up at him while his fingertips slip beneath the neck of your pullover, running down the notches of your spine to reach your waist. He pauses there, his hand curving over the growing swell of your bump. 
He groans, head dropping onto the back of the sofa, and brings his other hand up to rub across his whiskered mouth. “Don’t fucking start.” You know it makes him crazy when you call him that, but you’d told him that you now have the excuse that he is actually going to be a daddy again, and so it’s only nothing but the truth. 
You press your fingertips to your mouth, hiding away your laughing smile. Your first Christmas as a little family of three. Sarah was away with her mother this year since she’d gotten Christmas with the two of you last year, and so the two of you’d decided to come to your parents house again, like you’d done for Thanksgiving last year. You’d been here for a week now, and Joel was starting to lose patience. The lack of alone time was needling as evidenced by the now fully hard and slightly pulsing erection digging into your cheek. 
He rolls his head to peer down at you, mock, chastising frown as he drags his hand over the small swell and up to your naked breast, squeezing gently. “We’ve been here too fuckin’ long.” And you moan, hiding your face against his thigh as he pinches your nipple, rolling it softly between his fingertips, thumb dragging around the sensitive puffiness of your areola. Your whole body had been, for the past several weeks, a coiled tight ball of nerves, everything swollen, everything wet, everything needing him. Like your skin knew, knew he’d been the one to do this to you, and wanted it more, wanted it again. 
You squeeze your thighs together, legs shifting and sliding against each other to relieve the knot of want he’s spin, spin, spinning with his fingers plucking at your breast. He switches to the other one, hand sliding beneath the heavy weight to lift it into his palm and squeeze. You turn to look up at him now, eyes wide when you can’t control the sound of the moan he forces out of you, mouth falling open, panting. Your breasts, going all tight and hot, needing his sucking mouth. “Joel–”
“What?” He teases, pulling his hand from beneath your sweatshirt and shifting to sit you up and press you back the opposite way on the couch, crawling over you to settle between your thighs he pushes open for himself, slightly to the side and sure to not crush you. “If your father catches us,” he whispers with wet lips moving across your throat, that same hand sneaking its way back under your sweatshirt, tongue against your pulse, “he can’t be mad, sweetheart. Already fucked you full’a my baby. Damage s’already done,” he snickers, mouth latching at your carotid, pulling hard enough you know he’s purposely trying to leave a mark. 
“You’re so bad,” you moan, arching up into his hand on your breast, his hot, sucking mouth. You want it on your cunt, you want that thick cock he’s rubbing against you, inside. He’s right, you’ve been at your parents house too long, too far into your first trimester to pretend at civility. You need your husband. 
“Not,” he huffs, damp against your collarbone. “Gonna give it to you so good, baby.” He wedges one hand behind your neck, holding you in place, while the one fondling your breast moves down between your legs, center gusset soaked slick already, and you flush at the flutter of muscles wrapped around his jaw when he finds you pantiless beneath your soft sleep shorts. And so what? Pregnancy had made you sensitive and achy. You need to be free, you tell him with an airy laugh. 
He clicks his tongue down at you, fingers slipping beneath the soft cotton to pet at the soaking wet tuft of curls with the back of his knuckles. “Pretty cunt’s all wet and hungry for me, isn’t it, baby?” And he’s all teasing grins and sparkly, self satisfied eyes as he searches gently for your clit, parting your folds to pet there slow and steady. 
Uh huh, you moan, hitching your foot up higher on his back, little heel digging into the padding of muscles over his ribs to find purchase. You let your other leg slip off the couch with a dull thud, socked foot rolling up on your tip toes so that you can cant and rock your hips against his too light touch on your cunt. 
“More, daddy, please,” you provoke, all breathless sighs as you roll your head in the cup of his palm, the heat of him seeping through the mantle of your messy hair, against your scalp. You feel him flex his fingers, tugging lightly at the sweaty roots, and he finally gives you more. Thumb sliding down to your weepy entrance, pressing there lightly, petting and circling, moving back up to press against your clit at the same time that he starts to feed you two fingers at once. 
You groan at him, scrunching your nose, but he just clicks his tongue, tutting you into submission and silence. “Take it,” he says gentle and low. You scratch at his shoulders, slipping your fingertips under his ratty t-shirt to get at his skin, using your bracing foot to rock your hips against his palm, rough callused palm catching a little painfully at your clit. You’re going to come so fucking fast like this. 
And fingers hooked forward inside of you, he jostles his hand a little, rattles your cunt so that all your wet rings loud in your parents dead silent house. “Hear how sloppy this cunt is for me?” He’s grinding his cock against your inner thigh, fat, blunt tip thrusting against the crease in your thigh over and over and you want it inside of you. You don’t care if you get caught, if someone comes down stairs. You want to soak his hand and then soak his cock and then have him carry you to bed and do it all over again. 
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Gonna come.” Your lashes flutter shut as he lowers his head to bite your tit, hard and mean, over your sweatshirt, fingers fucking fast and loud, and your cunt goes tight, tight like a knot and then wet and loose and even sloppier. You’re so wet for him. Always. 
Fucking Christ, he groans against your breast, sucks harder, darkening the grey cotton so that the hard tip of your nipple is left molded and obvious beneath the soaked fabric. “That’s it. Come just like that, sweet girl. You’re so fucking wet.” And he doesn't’ gentle his fingers, pressing in a little harder, palm grinding against your clit and shaking his fingers up and down inside of you so that he’s jostling another tiny, almost painful, orgasm out of you. The wet sound of your pussy is so loud and so obvious, if someone were to come down the stairs, the sound of it would be unmistakable. “Gonna soak your mother’s nice couch, and then what’ll she think of you? Everyone’s gonna know exactly what you let me do to you down here.”
You’re pretty sure that’s what gets you over the edge that second time. The thought of everyone knowing.
He nuzzles at your breast, your neck, sucking and kissing, fingers still stretching your pussy, while he makes his way up your throat, mouth against the tip of your chin, and then finally to your mouth. Kiss, slow at first, all tongue and hunger, and then soft little pecks. The corner of your mouth, the bow of your top lip, the other corner. Open, he orders, and licks behind your teeth. Bossy man. You love him.
He pets gently at your G-spot, slow and careful because he knows it’ll be too much soon, letting your slick spill out and gather in his palm, drip down his wrist. “Pretty girl,” he says real quiet, “Keeping my baby so nice and warm in this little cunt. Aren’t you?” You whine up at him, bringing your foot up off the floor, trying to toe his arm away. He clicks his tongue at you again, but finally pulls his fingers from you, wet, sucking sound as he leaves your cunt. He brings his hand up to his mouth, fingers slick sticky and sweet, shiny in the dim light and licks himself clean. You watch him as he teases you, all eyes and laughter, wrapping your fingers around his too thick, hairy wrist, not meeting around it, and holding him there as he eats your wet out of his own palm. When he’s done, his mouth is shiny and glossed in you and he presses another kiss to your lips, forces your jaw open, hinged wide and eats you like you know he wants to eat your cunt instead. Later, he says, like he can read your mind because you’re pretty sure he actually can.
When he pushes the loose waist of his sweatpants down over his erection, no underwear either, you roll your eyes at him, and tell him old men aren’t supposed to be this slutty. But at the sight of that too thick cock nestled in his neatly trimmed bed of hair, the wide root leading up to the happy trailed covered belly, you concede that easy access is highly to your benefit. And when he wedges that said thick cock inside of you by way of an answer to your brattiness, fat head stretching your well used, wet hole, he slides in way too easy because you want him way too much. 
You moan open mouthed for him, and he presses your sweatshirt up over your bump, your swollen breasts, and finally gets his hot mouth on your bare nipples, teeth grazing lightly, pushing you into a higher, hotter level of desperation. You rock your hips up to meet his thrusts, close your eyes and listen to the slick sound of his cock fucking your cunt. “Lemme see this sweet belly,” he murmurs, cupping the small swell. The changes he’d incited in your body had made him a specific flavor of hungry you were going to miss when this was all over. “You’re so fucking beautiful, carrying my baby. You know that?”
And you’re all soft sighs and whimpers and his name as nothing but a moan, hitching your knees as high as you can to open yourself further to him. “Fuck, you’re gunna come again. Gettin’ tight as a fist,” he grits, hips swinging back and then forward, pelvis grinding so that he’s pressing on your clit and then pressing you into another full blown orgasm. It throbs through you, an almost unbearable heat stirring in your pelvis, walls of your cunt pulsing and milking the too thick, sometimes too big, weight of his cock inside you. It always hurts just a little and you always like it too much.
He pulls out suddenly, tiny flutters still moving through your muscles and sits back on his knees, turning you on your side and shoving your thigh up, pulling the now ruined shorts aside to line up and shove back inside. He braces his foot on the floor, one hand on the back of the couch, the other holding your thigh up and open for himself and drills down into your spasming cunt, mid orgasm, and there are tears in your eyes and you gnaw and slobber on the edge of your mother’s couch as your husband fucks you into one last orgasm. The previous one not even fully over. “Told you you’d fuckin’ take it,” he growls, balls slapping against the curve of your ass, temples shiny with sweat, throat all red and splotchy. “Fuckin’ shame I can’t knock you up again here in your parents house like I wanted to last time. We’re gonna have to try harder next time.”
“Told you, you’re so bad.” And you can barely speak as he starts to pump you full of his load, hot and thick so that you can feel it being forced out of your cunt while he continues to shove inside. 
When he’s finished, cleaned you up and tucked you back into his side, both of you choosing to ignore the wet spot on the couch you’d left and agreed to plead the fifth tomorrow if anyone asks, the movie is just finishing up. Judy and her beau are finally at the World Fair together. The clock below the TV rings midnight and Joel presses a soft kiss at the tender spot behind your ear. “We’re havin’ a baby this year,” voice boyish and shy and full of excitement and love. 
You peer up at him, cheek smushed against the ball of his shoulder. “We are.”
“Ready?”
You nod, slow, pulling his head down for another kiss. “Happy New Year, Joel.”
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headkiss · 3 months
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maybe this christmas time
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pairing: steve harrington x sunshine!reader
summary: working as an elf during the holidays (which he isn’t a fan of) is not how steve would choose to spend his time, neither is doing a bucket list of your creation. you end up changing his mind.
word count: 9.5k
warnings: use of she/her pronouns for r, some grumpy steve (he’s still a softie underneath it, i can’t help it!), some family issues (a phone call from steve’s mom), a rude customer, christmas activities/themes, fluff, and a first kiss!
a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays from me to you!!! i hope u guys enjoy this one, i had a lot of fun writing it!! big big thank you to @bcyhoods for sending the request that inspired me to write this fic and to @bruisedboys who helped me out when i was unsure about things <333 ily guys i hope u all have the happiest of holidays!
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
Starcourt Mall is decorated to the brim. Fake snow and garlands, giant ornaments hanging from the ceiling, a Christmas tree that stays lit all day long.
And, in the middle of it all, Santa’s Workshop.
That’s where you are, where you’ve been for a couple of Decembers now. Every other month of the year, you work at the movie theater, scooping popcorn and scanning tickets. But, for December, you trade in your cinema t-shirt for an elf outfit, striped tights and all.
“It’s really not so bad once you get past the itching,” you tell Steve.
“Great,” he says, the sarcasm clear in his tone.
“Great,” you repeat, cheery enough for the both of you.
He wasn’t sure how it could get any worse than the sailor uniform. That is, until he saw what he had to wear for this gig.
It’s Steve Harrington’s first year at Santa’s Workshop, and you’ve been tasked with training him, though the job is mostly self-explanatory.
But unlike you, Steve didn’t volunteer for this.
“I can’t believe they picked me to do this,” he sighs. “Don’t even like elves.”
“Well they had to pick someone, Steve.” You shrug, “who knows, you might end up having fun!”
“Not likely.”
“At the very least, you’re getting paid, right?” You nudge him once with your elbow, “plus, if you’re extra nice, some moms give pretty good tips.”
You and Steve went to school together, but he never really spoke to you then. It was only after graduation that you had any sort of conversation with him. They mostly consisted of him bribing you with free ice cream to let Dustin and the gang into the movies for free.
That was after you caught him letting them into the back rooms to sneak in.
Now, Steve’s wearing a pair of slippers that jingle with every step just like yours, and in the only two shifts you’ve had together so far, you’ve spoken more than ever. Even if it’s mostly been instructions from you and an unenthusiastic comment in response from Steve.
“Do I really have to wear these fucking shoes?” He asks, following you out of the staff room.
“Yes. It’s part of the uniform.” You turn around to face him, walking backwards while he walks forwards. “Don’t worry, you’ll tune out the jingling soon enough.”
“I’ll hear these jingles in my nightmares.”
“At least you look cute!”
You spin back around, and Steve only rolls his eyes as he trudges on behind you.
Steve’s not quite sure how he feels about you, whether he finds you a little annoying or endearing. At the moment, with an elf hat squishing his hair, he’s leaning a little more towards the first.
He didn’t know you during school. Admittedly, he was an asshole for most of his time at Hawkins High, so that explains that. Even still, he doesn’t know much about you, only that you’re kind enough not to snitch on him for sneaking the kids into the movies and that you seem to seep sunshine all the fucking time.
And your sunshine seems to be dialed up during the holidays. Like you really believe in ‘holiday cheer.’
Steve knows, deep down and buried somewhere he’s not quite ready to face yet, that he’s mostly just jealous. Because if you like the holidays so much, if you’re smiling the way you do so often, you must have it pretty good at home.
To him, nothing else makes sense. Not when Christmas at the Harrington household has been absolute shit for years. First, it was the gifts he never wanted, things his parents didn’t care enough to know he didn’t like. Then, they dwindled until, eventually, Christmas did, too.
There’s a travel discount during the holidays, sweetie. We’re visiting dad’s boss’ cabin. Next year, we promise. Excuse, excuse, excuse.
So yeah, Steve’s never really understood the appeal. Walking behind you in a pair of jingling shoes and a scratchy outfit, he’s not sure he ever will.
You lead him towards the area where Santa’s Workshop has been set up, right by the fountain. There’s bright red carpet rolled out over the usual tiled floors, an area set up for the cue of families, and of course, a bench where some guy playing Santa will sit.
“Since we’re opening today I’ll show you the whole set-up routine.” You step over the rope with the sign that says ‘Gone to feed the reindeer!’ with Steve in tow. “Easy peasy.”
Steve steps over the rope behind you, shaking his head at the sound his shoes make when he lands. He chooses to listen to your voice instead.
“First, we count the props,” you nod over at the bin that’s tucked away behind a small tree, “there should be four sets of antlers, two santa hats, a red nose, and some extra elf hats.”
He stares at you—because why on earth would you have that memorized—and raises his eyebrows. For a moment, as he watches you grab the clipboard that sits atop the prob bin and start counting, Steve wonders if maybe he should be more like you. The kind of person who seems to see the good in everything.
Then, he remembers what the outfit he’s got on looks like and shakes the thought away.
“Why would anyone want to be a clown in these pictures?” He says.
“The red nose is for Rudolph, dummy.”
You say dummy with a smile, like it’s something to admire. Steve huffs.
“Rudolph’s a loser.”
“Aw, come on, he’s got his own song and everything! I’d say that makes him the opposite of a loser.”
“Of course you would,” he mutters, cursing the tiniest twitch of a smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’s next?”
“Right,” you grab the bag that you brought from the staff room and set it on the ground by the tripod that’s already set up. “Next is the camera. Here, I’ll show you.”
The only knowledge Steve’s got of cameras comes from whatever Jonathan has told him, which hasn’t been very much, considering the pair’s history on the topic despite them being friends now.
So, he steps closer to you, watches as you pull the camera out of the bag.
“You just have to switch it on and make sure the battery’s full, right there,” you say, pointing at the small symbol that lets you know if the camera’s charged or not. “And don’t forget to take the lens cap off. I did it once and this dad yelled at me, so...”
You pop the lens cap off, putting it in the bag. Steve’s standing close to you, right behind you, his chin hovering over your shoulder, the warmth of his chest just shy of brushing against your back.
“Finally,” you continue, ignoring the little skip in your heartbeat, the way you breathe just a tiny bit quicker. “Set it up on the tripod, and you’re good to go.”
He watches your fingertips move easily, securing the camera to the tripod. When you’re done, you turn around to face him, and it’s only then that Steve realizes how close he’s gotten.
Close enough that you stumble and land against his chest, his hands on your upper arms to steady you as you pull back quickly, like you’d been burned. Steve, however, doesn’t let go just yet and he’s got no idea why.
He doesn’t let go until the music in the mall is switched on, the opening notes of some Christmas song startling you both. Steve steps back and releases you, dropping his hands by his sides and ignoring the twitch of his fingers.
“Alright,” you say, trying to brush the moment off. “That sound means we’re open. You ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope!”
-
Your lunch breaks at Santa’s Workshop feel like a luxury, because no matter how much you enjoy the job, it’s nice to get away from the rowdy children it forces you to deal with.
Unlike your job at the theater, where your breaks are staggered, the workshop closes for an hour every day, meaning that even during lunch, Steve’s stuck with you.
The sign by the line for Santa is flipped, and parents groan whenever they see the festive font saying you’ll be back in an hour.
You take the hour spent in the staff room as a time to ask him questions, what his hobbies are (“does driving a pack of 13-year-olds around count?”), if he likes his job at Scoops (“I’m starting to appreciate it more. The lesser of two evils, or something”), if he’d introduce you to Robin someday (“I’m afraid of what that might do to my sanity.”)
Today, you’re trying to tackle the subject of his Grinch-like tendencies.
“What’s your favorite Christmas movie?” You ask.
Steve doesn’t know why he continues to answer your questions whenever you throw them at him—which is often—but he does. He thinks it might be like being mean to a puppy, ignoring you. Unnecessarily cruel.
“Don’t have one.”
“Ugh. Come on, Steve! Everyone has a favorite.” You slump in your seat across from him at the small table in the break room. Steve stares at you blankly as he takes another bite of his lunch. “You can tell me.”
“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your foot with his when it comes close. “They’re cheesy.”
“Aren’t you secretly a rom-com fan?”
“How did you-”
“So, you actually enjoy cheesy movies!”
“Okay, well you don’t have to say it to the entire mall. Gosh.”
Steve wonders how you know that about him, how you’ve been able to guess a lot of things without him telling you. Briefly, just for a second, he wonders if that might mean something.
Like, if maybe you’re in his life now for a reason.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, Steve.” You smile what you hope is an honest, reassuring smile. “So, the cheesiness isn’t the root of the issue.”
“No, I guess not.”
“I’m gonna take a guess here,” you start, “and say that you’re not a fan of Christmas.”
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Steve, I’ve never heard someone complain about jingle bells so much in my life.”
“We can’t all behave like we’ve been injected with sunshine.”
You don’t think he means it as a compliment, but you decide to take it as one nonetheless. But you suppose he’s right, there’s always gotta be a balance. Dark and light, happy and sad.
“Thank you,” you give him a quick grin. “And you’re avoiding the question.”
He’s silent for a moment, twisting his fork around between his fingers. “My parents never really did Christmas.”
Your heart squeezes a little in your chest at his words, at the way his tone goes quieter, at the way he looks at the table to avoid catching your eye.
Immediately, you feel guilty for prying, because the last thing you’d ever wanted to do was force him to tell you something he didn’t want to. It’s not your place, no matter how curious you are, no matter how much you’d like to give him a hug or something right about now.
It’s not your place, but you find yourself wishing it could be.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Steve.” You reach for his hand that sits on the table and give it a quick squeeze before pulling back. “You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have bugged you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had a lot of time to accept it.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t affect him. But from the scrunch in his brows, you can tell it does, at least a little bit. “The Harringtons have better things to do than sit around cleaning up wrapping paper.”
Steve feels embarrassed, his cheeks warm and his head bent. He doesn’t like scraping this wound open, doesn’t like to think about what he was missing out on while everyone thought his life was perfect.
He especially doesn’t want you looking at him like he’s injured or something after this.
Surprisingly to Steve, you don’t. You actually do quite the opposite. You smile brightly at him, like you’ve just had an excellent idea, like you can inject a bit of your sunshine into him with it.
“How about this: I’ll teach you how great Christmas can be.”
“I think it might be a little late for that.” Steve tries to shake his admission away, to clear the room. He points at the elf hat on his head, “this outfit has ruined any last shred of hope I had.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that you make a cute elf? You pull it off better than I do.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not!” Steve raises his eyebrows at you. You ignore that look. “Whatever. I cannot in good conscience, let you keep disliking Christmas. Think of how fun it could be. Plus, you owe me for all of those movies I let your children into.”
Steve already finds it difficult to say no to you, because of how kind you remain even when he’s snarky with you, because of the same kindness you seem to offer to everyone you meet.
So, even though he’s not sure what your plan entails, he sighs and says: “okay. Fine.”
“Wait, really?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
You cheer, clapping a little in your seat. “Oh my gosh, we can go skating, and go to one of those Christmas light festivals, and make cookies-”
“What did I get myself into?” Steve mutters, while you’re still rambling off ideas.
“-I’m gonna need to make a list.”
Even after your break ends, you seem to have an extra pep in your step, if that’s even possible. Your smile is a bit wider, your eyes brighter, and Steve can’t help but feel a little special for being somewhat responsible for that.
Really, what did I get myself into, he wonders.
-
In the time between him agreeing to your Christmas plans a couple of days ago and now, at yet another shift, Steve has realized that he actually likes you quite a bit. Even though your seemingly constant optimism drives him a little bit crazy.
You treat everyone with an attitude that’s so rare, he finds that his previous annoyance for you is slowly becoming overtaken by the endearment.
He won’t admit it, not when bantering with you seems to be the highlight of his days lately, but Steve is starting to be sort of grateful that he got selected for this job.
And that has absolutely nothing to do with the outfit he wears. He still fucking hates that.
“It’s alright, cutie,” he hears your voice say, all soft and understanding. He finds you, crouched down to talk to a little girl who seems to be wary of Santa. “I bet Santa will give you something extra from your list if you smile for the picture.”
The girl nods, like she’s determined. But, when you stand back up, she grabs onto your hand by your side.
“What is it?” You ask her.
“Can you do it with me?”
You look over to the girl’s mother where she stands to the side, and she nods, eager to get the picture done. So, with that, you say, “okay, then.”
Steve’s standing behind the camera as he watches you help the girl onto the bench beside Santa. Then you’re sitting beside her and telling her to look at the nice boy behind the camera.
It takes him a second to realize you’re talking about him, but when he does, he forces himself into action, bending to look through the viewfinder.
“Say cheese,” he says.
The click of the camera sounds, and then it’s done. You help the girl down, who goes over to her mom quickly and they head over to grab their picture.
Once they’re gone, the line dies down, giving you and Steve a rare pause from the pictures and overenthusiastic welcomes to ‘the North Pole.’
“I hope that family’s okay with my face in their picture,” you say, coming to stand beside Steve by the camera. “I mean, I know the mom nodded, but maybe they’ll cut me out of it.”
You’ve become more comfortable with Steve the more you’ve worked with him, getting to know him in how his grumpiness is more related to the holidays and early mornings than anything else, in how he turns the same grumpiness down when he talks to the kids.
You think he’s grown more comfortable with you, too, because he’s started bringing you a coffee in a festive cup in the morning, leaving it in your cubby without a word.
From Steve, you think that says a lot. His actions have always spoken louder than his words, you think. Like the free ice cream he gives you from Scoops, or the small nod he’d give you whenever he’d pick up the kids from a movie.
And now, there’s the small tug of his lips, the hint of a smile that has you saying, “Steve Harrington are you smiling right now?”
“Shut up,” he shakes his head at you. “That was sweet. What you did for that girl.”
Steve lets himself say what he thinks for once, because there’s nobody else around, because he wants you to hear it.
You hide your shy smile by looking down at your feet. You know that underneath everything, Steve is probably one of the best boys you’ve ever met, because even with his attitude, he’ll never say anything to truly hurt you, and with how little you know about his family, you also know that it’s rare for someone in his situation to remain so good.
Any resemblance of a compliment from Steve feels extra special, like its own gift in itself.
“Ruining her picture, you mean?” You ask, trying to cover up how you feel about him calling you sweet.
“You didn’t ruin that picture, sunshine.”
Sunshine. That’s new.
“Well I’m glad someone thinks so.”
Before Steve has the chance to respond, the line picks up again, and it’s back to business as usual. The routine click of the camera, the sound of parents telling their kids to smile nice and big.
You and Steve catching each other’s eye when a particularly entertaining family rolls around, laughing at the way he does an impression of a mom after she leaves. With work being sort of like this every day, you wish it could be Christmas all year round. You much prefer this to the theater, you think.
Steve can't say that he likes this job more than Scoops—Robin might call him traitorous—but he finds that you’d been at least a little right when you said that it would get better when he got used to things, when he hears the sound of your laugh rather than those stupid bells on his shoes.
He finds that he sometimes has to remind himself that he doesn’t like the holidays, that they aren’t like this all the time.
At the end of your shift, as you and Steve grab your stuff from the staff room, you turn to him, leaning against the wall as he shrugs on his coat.
“So, I made a list,” you say. “We are going to have the best Christmas ever, Harrington.”
“My standards are very low, so it wouldn’t take much.”
“Don’t care. I have plans. We can make gingerbread houses and get Christmas pajamas-”
“Absolutely not.”
While Steve already agreed to letting you show him Christmas your way, he thinks he can only take so much at a time. Small doses of your jolly spirit are plenty.
“Steeeve.”
“I am drawing the line. No Christmas pajamas. Not happening.”
“But the gingerbread houses are a yes?” You ask, hopeful and smiling like it’ll persuade him.
“I’ll get back to you on that one.”
That’s what Steve decides to say, instead of simply agreeing because he finds that he’d like to spend time with you outside of work, to see if you’re really so bright all the time, to see if he can soak it up a little better when he’s not dressed as a damn elf.
That’s what he decides to say because it’s easier than spilling the rest of it out there. Much, much easier.
“But you already agreed!” You pout at him a little, exaggerated dramatics on your part. “You can’t just tell me I can teach you Christmas and then back out, I mean, I made an actual bucket list. With glitter and shit.”
“Oh no, not the glitter,” Steve places a hand on his chest, sarcastically scandalized. “That makes it serious.”
You blink at him, giving him a blank look. “Don’t diss the list. By the end of it, you’re gonna be jolly as fuck, trust me.”
“Jolly as fuck,” he repeats, shaking his head on a laugh. “You’ve got a way with words, sunshine.”
“Thank you.” You push your tote bag onto your shoulder, fishing out your keys, they clink in your palm when you find them. “I’m not letting you back out of this, by the way. The list is binding.”
“Well in that case…”
You give Steve a little smile, the flash of a sunbeam, before heading out, and he’s left standing in the break room wondering what you’ve got on that list, why you seem to care so much about it.
Huffing, he supposes he’ll find out soon enough.
-
Steve definitely should not have told you that he’d never been ice skating before.
It all started when you’d been talking about that damn list at your most recent shift, a couple of days after he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t back out of it (did he really want to?).
“Hey, you have a change of clothes in your bag, right?” You’d asked him in between families.
“Um… yeah. Why?”
“Because, Steve, our festivities begin today after work!” You clapped your hands together softly, excited and encouraging, yet delicate. “I haven’t quite decided what we’re starting with yet.”
“I thought you had a list.”
“I do! But it’s not in order,” you shrugged, “I’m more of a mood-based decision maker, anyways.”
“Of course you are,” he’d said, his usual sarcasm lighter, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.
“So I’m thinking we go skating-”
“Nope.”
“You can't say no to every idea I have. Then how will you get the Christmas experience?”
“I won’t say no to everything.” You looked at him like you didn’t believe him, so, quietly, he added, “it’s just, I’ve never been skating before.”
“Steve, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” you reassured him easily, your voice honest in a sort of natural way, like you couldn't lie even if you tried. “All the more reason to give it a try. The point is to have fun, not to be good at it. I’m really not that great, myself.”
“If I hate it, we’re leaving.”
“Deal.”
And that’s how he’d ended up here, standing next to you at the rental counter at the ice rink, telling some teenager his shoe size so he could get a pair of skates.
Steve looks at you as you talk to the teenager, paying before he even gets the chance. He looks at the hat you’ve got on your head, the way your jeans are cuffed just enough to let your snowman patterned socks peek out of your boots.
He realizes that he’s only ever really seen you in uniform, at the theater and as an elf, and he thinks, quickly, like a car driving by, that you look really pretty like this. With snowflakes stuck in your eyelashes and all.
Though he’s never said it, barely let himself think it, he’s always found you pretty in a sort of undeniable way, like it was just a fact. Now, he finds you pretty in a way that makes him feel it.
His heart beats like it feels it, too. The traitor.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing both your and Steve’s pairs of skates. You turn to him, smiling like always, Christmas lights reflected in your eyes, “ready to go?”
“As I'll ever be,” he says, letting you lead the way to the benches by the rink.
He watches the way you tie your skates, copying your movements on his own pair, double knotting the bow at the end. When you stand, he stays seated for a moment, suddenly more nervous than before, because the last thing he wants to do is embarrass himself in front of you, in front of everyone around.
Like you can read his mind, you say, “it’s okay, the first step is only standing. It looks harder than it is, promise.”
“I feel like you’re lying to make me feel better.”
“Why don’t you just stand up and find out, then?”
He rolls his eyes, more at himself than you, and pushes himself up from the bench. It takes him a second to get used to the feeling of the skates, of balancing on them, but eventually, he nods at you, eager to get it over with.
“‘Kay, so it’s gonna feel weird when you step on the ice, but you can just hold onto the side until you get the hang of it.” You start walking ahead of him, turning back to say, “I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.”
“Sure you do,” he mutters, shaking his head.
The rink is outdoors, the walls surrounded with string lights of all kinds, twinkling and colorful. In the middle, there’s a big tree, a shining gold star sat on top. There’s a hot chocolate stand to the side, the smell mingling with the freshness of the cold.
There are Christmas songs playing over the speakers (of course), and Steve thinks that if he hears one more rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock,” he’ll have to invest in a pair of ear plugs. On top of that, there’s the sound of laughter, kids with their parents, friends, couples, everyone seems to be having fun.
Everyone seems to be at ease except for him.
You step onto the rink first, skating a couple of steps forward to give Steve room to get on. He holds onto the side like you told him to, lifting a foot and stepping forward slowly, his foot slipping a little when it hits the ice.
You don’t say anything, don’t pressure him, only stand there with a kindness in your eyes that tells him you won’t be anything but patient.
Still, he doesn’t take too long to get the other foot on the ice, too, his feet carrying him forward a little bit, his hand gripping the side tighter.
“See? It’s not so bad,” you skate to his side, leaving space between you as Steve holds out his arm for balance. “Now all you gotta do is push yourself forward.”
“You make it sound like it’s easy.”
“It’s called being encouraging, Steve. Let me be encouraging!”
“Fine,” he stares down at his feet, his hair falling over his forehead. “So what do I do?”
“Use one foot to push, and then let yourself glide, switch feet, and repeat. You can do it.”
He gives it a go, and finds that it isn’t awful, but he moves slowly, and looking around at the other people skating, he’s not an impressive skater at all.
Steve has always felt the urge to be good at everything he does, basketball, driving, even fucking babysitting. He’s always tried so hard to do things well, like maybe, if he was talented enough, his parents would care more, would finally be proud of him for something.
He swallows that thought down and pushes forward again.
You follow his speed, gliding easily beside him, “look at you go!”
“I look like an idiot,” he says, his arm outstretched beside him, the other gripping the side, his knees bent.
When you look at him, though, all you see is the pink of his cheeks and nose from the cold, the way his hair brushes against his forehead, the focus in his eyes, the determination. No, you don’t think he looks like an idiot at all.
“You look like you’re trying, and that’s a great look on you, Steve.”
This time, it isn’t only the cold that pinkens his cheeks.
He doesn’t have time to muster up a reply, because the next time Steve skates ahead, he stumbles, his balance wavering until he feels your hand grabbing onto his arm to help steady him.
Then, your hand moves to hold his, and even through the layers of both of your gloves, he feels the warmth in his fingertips, some sort of tingling.
“This way, if you fall, so do I,” you say, squeezing his hand once, winking at him like the thought of falling doesn’t scare you one bit.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Super sure.”
You hadn’t been lying on that one, because eventually Steve does fall, and you fall right along with him, landing on the ice with a little, “oop!”
On his back, Steve turns his head to look at you, your hair a mess around you, some on your cheeks. He reaches out and brushes it away.
“You okay, sunshine?”
The response he gets is the sound of your laughter, a single loud cackle that has your eyes widening and a hand smacking over your mouth.
Your laughter fades into a fit of giggles, one so infectious that Steve—surrounded by all kinds of Christmas-themed things he swore he hated—laughs along with you.
And for the first time, maybe in his entire life, Steve thinks that the holidays might not be the worst thing ever.
-
Steve’s in a bad mood today, that scrunch in his brows you'd thought had been easing away back in full force.
It’s your first shift back together since you’d been skating only a couple of days ago, and you can’t help but worry that maybe it was too much, that you’d pushed him too far.
Even though, at the time, he’d been smiling more than you’ve seen him smile maybe ever, and you really thought that you had a shot at making Christmas better for him. You worry that he wasn’t as happy as he seemed, that he was pretending to have fun for your sake.
Steve, on the other hand, is actually glad to be at work for once, glad for the distraction it gives him. He’s unaware that his emotions are so visible on his face, that you think an ounce of his annoyance and anger is aimed at you.
All he knows is that after the morning he had, he needs this distraction.
This morning, it wasn’t the beep of his alarm that had woken him up, but the shrill ring of the phone on his bedside table. Groggy, with his eyes still half shut, Steve picked up the phone.
He wishes he didn’t.
“Hello?” His voice was almost a groan, scratchy from sleep, irritated at being woken up earlier than his alarm.
“Steve, sweetie!” His mother’s voice made him squint his eyes shut further. “Why do you sound so tired?”
“‘Cause it’s six in the morning, mom.”
“Oh, silly me. I forgot about time zones,” she said, though she didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. She didn’t even care enough to know what time it was for her son. “Anyways, I’m calling to let you know your father and I won’t make it home for Christmas this year. There’s this banquet we just can’t miss. You understand, don’t you?”
Steve doesn’t know why he’d been surprised, doesn’t know why her words, completely devoid of any kind of empathy towards the situation, made his stomach hurt.
“Yeah, okay,” he’d said, because it was no use to do anything but agree.
This was his normal: an almost monthly phone call from one of his parents from wherever they are in the world, no matter the time, always telling him that they’re missing this holiday, his birthday (which, at this point, he was shocked they even remembered), anything.
“That’s my boy,” she’d said, as if she knew him at all. She didn’t. Hasn’t known him—or cared to—for a long time. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Right.”
“Oh, there’s your father. Gotta go.”
And just like that, she hung up.
Steve almost wishes that they’d never call at all, because maybe then it would be easier to swallow their neglect. If they’d just forget him completely, he could get rid of that stupid, tiny sprout of hope he feels whenever they call, hoping things will be different.
At least it was his mother this time, he thinks. His father is a hundred times worse, only ever disappointed in Steve, asking about his job or when he plans on ‘getting a real life,’ never about him.
So yeah, Steve’s in a bad mood today.
The two of you don’t talk for the majority of your shift, you, afraid that Steve’s angry with you, opting to give him space, and Steve, stewing in every negative emotion that comes along with a phone call from his parents.
You don’t talk until one of the last families in line for the day comes up.
Once the kids are in place, you lean down to look through the viewfinder, counting them down and snapping the picture when they say ‘cheese.’ To the side, the children’s mom looks at you with so much judgment, Steve, even brewing in his thoughts, notices.
With the picture taken, you take the camera over to the mom, letting her see the picture the way you do with all the parents, making sure they approve.
Instead of approval, what you get is, “what the hell is that?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of rude customers, at every job you’ve had, but this woman all but screams at you, and that’s rare. “Sorry,” you say, “I can take a new one, no problem.”
“I better be getting the new one for free with how these pictures are looking,” she practically hisses at you.
Usually, you can handle stuff like this, can smack on a smile and politely agree to get things taken care of, but today, the mixture of all your self-doubt and worrying about messing things up with Steve and this mother shouting at you, things pile up, and you feel your happy mask slipping.
“Um,” you start, voice small.
“You elves get worse every year,” she says to you. “I can’t believe people this incompetent even exist.”
Steve, hearing the whole thing, is quick to step in front of you, any thoughts about his shitty parents quickly fading in favor of helping you.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but she already offered to take another picture, and if that isn’t good for you, you’re free to leave,” Steve’s voice doesn’t slip one bit, standing his ground with every word.
You’re overwhelmed with everything going on, and when Steve turns around to look at you, nodding his head towards the staff room, you take the escape he offers you quickly, eyes blurry with tears you won’t let fall until you’re alone.
“You can’t speak to me like that!” The woman stomps her foot.
“I can, actually. She,” he points in the direction you’d gone, “is the kindest person I know, and you shouldn’t speak to her that way. I understand the holidays are a stressful time for everyone, but we spend all day helping people like you take these pictures, and the least you could do is say ‘thank you.’”
Rather than respond, the woman takes her children’s hands and stomps off.
Steve turns to find that the few families that had been in line before have decided to leave, and he takes the emptiness of Santa’s Workshop as an opportunity to follow after you.
He finds you sitting on the bench beneath your cubby in the break room, head buried in your hands, sniffling a little like you’re trying to be as quiet as possible. Steve can’t think about anything other than how much he hates seeing you upset, like a cloud covering the sun.
“Hey,” he says gently, sitting beside you on the bench. “Don’t listen to any of that. She was a bitch.”
You’re both grateful and unhappy that Steve came after you. Grateful because he’s kind, because he’s showing you that he cares. Unhappy because you’re embarrassed of him seeing you like this, because he calls you sunshine and you don’t feel like that right now.
It takes a second before you move your hands, wiping at your cheeks before turning to look at Steve, his brown eyes already on your face, unbelievably soft.
“I’m sorry,” you say, “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not,” he assures you. “She was awful to you after a long enough day. You have every right to be upset.”
“You’re being really nice,” your voice breaks a little bit, fighting any more tears that threaten to spill.
“I can be nice. I should be nicer to you.” He knows he should, but with Christmas and everything, it’s easy for him to be grouchy. “You sound surprised.”
“It’s just,” you shrug, almost defeated. “I thought you were mad at me today.”
Steve’s heart fucking aches at the sound of your voice, all small and lacking of the light he’s somehow come to like so much. And when another tear slips down your cheek, he can’t stop himself from reaching out and holding your face in his hands, thumbing the tear away lightly.
“I don’t think I could ever really be mad at you, sunshine.”
“Oh.”
His hands are warm where they hold your cheeks, a thumb still tracing back and forth over your skin. Not mad, then.
“I, uh,” Steve looks at where his thumb brushes against you, like he can’t believe it’s there, like he doesn’t want to look into your eyes for the next part. “I got a call from my mom this morning. They’re not coming home this year. Again. I shouldn’t be surprised but… anyways. That’s why I’ve been so quiet and shit today. Not because of you.”
One of your hands comes up to lay over his where it sits on your cheek, tangling your fingers with his and moving your hands down to your lap.
“I’m sorry, Steve.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t take this stuff out on you just because you like Christmas and I don’t.”
You smile a little bit, a twitch of your lips, but Steve takes it as a win all the same.
“I’m gonna change that,” you say.
“Sure you will,” he replies, the sarcasm in his voice still there the way it usually is when he teases you, but this time, he’s smiling, too.
-
Steve told you to go home after that, assuring you that he’d take care of the few families left, and when you’d opened your mouth to tell him you were fine, you could stay, he’d pinned you with a look and told you again to let him do it.
So, you did.
You’d thought it would be a day at least until you’d see Steve again, but it’s only a couple of hours after your shift ends.
There’s a knock at your door, your apartment one of the ones built above a shop on Main Street, and even though you have no idea who it could be, you get up, sock-covered feet padding against the floor as you go over to answer it.
You’re surprised to find Steve on the other side—one, because you don’t think you’ve ever told him where you live, and two, because you didn’t think he’d want to see you more today than he already had—a bag in his hand and a shy sort of question on his face.
“Steve? What are you doing here?”
He scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand before responding, a nervous gesture that he hasn’t been able to get rid of. “I thought that maybe, after the day you’ve had, you could use some cheering up. I could, too.”
You remember him telling you about the phone call from his parents, and something in your stomach flutters a little when you realize that his plans to cheer up involve you of all people.
“Okay.” You smile, you can’t really help it, “come in, then.”
He does, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes before stepping inside any further. Steve spots your kitchen table easily, and moves to set the bag he’s holding down.
“I thought we could do another thing that might be on your list,” he says. Steve tugs things out of the bag, gingerbread house kits, to be exact. “Gingerbread houses are Christmas bucket list worthy, right?”
“Absolutely,” you search his face, a little confused because last you heard, Steve was not into your whole bucket list thing, but here he is. “And you’re doing this… voluntarily?”
“I have the receipt. I can return them, if you prefer.”
“No! Don’t do that. I just mean- I thought you didn’t like Christmas or my list and that you were just playing along to be nice.”
“I might not be the biggest fan of Christmas, but,” he shrugs, opening one of the boxes of gingerbread, “you’re a good teacher, sunshine.”
You resist the urge to pinch yourself, like you might be dreaming because Steve, who you’ve grown to like an embarrassing amount, is here, offering to do this with you and giving you a compliment like it’s nothing.
When you respond, you hope your voice doesn’t give away how you really feel. Excited, happy, your heart jumping. “Can I get that in writing?”
“Shut up.” He shakes his head, pointing to the unopened box, “now will you come build this gingerbread house or what?”
“Mine’s gonna be way prettier than yours.”
Steve simply rolls his eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile there, too. He’s happy to see that your light is back, that you didn’t let what happened at work get to you too much.
You sit down beside each other at your table, gingerbread kits laid out in front of you. Icing and sprinkles, a cookie roof and chimney. You’re sure it’ll leave a mess, but right now you don’t mind.
There’s a sort of lightness in the air, the knowledge that this thing—friendship, more, whatever it is—between the two of you is something that you’re both happy to bask in. It’s unspoken, and that doesn’t bother you.
You and Steve start by unpacking all of the pieces, yours laid out neatly, his in a leaning pile that makes you bite back a laugh.
“The fucking roof won’t stay on,” Steve says once you’ve both started to put the houses together, and he sounds genuinely annoyed about it.
“Just put some more icing on it,” you say, “there’s no such thing as too much.”
“I don’t think icing will save me now, sunshine.”
You look away from your own gingerbread house over to Steve’s. His hands are holding the roof up, pushing them together so they meet at the top, and he’s staring at the thing with so much determination that you can’t help but giggle.
“You laughing at me?” Steve quirks a brow at you, but there’s a shine in his eyes. They smile even when his mouth doesn’t.
“I can’t believe you’re taking this so seriously,” you laugh, and that smile of his spreads slowly on Steve’s face, blooming like a flower. “It’s alright to admit defeat, Steve. My house is already better than yours.”
“Woah, this isn’t over yet, alright? Mine just needs time, don’t you worry.”
“Whatever you say, Steve.”
“Someone’s feeling brave tonight,” he teases, nudging you with his elbow without letting go of the roof of his house. “Don’t speak too soon, sunshine. I could be the underdog here.”
You lean over with your icing bag in hand, piping some more into the gap in Steve’s roof. “Here, let me help.”
Steve—always reluctant to accept help of any kind, even the smallest things—lets you. While he watches your face as you pipe the icing, the focus, the way your tongue pokes out from between your lips, you take his distraction as an opportunity to move, letting your icing fall onto his hand instead of the house.
“Oops,” you shrug, your tone suggesting that it wasn’t a mistake at all.
Steve gasps overdramatically, then leans closer to you, “Oh, looks like you’ve got something right there.” His hand reaches for your face, and he spreads the icing from it onto your cheek.
“You’re done for, Harrington.”
He only laughs, bright and quick.
Before you know it, you’re having some sort of food fight, putting a dot of icing on Steve’s nose, him tossing sprinkles at you. It’s a mess, but all you can hear is Steve’s laughter, all you can see is his smile. Unguarded for once, free and genuine.
By the time it dies down, there’s stripes of icing on your cheeks, red and green sprinkles scattered about the floor and on the table, and Steve’s got his own patches of icing to deal with.
“You better help me clean this, Harrington,” you say, your giggles still spilling, fizzling out softly. “What are we gonna decorate these houses with now?”
“Mine’s a lost cause,” he admits, the pieces now in a pile the way they’d started.
“So I won, is what I’m hearing.”
Steve looks at you, at the sparkle in your eyes that had been dimmed earlier at work, at the smile that spreads across your face when his eyes meet yours. Fuck. He thinks you’re completely beautiful, icing across your face and all.
His gaze snags on a piece of green in your hair, and before he can think about it, he reaches up and tugs it out for you.
“Sprinkle,” he says.
You look at his hands, messy from the gingerbread houses but never any less strong, and you remember how they felt in yours when you’d been skating. And when you flick your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you, gaze dipping to your mouth quickly, like he can’t help it.
And shit, you think. You really, really like this boy.
Before either of you can say anything more, you’re leaning towards each other, meeting in the middle and you’re not sure if you kiss him or he kisses you, but you end up with your mouths pressed together.
It’s featherlight at first, testing the waters. Then, Steve’s hands cup your jaw gently and pull you back to him, and you wouldn’t dream of doing anything but follow.
He kisses you again, still soft somehow, but more certain, his lips dancing with yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
You reach up and grasp his wrists in your hands, feeling his pulse under your thumbs. His heart is racing just as much as yours, you notice. Like your heartbeats have synced to a twin pattern, like this kiss was enough to do that.
And while you’re not sure what will happen after this, you know that something has shifted, that both of you are saying things you’re too afraid to say out loud.
When he pulls back, Steve presses one, two more pecks to your mouth, his thumbs tracing over your skin so lightly you might’ve dreamt it.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever think about kissing the same way after you. Steve feels warm the way he does when the sun beams on him in summer, and quickly, he thinks, I could get used to this feeling.
Then, he gets up and finds a small towel in one of the drawers by your sink, wetting it with warm water before coming back to sit with you.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, using a finger to tilt your chin up, swiping the towel over your cheeks to get rid of the icing there as lightly as he can.
And that’s that.
-
December twenty-fourth is your last day at Santa’s Workshop. Christmas Eve snuck up quick, and tomorrow, the twenty-fifth, the mall will be closed.
You’ve always enjoyed the job, but this year’s been your favorite by far. Usually, you and your coworkers would get along just fine, talking during shifts and laughing but never expanding outside of work, but it’s completely different with Steve.
He knocked on your door with gingerbread houses in hand and kissed you like it meant something. You like him so much that it’s in your bones, this feeling he brings out of you, how special you feel when you think about the trust he’s shown you.
But looking back, you think you were screwed from the start. From his scrunched brows asking you if the bells on the elf shoes were really necessary, to confiding in you about his parents, that list you made that seemed to be the beginning of what things have grown into now.
Green elf hat lopsided on his head, Steve smiles at you from where he stands by the camera. You smile back without thinking, like it’s natural, an instinct.
“Alright,” he says, talking to the kids sitting on the bench with Santa. “Everyone say ‘cheese’ on three. One, two-”
“Cheese!”
The camera clicks, and then it’s onto the next, the system you and Steve have created moving along smoothly, family after family.
If someone told Steve when he’d started this job, grouchy and prepared to pout about it every day, that he’d grow to like it, that he’s realized he’ll miss it when it’s gone, he would’ve laughed in their faces.
Never in a million years did Steve think he’d come remotely close to enjoying being an elf, but he has (he still fucking hates the outfit, though). You have everything to do with his surprising not-so-hatred of the job, of his careful fondness growing towards the holidays.
It’s all because of you.
Christmas Eve is a busy day at Starcourt mall, parents rushing about for last minute presents, teenagers taking advantage of holiday sales, and families lined up for their Santa pictures they’d forgotten about until now.
You don’t get breaks between families often today, but once you do, you and Steve are next to each other, making imaginary backstories for random people that pass by, dramatically reading lips of conversations.
The next time there’s an opening, you walk over to Steve, holding up your fist as if there’s a microphone in it. “So, Steve, tell me, how does it feel to have survived December as a Christmas elf?”
“I feel like I should get an award, maybe,” he says into your fake microphone. “I’ve gotten two rashes from this scratchy outfit. Two! And I’ll never hear jingle bells the same again.”
You laugh before clearing your throat and getting back into your news anchor character, “wow. You heard it here folks, North Pole outfits are not luxurious.”
“No, they are not.”
Steve can’t help but grin as he looks at you, as he jokes around with you so easily it feels like he’s known you for years instead of a month. He supposes he has known you longer, but never the way he does now.
“Now, will you be returning to Santa’s Workshop in future Decembers, mister Harrington?”
“Well, that depends,” he says. “I think I’ll require a certain presence to be with me if I come back. Can’t survive it without my doses of sunshine.”
My doses of sunshine.
You’ve never reacted to words the way you do with Steve, but when he says things like that, how can you not react? He compliments you in these indirect ways that only you could understand, and this secret language of yours has your heart skipping, your world tinted-pink.
That one makes you break character, “really?”
“Really.”
Looking up at him, at those soft, melting brown eyes that have always told you more than anything else about him, at the fondness in them, you think about that kiss.
You haven’t spoken about it, but you haven’t felt the need to. It meant something, you know that much, and by the way Steve sneaks touches—a squeeze of your hand, a palm on your back—he does, too.
“You make Christmas better,” he tells you.
He leaves you with that as the next family walks up for their picture, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you, his gaze spreading sparkles over your skin.
It’s hard to focus when all you can think about is him calling you sunshine in that soft voice of his he’s only used when you’re alone, but you have to, so it’s back to work you go.
You don’t get to speak much again until your shift is over, the Christmas Eve evening rush swooping in and keeping you both busy.
It’s bittersweet, walking to the back room for the last time from Santa’s Workshop. You’re excited for tomorrow, because it’s Christmas and it’s one of your favorite days of the year, but it’s hitting you now how much you’ll miss seeing Steve nearly every day.
You’ll still see him, of course you will. Whether it’s him getting you to help sneak kids into a movie or maybe something more, something for just the two of you. Either way, you’re at least sure of one thing: Steve Harrington is one of the best people you know.
He’s the first to speak as you step into the staff room. “I have something for you,” he says.
Steve scratches the back of his neck, the smallest hint of pink on his cheeks. He’s nervous, and it’s the sweetest thing. He reaches into his bag, pulling out a small box, a white ribbon tied in a bow around it, a little lopsided, like he’d tied it himself.
You take it from him, smiling down at the box, because no matter what’s in it, he cared enough to get you a gift and that’s what matters, that’s what you’ll hold onto.
“Really?”
“Open it, please.”
You listen, tugging the ribbon loose and opening up the small box. Inside, you find a delicate chain, the pendant in the shape of the sun.
“Steve.” It comes out in a breath, your eyes welling the tiniest bit because this is the best gift you’ve ever received. He’s a gift himself, looking at you shyly, searching your face for a reaction.
“Do you like it?” He asks, his voice soft. “If it’s too much I can-”
“It’s perfect,” you say, and you mean it. “Put it on for me?”
He flashes you a grin, the corners of his mouth tugging up as he nods and takes the necklace from you, undoing the clasp as you turn around and move your hair out of the way.
You can feel his warmth against your back as he drapes the necklace over your collar, his fingers brushing the back of your neck as he fiddles with the clasp.
“There you go,” he says, taking a small step back to give you room to spin back around to face him.
You look down at the sun pendant sitting against your skin, touching it lightly. Steve’s actions speak volumes, and this one makes you feel so many things. But above it all, you feel like his.
He watches your face as you look at the necklace, the slope of your nose and the softness of your cheeks. The flutter of your lashes and the smile you don’t even try to hide. He’s been resisting the urge to kiss you since he’d done it the first time, but it’s stronger than ever now, with his present around your neck.
Your eyes meet when you look back up at him, his brown ones never failing to show how he feels, and your heart skips with how he looks at you. Like he cares, like he doesn’t intend on stopping.
He brushes your hair over your shoulder, fingertips gentle as ever when they brush against the side of your neck.
“I love it, Steve, really. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sunshine.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t expect-”
“Hey,” he cuts you off, his hand shifting to hold yours, fingers lacing with yours easily, “you’ve given me so much.”
Steve doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to get paired with you for this job, how he got lucky enough to have someone look past his slight grumpiness and really see him. You’ve given him Christmas as a whole, erasing bad memories, replacing them with new ones, and he doesn’t think any present could repay you for that.
“Oh wait!” You squeeze his hand before letting go and heading towards your bag, digging until you find what you’d been looking for. You hand Steve a folded piece of paper, “you should have this.”
As he unfolds it, he realizes it’s the bucket list you’d made for him what feels like forever ago, glitter and all. There are activities with check marks beside them, the ones you’d completed, and he shakes his head with the smile he seems to only wear when you’re around.
Very last on the list, your handwriting spells out words that make his chest feel light, his heart full.
‘Make next Christmas just as good.’
Steve finally stops holding himself back and kisses you for the second time, and you’re both certain it won’t be the last.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed, please please consider leaving a reblog or comment and let me know what you think! it would mean a bunch <3
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putellas14 · 3 months
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Home for the Holidays (Alexia Putellas x Reader ficlet)
18. "cancelling all other plans so they can spend the entire holidays together."
Hope you don't hate me for being a few weeks late. This one's not the best but covid really took me out. Merry Christmas, dear friends. I hope 2024 is full of magic for you all.
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"Are you excited to go visit your family for Christmas?" Lola asked you at the end of the last training before Christmas. This was your third year in Madrid and every Christmas, you left Spain to visit your family in Denmark. You usually looked forward to the time with them since you didn't get to go home often.
"Yeah!" you lied. "We're going to make cookies like we do every year and I've been on a crafting kick, so I made a bunch of pinterest-y crafts to give them." You hadn't told anyone but you were dreading going home this year. Not because you didn't love your family but because you didn't want to leave Alexia alone. Her mom and sister had gone on a vacation for a week to Japan and due to a volcanic eruption, they had gotten stuck there. So far, there was no news on whether they'd make it back this weekend for Christmas.
Not that anyone knew you and Alexia were dating. That you wanted to throw your traditions to the wind and start building new ones with Alexia.
"When do you leave?"
"In the morning. I have the first flight out at 6am."
"That's too early," Lola said, fake shuddering. "Merry Christmas, Y/N," she said, picking up her bags. "I hope you have a great time."
"Thanks, Lol. Merry Christmas." You smiled warmly at her as she walked away. You finished packing your bag and walked out to the parking lot. On the drive back to your apartment, you  tried calling Alexia. They had finished training  for two weeks yesterday and had a team Christmas party tonight. It surprised you to get her voicemail. Hanging up, you sighed, hoping she was alright. She loved Christmas normally and you knew it was incredibly hard for her to be without her family.
Once you were home, you turned on all the Christmas lights you'd put up. Bright colors and twinkly white lights illuminated your home, bringing a huge smile to your face. The Christmas tree in the corner was filled with the ugliest ornaments you could find. Garlands and tinsel were hung over every window. The older you got, the more time you spent away from home, the more you reveled in tacky Christmas décor.
An hour later, you were curled on the couch with a large bowl of soup, a cheesy Christmas movie on the television, and your puppy sprawled out next to you on the couch. As the couple on the screen slowly fell in love, your mind drifted to the woman you loved. And you started to plan. There was no way you could leave her alone at Christmastime. The thought of her alone dampened all your Christmas spirit.
The next morning, you packed up your bags and the puppy and made your way to the train station. When you should have been touching down in Copenhagen, you were stepping off the train in Barcelona. Although Zazu had only been to Barcelona once, he led you right to her apartment, tugging you along behind, anxious to see Alexia. You had a key to her apartment but this surprise felt worth knocking and waiting for her to open the door, so you kept it tucked away in the side pocket of your backpack.
She answered, a hoodie pulled down over her forehead, hair that had escaped her bun poking out around her face. The initial frown she had at being awoken broke into a smile and then tears.
"Oh, honey." You stepped into her and wrapped your arms tight around her. She burrowed her head into your shoulder, making her hood fall off. Zazu jumped onto both of your legs, barking in excitement.
"I needed you. And here you are," she whispered.
You brushed her hair back and kissed her forehead. "Come on. I'll make you some breakfast."
She hugged you from behind while you made food for both of you. Her arms tightened when you started pulling plates out of the cabinet. All you could do was giggle. Hungover Alexia was always so cuddly. Sad Ale was clingy. This Alexia was a combination of both of them.
“Are you going to let me go so we can sit at the table or do you want to sit on the couch?”
“Couch,” she mumbled.
"Carry this for me," you said, handing her one of the plates. You picked up the empty plate and took her free hand in yours for the short walk to the couch. Zazu had made himself comfortable on one end. His tail wagged excitedly when you walked closer to him. Skirting the coffee table, you put your plate down and then took Alexia's to set down. Sitting, you pulled her down next to you, letting your thigh rest against hers. Picking up her plate, you handed it to her. "Here you go, babe," you said gently.
You ate in silence, enjoying each other's presence after all these weeks apart. After breakfast, you both took a lazy shower. You washed her hair for her and let your hands wander. She told you she was beginning to feel half human by the time you got dressed. She asked to go for a walk with Zazu and you gladly agreed. After sitting on the train all morning, you needed some fresh air and exercise.
As you walked down the street towards Alexia's favorite coffee shop, you looped your arm through hers. Barcelona at Christmastime was a magic and you felt like you were walking in a dream. Zazu tugged excitedly at the leash even though he didn’t know where you were going. Multiple times, Alexia had to tug the leash to bring him back to the correct direction.
You took your coffees to the park, so Zazu could run freely for a bit. You cuddled up next to Alexia on the bench. The wind had picked up and you hadn't worn enough layers. She took her hat off and pulled it down over your ears.
"Thank you." You'd also made the mistake of getting an iced coffee. But when he said their special was an iced cardamom lavender latte, you couldn't resist it. It was also so good that you couldn't stop drinking it, despite how cold you were.
"So, what time do you leave for home?" she asked suddenly.
"I have a flight this evening." You traced small patterns on her arm.
"Today?" she asked sadly. "That's so soon."
"I know. I know. My mom was very annoyed that I pushed it even that long."
"Well, I'm really glad you were able to make this pitstop." She kissed your cheek, letting her lips linger a second longer than she should have in public. "I hated the idea of being alone."
"I hated the idea of you being alone too. Which is why I booked two tickets from here to Copenhagen. If I have to go home, you're coming with me."
"What?" she asked, sitting back in shock.
"Come with me," you said, taking her hand in yours. "I want to show you my life in Copenhagen. I want to wake up with you on Christmas morning."
"You're adorable." Throwing her arms around, she pulled you close. "Merry Christmas, Y/N."
"Merry Christmas, Ale." Before putting your arms around her, you let your fingers dance over the little velvet box in your pocket. Christmas in Copenhagen wasn't the only surprise waiting for Alexia this year.
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joelscurls · 3 months
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a heart for melting
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pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
words: 2.7k
warnings: post-outbreak, implied age gap, themes surrounding child loss and grief, some angst but mostly festive fluff, grumpy x sunshine dynamics (Joel is a grinch & reader loves the holidays), reader is described as having long-ish hair
summary: Jackson's first annual Holiday Market brings about more than just cheer.
a/n: Merry Christmas @thetriumphantpanda; I'm your pedrostories secret santa! I hope you enjoy this lil festive take on grumpy!joel x sunshine!reader — I had lots of fun writing it 🤍🎄 🥧 🪵 🦌
Joel doesn’t want to be here — surrounded by garland and ribbons and so much unadulterated joy, it’s nauseating. No, he was forced to be here. 
Please, Ellie had begged, it’ll be good for you to do something other than patrol or drinking with Tommy. Plus, they’re too good to keep to yourself.
They, being wood carvings — the tiny sculptures of deer and bears and birds, tufts of hair and bunches of feathers drawn out of driftwood with the tip of his blade. It was only ever meant to be a hobby, a way to busy his hands after they’d been wrapped around the cold metal of his rifle all day. Something lighter, creative rather than destructive, an act of giving rather than taking. 
But sharing them with other people? He hadn’t been interested. Maybe he’d make one for Ellie or Tommy. Wrap it up in a piece of cloth and offer it as a gift for their birthday.
Not that he thought they were any good, really.
With the announcement of Jackson’s first annual Holiday Market, though, came Ellie’s pleading. “I’ll help you,” she’d bargained. “You don’t even have to give me anything!”
“Who said I would anyway?” he’d grumbled, digging his spoon into the bottom of his bowl of stew and sifting out a chunk of meat.
Joel despises the Holiday Season. He’d welcomed its disappearance with the end of the world. Because he had no reason to celebrate, with Sarah gone. Her absence stung like salt in an open wound on any normal day. But on Christmas, memories of her hanging her favorite ornaments on the tree and sneaking one of the cookies baked for Santa burned behind his eyelids. Left him heaving through hot tears.
The holidays had no place in his world, but they certainly had a place in Jackson. The first time he and Ellie had strode through those gates, they’d been met with that damned Christmas Tree, towering over the settlement like a beacon. And he hated it, hated the way it brought about that pounding in his chest and that spinning in his head. 
How could anyone find any good in such a poignant reminder of loss? 
Tommy says it’s about new beginnings, finding ways to be happy again. And what’s happier ‘n Christmas? God damn Santa Clause, hot chocolate, children singin’ carols?
Still, Joel isn’t convinced — not yet.
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Standing across the mess hall, at your table piled high with baked goods, you are far too cheerful. You’re humming some song with a jovial beat, absentmindedly swaying as you rearrange rows of gingerbread and muffins and scones — all of which are draped in white icing, like flocking on Christmas trees. You pause to wish a happy holiday to everyone who passes through. 
Joel knows he’s seen you before, flitting in and out of the community’s kitchen, always with that signature smile scrawled across your face.
And god, you’re so bubbly, taking to everyone you meet like a bee to honey, letting them in without a care in the world. Popping from table to table, making sure they have enough to eat. That they’re doing well.
It shouldn’t surprise him that you’re so…spirited, too. You seem to find the good in everyone and everything, after all.
It infuriates him, nonetheless.
Joel groans to himself. Stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans as an elderly couple rounds on him. 
He grumbles a hello to them when they approach. They offer him half-smiles in return, beginning to pick up some of the carvings laid out on the table — turning them, inspecting them.
“This one’s nice,” the man says to his wife. She hums in agreement. 
“You got any tigers?” the man asks.
“Tigers?”
“Yeah — I used to love ‘em as a kid.”
“Got what’s on the table,” Joel grumbles. 
“You make ‘em custom? I can offer some homemade jam in return — elderberry.”
Joel sighs in annoyance. 
“Don’t make ‘em custom. Got what I got.”
The man seems defeated, nodding and walking off without another word. The woman follows closely behind.
Just as they leave, Ellie appears. She sidles up to Joel and shrugs her jacket off. Pulls a chair up next to him.
“There’s so much cool shit here!” she exclaims, too loud. A judgemental set of eyes flit her direction. She glares right back at them.
“Do you mind?” Joel huffs, jaw ticking.
“Jesus, who pissed in your Cheerios?” 
“How do you even know what Cheerios are?”
“Don’t,” she admits. “I read it in a book.” 
“Of course you did.”
Ellie leans back in her chair, pulling an apple out of her backpack and biting into it. She shuffles some of the carvings around on the table. “Gotta fill in these gaps, man,” she says, juice dribbling down her chin.
Joel ignores her. He sneaks a glance at you; finds that you’re already looking. Your expression is unreadable, gaze unmoving as he studies you.
Despite your upbeat disposition bothering him, he can’t deny that you’re gorgeous: bright, beckoning eyes, siren-like smile — it’s like you’re peering into his soul. 
He didn’t think he still had one of those.
“Dude.” Ellie nudges him. He peels his eyes from you reluctantly. “I asked how many takers you’ve had.”
“Uh.” He pretends to think. 
“You have no fucking idea, do you? Too busy staring at that girl.”
“Wasn’t starin’,” he clips defensively.
“No? Well she’s coming over here, man.”
Sure enough, you’re striding right toward him, abandoning your post. Joel barely has time to prepare for impact.
He unconsciously straightens up and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He brushes them on his jeans just as you stop in front of his table.
“Hi there,” you say.
“Hi!” Ellie chimes.
You pick up a carving of a two-headed deer. His favorite.
“This is beautiful,” you coo. “The craftsmanship is lovely.” You’re running a finger along the grooves in the wood, holding the piece delicately in the palm of your hand — as if it’s made of glass, not wood. “You have a real gift…”
“Joel.”
“Joel,” you repeat. He ignores how sweet his name sounds coming out of your mouth. You tell him your name, and it fits you, he thinks. It’s pretty.
“How long have you been making them?”
“Just since I got to Jackson. ‘ts somethin’ to pass the time.”
You nod. Continue scanning over the intricacies of the deer. “I was never much of a baker before I got here, either,” you joke, gesturing back toward your table.
“Good one,” Ellie laughs. “You’re funny — isn’t she funny, Joel?”
In his head, he’s glowering at her. Outwardly, he feigns amusement.
“Real funny.”
“I’d love to see how you make these sometime,” you say, then, placing the deer back on the table gingerly. “Do you have a workshop?”
“In our shed,” Ellie pipes in before he can say anything. “You should come by tomorrow! Joel’s off patrol.”
He shoots her daggers. She pretends not to notice.
“I’d love that! I have to work in the kitchen, though. I could come by after?”
Joel starts to shake his head no. Ellie’s hand wraps around his arm like a vice grip. He stills.
“Sure,” he grits.
“I can bring some pastries, if you’d like.”
“Don’t like sweets.” 
“Oh,” you say, a little thwarted, but you’re undeterred. You shift on your feet. Chew your bottom lip. “Well, how about something not sweet, then?”
Your brows lift, narrowed eyes on him as you await a response. Joel still isn’t thrilled about the prospect of a visitor. Really, he doesn’t like anyone on his property that isn’t Ellie, or Tommy and Maria if he’s invited them. But you don’t seem so bad, offering to bring him food. 
He can probably deal with your sunny disposition in exchange for a full belly. Lord knows he went too long without that luxury, and he’d be a fool to deny himself of it ever again.
So, he agrees, the garbled sure less than enthusiastic leaving his mouth. Still, you don’t seem too offended. In fact, you smirk at him, wordlessly sauntering back to your table, sneaking glances at him every so often for the remainder of the afternoon.
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Sure enough, the next evening, while Joel is whittling in the shed, you show up.
You’re wielding a basket of savory hand pies, as promised, and Joel has to stop himself from drooling. They smell incredible. And they’re still warm, somehow, steam wafting off of them even after your walk here.
“Come in,” he gruffs, his nose following the scent like a dog’s as he trails behind you inside.
His set up is minimal: a rocking chair next to a bench, a couple stools he made for when Tommy comes by to play poker. But his works are scattered throughout, every surface in the small room cluttered with little carvings.
He settles atop one of the stools as you begin to wander around the room, plucking sculptures off shelves and awing at them with such genuine admiration, it causes something to pull in his chest.
Every so often, you make a remark about the details in a piece, how the fur on the deer looks real, how you can practically smell the replica evergreen in your grasp.
And something shifts — carried by your kind words through the stuffy shed.
Taken by the slight lilt in your voice when you speak to him, the almost-shy smile that pulls at the corners of your lips — Joel is attracted to you.
He’s following the line of your neck down to your collarbone, ogling at the exposed skin there when you pick another carving up off the shelf. And he feels guilty — he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. You’re just being nice, being neighborly, and he’s gawking at you like you’d have any interest in him.
No; you’re young, beautiful, could do a lot better than an old grump like him. 
He averts his gaze quickly when you suddenly set down the tiny, carved bird that had been in your palm, round the workbench and perch yourself atop the stool next to his. You retrieve a handpie out of the basket and pass it over to him. 
“It has braised rabbit and carmelized onions in it,” you explain, taking a bite and letting the steam roll out. 
He follows suit and — it tastes just as good as it smells, if not better. He’s salivating again, letting the dough melt in his mouth before swallowing. 
The two of you eat in comfortable silence, getting through the entire basket in mere minutes.
When you’re finished, you ask him where he’s from. 
The question shouldn’t feel like such a shock to the system. But after a year of being in Jackson, successfully avoiding conversation about his life before the outbreak, it sets off a panging between his eyes, a dull ache in his viscera. 
“Texas,” he tells you plainly. “From Austin, originally.”
You nod. And you must be able to tell that he’s not used to talking about himself — by the tick of his jaw or the lack of eye contact — he’s not sure. Because you don’t pry. Instead, you say, “you can ask me something.”
He nods. Thinks on it for a moment.
“When did you arrive here? To Jackson?” 
Unlike him, you do not grimace at the intrusion. Instead, you tell him: about your parents, their untimely deaths, the harrowing road that led you here. You do not cry, but Joel can see the pain in your shiny eyes. 
It’s inevitable; there isn’t a single person here who hasn’t been dealt a bad hand. But you wear your past like a badge of honor, like you’re still grateful, after it all, to be alive.
Joel envies your tenacity.
So when you ask him about Ellie, if she is his daughter, he lets the walls around him down — just an inch. He doesn’t get upset when he stumbles over his words while telling you about Sarah. He finds comfort in confiding in you, in the way you so attentively listen, quietly nodding along as he recalls his version of the end of the world.
“Thank you,” you say when he’s done, burying his hands back in his pockets.
“For what?”
“For sharing that with me. I know it can be difficult to relive it.”
“I relive it everyday,” he admits. “Everything reminds me of her in one way or another.”
“I understand,” you nod. He believes you do.
So sweet, gaze like honey, you are an enigma to him. He hasn’t met many people who are kind just for the sake of it — not in a long while. Maybe that’s why he’d been so bothered by it at the market. It had felt almost unnatural to him, bound to be laced with an ulterior motive. 
He’s still learning how to trust people again. It doesn’t come easily after twenty-odd years of rationing it like the pills he’d stowed. Still, there is something innate about baring his soul to you. Letting you in through the cracks in his battered being. You are safe, he’s sure of it; benevolence radiating from you like warmth.
It drips off your tongue when you ask him to show you how he does his craft — slips down your fluttering lashes. No longer can he deny you of anything — he’s accepted this swiftly — and so he obliges.
A half-whittled fox materializes from his coat pocket, along with his blade. He passes both to you and pulls his stool closer to yours.
He guides you, taking your hand in his, encouraging the press of the blade into the wood. Shows you how to round out a corner with a subtle twist of the knife. You’re a fast learner, Joel notes, attentive, taking every instruction like gospel.
The slow drag of steel, your fingers wrapped tightly around the handle; you’re so focused that you jump slightly when he places a reassuring hand on your knee.
“Doin’ great, darlin’,” he says, and your lips pull around pearlescent teeth. Joel feels as enraptured by you as you do the carving — the loose tendrils of hair that drape over your shoulder, the clinging of cotton to your soft curves. Though he hardened into stone a long time ago, he feels smelted in your presence. So he cannot help it when his fingers begin to drift up your leg, settling at your side as he turns his body toward yours.
The blade stalls, tip still stuck into the wood, puncturing the fox’s non-existent spine, and your face lifts. 
“Is this okay?” he whispers. You nod, gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.
You’re so close like this; Joel can smell the floral perfume dappled along your neck, can feel your warm breath fanning his face. He has half a mind to stop himself from sealing the sliver of distance left between you. But then you’re sighing, placing the blade and the wooden fox on the tabletop. And it’s your turn to guide him — winding your delicate fingers around his wrist and settling his hand at the small of your back.
The air in the tiny workshop grows heavy with unspoken desire, a longing to disrupt; to create. Your body forms to his languidly, arms interlocking behind his neck, fingers weaving in his hair to pull him closer to you. And then your lips press to his — hesitant at first, then not. You drink from each other until you are drunk, breathless and giddy when you separate. 
“That was nice,” you whisper, and Joel chuckles. 
“Just nice?”
“Great,” you amend. “It was great. Better than I imagined, even.”
“You imagined this?”
“Yes,” you smirk. “On a loop since I first saw you at the market.”
He pulls you back in. Gives you another chaste kiss. “For good measure.”
“Joel,” you say then, “will you and Ellie come by mine on Christmas? I could even cook — it’s just-”
“Yes,” he’s accepting before you can finish. “I’d love that. As long as you make more of those,” he gestures toward the empty basket on the workbench. 
“That can be arranged,” you grin.
As soon as you leave that evening — sent off with a goodbye muttered between slotted mouths — Joel starts on your Christmas present. 
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end notes: thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment if you enjoyed <3
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roseglazedlens · 7 months
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Okay let's forget about all the agents Kennedy, alcohol and trauma in RC, Ada...ect,and turn to Leon s Kennedy as Your husband's policeman 36years is receiving a promotion to Chief Police Officer cuz I can't see my bbguy suffer more :(,you can add some nsfw if you want to
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thank you for requesting lovely! i'm sorry i write so much angst hahhaha, but here is a change of pace! i've never written anything purely fluff (lol) and so many characters, so this is a challenge! i hope you enjoy!
⦑ take me home ⦒✶.*
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pairing(s): leon kennedy x gn! reader synopsis: you throw a surprise party for your boyfriend's last day at work after his job promotion. content: pure fluff, established relationship, flirting, alcohol, leon is tipsy, but he's cute & not depressed ab it. claire, rebecca, jill & chris works in RPD. « 1 k words┇masterlist┇ao3┇reblogs appreciated! »
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Today is an unusual sight for the usually hectic police department in Raccoon City. The office is adorned with balloons, garlands, and laughter, celebrating not just the promotion of a well-loved officer, Leon S. Kennedy, but also his farewell as he relocates to a new precinct.
You should be happy for your boyfriend – and you are – but part of you will miss watching over his figure from your desk, casting flirtatious grins back and forth in attempts to distract each other from the rigorous paperwork.
A banner suspends between the light fixtures, observing the lopsided words ‘CONGRATULATIONS’, strings twisted into the knot. The culprit of this handiwork, Chris, puffs out his chest proudly, while Rebecca looks at him in disbelief.
“Chris, leave the decorations to Rebecca, please.” You break apart the squabble forming between them. Rebecca smirks as Chris descends the ladder, defeated. “Don’t forget everyone, this is supposed to be a surprise.”
“Claire, where is the card?” You interrogate the next person in your line of sight, who happens to be Claire. All whilst you signal Rebecca to tilt the banner slightly upwards. “Has everyone signed?”
“Yep. It’s just you left.” She hands over the card, before resuming to the case files on her computer.
The card scrawls with heartfelt blessings from your team, a lot of ‘good lucks’, ‘we’ll miss you’, and nostalgia when he was just a rookie. He worked hard for ten years to be a sergeant, and you know he deserves this.
You pick up your pen – contemplating the words to express how amazing he is, how you will love him forever, how you will miss the sneaky make-out sessions in the work janitor’s closet.
…Marvin will be so proud of you. Yours, ....
The vibration in your pocket cuts you off mid-sentence – Jill. She is supposed to be on the case with Leon for another thirty minutes. You read the text out loud.
“I can't hold him back much longer, we're on our way. ETA in five minutes!!”
The floor scrambles in panic to finalise their positions. Rebecca quickly secures the banner with some tape. Claire is passing party poppers. Chris is putting away the ladder to the storeroom.
As Jill enters the space with Leon following behind, all the confetti releases at once.
The rainbow plastic ribbons catching in his hair like stardust in sand. You catch a glimpse of surprise in his reaction, following with a light on the corner of his lips.
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“To Leon!” your team lifts their glasses high in the air, sipping beers and cocktails all night. Leon is the star tonight – you can barely talk to him without two other people buying him drinks all night along.
You catch him a whole two hours later in the circle booth, after some of the crowd has dispersed, his cheeks redden from the many drinks consumed all in a few hours. You squeeze yourself through three different people to sit yourself next to Leon.
“Having fun?” You try to get his attention by nudging at his forearm. “Don’t get too drunk though, I have to take you home.”
Leon lifts his gaze, when he sees you right by him, a grin tug at his face almost immediately. His cerulean eyes somehow more glazy than usual.
“Thank you for doing all of this. You are so good for me.” Despite the scent of beer merging with his breath, the grin on his face remains childlike. One that you only see in his drunkenness, which he lets down his guard to show more of his emotional side.
“Everyone helped. Not just me.” You are thinking how cute Leon looks when he’s drunk. “You are well-loved in here. I’m just the facilitator.”
“How about you work for me?” Leon brings the back of your palm to his lips. “I can pull some strings, now that I’m sergeant.”
“Sergeant Kennedy, using your influence for personal goals? It’s not even your first day.” You quip with a slight chuckle.
“And what if I am?” He peppers kisses from your palm to your fingers, the faint heat from his lips sizzle through your nerves. “Sure you’ll enjoy less time on the field, and more time in my office.”
“Well, if that’s the case.” You decide to let this banter go on a little further. “I expect to be well-compensated for my extra duties.”
“That will depend on your performance.” He raises a sassy eyebrow, pulling you closer until your noses touch.
“Good thing I always hit my KPI’s.”
“I do like a hardworking employee…”
Eyes fluttering shut slowly, you smile into the kiss. His lips lay gently on yours, sucking slightly at your cupid’s bow. Your bodies move closer, so close that you rests your hand on Leon’s thigh for support. The kiss deepens further, sloppier, tongues intertwined until…
“Ahem.” Chris clears his throat loudly, snapping you back to the present.
You open your eyes to find the whole table staring at the two of you. Your gaze finds its way to Jill, which she immediately, most awkwardly, rolls her eyes to the ceiling as if there is something to see there. Claire is nonchalant, sipping her beer and simply enjoying the scene.
You retract the tongue that is still shoved in Leon’s mouth. A hint of pink is running up your cheeks, you don’t need to see it to feel it. Leon, however, is unphased by the attention from his coworkers. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, perhaps it’s knowing that he won’t be seeing these guys next Monday.
“So… next rounds on me. Who’s in?” Chris attempts to diffuse the awkwardness, which earns a few curt nods from the table.
Leon holds you by the hand, picking you up from the seat. “Sorry Chris, we’re gonna call it. It’s been a long night. Thanks for the party, everyone.”
You two shuffle past Chris and Jill out of the booth, after a round of hugs with everyone, you can practically feel Leon sprinting out the bar.
“How ‘bout we continue where we left off at my place?”
Your cheeks turn a deeper red. It seems like he will be the one to take you home tonight instead.
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thanks for reading! come check out my other works. ––yours truly, rose. tags: @carlosgf @sporeghost (pm me for tags) © roseglazedlens - please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.
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kiss-theggoat · 9 months
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Over the Phone
Billy Lenz x Reader
Word Count: 1.6K
Summary: You and your Sorority sisters have been receiving some pretty scary phone calls, but you’re too embarrassed to admit that you don’t hate answering them.
Warnings: Billy is nasty, Lewd language, Smut, Mutual Masturbation, Billy refers to reader’s female anatomy and female anatomy is used but no pronouns
Ah, Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year, especially in this cozy home. You’d never seen so many twinkle lights, strings of garland, or pieces of mistletoe in one area. All of the sisters really went all out this year, and you couldn’t be happier.
With a record in the background playing Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, you hummed along to the tune while grabbing the hot tray out from the oven. Your sugar cookies had become tradition, and you really liked making them for you and your sisters. The low lighting of the kitchen, illuminated by red and green bulbs along with a few candles on the dining table really set the festive mood, and your heart swelled with Christmas spirit.
You spent nearly an hour frosting snowmen, snowflakes, candy canes, little trees, and a couple reindeer. Hunched over the counter with a bag of frosting in your hand, hair a mess and a smear of blue frosting on your right cheek, you suddenly heard a commotion coming from outside the kitchen. You groaned, as you were nearly done frosting, but wanting to see what was going on in the living room.
The piping bag thudded against the counter as you plopped it down, licking some frosting from your finger.
“What’s going on?” You asked, walking into a circle of sorority girls. They were surrounding Jess, who looked sufficiently upset and had the phone pressed against her ear. Once you saw this you knew. She was on the phone with “The Moaner” as you and the girls so affectionately dubbed him. A creep who’d been prank calling the house for the last couple of weeks, and boy was he vulgar. At first everyone thought it was just a frat house that was messing around, but it’s been going on for months, and the phone calls are getting worse and worse. Bad to the point where you know none of the frat guys are doing it. Or, if they are, you could probably get them in huge trouble.
Jess held up a finger in a shushing motion to quiet Barbara, who was practically yelling at the man on the phone. She liked to antagonize him. You could hear the man’s voice over the phone, and only then you realized how loud he must be talking. Jess scrunched her face in disgust. You knew she hated taking the obscene calls, so you held your hand out to her. She placed the receiver in your hand, and reluctantly, you held the speaker up to your ear. The girls around you waited anxiously for your reaction, and immediately your cheeks went red.
“Piggy cunt, you want my fat cock...I'll stick my tongue up your pretty pussy.”
You were flustered. The feeling that rose to your chest was not entirely unpleasant, and you felt a teensy bit ashamed about the fact you didn’t hate what the man was saying to you. I mean, the term ‘piggy’ was a little strange, but the rest made the butterflies in your stomach bounce off the walls.
You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. “Who…w-who is this?”
“Suck on my juicy cock! I'll come over…I'll come over and you can…you can suck it. Suck it! Okay?”
The man sounded frantic, yelling loud in your ear. Suddenly, Barb snatched the phone from you.
“Why don’t you call Lambda Chi, they could use some action, creep.” She slammed the phone down hard, holding her drink and cigarette in the other hand. “Just ignore him next time. It’s annoying having to talk to him!”
You stood there, frosting still smeared on your face as you listened to everyone walk away from the phone, arguing with an increasingly drunk Barb. You decided to let it go for now, walking back towards the kitchen.
Half an hour later, your cookies were done and served to your sorority sisters. They lay out on the table in the living room next to three empty cups that once held cold milk. It was later at night now, and only you, Barb, and Jess sat downstairs. Everyone else had gone to bed. The music had been turned down and you flipped through a novel, cuddled up with a quilt and legs swinging over the side of an armchair.
You swore you felt your heart drop when Barb jumped up out of nowhere, still holding a half smoked cigarette away from her face. “Oh…” she groaned, hand on her stomach. “I’m gonna spew…”
She walked quickly towards the bathroom. You and Clare made eye contact, dreading who had to go help her this time.
You held your hands up in defense, pages fluttering. “I cleaned her puke out of Phyl’s sweater last time, you’re it.”
Clare whined as she stood up, throwing her textbook and notebook down back onto the couch. “Fine…” and off she went.
You were happy to be in peace now, reading by the light of the dying fire and the colorful lights hung around the room. The tree in the corner made your heart happy, so you always sat facing it.
Ring Ring.
You muttered a few cuss words at being interrupted again, but during the holiday season, phone calls were important. Usually from family or friends wanting to make plans with someone. Your socks slid on the hardwood as you nearly slipped standing up, book being slammed down on the table.
“Hello?” You said, sounding more unfriendly than you meant to. After all, it was nearly midnight. Who was calling the house at this time?
“Pretty piggy cunt! Billy wants to lick it, wants to touch it.”
You sighed, leaning against the cabinet the phone laid atop. Your brain said to hang up and just leave the phone off the hook, but your body told you to listen to this man, which is apparently named Billy. What’s he saying now? You tried to decipher but instead of words…he was just moaning now. A deep silky voice, usually aggressive and loud was now soft and breathy with soft whines every once in a while. The sound of his moans immediately made you perk up, heat pooling in the base of your stomach.
“Pretty piggy suck on my cock…” he moaned, louder this time in the receiver.
You bit your lip and pulled on the cord in order to check your surroundings. The hallway was clear, and so was the living room. You turned around…so was the kitchen. Barb and Clare must still be in the bathroom, and everyone else was in bed. You decided you were safe to indulge a little. No one would find out, right?
A shaking hand trailed down the center of your chest and down to the button of your jeans. With one hand you popped it open and slid down the rest of the way, nestled inside your underwear. You decided to be a little brave.
“Billy…” you said quietly. “It is Billy, right…?”
A loud moan on the other end of the line confirmed your question. “Wanna fuck pretty piggy cunt.” He growled. Your lips parted as you rubbed circles over yourself, pleasure running through your whole body. This guy had really gotten you hot and bothered.
“I’m going to touch myself, Billy.” You whispered, eyes locked on the hallway that the bathroom was in. All the sound on the other end stopped, and so did you, tensing up. You were suddenly horrified and humiliated, what if this actually was just some stupid frat guy carrying on a joke too long? What if it’s one of the sister's boyfriends and you’d just revealed the fact that you were going to get off on the phone with a stranger?
Your fears were eased when you heard shuffling, and then loud moans once more. Growls and squeals broke up his moans, reminding you he was still nuts, but you didn’t care. There was, however, a new sound. A wet slapping sound on the other end made your stomach erupt with lightning bolts. He was touching himself too. Your fingers moved faster, deftly circling your clit in desperation. You hunched over the cabinet, elbows aching from the pressure.
“Pretty cunt…wet piggy pussy, Billy wants…”
You closed your eyes before remembering to stay on guard, grip so tight on the phone you were sure it’d snap. Without realizing, a few whimpers and pants slid from between your lips despite how hard you tried to clamp them shut. You clenched your thighs and laid your head against the wood, pushing the receiver closer to your ear, hoping somehow you could magically make him even louder, loud enough to fill you completely.
Already, you were close, and from the way he was whining and whimpering on the other end, he was too. You started to cum, dropping the receiver on the cabinet and slapping a hand over your mouth, legs shaking and clenching together as you writhed, struggling to stand up. Billy’s moans filled your ear on the other side, and you both went silent and still at the same time. You laid against the cabinet, taking deep breaths and trying to be as quiet as possible.
Billy hung up the line, more concerned with how beautiful you looked illuminated by the Christmas lights. Or, at least he thought so, from the hole in the ceiling he watched you through.
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tojii-fshiguro · 6 months
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b. barnes // 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁ℯ 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓉ℯ 𝓇𝒾𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽ℴℴ𝒹.
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bucky barnes × (femme) reader.
summary: ❝to keep your small village protected from would-be attackers, presented omegas must be sacrificed to the mysterious alpha in the woods.❞
genre: ⚠ dark and adult content below. minors, dni.
warnings: non-con, non-con touching, non-con kissing, dub-con, dub-con touching, dub-con kissing, smut, unprotected sex, hunting/stalking, a/b/o themes, forced bonding, loss of virginity, canon violence, physical violence, mentions of blood and human sacrifice, and strong language. 18+ content. minors, dni.
word count: 3,514
note: this story contains adult and dark themes. please, do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! i am not responsible for your media consumption–you and only you are. you have been warned. *all grammatical mistakes are my own, not proofread.
*an: if you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help! i do not condone any of the actions described in this story, this is a work of fiction.
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A cold wind blew in from the north, making the trees rustle like living things. It was growing colder with every passing day as winter began its arrival. Yule had transformed the fiery hues of autumn twilight to sparkled, frosted mornings and bitter winds. You went to the window. A fine glimmer of glossy frost formed intricate swirls on the glass, as sparkling snow softened the outside world into one flurry. 
You looked on as the pale, cold light of winter moonrise illuminated your village as the townsfolk worked under the stars to prepare for the Winter Solstice. You couldn’t help but frown as you watched them place green garland on the fringes of rooftops, and light candles that led into the dark forest, in the shape of carved wolves. This time last winter, you were home with your family; sitting fireside as you and your younger siblings drank sweetened milk and almond honeyed toast. Life had been colorful, full of vibrant greens, warm reds, and soft dusky blues. Now, it was nothing but a black and white night of frost that crawled along the dark outline of barren trees and twig branches. Snowflakes swirled down gently in the ghostly moonlight, and iced shadows crept along the December ground. 
“(Y/N)?” a small voice called out from behind. 
You turned as Gervaise came to stand next to you, peering out at the snowfall that drifted against the window. Gervaise had been your closest friend since childhood, she had been a plump girl in her youth, but now she was the most beautiful woman in your village. She had long legs that complemented her slender figure, golden hair that shone under sunlight, and azure eyes as blue and clear as the sky itself. 
She shivered against the winter-cold that seeped into your bones as she neared the frosted windowpane, “Aren’t you cold?” she asked. 
You scoffed, “Warmer than I would be out there.” 
Truth be told, you were burning from the inside out. A sheen sweat had started to form between your breasts and all of your folds and creases. Gervaise scooted closer and you unthinkingly flinched away, her heat was rolling off of her in waves and the strong scent of her made you lightheaded as tangs of jasmine, rose, and orange blossom overwhelmed your senses. 
You moved away as you looked into the room you were being kept in. Women close in age all slept soundly with soft snores, their heated scents interlacing with one another to form a jumbled mess of musk, amber, bergamot, and warm sugar. It was a synchronous heat amongst the presented Omegas in preparations for the village’s annual sacrificial solstice to the White Wolf. 
Gervaise nudged your shoulder teasingly, “It won’t be so bad tomorrow, (Y/N),” she tried. 
You rolled your eyes, “We’re being sacrificed, Gervaise! How can it not be so bad?”
Her small smile fell as the weighted truth of your words settled on her shoulders, “I’m sorry… I was just trying to make light of it all.” 
“I know,” you sighed, “You can’t make light of this, there’s too much darkness.” 
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You awoke hours later to the soft murmurs of falling tears as mothers dressed their daughters in traditional white hoods. White, the color of purity, innocence. You scoffed–the virgin’s color. Your own mother came to your bedside, a hood in hand and an expectant look in her eyes. You rubbed your cold feet together and reluctantly dressed. 
“It’s not as bad as it seems, my love,” she spoke as she combed your hair. 
You looked at the other Omegas in the room, most of whom you’ve grown up with. Idony, Meliora, and Sabine. You teared. You and your siblings used to play with Sabine as children. Idony taught you to weave dolls out of straw and vines. And you and Meliora would harvest wild strawberries together in early summer after long hours at the lake. The thought of never seeing either of them after today was heart-wrenching. 
Your mother placed the hood over your head and tucked away stray hairs behind your ears as she took one last, tearful, look at you. She placed a gentle kiss on your forehead and took your hands in hers, pressing a small vial against your palms. 
“Put this on once you’re away from the others,” she whispered against your hair, “It’ll hide your scent for a short time, then make your way across the stream, you’ll be safe there until the ceremony is over.” 
Before you could ask more, the village mayor entered and ordered you and the other Omegas out into the square. The ceremony had officially begun. 
Gervaise squeezed your hand as the mayor lit the great Yule log, the candles sculpted as white wolves. You looked around; Idony was pale in the face, Meliora shed silent tears as she held her hands in prayer, and Sabine’s chest rose and fell in shallow, frightened breaths. You held the vial tight in your hand as you stood stoic; though your pounding heart told another story. 
The bells of the church began to toll as midnight quickly approached. The first toll the mayor led you all down the candlelit path that led into the mouth of the forest, the second toll you and the other Omegas were left alone as the full moon shone down on you from above, the third toll was followed by an echoed howl and the beats of your feet as you all ran through the thicket. 
You ran and ran until it was only you, the full moon, and the trees. You stopped to rest against a frosted tree, your lungs burned with biting ice as you panted; your breaths coming out as vapored clouds that wisped around your head. You quickly took the vial and rubbed the liquid over your scent glands. The synthetic scent of cracked pepper, spiced ginger, decayed pear, and rotting leaves all toiled together to mask your natural, sweet and warm odor. You took a moment to calm your beating heart and collect your thoughts before bolting through the treeline. You needed to find Gervaise before the perfume wore off. 
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Bucky watched from the shadows as he tracked a pretty, golden-haired Omega. Her scent wasn’t unpleasant, but it didn’t ignite a fire deep within his groin, either. He followed the floral scent trail of this next best woman as she wandered aimlessly through the dense grove of pine. The woman’s face was rosy and tear-stained as the cold bit her cheeks and nose. It was pathetic, really. How she sniffled and hiccupped as she held herself against the winter winds or when she tripped and slipped over iced snowdrifts. Bucky was about to make his move when a sweet scent, carried on an icy breeze, caught his attention. The blood in his veins burst into flames as a deep desire awoke in him. Primal lust took over as he abandoned his former prey to hunt for the next. He bounded through the woods, ducking under long branches, and leaping across overgrown oak roots. It was the wildness of it that sent Bucky into a feral frenzy, in all of his years protecting this paltry village, he’d never scented anything as sweet and enthralling as this. Spun sugar, vanilla bean, patchouli, and white pumpkin with caramel glaze. His teeth ached as he took in the sweetness of your scent. 
When Bucky finally found you, you were breathless and flushed with heat. Your hand on your stomach as a wave of tightness in your belly coiled and coiled. He scented the air, then. Groaning as he caught wind of your musky-sweet tang. The front of his buckskin breeches tightened uncomfortably as his rut took hold of his body. He wanted you, so he’d have you. 
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You whimpered as your cramps inflamed your insides. You were on fire, despite the bitter winter cold. You shed your wolf pelt that hung over your shoulders and loosened the front laces of your bodice, as you slumped against the nearest tree and focused on slowing your racing heart. The faster you calmed down, the faster you’d be able to find Gervaise and get across that damned stream to safety. 
Just as your heart began to slow, a heady scent brought on iced winds set it back into panicked motion. An amber woody fragrance, with nutmeg, vanilla, and sandalwood ensnared your forebrain. You were frozen, scared like a hunted doe as you took in the masculine scent that seemed to scream “Alpha”. 
Bucky watched as you looked around, trying to pinpoint his hiding spot. His heart skipped a beat in excitement as you took off into the thicket, leaving your pelt behind on the snowy ground. He chased you, then. Too focused on the hunt to worry about cornering you, too focused on you. He’d chase you down until you fainted from exhaustion if he had to. 
You were faster than he expected, more agile and hellbent on escaping him than you had appeared to be. He felt an odd sense of pride as he watched you nimbly dodge and duck under and over every branch and uprooted oak that came into your way. But Bucky had the advantage, this was his territory, not yours. He knew his hunting grounds, not you. So when you came to a skidded stop at a broken bridge, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. But what did surprise him was the little snarl that left you before you broke away from him once more. 
You ran and ran until your feet were numb with cold and your lungs frosted over with every breath you took. He was close, too close, and you were forced to abandon the plan on crossing the stream to safety. Gods–you didn’t even know where you were anymore. You could be going in circles and you’d be none the wiser, everything looked the same in this untouched part of the wood. You berated yourself for straying from the path, now you were lost, alone, and being hunted. You began to cry as you thought of your fate, you didn’t want to be sacrificed, you just wanted to go home back to your family. Back to your life. 
You were ready to give up, your feet were tired, legs weakened, and your chest burned from the cold. You fell to your knees and looked up to the full moon, exhaustion taking over your thoughts. You were desperate and didn’t have the energy to be surprised at yourself when you began to pray to the moon above. 
“Gods above… Please, please, let me live and I’ll devote myself to you. My heart, mind, soul, and body, please,” you prayed. 
Just as you were about to laugh at yourself for your foolishness, a flickering candlelight in the nearby distance caught your eye. You mindlessly followed the light that pierced through the dense darkness of night, like a moth to a flame. As you got closer, you saw the lantern-light belonged to a small cottage fringed with winterberries and garland. You were uplifted as you believed the gods had answered your prayer. Without a second thought, your feet began to move on their own through the snow as you raced toward the home. You knocked once, then twice, then thrice. When there was no answer, you apologized to whatever being had heard you pray, before turning the brass doorknob and welcoming yourself inside. 
The warmth of a crackling fire embraced you posthaste as you closed the door behind you. You made your way to the fireplace, rubbing your hands over the flame as you warmed yourself. The house was eerily silent as you looked around. You saw the carved candles from your village on the mantelpiece, vases of starry blue, pale pink, and white glory of the snow, and bright yellow winter jasmine were placed on the tabletops, and garland with holly flowers was wrapped around the railing of a small staircase that led upstairs. You made your way up the stairs as curiosity led you on. You called out for the owner of the home once again as you reached the top, but to no avail; the house was empty. 
You crept along the creaking floorboards into a small room, illuminated by a single lantern with frosted glass windows. You explored the room. There was a bed, with an oak headboard, and thick, grey, and brown wolf and bear pelts. You sat down on the edge of the bed with a soft bounce as you rested your tired feet. Ahead of you was a wooden chest with intricate images of Yule logs, goats, and boars. Something deep within your gut urges you to go to it, to open it, and look upon its secrets; but the feeling made you uneasy, it made you afraid of what you’d find. 
But you knew better than to ignore your gut, so you went to it, opened it, and looked upon its secrets. You nearly screamed as you pulled forth white hood, after white hood, after white hood. Your hands shook as you emptied the chest, white hoods covered the ground like the snow outside. There were more hoods than you could count, most of them much older than you. You sobbed as you slammed the chest shut, too focused on the white hoods before you to notice the slithering notes of amber, nutmeg, vanilla, and sandalwood that now threatened to constrict, and swallow you whole. 
Your body sensed him before your mind did, your hairs stood on end, and your core tightened with primal, animalistic want. You only recognized his imposing presence after it was too late. Your throat dried as you slowly turned around to face the Alpha from the woods. He stood in the doorway, shirtless and steaming, as his heat fought against the cold of winter. To say he was big, would be an understatement. He was wordless as he strode toward you with an urgency driven by desire. You shuffled away, sobbing as he quickly crawled atop of you, trapping you beneath him. You fought against him, slapping and scratching his chest and face as he buried his face in your neck. Deeply inhaling your sickly sweet scent. 
“I wonder if you taste as sweet as you smell, ‘Mega,” he said as he nipped the lobe of your ear. 
Your heart dropped as he ripped at your bodice like an animal, tossing the ruined fabric aside as he bared your breasts to the air. The Alpha brushed his lips against your neck, your jaw, and mouth as he tasted you. You had never been kissed before, the feeling of it all was foreign as you felt his tongue explore your mouth. You squirmed as he palmed your breast, his thumb flicking and pinching over your sensitive nipple. Bucky let out a low snarl of disapproval as you tried to wriggle away from him, and when you ignored his warning, he bit down on your nipple. You yelped and beat against his back, clawing and punching as you flailed and thrashed. In your struggle you managed to slip out from underneath his body. Then, it was a desperate fight of him dragging you by your ankles, and you kicking wildly and blindly. With luck you landed a strong kick to his face that bloodied his nose. You ran, then. Practically flying down the flight of stairs as you made a beeline for the front door–to your freedom. You felt the cold snow on your toes as one foot met the icy ground, but the other foot was caught. 
You fell on your face as Bucky dragged you back into his house. Blood stained his face and a dangerous fire was reflected in his blue eyes. He took you by your neck and forced you down onto the staircase, entrapping you under his weight. Your legs kicked out as he forced himself between your thighs, he snarled again, keeping a tight grip on the back of your neck. He ripped away the remaining pieces of your clothes, ridding you of the white garments, of your innocence, your purity.
He lifted your hips and placed a strong hand on your back, forcing you into an arch. You yipped as you felt a wet warmth lick up your sex. You tried to curl away, but his grip on you was strong and firm. A heat bloomed within your gut as Bucky dipped his tongue between your wet folds, fucking you with his hot tongue. Your brain hazed over as he stroked and rubbed your sweet spot of concentrated pleasure with his thumb. He was devouring you, and you felt your resolve melt away with every delicious flick and swipe of his tongue. You moaned and allowed yourself to arch into his mouth, desperately seeking more pleasure. You ground your cunt on his face and moaned at the feeling of him tightly gripping your hips as he gave you what you wanted–needed. 
You clawed at the stairs beneath you as your voice grew shrill, the coil in your belly was beginning to unravel with every lick. Bucky felt you stiffen as he brought you to the edge of your pleasure, he sank his tongue deep inside you until he finally felt you shudder hard against him. You cried out as you came on his tongue, pure white fire ignited in your veins, consuming your thoughts, and burning away any fight you had left. The aftershocks of your pleasure left you shaking and wanting. 
Without warning, Bucky buried his thick length in you with one hard stroke; mercilessly tearing through your untouched barrier. For a moment there was only a burning pain as he forced himself deeper. He pulled out a few inches, and then slammed back into you. Again and again. The Alpha above you howled with pleasure as he rutted into you hard and fast. You looked over your shoulder and moaned as you watched his narrow hips thrust against you. His eyes met yours and he bared his teeth as he indulged in his animalistic pleasure. With your mouth agape you felt another spark of pleasure ignite within you, you cried out for him, then, begging him to stoke the fire that threatened to burn, to consume you. 
Your scents bled together, creating the beginning knot of your bond; his sandalwood and vanilla notes, duetting your patchouli and caramel glaze in perfect harmony. You whined as he pulled out of you, leaving you empty and clenching. He flipped you onto your back, spreading your weak legs wide as he entered you once more. He reached places that had you blaspheming as you chanted his title like a prayer. 
Alpha, Alpha, Alpha… 
He added fuel to your evergrowing fire as he reached down to your bundle of nerves, rubbing firm circles as he fucked into your wet cunt. He kissed you again, your lips following his lead as he claimed your mouth with his tongue. You moaned as you tasted yourself on him. His lips trailed down your jaw, peppering wet kisses down your body until he reached the scent gland on your neck. He scented you, then. A low growl left his chest as the base of his cock swelled, your pussy constricting in turn. Your howling moans clashed in dissonance as he pushed you over the edge into white-hot pleasure. Bucky thrusted into you, harder, faster, as his pleasure grew and grew until it finally exploded. As his warmth flooded you another sensation sent your senses into hyperdrive–his teeth sinking into your neck. Your arms and legs instinctively wrapped around him as he bonded you, marking you as his. 
You murmured incoherently as your bodies locked together, you were so full of him that you could focus on nothing, but the feel of him locked inside you. Your head lolled to the side as your exhaustion set in, your bones felt heavy as sleep lulled you. You were vaguely aware of the man atop of you, too drunk on mated pleasure to fully acknowledge how his eyes began to once again devour your body. 
He kissed your wound, breathing you in as he did, “What’s your name, Omega?”
“(Y/N),” you rasped. 
“Bucky,” 
As you sobered, the weight of your situation became clearer. All of those white hoods, all of those Omegas that never returned home… Your breathing picked up as panic sparked like lightning in your veins. You shoved on Bucky’s chest as you started to wiggle out from him, tugging on his knot. He snarled and snapped at you and you flinched as unshed tears glossed your eyes. 
“Don’t hurt me, please,” you whimpered, “Please, I–I don’t want to die.” 
“I’m not going to kill you, I’m going to keep you,” 
Keep you? You trembled, “What about all of the other Omegas? What happened to them?” 
He cupped your face and traced the bridge of your nose, then the cupid’s bow of your lips, “Them I killed,” he whispered with a ghost of a smile. 
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last updated: 10/5/2023. 10:59 pm, cdt.
© i do not give my consent for any of my works to be copied and pasted, translated, or posted on any other site. TOJII-FSHIGURO 2023.
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victusinveritas · 8 months
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"A mindblowing 1900 year old Roman hologram effect ring.
The bust is a gold microfusion made upon a wax model, using the cera persa (lost wax) technique covered by a quartz crystal rendering the hologram effect. It shows the sophisticated craftsmanship of ancient jewellers. And also the function of jewellery as a precious keepsake.
The young man depicted in the ring is
Carvilius Gemmulus, who died at 18. His femur was fractured in 2 places, also a high percentage of arsenic was found in his hair. The ring was found in the nearby grave of his mother Aebutia Quarta who died some years later.
The luminous effect of the crystal lense gives a mysterious effect to the image of the beloved son. His mother had the ring made to keep his memory alive.
Both well-kept mummies at the Grottaferrata necropolis near Rome, were elaborately covered with garlands of flowers. He was wrapped in a shroud and completely covered with flowers. Large garlands in good condition covered the upper half of his body, one was placed around his head.
She wore a vegetal mantle made up of hundreds of garlands. On her head was placed a well-preserved wig wrapped in a net woven with fine gold thread ending in a braid.
The ring is on display at the Museo Archeologica Nazionale di Palestrina.
From: the Archeology News Network and other sources. (So if there are spelling or historical errors, they aren't mine.)
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gojoshooter · 7 months
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Sukuna bringin in a Hindu bride 💳💥💳💥 DO YOU SEE THE VISION???
wait wait wait I SEEE hold awn i got you
Ryomen Sukuna and his Hindu!Bride
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a/n: beyond my idea of loving this dynamic, i think this would fit so perfectly. plus that's his damn aesthetic iyk?!
It's the moment you, his pretty pretty Hindu!Bride walks down the petal aisle, Ryomen Sukuna sees the goddess of his very own eudaimonia in your ethereal beauty of jewel covered figure. Holding a garland as if reins to his power.
Hindu!Bride who addresses him as “Swami” which means 'master of self' (master, in general) —he's enthralled. Way to fuel your husband I guess.
Husband!Sukuna learns the word “Ardhangini” is how a husband calls his wife, connoting 'the better half' of him.
“Indeed you are” Sukuna coos internally, looking at his beautiful wife who touches his feet gently as a sign of respect and humility, to seek his blessings.
His grinch little heart would flutter at the sight of his woman blushing about the smallest of his acts, or whenever he complies to your request, big tender fingers putting vermillion on her parted hairline—the very sign of her wifehood.
-
Husband!Sukuna never liked a cooked meal; he used to eat the raw flesh each day, until enters his new wife in the godforsaken scullery. It's a first that a queen enters the kitchen to serve, first time he tasted something entirely different to his taste... saporous, still ended up liking it. There are a lot of firsts he experiences with you by his side.
“Not... bad” he grumbles, his lips betraying and twitching into a slight grin. Delicious... he thinks, because Sukuna can get used to this flavour rich meal already. Just how perfect can his little Miss perfect get?
-
Husband!Sukuna who allows you to put pretty earings on him, he'd spend a little more time looking at himself in the mirror. Maybe he loves your compliments too much.
But nothing parallels his Hindu!Bride clad in golden jewelleries head to toe. Your long hair and the forehead, honey toned face, the arms and wrists, your plump waist and even your lotus like feet... that all makes him a poet whose favourite genre is your jewelled guise.
Maybe that's why he calls you a treasure. His treasure. There's a sort of pride filling his chest when he walks with you with the way you dress; you need high maintenance and lot of care that no man but he can provide.
-
And their goes a saying that a woman acts like a mom to the one in love with—that's so true with you and your Husband!Sukuna cause you literally baby him whenever the chance. Feeding him the first bite with your henna decorated pretty palm, he loves that so much. Likes the smell it adds to whatever you make him eat.
But can you blame yourself? He is a baby. A sulky big baby at that. Sulking when he finds his other side of the bed empty, sulking when you leave his chambers without permission, sulking cause you were too busy to give him kisses or just purely to get your attention.
He makes sure you see him sulk.
-
It's just you who can walk in on him when he's throwing and thrashing things around in rage—unaffected. Everyone in this palace knows that's a privilege only you get, because you're his only one.
No one dares hold his face and look him in the eyes like his Hindu!Bride. No one dares order him to “calm the fuck down” like his queen. Literally none in the three worlds would cradle the big soft-haired head of the King of Curses in their lap to tell him he's a grumpy little child.
That's how it has always been between you two, completing and fitting each other's pieces like Yin & Yang. You couldn't be happier anywhere out of this trance of love you're in for him and he couldn't even imagine to successfully manage a day without his treasure. There couldn't have been a better pair, never could have he met a woman to match his devotion for her.
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TAGS: @anubisisthebomb @dianagracesworld @stellagrangerreads12 @momochina-sama @xxkay15xx @whodoesthatanymore @heresan @nanamikentoseyebags @4sat0ruu
been thinking abt @xxnghtclls 's fic Permission & this ♡
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Winter solstice
Azriel x f!Reader
Summary; celebrating winter solstice with your friends and your daughter.
Warnings; dad Azriel. (I think this is a fair warning)
Masterlist.
Just a quick thought I had.
Winter solstice finally came and Velaris looked even more beautiful than before. All the streets and stores were decorated with garlands and evergreen wreaths and even the mountains seemed festive with the layer of white that covered them. 
Dela your one year old daughter was crawling around your bedroom as you got ready to go to the house of wind to celebrate with your family. You chose a midnight black dress that reached mid-thigh and a pair of black heels. You decided to wear more jewellery than usual to make your outfit less plain and checked your hair one last time before picking up your daughter. 
She looked mesmerizing in the blue- the same shade as her daddy’s siphons- dress you picked for her. 
“Dada” she mumbled when you walked out of the room.
“Yes baby we are going to daddy” you rolled your eyes, lately she’s been asking for Azriel all the time making you hate the word dada by the amount of times you heard it during the day. 
“Dada!” She exclaimed once you reached the living room and Azriel raised from his seat.
“There’s my princess” he cooed and quickly took her from you. The small bat giggled and caressed her daddy’s cheek making his knees tremble. You always enjoyed watching Azriel melting whenever your daughter showed affection towards him.  
“You look amazing angel” he told you and moved closer to leave a soft kiss on your forehead. 
“Thank you my love” you smiled and picked the bag you had prepared with Dela’s bottles, diapers and extra clothes. 
“Ready?” Azriel asked and headed to the door.
“I think so” you noticed Dela’s stuffed bat in the corner and gasped “we almost forgot Claude”
Azriel’s eyes widened and his face paled at the thought of putting her to sleep without her favorite toy.
“Mother above!” He murmured.
“Okay ready” you announced and walked to them. 
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
You landed at the house of wind and walked inside, everyone was there sitting around the table while Nyx and Ella- Cassian’s and Nesta’s daughter ran around the house screaming and laughing. 
“Hello” you smiled and your family immediately got up to kiss you and most importantly to greet Dela. Nyx and Ella were grown now and ignored the adults so, everyone gave their attention to your daughter. 
You watched as she was passed around, kicking her feet and giggling as everyone kissed her and cooed. 
“Finally some time to relax” Azriel whispered to you and you nodded. At first you felt guilty for enjoying these moments of freedom, but now after a whole year with the baby the guilt completely disappeared, after all you were still in the same room with her. 
You all enjoyed your dinner except for Elain who asked if she could feed Dela, she placed the baby chair between her and Lucien and started a story as she fed your daughter. 
You watched the little bat terrorizing Cassian after dinner, and giggled. He was bouncing her on his thigh enjoying her giggles and stopping when he got tired, your daughter though kept shouting “Again” every time he stopped so the poor giant kept bouncing her until he was panting. 
“Come on Del I can’t keep doing this” he whined 
“ Again” she pouted. 
Cassian shook his head and started bouncing her once again.
“Cass I wouldn’t do that if I were you she just….” Your mate was cut off by your daughter who puked. “…ate” he concluded with a sigh. 
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
After Cassian and Dela were clean again you moved to the living room, enjoying your wine and the warmth of the fireplace. You watched all your friends on the ground singing and playing with your daughter and smiled. Azriel noticed too and wrapped an arm around your shoulders pressing you against him and kissing your temple.
“We’re so lucky” you murmured.
“I know” he smiled and leaned his head on yours.
Your little girl glanced back at you giving you a toothy grin before turning her attention back to your friends. 
It's a small one because I didn't have any free time today <3
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