#twelve days of amymas

[amywritesthings]

new year, new choso. / choso nye fic

pairing: choso kamo x f!reader ( jujutsu kaisen ) word count: 1.9k summary: Choso Kamo has never been to a New Year's Eve party. Who knew chaperoning his kid brother to Gojo's Jujutsu High party would end up like this? tags: new year's eve kiss, nye party fluff, choso is a sweet baby angel goth, and he's wearing a suit, alcohol, mentions of cards against humanity credit: dividers by @saradika dedicated to @nube55 , @sixpennydame , and @chishiyasan xo

welcome to the final day of the twelve days of amymas !!

New Year’s Eve parties are typically not your thing.

Loud music, bustling crowds, crowded rooms with crowded strangers — the whole debacle always sounded like a recipe for disaster.

Ieiri claimed that this gathering would be different. Small.

Albeit still a party by Gojo Satoru’s standards as his entire penthouse is littered with tacky balloons, confetti, and endless amounts of blinking year-end sunglasses, but tamer than anticipated.

It’s probably something to do with the fact that said gathering included his students from Jujutsu High.

The teenagers all crowd in the dead center of the living room excitedly playing Cards Against Humanity while Gojo's colleagues and friends mingle about the main floor.

(There’s just something about watching a cursed panda argue that his cards are accurate to the prompt as opposed to the obscene and filthy winners — ironically, a silent kid with cursed speech tattoos holds the jackpot of black cards.)

You were once destined to become a sorcerer yourself, but you’d hung it up for a simpler life. Not unlike your best friend, Shoko, but not as close to the Jujutsu world.

Then again, you never really get away from this life. Not really.

(Only thirty minutes left until the new year.)

“Did you need a refill?”

The gentle question comes out of nowhere to your side, breaking your concentration of the rowdy game.

When you turn your head, you’re immediately taken by a dark-haired man with a thin, black strip covering the bridge of his nose like a blush. He wears a maroon button-up, satin to the eye, and a dark suit jacket to compliment his pale complexion. His shoulder-length dark hair is in a half up-do, fixed hastily in a tiny bun at the crown of his head.

Your first thought? He’s beautiful.

Your second thought? You find yourself staring for too long, lips parted with an answer you’ve all but forgotten.

The man blinks back at you, shuffling in the uncertain silence. 

“I, uh — sorry, I probably should have said ‘hello’ like a normal person and —”

“Uh, sure, I could walk with you?” you blurt, hating yourself for the way his eyes round with his own bout of confusion. “For a refill. I’m getting kind of stiff sitting against this wall.”

He’s a stranger, even if it’s technically a friend’s party.

You’ve been taught from birth that you should take care of your own drinks — but that doesn’t mean you can’t accompany someone as alluring as him to go grab a new mixed drink.

God knows Gojo bought out the entire liquor store despite how seventy-five percent of the party can’t drink and, the irony, Gojo doesn’t drink.

(An overachiever even in the art of hosting, Shoko joked before she dipped for a smoke break.)

Right.

You're dissociating.

Back to the guy in front of you.

“And hi,” you add lamely after a beat.

The stranger fights a smile, choosing to rush a small huff of air.

“Hi. Name's Choso Kamo,” he awkwardly introduces. “And yeah, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He fidgets with a button of his dress shirt, popping it absently.

“Feels a little crowded here.”

"A little," you agree, gesturing for him to show the way.

Shoulder to shoulder you both walk to the drink table, not saying a word.

You note how the stranger — this Choso — keeps his eyes on the table of kids as they heavily debate which answer should win: the cold, dead fingers card dropped by a triumphant Kugisaki, versus the Daniel Radcliff’s delicious asshole card slipped in by a stone-faced Megumi.

“Dying to join in on the game?” you joke, trying to break the slow-building tension.

“Hmm? Oh. God, no. I’m not getting involved in that war.” The man blinks to you, his expression softening for a moment. “My kid brother’s over there.”

“Which one is he?”

Choso smiles small, clearly proud to point him out.

He fills his cup with a moderate amount of rum and soda, mixing it with a wooden stirrer.

“The pink-haired one. Yuji.”

Yuji isn’t hard to spot, not by a long shot.

He’s giggling between Megumi and Kugisaki, joyously playing moderator to the budding fight for who has the best card this round.

When you turn back to Choso, you see his smile has widened.

“He’s got his work cut out for him if he’s the Card Szarr this round," you say.

Choso laughs breathily and takes a sip. “Yeah, his friends are a little brutal. Good kids, but… opinionated.”

(As proudly displayed by the way the finalists shout at one another. Yuji laughs hard, shaking his head — only to pull a major upset by choosing the panda’s card instead.)

“He’s the only reason I’m here,” Choso adds belatedly, seemingly wishing to keep the conversation going. “I’m not exactly friends with the guy who threw this thing.”

“Who, Gojo?” you ask. He nods. “Me neither. My best friend managed to drag me out of my cave. Not sure if you know her — Shoko Iieri?”

Choso shakes his head. 

“Can’t say I do. Then again, I could say that about everyone. I only really came so my brother and his friends had a chaperone home." He straightens once he's done filling his drink. "I take it you don’t normally do these things, either?”

“That’s nice of you,” you comment, filling the rest of your drink before clinking the glass to his. “And no, I kind of hate parties. Way more of a quiet environment sort of person.”

“You and me both,” he commiserates. “Believe it or not, this is my first New Year’s Eve out.”

“Really? Your first, ever?”

He nods. “It’s a little complicated. Jujutsu shit.”

The words make you accidentally bark out a laugh, startling Choso.

He warms to it, however, and laughs with you. 

“Jujutsu shit is very much something I can’t seem to get away from,” you explain.

“Guess I found the one person at this party that gets me,” Choso admits with a dissolving chuckle, the black strip on his nose sprinkled with a gentle pink blush at his confession. “Yuji was pretty insistent on making it a big deal, given it’s my first real holiday outing. We spent Christmas just with the two of us this year — sorry, am I talking too much?”

You sip your drink and shake your head. “I like listening.”

It’s the truth: this man is interesting.

Clearly he’s not completely of this realm, that much you’re quite certain of, but he’s truly trying to be human.

Choso fumbles, but he’s honest about his experience.

It’s a refreshing taking on a world you’ve become so cynical about.

“I usually don’t talk this much,” he admits; his second confession of the night. He sighs and shakes his head. “Anyway, yeah. Christmas was solo, but he wanted to do this big party with his friends. Begged me to come along. New Year’s is an interesting idea, but the traditions… I don’t know.”

He squints at nothing in particular as he thinks.

“There’s so much I want to try now that I’ve got this life.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I have the drinking part down,” he tells you, glancing down at his glass and outfit. “I dressed up, though given what everyone else wore—”

Sweaters. Jeans. Nothing fancy — not like him.

“—I think I screwed that part up.”

“I think you look amazing, for what it’s worth,” you blurt, and he catches your eye with an appreciative glow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, suits always look good.”

Choso grins, albeit briefly, yet the growing confidence lingers.

“Party games, though I’m happier to watch than play right now. Then there’s that New Year’s kiss thing?”

Oh.

He turns to you for confirmation, but you damn well know your face is on fire from the implication.

“When the clock strikes midnight, you’re supposed to kiss someone," he explains like you're new to this, too. "Make a wish or promise or whatever so that the next year is going to be better.”

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He leans in a fraction further, dropping his voice to a murmur. “That's what I heard, anyway.”

You’re expecting him to have a but scoot into that sentence, but he pauses to search your face for the right or wrong answer.

“I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss,” you admit — it's now your turn to confess.

His brows furrow. “Really? Never?”

You shake your head. “Maybe that’s why my years have been so shitty lately.”

Choso nods with a grave understanding. “Could be.”

A few of the teenagers cheer, abandoning the game to turn on the main television.

The clock is only a few minutes until midnight.

Three, to be exact.

Suddenly the drink in your hand becomes your life line.

“I admit that I didn’t know if you needed a refill on your drink,” Choso pipes up, slow and careful. You turn your attention from the television broadcast to look at him. “I only came here to make sure Yuji had a good time with his friends, but then I saw you come in with that woman.”

Wait, he saw you come in?

When you say nothing, he sucks in a sharp inhale to explain himself. 

“I spent an hour working up the courage to come talk to you. I couldn’t think of anything to say. You’re so damn pretty, and you seemed fine hanging out by yourself or with her, and so I thought — I mean, I needed a refill and some liquid courage — so it — do you get what I’m saying?”

No, no you don’t and yes, yes you do.

“You’re very pretty yourself,” you tell him without thinking, causing his eyes to widen. Yours follow suit, rounding like saucers. “I mean — yeah, as soon as I noticed you, I thought you were attractive—”

“People go out for coffee, right?” he interrupts as if he’s been waiting all night to ask. “When they think someone is pretty, they… go out for coffee or dinner or walks.”

One minute remaining.

Choso pauses to stare into your eyes, earnest and true.

“I’d love to go out for some coffee, or whatever dinner you want, or even just a walk. Maybe. Some time. If you’re… free.”

A date.

Forty seconds until the new year, and you’ve already scored yourself a date.

“We could do one of those things,” you murmur. Choso’s face brightens. “Maybe all of them. And we could start it off with…”

Twenty seconds. 

“Making a wish?” the dark-haired man suggests when you trail off, rounding towards you so he’s closer.

For someone who says he has a lot to experience, you’re surprised that he seems to cage you in with experience. 

If it wasn’t for his eyes begging you to confirm that this is what you want, then you’d think maybe he was a liar.

“Yeah. For a great new year,” you explain, lifting your chin.

Ten seconds.

“For a great new year,” he exhales with a promise, leaning in.

His hand reaches to gently cup your face as though mesmerized by how soft your skin feels beneath his palm.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The clock strikes midnight, and a pair of plush, timid lips gingerly press to yours.

You meet with an eager kiss, and you swear you feel Choso’s mouth curve into a satisfied smile against yours.

(Maybe next year really will be better.)

#choso x reader #choso kamo x reader #choso kamo x you #choso kamo fluff #choso x you #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk fanfiction #jjk fanfic #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #choso fanfic #choso fic #choso kamo fanfiction #choso kamo fanfic #nye fic #twelve days of amymas

[tarrensbookmarks]

The Gentleman by @stargirlfics Alfred Pennyworth x Black!Female!Dancer!Reader

I Want You To Show Me Weak by @tarabyte3 Kino Loy x Female!Reader

The Devil Makes Us Sin by @tarabyte3 David Robey x Female!Reader

Salvation is a Deep Dark Well by @citrus-moonlight Ulysses Klaue x Female!Reader

Dream Within A Dream Week by @moonlight-prose Works based on F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hozier sentence starters

Twelve Days of Amymas by @amywritesthings Holiday event with twelve one shots

Into the Fire by @eupheme Cooper Howard x Female!Reader

#cooper howard x reader #tarren's bookmarks #fic recs #tarren reads #alfred pennyworth x reader #kino loy x reader #david robey x reader #ulysses klaue x reader

[amywritesthings]

mistletoe (on the clock.) / nanami x you

pairing: nanami kento x f!reader word count: 1.7k summary: It's your annual holiday party at the office. You and your coworker Nanami Kento end up in a precarious yuletide predicament. tags: mistletoe, holiday office party, explicit language, sexual tension, hair pulling, kissing, make corporate speak horny in this house

part of the twelve days of amymas 2023 !!!

Office holiday parties shouldn’t be mandatory.

Eight, sometimes bordering up to twelve, hours under fluorescent lights was more than enough anguish — add four extra mandatory 'fun' hours and you see why half of your colleagues spend their nights bar hopping to cope.

However, if these annual holiday parties weren't mandatory, most of your colleagues would never bother showing up in the first place.

You sure as hell wouldn’t.

(And you're pretty sure the tall blonde you spy from across the room wouldn’t, either.)

It’s only your first year with the company, but it’s already one year too many.

You'd taken a few gap years between college to figure your shit out, travel a little, but you still ended up in the grand corporate scheme.

The nine-to-five lifestyle is nothing less than soul sucking. Commuting back and forth is such a pain. 

By the time you make it back to your tiny one-bedroom flat, the night is too cold to enjoy anything beyond your warm bed.

But... there are perks to the job, sometimes.

Free lunches are great.

Business connections don't hurt.

Not to mention you've grown fond of one person who makes your commute a little tolerable:

Tall. Blonde. High cheekbones. Voice as smooth as honey.

Nanami Kento.

Stoic on the outside yet considerably kind on the inside, Nanami has equal parts ruined and consumed your days.

The sheer sight of him in his tailored suits without a strand of hair out of place can make you weak in the knees, so you make it a point to always talk to him sitting down.

And he seems to like you, for what it’s worth.

Nanami always makes sure to bring you tea and water in the morning to stay hydrated.

He stops by your cubicle to tell you there's free catering in the break room if you missed the memo.

No matter how late you end up staying, he always makes it a point to never let you walk to the train station alone.

It’s sweet.

It’s more than what anyone else has ever done for you in your life, so naturally?

You're into him.

Bad.

Of course, that means you’re too chicken to invite him over for dinner.

God knows you can’t cook a decent course to save your life, but you’d order in — it’s only one string away from officially asking him on a date, masked as a favor repaid.

('Tis the damn season; it may be your time to take a little leap of faith if he's going to be standing there all alone for this insufferable party.)

Emboldened by the spiked eggnog in your system, you decide to jump:

You make a beeline through the crowds of laughing colleagues, all varying stages of intoxicated, straight to him.

In truth, you're eager to blend as a wallflower beside him.

Nanami almost instantly catches you in the crowd, but he makes no motion to meet you in the middle.

He moves a pace to the right, silently offering you the corner to hide in.

You have to be brave.

You have to make the first real move.

(Attractiveness aside, it's just Kento. He must be at the end of his social battery, too.)

“Hey,” you greet.

“Hello,” he replies, smooth as butter.

“Having the time of your life over here?” you joke, pressing your back into the wall.

He hums in a noncommittal fashion. “At the very least, this party is much more tame than the one they threw last year.”

“Is it?”

Kento nods. “Someone overserved. Shirts flew. Marriages shattered.” His strong brow furrows. “Though I wanted to ask, even though I've been here longer: has Mr. Hiro always been a happy drunk? I recall differently.”

“No, that’s a fairly new development. His wife finally finalized the divorce last week,” you gossip under your breath. “I had to field the call myself.”

“Oh?” Nanami asks, turning a sharp chin your way. “Ugly?”

“Very.”

“To call and finalize over the phone at the office is—”

“Ballsy.”

A sly smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “I was going to say a choice, but sure.” 

Nanami clinks his ceramic ‘work hard, play harder ’ slogan mug to yours — a past gag gift from that Gojo Satoru friend of his, you’re sure — and pushes his body from the wall. 

“Do you need a refill?”

You nod, holding up your empty eggnog mug.

"Thanks."

"How spiked do you want it?"

"Blackout levels," you joke. It earns you an even larger smile, albeit shortly lived.

He plucks the handle from you easily enough, but you notice how his eyes flutter above your heads and… stay there.

Weird.

Unable to help yourself, you lift your chin to see the captivating problem for yourself:

Hovering over the two of you this entire time has been a pesky little bundle of leaves, tied together with a tiny red bow.

Shit.

Mistletoe.

(Were these things even allowed in the office? Surely hanging one constituted breaking at least four different Human Resources violations in one swift sweep.)

You open your mouth to make a joke, but—

“Has that been there?” Nanami asks, and you can feel your face grow hot.

“I— Maybe?” You clear your throat. “Did you stand under it on purpose?”

(Way to go, moron.)

Nanami considers, then shakes his head.

“I had no intention of kissing anyone in our office, I assure you,” he replies, and you feel yourself deflate a little. “Though I guess this is an opportune moment.”

Oh?

You pretend to look unbothered, arms crossed over your chest.

It takes you biting your tongue to avoid asking outright.

“What do you mean, opportune?” you ask instead.

Blink and you’ll miss it: Nanami smiles, albeit barely, before turning his chin back to the mistletoe in question.

“I would prefer taking a woman out to dinner before kissing her, but I suppose if you were interested, then we could be a little unconventional. It’s likely the swift kick in my ass I needed.”

Your brows slide to your hairline as you regard him in equal parts confusion and hope.

“Wait, you…” 

Words.

You have to remember how to speak.

The whole point of this job was to be suave, but you’re failing miserably at it at the moment.

“You were interested in going to dinner with…”

“You?” Nanami finishes, and he angles his larger frame towards you. “Was it never obvious?”

Obvious?

Now you really felt like a fish out of water.

Nothing about Nanami Kento was obvious.

You could barely get a read on him, even if he did all of those really nice things for you—

Oh.

The realization hits you like a subway train, leaving you breathless.

The blonde stares down at you, patiently waiting for an answer.

You blurt. "Do you still want dinner after?"

"I don't think many places are open at this hour, but if you're not hungover tomorrow, I could call."

"I'm not picky," you reply. "I love takeout."

"We're not getting takeout on our first outing," Nanami snorts.

"Like I said, very-much not picky."

A moment passes.

You both stare at one another, waiting for the right timing to...

Well, do anything.

He wants to take you out to dinner.

Nanami fucking Kento wants to take you out— 

And kiss you.

Actually, that part is more important right now.

"So the... unconventional part."

"The mistletoe," he adds.

"Right. Is that still on the table?"

"Do you want it to be on the table?"

"Is that a serious question?" you counter, before leaning in a little closer. "Okay, but what if someone sees?"

Nanami shrugs a shoulder, resting his bare forearm against the wall you lean against. His button-down shirt is rolled up to the elbow, making your mouth water.

His body shields you from the rest of the people in the office. 

One quick peck and none of the drunks on this floor would be any wiser.

“Are you that concerned?” he asks.

When his featherlight touch raises your chin to meet his gaze, he makes your decision right there and then.

You’ve wanted Nanami for so damn long.

Now the opportunity is presented to you like a holiday gift, and you’re not one to be ungrateful.

“Not anymore,” you admit, wrapping your fingers around his speckled yellow and black tie.

Like two magnets, you pull him in by the tie and he drags you in by the chin, connecting your lips in a searing kiss.

Nanami is warm, stronger than you anticipated. You melt against his lips as they gingerly move against yours.

You want him to push you against this wall.

You want to what he'd do if you dropped to your knees the way you’ve imagined doing every single time he’s sitting at his desk with those goddamn dress slacks bunched against his thighs.

You want so much in so little time that you bite his lower lip, causing the blonde to groan with need.

He slides his fingers along your jawline, snaking up past your ear and into your hair.

His fingers curl around the strands, tugging playfully.

Then, abruptly, he pulls away.

No.

Too soon.

You could topple over with how quickly you chase him, but he stops you with his index finger pressed to your lips.

“Nanami!” 

A voice calls him, slurred and hiccupped, from the other side of the room.

You freeze, unable to do anything but stare into his brown eyes. 

“Get your ass over here!”

“Group photo,” Nanami reluctantly murmurs to you, and your shoulders sag. “Before everyone starts digging out the hard liquor.”

Still, he leans back in to drop a gentle peck to the tip of your nose.

When he pulls away, he drops the arm against the wall to hold his palm out to you — an invitation.

“Let’s circle back after.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice.

You take his hand and never look back.

.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk x you #nanami kento fanfic #nanami kento fluff #jjk fanfiction #nanami kento fanfiction #amywritesthings #twelve days of amymas #fic: mistletoe on the clock

[amywritesthings]

the morning of. / an armin holiday fic

pairing: armin arlert x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) word count: 2k summary: It's not only your first holiday after the Battle of Heaven and Earth, but your first time living with Armin. Waking up next to overachiever has its perks.

tags: 18+ MINORS DNI! post-aot finale, smut, dirty talk, foreplay (f!receiving, armin's a giver), light dom undertones, orgasm, angst with a happy ending, armin is a sweety but also a lil freaky credit: dividers by @saradika

welcome to the ninth day of the twelve days of amymas and also merry christmas eve !!

Christmas Day.

This year marked the very first holiday season after the Battle of Heaven and Earth.

And you?

You're surviving, but you're not alone:

After the papers were signed and the truces were finalized, all Armin Arlert wanted to do was go back to Paradis and exist.

To live in peace if only for a little while, perhaps somewhere not too far from the sea, before he went back for more ambassadorship opportunities.

For his friends.

For himself.

(But with you.)

So you went back on the first boat to Paradis with Jean and Connie.

While Armin worked hard to square away everything on Marley, you worked towards the future of rebuilding of this little island, aiming your sights beyond the Walls.

To create the perfect home for the two of you.

Although gathering building supplies and hands steady enough to build a cabin required effort, you managed to pull enough favors from the people of Paradis: a quaint cabin on the outskirts awaited the 15th Commander of the Scouts on the far side of the island, right by the mouth of the ocean.

And when Armin came home, that’s where you stayed.

Although it was no secret that you and Armin had a thing in the Scout Corps, it's odd to acknowledge it was real in front of all of your friends.

Yet, given the weariness in everyone's bones, no one bats an eye at the fact that you live together.

(It’s better that everyone is happy in their own way.)

And it's quiet, for the most part.

The tide comes and goes. Birds chirp and squawk over the waves.

Armin had been busy visiting Mikasa Ackerman on Christmas Eve, imploring her to stop by for dinner at your place.

You were already prepared for Christmas Day. After all, it was easy to make him gifts while he was away so much.

Crocheting a sweater, for instance, to combat the chill of the sea. Buying a few practical items, for the next time he departs for Marley.

When Armin returned, he seemed happy.

(Mikasa said yes, he exhales with relief.)

And when you went to bed, Armin seemed in his own head, like he was waiting to be alone.

You assume it's for reflection.

It isn't a bother to sleep early.

When you awake Christmas morning, the sun has yet to rise. Only a faint hue from the open bedroom window illuminates the room.

Armin is still fast asleep.

His blonde hair has gotten a little longer around the frame of his face, cascaded in a halo around his face.

He looks exhausted.

Spent.

Carefully you nudge his outstretched arms, attempting to wake him just enough to cuddle against him.

Armin gives easily to your request, making a small noise in his sleep as he subconsciously invites you in.

By the time you nestle under his arm, he lets out a soft sigh.

“...time is it?”

“Early,” you whisper back, nuzzling your nose to him. A gentle ghost of a smile passes against his lips. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmph — no, gotta… get up,” he mumbles, eyes still closed. “It’s Christmas.”

You shake your head with a small laugh, studying his face.

“We don’t have any plans. We can sleep until dinner if we want.”

“Mm, but what about…”

"Rest, Armin," you interrupt, kissing the tip of his nose. "I'm going to make some tea."

Armin takes a slow inhale through his nose, only to curl his arm around your body to pull you closer.

Firmer.

Keeping you from making a move from his side.

It's amusing. Cute.

To accommodate, you drag your thigh higher along the outer curve of his to slot better beside him.

“...can’t go downstairs," the command is his exhale, "not yet.”

“Why not?” you question playfully.

Using your shoulder, you crane your neck to view the mouth of the stairwell connected to the bedroom — as if you'll manage to see why for yourself.

Armin catches the movement, causing him to finally open those brilliant blue eyes of his.

He’s a light sleeper, freakishly alert, but through the last few months he's found himself more lax when it comes to laying in bed with you.

(At ease. Gentle.)

“Because I have to be there when you do,” he replies with a little more awareness in his voice. “I… might have done something.”

You whip your attention back down to the blonde beside you and note the growing blush on his pale cheeks.

“Done… something?”

“Like maybe gone a little overboard.”

You blink. “In what way?”

“In a… well, it was supposed to be a surprise— Wait!”

When he notices you shift to sit up, Armin quickly pushes your back against the mattress and pins you to it with his own warm body.

He curls around you with a light chuckle, eyes still a bit bleary.

You drop back with a gentle oof, and stare up that boyish, charming face of his.

You can’t help it.

You lean up to capture his lips in a brief kiss, and he makes a short noise of surprise.

Your head drops back to the pillow, lips curling to a smirk.

“Is that why you’re so tired? You were up all night doing something downstairs?”

"You make it sound like I was doing something bad."

"I mean, if the shoe fits."

"For your information, I brought a few decorations back."

"Back?" you repeat. "Like from Marley."

He nods. "Not that you didn't do a great job with the tree. I didn't touch that. I just... sort of covered our entire house with stuff. Garland. Candles. Beads—"

"Armin?"

"—so you'd wake up to a sight to behold. You know, for our first winter season." He pauses before sheepishly including: "Together."

Chuckling to himself, Armin cups his palm to your cheek and leans in, refusing to allow that one kiss to be the only one.

“You always ruin surprises.”

“I know,” you manage to joke right back. "But I bet it really is."

"Really is what?" he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips.

You accept it with a hum of approval.

"A sight to behold."

(Just like him, you want to tell him, but he'll never recover.)

Armin doesn’t just give kisses — every peck has a meaning, every slow drag has a purpose, and the air in the room shifts in an instant.

The kisses deepen, and soon enough Armin is caging you underneath of him.

His palm cradles your head like you’re a precious gem, mindful of his weight hovering over you.

When his hips instinctually grind into yours, the thin layer of your pajamas make direct contact between your legs.

Armin chokes out a shaken gasp, shuddering from pleasure.

He’s already hard from morning wood, and you can’t help but grin against his mouth.

“Sorry,” he hiccups, pressing his forehead into yours as he stops himself. “Sorry, you — it’s, ah, it’s always you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his arousal to disappear, before fluttering his eyes open down to you.

“We can be lazy about it,” you sing-song, reaching down to snap the waistband of his pajamas. He jolts. “If you want.”

Armin's eyes widen a fraction at what you’re implying, before his face turns scarlet. 

“I mean, yeah, I… you don’t have to convince me. But — downstairs—”

“Can wait,” you interrupt, flicking his lower lip with the tip of your tongue.

Armin shudders, reaching down to glide his hand over the swell of your breast, circling his thumb over the peak.

"You sure about this?" he whispers as he continues to rub affectionately, mindful of the noises bubbling in your throat. 

You've never nodded so fast in your life.

Eventually the blonde turns his wrist, pointing his fingers down to your hips, before slipping his fingers under the waistband.

He whines when he realizes you’re already plenty wet.

“You, too, huh?” he weakly jokes about your states of arousal, but he bites his lip and slowly — slowly — circles your clit with his middle finger.

You gasp, dropping your head back.

He seizes the moment and dives in, peppering loving kisses to your neck.

The circles grow more certain.

Stronger.

“Just… wanted this first Christmas to mean something,” he murmurs against your neck, sucking at the skin and nipping gently. 

You writhe against the sheets, moaning to the morning air. 

“You deserve something good. I want to give you something… so good…”

“Armin,” you breathe, and you feel his lips curve to a smile against your lips.

“Come for me first,” he whispers, tightening the circles around your clit the way he’s grown to master. “Just once and I’ll take you downstairs, I promise.”

“What about — mmph — you?” you whine, bucking your hips into his hand.

You want to feel him, in every way imaginable.

You want him to feel good, too, but you can barely think straight.

His knee nudges under yours and pushes upward, forcing your right leg wider. Opening your folds to him, giving him direct access to what he wants.

"You said we had no plans, right?" Armin replies with gentle amusement.

His fingers speed up to make a point.

"By that definition, I can have you here for as long as I want."

"Armin."

Your back arches, desperate to rock against him with little shame.

"Maybe this is my gift. Hearing you say my name like that. I'll make up for all the times you had to take care of yourself while I was away. Then, and only when I think I've made you come enough, you can return the favor."

He lifts his head, keen on watching you come apart by his hand.

“I’m in no rush.”

“Armin—”

“I got you,” he interrupts, pressing a kiss to your lips to drown out your cries. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He doesn’t give up.

He’s so timid in so many aspects of his life, but after some trial and error in bed, this is the one place he’s certain.

Sure of himself.

He knows you, just like you know him.

And Armin won’t give up until he has you whimpering under him.

Your toes curl when that familiar pressure begins to build, and he doesn’t let up.

Doesn’t stop.

All he does is leave your lips to nip at your earlobe.

“You’re close already, aren’t you?”

He whispers in your ear, and you bite your lip to keep the noises down.

“Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

Stars burst.

Sometimes all it takes is Armin’s gift of words that sends you reeling, and soon you fall over the edge with a strangled moan of need.

He continues massaging your clit, slowing the speed but not quite letting up.

Not until you make that squeak of overstimulation.

Then he hums with happiness, and pulls his hand out of your pajama bottoms.

“Better?” he asks gently, using his other hand to gently run along your cheek. He licks his fingers clean, savoring the taste of you.

Spent, you nod with a lopsided smile.

“...I feel like you’re already spoiling me.”

“Oh, that’s hardly what I call spoiling,” he breathily admits, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “You okay?"

"More than," you promise.

"Good. C’mon, let’s go downstairs."

"I don't think I can feel my legs."

He chuckles, sitting up with a grin. "Then I'll carry you on my back. We'll make some fresh tea and enjoy the day before the rest show up.”

You leisurely follow, sitting up on your elbows.

When you hold out a hand for him to take, he pulls you up.

Forehead to forehead, he takes a pause to nuzzle them together, eyes slipping closed.

"Happy Christmas," he says.

"Happy Christmas to you, too, Commander." He snorts at the title. "If we’re going to start off every Christmas this way, I’m not gonna say no."

Armin’s grin only widens.

He turns his back to you at the edge of the bed, beckoning you to climb on.

Sleepily you oblige, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He turns his chin to kiss the tip of your nose, murmuring a promise in return:

“I’m open to starting new traditions, but only if they're with you.”

.

#armin arlert smut #armin arlert x reader #armin arlert x you #attack on titan fanfiction #aot fanfiction #aot smut #snk x reader #snk fanfiction #armin arlert fanfic #aot fanfic #aot fic #snk fic #snk fanfic #attack on titan fanfic #attack on titan fic #shingeki no kyoujin fanfic #shingeki no kyojin fic #holiday smut #holiday one shot #twelve days of amymas

[amywritesthings]

boston holiday. / a joel holiday ficlet

pairing: joel miller x f!reader ( the last of us ) word count: 1.5k summary: You're decorating for the holidays in your Boston Quarantine Zone apartment. A begrudging Joel Miller gets involved. tags: domestic fluff, pre-tlou, explicit language, holiday decorating in the apocalypse, set 6 months after 'seeing you / seeing me' credit: dividers by @saradika

welcome to the third day of the twelve days of amymas 2023 !!!

“The hell’re you doing, girl?”

Only two people have the key to your place.

One of them is Tess Servopoulos.

Giving Tess a spare key was necessary — or so she's claimed, since according to her, she can't trust you to stay out of trouble for longer than twenty minutes.

(She isn't wrong.)

However, you’d love to argue that somehow you have become the saint in this duo.

Ever since that week at Miller's place, every deal has gone smoother than running water. For the last couple of months, you've been clean. Unseen. Invisible.

Tess, on the other hand, has always been a bad influence.

The older woman opens her mouth, starts a Boston-wide battle, and boom — sleepover for two at your place.

(After saving your ass, you'll hide her away from wandering eyes without question. Curfew punishments be damned.)

The other person that has the key to your place, well —

The other is the salt-and-pepper man watching you in mild horror as you teeter on the arm of your dilapidated couch.

(You just haven't seen him yet.)

Joel Miller has been known for his subtlety, his silence, but not around you.

Not when he holds the key to your place; a recent development.

He tends to simply show up when he wants.

You don't mind that — usually.

But his bark scares the shit out of you in the middle of stretching high, your bare toes barely touching the arm of your couch.

The hell're you doing, girl?

Hoping to tack this starting string of garland to the ceiling suddenly becomes you fighting for your life.

"Ah—!"

The surprise intrusion causes you to falter, ankle losing its balance.

You wobble once, violently twice, before falling backwards.

Joel wastes no time — he slams the front door shut, not bothering to lock it behind him, and rushes to the couch.

Like some fucked up apocalyptic fairy tale, he catches you well before you hit the ground.

Joel Miller, the reluctant hero.

For a moment you stay suspended here: feet barely touching the ground, the older man’s arms wrapped around your torso.

Joel's weather-worn face twists in a concerned scowl.

All you can do is cheekily smile.

“Hey, Miller.”

“Don’t fucking hey me,” he snaps. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“To be fair, I thought I could reach it.” He stares, so you supply: "The ceiling. I thought I could reach the ceiling."

“You’ve got the tallest goddamn ceilings in the Boston Q-Z,” Joel argues in return, setting you down to properly stand. You hold onto the sleeves of his flannel shirt until you get your footing. “Ain’t no way in hell you were reaching anything.”

He lets go of you to stare at the ceiling like he's ready to pick a fight with it, before dropping his chin.

The man stops moving when he picks up the fallen string of fake green vines strewn across your scratched hardwood floor.

The question is silent: what the hell is this?

You cross your arms over your chest, wishing you had a better excuse.

A funny one that doesn't make you look so childish, especially in front of Joel Miller.

Still, you're a bad liar around him, so you choose to stare at the garland instead of him when you confess.

“I was trying to get the holiday spirit going.”

When you blink up to Joel, your suspicions of confusion are correct: he stares back like you’ve sprouted a second head and become a clicker in the flesh.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“The what now?”

You playfully roll your eyes and walk away towards your radio. Hovering over it, your fingertips reach to toy with the dials until white static takes over the apartment silence.

That radio is the only reliable device in your endless collection of junk, though it's had to go through some repairs this year.

Thanks to Joel it still works, though he won't let you thank him.

(Not verbally, anyway. There are always loopholes in the middle of the night.)

“Every year I do this,” you explain, turning each dial with care until the local radio station comes over the airwaves.

"You... decorate."

Clearly he's unimpressed.

"Yeah," you reply. "Between leaving the Q-Z and scavenging the nearby neighborhoods, I find junk all the time. Snowman trinkets and elf knick-knacks and other stupid shit no one ever touches because it's all useless. I keep all of them in a box until the holidays. My collection's actually grown exponentially over the years.”

Two boxes full, actually.

Forgotten treasures of other families, now kept sacred on your mantle.

“Sounds like a waste of time,” Joel scoffs.

“It is,” you agree once you find the right channel before standing at full height with a tiny smile, "but that time makes me happy, so I’m happy to waste it. What else am I supposed to do between jobs?”

He considers those words, if just for a moment.

Joel scrunches his nose and eyes in a way that says he's debating on being mean.

You don't expect him to get it.

He's been through shit, but so has everyone in this quarantine zone.

(So have you.)

The Eagles croon in the background — not exactly holiday cheer, but any vinyl or CDs of the greats like Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra singing holiday songs are probably nonexistent from the decay of time.

Besides, you can’t imagine many others are trying to keep the holidays afloat in the quarantine zone. Some families, sure, but not many.

Too much heartbreak. Too much loss.

But you've had enough sadness, so you try to bring a little light to your humble abode.

"Don't worry about it, Joel," you add after an uncomfortable amount of silence passes. "I know it's stupid. There's a fresh bottle of stored whiskey in the—"

All words die on your tongue when some kind of winter miracle happens:

Rather than tossing the garland string to the side, Joel turns on the heel of his boot and away from you.

"Joel?"

He carefully slips off his shoes, revealing worn-white socks, and steps on your couch cushion.

With care, he reaches for the ceiling.

A strip of his bare lower back reveals itself in his stretch.

“What are you... doing?” you inquire, stepping around your couch to face him.

He doesn't look down, determined to stare at the white canvas of your ceiling.

Searching.

Your line of sight is in direct contact with the dark happy trail poking from his shirt, causing your face to burn.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he retorts.

“You said it was a waste of time.”

“You dying because you wanna try and stick some stupid tree shit up on your ceiling is more of a waste of time. You got tape or something?”

“Seriously?”

He peers down at you. 

“Do I look like I’m kidding?" he retorts. "Get the damn tape.”

You have to try not to smile too wide when you step away, rummaging through your box of supplies.

Truthfully nothing in this box is worth keeping — none of it will save your life in the apocalypse — but your mental sanity thanks you for it every year.

After finding a roll that’s still sticky, you return to the couch and hold it up for him.

Joel grunts in gratitude, focusing his efforts solely on the line of green above him.

He manages to press the start of the decoration in place, holding the bottom of it to you.

“You want big loops or little?”

“What’ll stick better, Miller?”

He gives you a warning look. “Joel.”

A smile spreads like wildfire against your lips.

“...what’ll stick better, Joel?”

That seems to satisfy him.

“Hell if I know,” he grumbles, “just tell me what you prefer and I’ll do it.”

Something stirs in your lower belly as he speaks.

Joel didn’t have to do this.

He didn’t have to do any of it.

You were perfectly fine with keeping your need for holiday cheer to yourself, but he’s stepped in without so much as a fuss.

He’s had a hard life. Tess has alluded to the fact that he was once a father before.

You can only imagine how much he hates this, but he’s still trying.

For you.

It’s not a favor you will easily forget.

Your fading candles burn out in the background as the two of you go through every part of your assorted holiday decorations, popping open a bottle of smuggled whiskey to keep yourselves dehydrated. 

You direct. Joel places.

After some time you both get too tipsy to put the finishing touches.

(Too busy slow dancing in the middle of your living room to the ballads of Patsy Cline.)

Making jokes.

Enjoying warmth.

Choosing life.

It’s the first night Joel Miller ever sleeps at your place.

You both stay in bed long after the sun rises.

.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #tlou fanfiction #tlou fanfic #tlou fic #tlou fluff #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #holiday fanfic #holiday one shot #holiday fluff #twelve days of amymas #amywritesthings #fic: boston holiday

[amywritesthings]

part four: the dance. / astarion x tav

the better strategy series.

pairing: astarion x tav (she/her) word count: 4.5k summary: jaheira organizes a makeshift winter's ball at the last light inn. astarion loses sight of his own game and asks tav for a dance. tags: winter themed, waltzing, dancing, last light in reimagining, romantic/sexual tension, trauma, astarion's pov, miscommunications, selûne worshipper!tav, sensuality, confessions // mature for thematic elements

part three. / part five (coming soon). | masterlist.

welcome to the eighth day of the twelve days of amymas !!

PART FOUR: THE DANCE.

.

A winter ball — oh, he could climb into a coffin and never resurface.

They are a party of adventurers, not performers.

They ought to be compensated with gold and weaponry. Instead they're met with a celebration of food Astarion is sorely disinterested in and booze that will surely make for some less-than savory debauchery.

(And usually he’s such a fan of debauchery, but not when it involves other people and Tav.)

After all, without Tav’s quick thinking and assistance, Jahiera and all of her Harpers would have easily lost their half-elf cleric protecting their little Last Light Inn. 

And, without Isobel, the idiots taking refuge here would all be doomed to wither away to the Shadow Curse like their precious lands.

The party, however, would be just fine.

Torches for days.

Rations overflowing at camp.

Not to mention that handy little moon lantern Astarion may or may not have swindled a confused drider out of giving up.

(Miserable bastard.)

So here the somewhat-heroic group stands:

Inn? Saved.

Isobel? In one piece.

Jaheira? Grateful, in her Jaheira way.

So grateful, in fact, she's proposed a one-night party in a similar vein of the grove celebration many moons ago.

A winter's ball, she calls it.

(Astarion is quite convinced the druid only calls it a ball because half of these blasted Harpers have never seen an elegant gathering to save any of their skins.)

Perhaps the most annoying part of this happening is the fact that Tav has looked happier than she’s appeared in weeks.

So many harrowing battles on the dilapidated roads before them forced them to veer a hard right, ruining their original mission trajectory.

Moonrise Towers, for now, could wait.

With dwindling supplies and Karlach running out of steam, Tav was certain this road was the best path to take.

Call it… well, a calling, he supposes.

Because a hop, skip, and a jump later, their party discovered some Harper-infested bubble called the Last Light Inn.

The Last Light is a warm place to sleep at night, and frankly? Astarion hadn’t laid down on a real mattress (not without a stranger in his orbit) in over two-hundred years.

Coincidentally, Tav loves the Last Light Inn, too.

It’s a prime opportunity to rest their feet, to catch up with the refuge tieflings that managed to escape their own ill fates, to speak with that indebted gnome from the windmill hilarity—

And, well, Isobel.

Isobel is the white-haired cleric that guards said bubble, keeping the curse from entering their oasis.

However, Isobel isn’t just a cleric — she also happens to be a fellow follower of Selûne. 

(Oh, goody.)

The woman is convinced Selûne guided Tav to their hideaway.

She's convinced their detour was all in the plan.

(Selûne was never far from Tav's prayer, a notion that makes him both envious and glad.)

However, Isobel is a bit too giddy to steal the wood elf away from their party. They've spent the better half of a day gushing over one another's skill, gossiping over their goddess and what it took to simply get to this place.

In fact, Astarion hasn't seen her in hours.

(Even an hour is too long, he's decided.)

Yet that’s all the bloody Harpers have done in Tav’s orbit: 

Chat. Compliment. Praise. Swoon.

(Yes, she’s impressive, but what about him? He needs dinner.)

And now it has all come to a head: a party to celebrate a victory when there are so few.

Wyll, of course, thrives at the idea of setting up a Winter’s Ball. It’s in his Ravengard wheelhouse.

Karlach — with a fixed engine and a glowing disposition now that she's reunited with Dammon — trails excitedly right behind.

The two of them, along with Isobel, take up most of Tav’s time.

Astarion is bumped back with the rest of the party, again.

The rest are neither here nor there about the plan. Shadowheart wants to keep moving. Lae’zel finds the concept childish. Gale swears he has two left feet.

Frustratingly enough, Tav is somewhere predictably in the middle.

She doesn’t wish to rock the boat or ruin anyone’s fun — she empathizes with those not as excited, but he can tell she’s closer towards wanting this to happen.

The way she beams when the Harpers ask her for preferences isn’t lost on him.

So Astarion has to do one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his life.

He goes from hell no, to hell yes — in a fortnight.

Especially after Tav that afternoon comes to him with an embarrassed look on her face.

That alone could get him to agree to anything.

"Astarion?"

Ah — think of an angel, and she shall rise.

His is an instant response, brought on from the sound of her voice alone.

“Yes, my sweet?”

(Only one other person commanded his attention as such, but that was out of fear. This is out of eagerness.)

Astarion has been minding his own, mentally preparing for a crowded, drunken celebration in his bedroom. People watching, really, as everyone sets up tables and chairs in the courtyard below.

He turns a chin towards the doorway where she stands, appearing smaller than usual.

Distraught.

He pushes off of the window frame with his shoulder.

"Is something troubling you, my dear?"

Tav makes a noise of discomfort, concerning him, before she holds up…

Fabric?

“She gave me a dress.”

The vampire blinks twice. “A what?”

“A dress,” she bemoans. “Alfira.”

The godsdamn tiefling bard that plays horrid music, of all people.

“She had extras in her pack, and…" Tav sighs in that people-pleasing way he's come to memorize, "...she’s hoping I wear it to the ball. As a gift for helping out the tieflings, but I don't feel I've earned it. And I don't really... well, the dress is...”

“It’s a party, dearest, not a ball. A ball needs less dust and cobwebs,” Astarion corrects, before crossing his arms over his chest. “You could have told her no.”

“She’s been through a lot.”

“So have you,” he challenges.

“And she looked quite excited—”

“Is it as ugly as her grove attire?” A tiny smirk crawls over his lips. “Because—”

“Astarion!” 

Tav whispers desperately, moving across the room to him. She lifts her hand to hover over his mouth as if to quiet him without ever touching him. 

She does that often — avoids touching him outright.

The wood elf always asks.

Apparently the surface-level stories of Cazador's abuse were enough to make her mindful of his aversion towards surprise touch. 

(The thoughtfulness of him makes him want to scream.)

“It’s plain,” Tav quietly explains. “Green and, um, not quite my shade, but I just — can you please tell me what you think of it?”

“A half hour before our party’s a bit late to request opinions on outfit, is it not?” he quips, pretending like being Tav’s mirror is such a burden.

It’s really not.

It’s better than her going back to Wyll for opinions.

Or, Gods forbid, Gale.

“I knew you’d be honest,” she says like he’s ever been honest a day in his undead life.

So Tav believes he’d be brave enough to tell her… what?

That she’s ugly in something?

He’d be elated if he wasn’t so offended — Tav could wear a potato sack and still boggle the minds of every man, woman, and person at this inn.

Still, he has a reputation to uphold. 

“Go ahead," he sniffs, then adds, “and I very much doubt green isn’t a wood elf’s color.”

Astarion waves her off with forced indifference as she glances around the room.

“Should I just do it here, or is that uncomf—”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

She wishes to undress here?

His brain feels a bit constricted, like he’s lost oxygen. 

Then he remembers to perform.

“I’ll turn around. How’s that?” Astarion purrs, before pointing to a mirror. He flips it around and offers a grand gesture once his back is to her. “See? Fixed. I promise to not take a single peak at that tantalizing figure you so rarely accentuate.”

“Accentuating is impractical, and I’d hardly call myself tantalizing — but I appreciate the compliment, Astarion,” she returns with a relieved sigh, and Gods, he smiles. 

She can’t see it, which is why it’s so easy to soundlessly laugh.

Fabrics ruffle behind him. Articles of clothing gently hit the ground.

The vampire could black out at the way the forefront of his imagination runs wild.

Tav is naked.

In some state of undress, right there, behind him.

It’s a strange feeling, to want to see someone naked — bodies are just bodies. 

They’re skin and blood and, quite frankly, a bit disgusting. 

So many fluids all the time.

But something warms him at the concept of Tav’s soft curves, the slopes of collarbones under tunics, what her legs may look like when they’re not covered by practical trousers. He pictures freckles on her skin. A scar or three. Planes of flesh clear of speckles of blood—

Shit, is he getting hard?

Just for thinking about fucking Tav?

Not fucking her, no, but the idea of simply looking at her, which is more embarrassing.

Astarion acts quick, thinking of something vile.

Purple robes. 

Ah, yes, Gale’s robes.

Gale’s ridiculous, wrap-about robes mixed with his smarmy voice correcting the group about a spell he learned in Mystra’s teachings—

“Astarion?” 

Her voice is so small that he barely recognizes it.

The vampire turns a chin, not willing to push a boundary until offered.

(Her thoughtfulness ought to go both ways.)

“I’m good," she adds. "I think I figured it out, but the clasp is…”

“Is what, dearest?” he coos back, finally turning on a heel to see what may become his undoing.

Tav stands timidly in the middle of the bedroom, shuffling her bare feet on the floor.

Alfira wouldn’t pull this off, no, but this darling wood elf glows in an olive-green ensemble. The embroidered fabric slopes deep past her collarbone, exposing her sternum, the curve of her breasts, straight down to her navel.

The sleeves are sheer, their pattern swirling like the very vines she derives from.

He’s gawking.

Astarion hasn’t said a word in over twenty seconds, and he’s painfully aware of it.

“Are you positive that isn't the back of the dress?” he asks, fluttering his fingers at the risqué front.

“I asked the same thing,” Tav sheepishly admits, stepping closer with her arm bunched behind her back. “The clasp is up the back, but it’s too high.”

She twirls to show him the predicament at her neck, and all Astarion can do is work his body on autopilot.

Not thinking will help him not make a fool of himself, so he shoos her hand away and clips the dress to completion.

He refuses to let himself touch the nape of her neck, her waist, her hips—

What in the hells did that little tiefling witch do to this dress?

“Am I alright to move?”

“Hmm?”

Tav’s voice. Tav asked a question. Tav asked a bloody question, you dolt, don’t lose your—

“Oh! Yes.”

Astarion clears his throat, flexing his fingers right over the clasp before stepping back. 

“All settled.”

“Thank you,” she meekly replies, and he hates it. 

She should be proud of the way she looks.

Why does she want to crawl into herself?

“Have you acquired a date to this humble happening?” Astarion decides to ask instead, balling his fists at his side.

“Do I truly look that horrid in this?” Tav asks, bypassing his question with her own.

Astarion opens his mouth to tease her some more, to press and prod and push until she glares his way, but nothing comes out.

Instead the pale elf softens at her stare, helpless and angry at his own insistence.

Why does he feel the need to be so cruel?

The world is cruel, but Tav is…

“Ah! There you are.”

The grating voice of Shadowheart pierces through their private moment, door swung wide as if privacy has no home here. The Shar cleric wears her usual traveling fashion, but her braid is unraveled, loosened. The tiny hair piece appears much more like a crown now with her free-swinging ponytail.

She smirks, brow quirked.

“...have I interrupted something?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Two voices ring out simultaneously.

Tav answers first.

Astarion’s ivory curls wave in the wind at how fast he whips his head to look at the half elf.

Shadowheart's eyes are already on his, even as she beckons Tav to join her with the crook of a finger.

No, he said. You’re interrupting nothing. We are nothing. This, whatever this is, is nothing.

“Jahiera won’t stop asking for you,” Shadowheart tells Tav. “Karlach and Dammon have already popped a few bottles to toast to her heated predicament, so you might want to find yourself a bottle before they’re all gone.”

“I’m—” Tav glances Astarion, and his undead heart squeezes. “Sure, I’ll join.”

She walks into the hallway with Shadowheart, leaving Astarion to stand alone.

“Where’d you get the dress, anyway?”

Now that the vampire's not within her eyesight, Shadowheart inquires with a softer tone.

Astarion finds himself becoming unnecessarily jealous.

Lighter.

Everyone is also so much lighter with the cleric of Selûne at their side; even a wayward prodigy of Shar.

He cannot squander her light.

She cannot be swallowed into his darkness.

Still, he feels just as drawn to Tav as the rest of them.

Like a damned fool who has yet to learn his lesson.

.

.

-.-

.

.

  The party rages on well into the night.

The Harpers can drink.

In fact, they drink so heavily that half of them are already on the makeshift dance circle in the middle of the Inn’s courtyard.

People chant and cheer.

Couples find corners to hide in.

Astarion remains on the outskirts, all too easily reminded of the parties once organized in Lord Cazador's name — in his blood.

Just how many souls had he lured to those damned things?

How many bodies had he conjured with his oil-slicked words, his midnight charm?

Enough to know that the dragonborn trying to get Tav to dance doesn’t know a lick of proper waltz steps to save their own hide.

Yet Tav… does.

And that doesn’t go unnoticed, not by him.

She tries gently teaching the dragonborn so keen on speaking with her until the poor thing awkwardly gives up.

The red-scaled person shuffles off into the inn for more alcohol, leaving Tav alone on the dance floor.

No.

No, that won’t do at all.

His crimson eyes catch the laughter of Wyll to his right — the Blade of Frontiers is too busy talking to a disinterested Lae’zel to notice. Gale’s arms crossed and serious about discussing books with the elder Harper shopkeeper not far off. Shadowheart’s drunk a bit too much, so she's asleep with her head on a table. Karlach and Dammon — well, that’s something he shant ruin.

Which leaves… him.

Him and Tav.

Tav and Astarion.

He curses at himself before pushing off of a stone wall.

Like a creature of the night he stalks towards the diamond of the ball, forcing himself to do what no Harper, no dragonborn, and no bloody person in their camp can do for her.

“I suppose you can only teach an old dragon so many new tricks,” the vampire snarks with a feigned sigh as he steps up behind Tav, surprising her.

The wood elf spins on a heel, face flush with…

Oh, my.

She’s tipsy.

Possibly drunk.

(Although he'll go hungry this evening, he has no intentions of feeding from her when she isn't sober.)

“Astarion,” she greets breathlessly. He performatively bows. “What are you—”

“I was a magistrate, you know,” Astarion interrupts, a smirk growing on his lips as he glances up through pretty eyelashes to regard her. “In Baldur’s Gate, when I wasn’t so staunchly pale. If you wanted to dance with someone, my sweet, all you had to do was ask.”

Please ask me is what he’s trying to say, but he’s too much of a bloody coward.

Tav squares her shoulders as if to defy her own intoxication, yet her round eyes betray her wonder.

“You… wish to dance with me?”

“You lost your partner,” he coos. “What would I be if I left you stranded? And besides, I doubt anyone here knows how to waltz. Was that not what you two were... attempting?”

“You were watching me dance with Strohlan?”

She hiccups, and it’s adorable.

“If that’s what they wish to call dancing, sure," he snidely remarks.

“They did their best."

Yet she does not step into his orbit.

Instead she waits, as if anticipating for him to make the first move.

Tav stares at the vampire with cautious interest before becoming brave: “Ask, then.”

Astarion contemplates.

Coward, coward, coward.

Then he blurts before he can back out:

“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me in a dance?”

It sounds so juvenile on his tongue.

Like he isn’t over three-hundred years old.

Like he doesn’t have a single clue what he’s doing here.

(In truth, he doesn’t. He really fucking doesn’t.)

The cleric holds up her palm to the air, still not offering to touch him first. Her other arm curves at the elbow, as if Astarion can slot against her body perfectly.

He can. He has.

(With his fangs lodged into her neck, drinking her sweet life essence without a word of gratitude.)

Astarion realizes his stalling, so he takes a leap of faith — his hand reaches for her waist first, gliding around the silky smooth fabric of her olive dress.

The other hand curls around hers, seeking to lead.

He swallows when her warmth engulfs him.

No amount of mead can be this intoxicating. 

Not like her.

When the makeshift band starts a new song, he pushes her back to start the dance.

Tav tenses but quickly relaxes as she allows Astarion to take the lead.

His brows furrow when he notes how her limbs seem eager to push back, as if—

“Are you trying to lead me?”

“Hmm? Oh shit, I’m—”

Did Tav just swear?

“Sorry, it’s a habit.”

“A habit, you say?" His voice is a melodic mockery. "Happen to find yourself leading the dance in your past entanglements?”

“Unfortunately,” she laments honestly. “Back where I’m from, they always tried teaching me the follower’s steps. I never quite liked it, so I learned the leader’s dance instead.”

“And where are you from?” he finds himself asking without meaning to, leaning into her ramble.

Tav sways to the music with him, a perfect mirror. “Southwood.”

Astarion’s brow quirks. 

“As in the kingdom of Southwood?”

Southwood was a vast clan of wood elves on the southeastern side of the realm.

He’d never personally been there, but many wood elves in Baldur’s Gate spoke of their clan with such vitriol. According to them, Southwood wood elves rarely left their gates.

Why would they? Their lands were gorgeous. Ethereal.

Perfectly in sync with nature and all its glories.

Their government was not much of a democracy but a matriarchal monarchy.

Kings, Queens, all the stops.

They viewed themselves as pure royalty, rarely allowing outsiders to infiltrate. And because of that, most inhabitants of Southwood looked at the rest of the realm with their noses turned high.

So why in the nine Hells was Tav, their Tav, out here with the rest of them?

Tav, however, doesn’t seem very bothered.

The alcohol waves away his question and allows her to keep rambling during their dance.

“They love their lavish parties in Southwood. Nearly every week had some form of a dance, a celebration, an… exhausting seven-course dinner. Learning the ‘wrong’ steps kept people away.”

“Kept them away?”

“Yes,” she answers, matter of fact. “So no person could ask me to dance.”

He never expected — well, this.

Learning about not only Tav’s life before the mind flayers snatched them into their floating ship, but the fact that she’s… well, he worries there are many, many more layers to this young wood elf that no one else is aware of. Layers of secrets that make up who Tav is.

Layers that others could exploit.

(And they will never know. Tav's past is as precious to him as the finite dirt she'd once kicked away at camp, hiding his own demons.)

“So you hate dancing,” he decides to say instead, forgoing twenty questions about her lineage for now.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” she corrects. “I hate dancing with people I don’t like.”

Astarion grips her waist a little tighter.

He regrets it immediately when she presses closer, her fragrance overwhelming his every sense. 

“And you like this… dragonborn? This Strohlan?”

Her head shakes. “I like the Harpers. They’re kind to us.”

“When we arrived at Last Light Inn, dear, Jahiera nearly sent you into a vine-ridden slumber.”

“I don’t blame her for taking precaution against people with wriggling tadpoles in their heads.”

He steps away, taking her off guard. 

When his arm lifts, however, Tav is quick to obey the unspoken rule:

She twirls under it, skirt billowing with the movement.

Once she returns, her hand adjusts lower to his bicep — catching her step.

It feels more intimate, this way.

Real.

“And… you like our companions, then?” he leads.

Tav blinks. “Hmm?”

“Since you say you only dance with people you like,” Astarion repeats, hating that his ego needs to be stroked so thoroughly with thorns that he hopes to hear her sputter her way through—

“I like you.”

Astarion’s expression forcefully hardens to protect it from faltering.

“And I like our companions, of course," she explains, "but this… I would have asked you, if I’d known you would have actually said yes.”

I would have asked you.

So he wasted this entire ball doing… what, precisely?

Skulking in the corner, watching Tav get passed around like a commodity rather than a jewel?

Astarion holds her close, suddenly very aware of their every movement.

“Me?” he asks despite himself. She nods. “In what way, darling?”

Must he sound like such a school boy?

This is the perfect time—

To seduce. 

To sink his proverbial teeth into her neck so that she may never shake him off.

But Astarion doesn’t want that.

He lost the script somewhere along the blackened roads of these cursed lands.

“How do you mean, in what way?” she counters, and he knows — knows he should seize the moment and purr in her ear and promise her one hell of a night.

But she’s drunk.

She’s drunk and she’s confiding in him, for Gods sake.

Like so many before her, she’s confessing to a slanted altar he cannot absolve.

(Do not like me, he wants to scream. You are light. I am shadow.)

“You’re formidable in battle.”

No.

“You stay with me in the night, in the dark, when my goddess is not near.”

Stop.

“You… guide me, ground me, entrust me with your life.”

Please, just stop.

“And I wouldn’t — well, I cannot imagine conquering what is before us without you by my side—”

“Tav."

Astarion stops moving.

His hand accidentally curls too harshly into her side.

Tav stops moving, too.

Her name spills like crushed smokepowder on his tongue.

Ashy, not the least bit polished; it’s nothing more than a croak, a plea, to stop while she is ahead.

Rounded eyes stare at him, waiting for his next words.

His thumb absently runs along the fabric of her soft dress, completely at a loss of what to do — what to say.

“I should have asked.”

Those rounded eyes widen impossibly further when Astarion murmurs the first thing that comes to mind — the first right thing, the first real thing, in centuries.

Not a mockery of himself, a soul he’d neglected for so long, but… this.

Whatever this is.

“You wanted to?” she quietly asks in return, and he nods silently. What else is he to do in her mercy? “Truthfully I wanted to ask if you were interested in a dance or two when we were upstairs, but then Shadowheart interrupted my bravery.”

“Lady Shar strikes again,” he jokes, but it’s strained.

He’s gifted with a laugh, soft and sweet, before it fades in the space between.

Tav drops her gaze to his lips, but he doesn’t notice.

He can’t — not when his own eyes have already traveled south.

Not to her chest.

Not to her neck.

To her very lips, rosy and alive.

Astarion had a plan.

A nice, simple plan.

Yet, with a heavy heart, he realizes much too late:

In his own free will, he wishes to kiss her.

He wishes to give a part of himself to her without expecting anything in return.

Not even a taste of her own damned blood.

Is this what it means, to give?

(Is this what it means, to trust?)

“Astarion…”

The young wood elf’s voice melts into his brain like a soothing balm.

Only then does he realize he’s a breath away from her face — ducked nose to nose, her light breath peppered with liquor tickling his chin.

Tav switches her attention between his eyes and lips, blinking up and down as if contemplating.

Her lips part, voiceless in her question, but the calling is clear:

Her chin nudges a fraction closer, and she’s thinking.

Do it.

Gods, he wants to scream it.

Fucking do it. Be selfish, for once in your damned life.

All he’s known is to be selfish. 

To look out for one person and one person alone.

“I’m sorry.”

When Astarion leans in to finally bridge the gap, to finally break his own code and be damned with the plan, the vampire realizes the cleric is pulling away.

No—

Abruptly Tav steps back as though she’s scorned him with fire.

Her hands rip away from his shoulder and palm.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Darling—”

“Forgive me,” Tav blurts, as if she’s done something criminal to him.

Her once-bleary eyes sober in an instant, and she looks… ashamed?

Like she took advantage of a perfectly sober vampire, not the other way around.

You were supposed to fall for me.

That much is true.

That much is very clear to him.

Where, in some bizarre fashion, he’s managed what he once deemed impossible: Tav likes him. He's secured her affections without ever so much as being inside of her.

Yet it isn't enough. Tav lifts the skirt of her dress and beelines to the inn before he can reel her back.

She leaves him standing in the middle of the courtyard with a very real, very damning, reality:

Astarion’s nice, simple plan has fallen apart—

Because the pale elf has fallen first.

.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion fic #astarion fluff #astarion fanfiction #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfic #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #baldurs gate 3 fic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #twelve days of amymas #amywritesthings

[amywritesthings]

gingerbread sweet. / a reiner holiday ficlet

pairing: reiner braun x f!reader ( attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin ) word count: 1.1k summary: It's the Titan frat's annual gingerbread house competition. Your boyfriend, Reiner Braun, is determined to win. You, however, are determined to distract.

tags: modern au - university, holiday fluff, gingerbread houses, all the marleyans are in a frat bc i said so, devoted boyfriend!reiner, light sexual tension credit: dividers by @saradika

welcome to the eleventh day of the twelve days of amymas !!

“Does the door look crooked to you?”

"The what?"

"The door. Look at it."

There’s nothing more amusing than watching your hulk of a boyfriend crouch over a tiny gingerbread house.

Reiner Braun squints as he presses a gumdrop to the front — circular windows make it modern, or so he claims — then pauses.

Distracted by a very minor detail, you can already feel his anxiety running his brain a mile a minute: a lopsided door may deduct a few points from Marcel's arbitrary points system from this very arbitrary holiday competition.

Because he's absolutely fucking determined to win.

Granted, the bragging rights are his, but the grand prize will not be — Reiner, of course, rarely rides this hard for something he wants.

No, he’s too willing to put everyone else's wants and needs above his own.

So the grand prize of the Titan fraternity annual gingerbread house competition is going to go to you, hell or high water.

He’s going to win you that goddamn spa day gift card that Marcel has been dangling as a sweet little incentive no matter how long it takes him to mold this gingerbread house into his image.

"I think it looks straight."

The tip of his pink tongue pokes out a little from his pressed lips as he leans in closer. "...I trust your eye more than mine."

The blonde sits up to fish for the green icing piping bag. He's gentle with the way he eases the icing along the edges of the tiny confectionary door.

(An icing wreath, like this couldn't be anymore adorable.)

“Reiner?” you coo.

“Yeah, babe.”

Flat. He’s in the zone.

“You know you don’t have to slave over this thing, right?”

You scoot your chair closer to his, dropping your temple to his large tricep.

“I can buy my own spa day card.”

“False,” he corrects. “I’ll buy you the spa day card myself, but if I gotta cheat Porco out of winning for the third year in a row. Pieck’s gone at least five times on our dime.”

"When were the other two times?" you ask, not correlating the math.

"Well, our freshman year," Reiner begins, using the green icing to make little bushes at the foundation of the house, "we did a Valentine's day relay race that ended up with Bert in urgent care with a broken nose. Then, the one-and-only pool party chicken fight tournament — Pieck and Porco fought dirty."

"Is that why it was the one and only?"

"Yeah. Bert got another bloody nose, but that time from Annie going a little too hard."

He snorts.

"We had to save him from becoming the next Owen Wilson, so — no more chicken tournaments."

Titan frat is… well, excessively competitive, you've learned in your year or so of dating Reiner.

(Blame Porco and the new pledge, Eren Yeager, for only exasperating in this year with the month-long holiday challenges.)

You shrug a shoulder. “I could help.”

“And mess up your pretty nails?” Reiner shakes his head, glancing briefly through his peripheral vision. He smirks. “Ain’t no way.”

Right.

Reiner’s also very giving, during this season — in more ways than one.

First it was the fully-paid-for manicure yesterday.

Then it was the reservation for a Christmas Eve dinner to your favorite spot in the inner city.

Now he’s trying to win Marcel's approval in this ridiculous decorating contest in your name, and you feel… well, loved.

(There's no disputing that you've won the boyfriend lottery.)

Which, of course, means you have only one thing you can do in this situation.

He’s too wound up.

Distracted.

So you reach down to the pile of icing supplies strewn about, picking the small red accented tube.

You swipe some on the tip of your finger, mindful not to get it under your nails.

Reiner doesn’t even see it happening.

He’s too busy playing fixer-upper on the front side of the house, his too-big hands delicately toying with the too-small decorations he’s pasting on the cookie.

You wait a few seconds, letting him place the door where he wishes, before swiping the icing over the side of his neck.

Reiner tenses, turning to see what the hell just hit his neck, but he’s too late—

You’re already leaning in, sliding the tip of your tongue along his skin.

The man gasps, dropping his own piping bag to the supply assortment below.

“What are you—”

“Decorating,” you murmur nonsensically, grinning from ear to ear as his attention disappears completely from the gingerbread house to you.

“The guys are in the other room,” he rasps, eyes wide.

The pledges, he means — banished to the enclosed patio as they work on their own poorly-designed houses.

Through the last year while dating Reiner,  you’ve learned very quickly how sensitive he is.

Sometimes all it takes is a look to get him hard.

Your ego has never recovered, and it’s not deflating now.

Except his eyes soften and a gentle chuckle exits his throat when his golden eyes search your face.

“Wait, you got—”

“What?”

His hand gently cradles your jaw. 

“Hold still, baby.”

His thumb raises to swipe at your nose, where his smile only grows.

You stay still, obedient to his command, unable to stop looking at him.

God, he’s gorgeous.

He’s so fucking gor—

Something touches your lips, and you belatedly realize Reiner’s taken it upon himself to push the red icing along the seam of your lips, parting them easily.

You can taste the sugary sweetness on the tip of your tongue.

“Shit, sorry." When your brows knit in confusion, Reiner explains himself. "Seems like I missed a spot.”

Oh.

Oh.

His pupils dilate as his gaze drops to your lips, as if he’s ready to devour your whole.

Your entire body turns into flames.

“Just one spot?” you murmur, and a wicked smirk crawls to his mouth.

That same thumb drops to glide the remaining icing over your chin.

“I fear it's a couple of spots, but don't worry. I'll get you cleaned up.” He tilts his chin. “I take care of my girl, remember?”

(As if you could ever forget.)

His words get your blood pumping. Pledges and wandering eyes be damned.

“What about the gingerbread house?” you murmur, entranced by the way he continues absently swiping icing over your jaw, chin, and cheeks.

(Marking a trail his lips will devour.)

“We can bring the icing upstairs,” Reiner suggests with an innocent shrug. You know it’s anything but. “I’ll finish that damn house eventually, but I have something sweeter to tend to.”

Before you can say another word, the blonde stands from his chair and gently takes your hand into his.

You easily stand with him, unable to stop giggling as he tugs you eagerly upstairs.

He’s determined to win, yes, but to him —

He’s already won.

He has you, after all.

.

#reiner braun x reader #reiner braun x you #reiner x reader #reiner fluff #reiner x you #attack on titan fanfiction #aot x reader #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk x reader #snk x you #aot x you #reiner braun fic #reiner braun fanfic #holiday fanfic #holiday one shot #twelve days of amymas

[amywritesthings]

meet me on christmas. / an eddie munson holiday ficlet

pairing: eddie munson x f!reader ( stranger things ) word count: 1.2k / rated mature summary: It's the Christmas of '87. You and boyfriend, Eddie Munson, cruise Hawkins for your annual town lights crawl. tags: post s4, eddie munson lives, explicit language, holiday lights, christmas fluff, childhood friends, established relationship credit: dividers by @saradika / header by @nicostiel

welcome to the sixth day of the twelve days of amymas 2023 !!

“The rich assholes always have the good stuff.”

“Just because they’re rich doesn’t mean their decorations aren’t tacky,” you argue back, ripping a Twizzler at the center of the rope with your teeth.

"Can't argue with that," Eddie Munson quips in return, holding out a hand for the Twizzler pack.

You hand it to him — if he wasn't idle in the driver's seat of his beat-up van, then you would have tossed it.

Since the battle of the Upside Down, you could argue his reflexes have gotten much better.

Eddie likens it to Spiderman-esque rabies powers from those nasty vampire bats.

(You're just happy he's here.)

“That’s way too many reindeer on that lawn — look."

You lean over the passenger seat to point out of the windshield towards a bloated, light-infused lawn.

"The Weston's put up a ton of them, but that's inaccurate. Santa did not have twenty reindeer.”

“Damn, did Mr. Weston feel bad about the team rejects?” Eddie comments with a feigned sigh of sympathy, tone melodic. “Gave the bench reindeer the gift of playing in the big leagues for Christmas of ‘87.”

“Imagine wanting to do your job.”

“Couldn’t fuckin’ be me, that’s for sure.”

You’re lucky Eddie even agreed to do this with you.

Then again, you’re pretty certain you could have asked him to watch A Christmas Story fifteen times in a row, and he would still enthusiastically say yes. 

Whatever made you happy — when most boys said it, they never meant it.

Not Eddie.

Now that you're home for the holidays from college, you're happy to close the distance with your best friend — your boyfriend — and rekindle old traditions.

Cruising around the better-off parts of Hawkins in his beat-up van was a staple ever since Uncle Wayne taught Eddie how to drive.

Thirteen years old and all too eager.

(A little too young, but hey, 'tis the damn season.)

Truth be told, hiding here with Eddie felt more in line with the Christmas spirit than anything your family had planned for the holidays.

All of the incessant inter-connected drama...

The non-stop questions about college...

The inevitable judgment when you talk about the future they don’t wholly approve of...

None of that mattered here.

Eddie cranked Dio really loud to make sure of that.

(He loves to argue that Dio could put out a killer Christmas album, same as the Carpenters, but they’re too busy churning out the sickest tunes of the decade.)

“I think their neighbors gave up on decorating this year,” you judge, holding out your hand to get the Twizzler pack back. “Look: only a stupid wreath on the door. Remember when the Thomas family used to do that crazy display with the boombox and stuff?”

Eddie keeps one hand on the wheel as he holds out the pack to you, plucking out two final red ropes for himself.

“Apparently Mrs. Thomas divorced Mr. Thomas," he explains, "so they don’t exactly have the budget to be Hawkins’ beacon this year.”

You gasp, jaw dropping.

“No.”

Eddie smirks, chewing on the candy.

“You missed way more than real-life Dungeons and Dragons in Hawkins, Indiana in your pursuit of higher education, Miss Thing.”

He isn’t wrong — you caught the tail end of this town almost getting swallowed by a Mindflayer.

Apparently what few months you had spent away from this small town gave the evils below plenty of time to rip the fabric of reality in half.

Then there was that one time Eddie almost died from a flock full of vampire bats.

Neither of you really talk about that day.

No one involved in that mess does. 

It’s for the best.

“Oh — shit, do you see that one?” you ask out of the blue, leaning over the dashboard to point at an upcoming house littered with string lights.

“What?”

“That!” you exclaim, smudging his windshield as you press against the glass.

A two-story house is decorated from roof to foundation full of sparkling white lights, changing its pattern every few seconds.

In truth, it’s a little disorienting.

Still rad, though.

Eddie slows the car down to a near stall, squinting ahead under his heavy, curly bangs.

“It’s all white. That’s so lame.”

“Lame?” you ask, turning your chin towards him.

He turns to you, too, then a smug smirk crawls over his lips.

The boy leans over, pecking a kiss to your pursed lips.

“You’re cute when you pout. But yeah, fuck white. Multicolored all the way.”

“I didn’t think you had opinions on string lights, Munson,” you tease, smiling wider from the tiny kiss.

You want to pull him into a deeper kiss, but safety first: you have to convince him to park the car first.

“Well, my sweet Christmas angel, that’s where you’re wrong. I am very opinionated.”

“You didn’t even decorate the trailer this year,” you remind him, flopping back down to the passenger seat. “Which, by the way — I noticed. Talk about being disappointed when I rolled up this afternoon to see a totally blank canvas.”

His brows knit together in playful confusion.

“What, did you seriously think I was going to do the lights this year without you?”

The statement surprises you.

Sure, you helped the Munson duo decorate — it’s almost as much of a tradition at this point as the holiday lights crawl.

Ever since you and Eddie became best friends, you’d spend hours meticulously turning a two-person man cave into something warm and cozy, with fake buffalo snow and tiny string lights.

According to Uncle Wayne, something about your touch on the place was warranted for the holidays.

Yet you had assumed they would have started without you this year on the principle that you’d be coming home for the holidays later than anticipated.

(That, and the near death of Eddie had taken a large toll on Uncle Wayne altogether.)

But neither were the real case:

They waited for you.

Your heart swells with the realization.

Before you can turn the moment sappy, Eddie winks and turns left at a corner. 

“Let me show you a real house. C’mon, it’s down the block from here. I scoped this shit out when you were busy with finals.”

You stay in your seat, too busy staring at the curly-haired boy as he navigates the streets of Hawkins to find a perfect house.

Suddenly the town isn’t so interesting.

Truth be told, it never was.

If it wasn’t for Eddie, then you’d never come back to Hawkins.

You imagine he feels the same way about his Uncle Wayne.

He can't leave, so you'll stay.

“Why don’t we go home?” you suggest.

The boy frowns as he pulls over.

“Home? You don’t wanna look at other lights?”

He gestures to the grand outdoors.

“You love this shit.”

“I love decorating with you and Uncle Wayne way more,” you tell him.

Finally, Eddie takes a pause.

The boy studies you for a moment, considering, before a smile starts to grow so wide that he has to bite his lip to keep it at bay.

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” you promise.

You raise your boot, poking it at a hole in the calf of his ripped jeans.

“C’mon. Fuck the rich assholes. We can outdo them by miles.”

It takes another pause to pass, but Eddie finally grins like a Cheshire cat. 

“What my lady wants, my lady gets.” 

He switches the van in reverse to ready a three-point turn. 

“Christmas with the Munsons, it is.”

.

#stranger things fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fics #stranger things fluff #stranger things fanfic #holiday fanfic #twelve days of amymas #fic: meet me on christmas

[amywritesthings]

CHAPTER 16: PEACE

The POINT A TO POINT B Series

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader ( The Mandalorian ) Word Count: 2.7K Summary: You and Din take a travel break for a wintery surprise. Tags: Sensuality, Anxiety, Wintertime themes, Helmetless!Din, Kisses A/N: Welcome to The First Day of the Twelve Days of Amymas! It's been a while, Mando. Enjoy this fluffy, feel-good winter-themed update as our fearless Duo get cozy one week after last chapter's events.

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Series Masterlist.

CHAPTER 16: PEACE

.

“I told you not to look.”

The modulated voice catches you before your hand can touch the cockpit’s steel ladder.

On a ship as small as the Razor Crest, you're not surprised the Mandalorian has caught you in the act of defying his request:

Stay in the belly of the ship until his say.

(As if there is anywhere to go.)

Don't look out of portholes.

(As if there are any.)

Don't peek at the cockpit.

(As if you're constantly lounging in it.)

But his request, as silly as it may seem, comes with a caveat.

It's a surprise — whatever that may be.

At first, you're worried that the end is closer than you thought.

Maybe, just maybe, he's decided to beeline straight to Coruscant. After all, everything came to a head last week.

You still haven't spoken about the incident on Trask. Your run-in with Bo-Katan and her crew. The freighter.

Too close of a call; you thought you'd lost him, and in turn, he thought he'd nearly lost you.

Such turmoil could convince him to finish the job faster, if only for your best interest.

However, it isn't like either of you have tried talking in the last several days — not when your mouths are busy elsewhere.

(Blindfolds, eager kisses, sweat-slicked skin, fumbling hands, whispered promises.)

You could chalk up his sudden change in gear to finally sleeping with you, though with the amount of hours you've laid lazily in his bed rather than your makeshift closet, you very much doubt he regrets the change of pace.

(You sure as hell don't.)

Still, the worry festered the longer he keeps this 'surprise' from you.

Had something gone wrong?

Was he trying to keep you ignorant from growing danger?

Had he caught wind on Moff Gideon's location?

So many variables.

So little time.

Din, of course, reassured this is a good surprise the second he saw that thousand-yard stare begin to surface on your face.

(You're still not used to calling him Din, not really.)

Instead of spiraling, then, you listen — for the most part.

Clearly he overestimates your patience when saddled with scrubbing blasters for the day.

Now you're here, caught red-handed at the cockpit ladder.

To keep the growing smile to yourself, your chin drops to your chest.

“I thought you were up there," you begin, airy in tone, "so I thought I’d come to say hello.”

“Really?”

The punctuated syllables tells you he’s unconvinced.

“Really,” you lie.

The clanking of shifting beskar armor moves closer to your back. You stay staring forward at the ladder to avoid the budding laughter in your throat.

Then an orange-tipped glove reaches past you to tap twice against a little red knob on a square console.

"Funny you say that," he begins, and you snort with suppressed laughter, "because a steady red on the occupancy indicator usually means—”

“Okay, okay,” you relent with an amused sigh. "I knew you weren't up there."

"Thought so."

Guilty as charged: he calls out your white lie with a little joke of his own.

You've noticed he's more at ease these last few days. Lighter. More open to this, whatever this is.

The heel of your boot finally turns clockwise until you're approached to face the Mandalorian in full. His armor gleams under the faint overhead lights of the Crest. One hand sits square on his hip while the other drops to his side.

“Maybe I wasn’t looking for you, but you have to understand: I’m restless, Mando. You’ve had me cooped in cargo for hours.”

“Din,” he corrects, “and it’s barely been an hour.”

“Feels like it’s been four, Din,” you quip, cheekily chirping his first name back to him.

Din Djarin; the name rolls off your tongue, more intimate that a kiss.

He clearly loves hearing it.

Both of your hands raise in surrender. The white flag has been raised.

“What’s so special about where we’re going, anyway?”

The chin of his helmet tilts ever so slightly to the left.

“I told you: it’s a surprise.”

“So much of a surprise that I can’t even look? You know, even if I did look, I couldn’t tell you which planet is what anyway.” You tap your temple. “Memory’s gone, remember?”

Din chuckles, disengaging.

“Be patient, Princess. We’ll be landing soon enough.”

You want to keep asking questions, but a curious coo from a blanket-bundled nest breaks both of your concentrations.

The Child stares up from his comfy cocoon, observing you both with bleary, beady eyes. He's only half awake, clearly only checking to see if all is well in cargo.

“Right, kid? You agree with me,” you tease, pointing to the Mandalorian as he passes you.

Din gently pushes your index finger out of his way with a filtered huff, before his boots clank against the metal ladder.

“He tells us not to look then expects us to actually listen." You lean into towards the Child when he coos happily, seemingly on your side even if he's sleepy. "The nerve of this guy.”

“I heard that,” he calls back to you once he reaches the upper level of the ship.

Then an exhale of a door sounds above, only to seal seconds later with a clean zip.

The red dot on the occupancy indicator flashes green.

"Cute, Mando, very cute," you mumble under your breath.

For an hour you pace the tin can of a ship with little restraint.

Every time you round the ladder, you're half-tempted to climb up yourself and remind him that you don't have to point towards the window of the cockpit if he simply lets you sit on your knees to—

In a flash, everything shakes and wobbles.

You can tell you’ve breached an atmosphere, but the lack of portholes in the cargo belly makes it impossible to see exactly what's going on.

It’s a slightly bumpy descent — not enough to warrant seatbelts, but you do hold onto the cargo straps near the Child’s bedding to make sure you and the kid stay put.

"Everything okay up there?" you call to him, but Din doesn't respond.

The mouth of the ship, however, does.

Slowly the mechanics wheeze to detach from their locks, detaching from the Razor Crest's frame to open the cabin to something blindingly bright.

You wince and take a step back, shielding your eyes with your left forearm from the outside light as the landing pad continues to lower from the ship.

A foreign freeze meets you, chilling you to the bone.

Cold licks and clings to your body.

The landing ramp begins to extend, revealing... a sea of white.

Wait.

Your arm drops like lead, eyes widening when you realize a belated breath too late what stands before you.

Or really... falls.

Gentle white flakes float from the sky to a pillow-soft ground, covering any grass that could have been in sight.

Large trees are littered with slippery domes, solidified from the cold.

Ice.

What covers the tree branches are what they call icicles.

One foot in front of the other, you're slow to investigate the mouth of the ship.

Even if you hear heavy boots descend the ladder in decided clunks, you cannot look away from the scenic atmosphere ahead of you.

Then you remember:

I know there's planets out there full of oceans.

Two nights ago, you'd been lying in bed naked with the Mandalorian recovering from another round of exploring what it means to be alive.

Your black blindfold was discarded carelessly across his bare chest, sheets barely hiding the patch of hair trailing under his belly button.

You'd chosen to lay over the sheet, too overheated from the night's activities.

His breath puffed gently through the modulator while his naked thumb absently stoked your bare shoulder.

As he came back down from his high, he let you talk to fill the silence.

About anything.

Everything.

Legends of cities born underwater, forests that survive through endless white… it's silly, but I'd love to see them all. To travel the galaxy and then some.

He never interrupted you.

He just let his fingers explore, dance, along your skin like his need for discovery ended right here.

Maybe once I'm there I'll remember that I've been there before, but experiencing that sort of stuff for the first time?

He hums with acknowledgement.

Content.

I hope to see as many as I can before I’m back to Coruscant.

(The unspoken caveat was three words: Only with you.)

"Forests that survive through endless white," you whisper to yourself, cautiously walking down the ramp closer to the flurry of white.

You reach out a palm to catch the tiny flecks as they descend.

One hits your palm, cold to the touch, and you draw your hand back to your chest in surprise.

“Naboo isn’t always covered in snow.”

Your attention finally breaks from the woods ahead to look back.

Din finally reaches the bottom of the ladder.

The metal jostles as the bounty hunter drops his arms and makes his way towards you.

“This is Naboo?” you ask, unable to hide your excitement.

Din settles beside you, his metallic helmet tilting high to watch the gray sky above the ship.

“I thought Naboo was full of cities. This looks deserted.”

“Naboo is densely populated, yes, but it also has its untouched biomes,” he explains. "The entire planet doesn’t experience snow, but some parts do. It isn’t an endless white, but—”

You can't help it.

You rush towards the forest floor.

The bounty hunter’s voice cuts with concern when your boot slips a little at the bottom.  

“Careful, Princess.”

“I’m fine, Mando!” you call back once you’ve found your footing, invigorated by the sights and sounds before you. "Sorry — Din!"

You grin from ear to ear, feet walking in a circle to take it all in.

He listened.

He really detoured from the original travel plan to bring you here.

Something cold and wet hits your cheek, your chin, and you flinch on impact.

The flecks from the sky — you gaze up into the cloudy, cold gray with palpable wonder.

Snowfall.

You twirl again in pure joy, giggling softly.

“Mother of Moons, this is… I’m…”

Perfect.

Maybe you had visited a snowy planet in your past life.

Maybe the old version of you would have found something so miraculous to be so trivial.

Yet here, now, you cannot think of anything more perfect that this: the crunch of snow under your boots, the blanket of silence that seems to envelope the forest around you—

And him.

The Mandalorian willing to offer such a gift when so much is already at stake.

“What do you think?” you finally ask, spinning back to face him. 

The Mandalorian is no longer staring at the sky.

His chrome visor simply watches you.

“It’s beautiful,” he answers quietly, contemplative.

Your heart swells.

"How long can we stay?"

"An hour," he replies. "Maybe two. Not long."

"That's plenty of time," you reassure, already feeling the cold swell on your fingertips.

For what feels like forever you step around the blankets of snow, admiring how the fluff crinkles under your boots. You shift back and forth, toe to heel, to memorize the sound.

You're well aware that your clothes, your hair, are quickly becoming damp.

It doesn't matter.

Eventually the circle you've created with your feet takes you back to the Razor Crest. The shoulders of your tunic are quickly turning a peppered tan and white.

Din is also covered head to toe in the gentle flurry, though the little specks melt on impact against the beskar armor.

You grin.

"Hold still."

"Hmm?" He listens nonetheless, straightening his posture at your command.

Reaching with chilly fingers, you wipe away a rogue snowflake from his visor and laugh under your breath.

"Did that make it worse?"

"I can't feel the snow," he responds. "I'm not cold."

"No, I meant your vision, Din Djarin," you reply with a snort.

"Oh. I..."

"Here, let me fix it."

He drops his chin obediently when you pull at your tunic sleeve to wipe the streak of water from the chrome visor.

After a moment passes, you drop your arm back to your side and stare into his helmet.

“...thank you, for taking me here,” you murmur. “You didn’t have to stop here just because I wanted to see—”

“I did,” he interrupts with complete certainty.

His hand rises, mirroring your motions. Din crooks his orange-tipped index finger and lifts your chin to meet his visor.

“No need to thank me.”

You can’t help but melt like the snow between you. 

Always so chivalrous and thoughtful; something has changed in the Mandalorian since that fateful day. Where he once looked at you as cargo now sits a warm aura in a profoundly human way.

And it's touched you, too. He isn't just a bounty hunter, but an ally.

A partner.

A lover.

His quiet considerations have only wanted you to become a better person.

(And for the Razor Crest to never make its final destination.)

You could spend all of your days, you realize, traversing the galaxy just like this: with a bounty hunter and his ward and this imperfect ship, with no final point of descent.

“Close your eyes.”

The modulated command is but a whisper.

Without delay, you obey — your eyelids flutter closed, allowing the silence and light scent of frozen water to overtake you.

Then you hear a mechanical wheeze overhead.

You continue to keep your eyes shut, but the smile that grows on your lips is telling:

You know exactly what Din Djarin is about to do.

Although you cannot see him shifting above you, you imagine the way he lifts his Mandalorian helmet just over the bridge of his nose. The strong lines of his jaw, peppered with bits of facial hair…

You have never seen his face yet Din is a crystal-clear image in your invisible sight.

Then something warm tinged with ice presses to your lips.

The tip of his thumb drags along your lower lip, tugging it away from the seam.

You can’t help but huff a breath of anticipation. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Something like that," he replies in his noncommittal way, unfiltered by his helmet. "Let me help catch it."

For seconds it’s just this: sensation, feeling, trust—

And then his lips brush against yours, pressing plush and eager.

He is drastically warm compared to you, and you press back to soak up his heat.

Your cold fingers glide along his chest plate, blindly searching for that cowl of his. Your fingertips quickly snag and curl around it, pulling him closer.

The message is loud and clear — his free arm encircles your waist, dragging you into his armor.

Din’s kiss is adoring, gentle, and you linger in the high of his boldness.

His trust.

(The blindfold never left his pocket.)

Desperate to feel him, you keep your eyes shut tight and meet his deepening kisses, unable to stop the breathy noise in the middle of your throat when his tongue flick against your lower lip.

Then he pulls away, and you find yourself tumbling closer.

A naked laugh, smooth as velvet, vibrates through your whole body.

"Easy."

"Come back."

"We have to go," Din murmurs, and you lift your chin to follow the sound of his bravado.

"Can we warm up together, at least?"

"Was that not always the plan?"

You grin, eyes still closed.

A beat passes, and his gloved hand gently runs along your chilled cheek.

“Happy?”

His voice is so small.

You nod, brushing your bare nose with him, and reply just as small.

“Very.”

And you could be, for all of your days, if he chooses to never let you go.

.

#din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando x reader #din djarin x reader #mando x you #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin fluff #fic: point a to point b #twelve days of amymas

[amywritesthings]

it's time to celebrate amymas !!

I have never done a fully-realized writing challenge, but I'm happy to announce that I have created my first-ever original holiday prompt to thank all of my readers, both old and new, for supporting me through 2023:

Welcome to The Twelve Days of Amymas!

From December 1 - December 31, I will be posting twelve original one shots with some fan-favorite pairings we have not seen in a while, as well as a few new faces. The short stories are all holiday or winter-themed. Some will have mature elements. See what's cookin' for the holidays below!

THE FIRST DAY

Din Djarin x Princess : First Snowfall (Chapter 16 of Point A to Point B)

THE SECOND DAY

Nanami Kento x Reader : Mistletoe

THE THIRD DAY

Joel Miller x Gibson Girl : Holiday Decorating (from the series: Seeing You, Seeing Me)

THE FOURTH DAY

Levi Ackerman x James : Snowball Fight (from the series: Silver Underground)

THE FIFTH DAY

Gojo Satoru x Reader : Holiday RomComs

THE SIXTH DAY

Eddie Munson x Reader : Holiday Lights Crawl (from the series: The Freak & the Valedictorian)

THE SEVENTH DAY

Dieter Bravo x Reader : Hallmark Movie Set Surprise (from the series: Same Old Mistakes)

THE EIGHTH DAY

Astarion x Tav : Winter Ball (Part 4 of The Better Strategy)

THE NINTH DAY - CHRISTMAS EVE

Armin Arlert x Reader : First Christmas

THE TENTH DAY

Kino Loy x Reader : Wish (Chapter 4 of Ownership of Mine)

THE ELEVENTH DAY

Reiner Braun x Reader : Gingerbread Houses

THE TWELFTH DAY - NEW YEAR'S EVE

Choso Kamo x Reader: New Year's Kiss

note: prompts and posting order are subject to change. asterisks are finished.

#holiday fanfic #joel miller x reader #din djarin x reader #eddie munson x reader #gojo satoru x reader #levi ackerman x reader #astarion x tav #dieter bravo x reader #armin arlert x reader #kino loy x reader #nanami kento x reader #twelve days of amymas #amywritesthings #reiner braun x reader #choso x reader

[amywritesthings]

ownership of mine (4/4)

pairing: kino loy x f!reader ( andor ) word count: 2.2k summary: The Empire has integrated their prison systems, with you as one of the few women now incarcerated at Narkina 5. The unit manager takes you under his wing – but for reasons you didn’t anticipate.

tags: 18+ MINORS DNI! post-narkina arc, peril, presumed character death (he ain't dead gtfo of here), alcohol, angst with a happy ending a/n: this epilogue-ish chapter is dedicated to the wonderful people of next big franchise. without you all, this fic wouldn't have been possible. my many thanks for your laughs and friendship over the last year.

           PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR

welcome to the tenth day of the twelve days of amymas !!

Seven-hundred days.

It would have been seven-hundred entire days since you last stepped foot on solid earth;

Since your last real meal;

Since you made a vow to keep your head low, to serve, so that you could finally see the sun again.

And you were going to see the sun again.

Your sentence was drawing to a close with little incident.

Kino Loy would leave first, and you would follow.

Your new life was right there.

—but then the prison riots happened, and everything went to shit.

.

.

.

.

.

The day Cassian Andor arrived at Narkina 5 is still a hazy one. 

You recognized the fire in his eyes right away; a death wish walking on two legs.

Cassian wanted out of here the minute he stepped foot in this place. 

(Didn’t he know he had to serve his time, keep his head low, and do what he must?)

He became Kino's new problem and, naturally, yours.

Every day after became a blur.

Kino continued to keep order, to remind everyone of the common goal, even with Andor's poison of fighting their way out.

The floor manager still met you with secret touches, longing stares, and whispered promises to meet you at the showers when the unit was busy feeding...

But then something changed.

Veemoss dies. One hundred men on Level Two get fried.

The final domino was the passing of Ulaf.

Something snapped, and that something — that someone — was Kino.

Because Kino Loy wasn't busy keeping order, no.

The opposite:

Kino Loy was readily agreeing to chaos.

Order was an illusion. 

The other floors were frying.

No one was getting out of the bottom of this pit.

One way out.

So your Unit banded together and pushed up.

Up, up, until you took the prison for yourselves.

Up, up, until you saw the expanse of a tumultuous sea.

Then down — off the platform, pushed by the other desperate prisoners.

Into the freezing water, where you fought for your lungs to propel you to shore.

Away from Narkina 5.

All without Kino.

You’d lost the fearless leader of Five-Two-D somewhere in the mayhem.

Kino!

The constant of sweaty hands and bustling bare feet made it hard standing still as you shouted his name.

Kino!

A brief moment of relief passes through your body when you see that familiar head of salt and pepper hair.

Your eyes connect. He looks just as worried as you — until he sees that you're safe.

I can’t swim.

You swear you heard it — Kino’s voice, but it's too late.

One burly prisoner knocks straight into you to dive off the platform, knocking you backwards with him.

You lose your footing.

The world is weightless as you fall to the ocean.

Your back collides with the water, leaving you with little choice:

Either you live or you die.

You can't go back for him.

Too many bodies are falling to the depths, and if you don't move, then you may get crushed.

So you choose:

You swim.

You swim and never look back.

.

.

.

.

.

SIX MONTHS LATER

It’s freezing at this outpost.

However, it’s better to be freezing in the Outer Rim than living in fear within the inner cities. That would be a surefire way of getting caught by the Empire.

Besides, you don't hate it here. The people are nice. Everyone mostly keeps to themselves.

You've finally seen the sun, eaten hot meals.

You've built a life.

As you enter your favorite dive of a cantina, you’re met with a swirl of artificial warmth. The bar curls at the center of the tiny establishment. A lone singer, a wanted criminal of the Empire herself, croons gently on the makeshift stage at the far right corner. The air reeks of the seasonal ale.

Scharzi, the Iktochi bartender, gives you a sage nod.

You’re welcomed here, even if you don’t usually speak much.

For the longest time, you spoke with no one.

(Paranoia seeped into your very bones.)

After a few weeks, however, you choose to chat with the locals.

It seems like everyone's on the run from the Empire in one way or another. Fugitives with a past and a present, not looking towards much of a future.

Maybe life is simple, dull, in the Outer Rim, but you all agree on one thing:

At least it’s free.

When you sit and shrug off your coat, you give a bland smile to the bartender and hold up a finger: the usual.

They’ve decorated this hole in the wall better than most.

An assortment of winter decorations, lights and strings, line the low ceilings of this place.

It’s cozier with the added lights. Less bleak and depressing.

Scharzi glances at you briefly as his assistant, a small twi’lek — Phia — earning her keep, smiles at you.

Phia is peppy despite her grave interactions with the Empire, scorned and orphaned, but Scharzi has done the best he can to give her shelter and a place to hide.

To be a ghost, like the rest of you.

“Doing anything for the holiday this weekend?” she asks after pushing a goblet of your usual ale to you.

Glancing up at the eager young woman, you shake your head. “Not particularly.”

“Well, we’ll be open our usual hours. I’m sure Charlie and a few others will be coming around,” Phia cheerfully informs.

She cleans up a sticky circle on the counter as a body takes a seat on the stool beside you.

“Then I guess I’ll be here tomorrow, too,” you tell her, scooting on your bar stool to give the stranger some room. 

“You better bring your best holiday wish, then.”

“A wish?”

“Yeah, we always do them here.” Phia glances to the man beside you. “What can I get you?”

He waves her off without a word.

(Not uncommon around these parts.)

“Just tell me when you do want something, alright?” she pleasantly tells him, before turning her back to the wall of liquor bottles to rearrange them. “So? What’s your wish?”

You snort, taking another long gulp of your drink.

"My wish?"

"Yeah! Lay it on me. I promise telling doesn't make it not come true."

“It won’t ever come true, so." You sip again, shaking your head. "I don't particularly feel worried about it not happening.”

“Now that I doubt,” Phia counters, sing-song and light. “C'mon. Try me. Hypothetically, what would you make your wish?”

This is stupid.

Then again, so is trying to survive as hard as you have.

There isn’t a point to it, to any of it, yet you live freely out of spite and spite alone.

(The Empire will not win.)

“My wish. I guess I’d wish for… ha, well, I lost someone.”

You trail off before becoming resolute. Certain. 

You see him in your mind’s eyes — the way he ducked his chin while sitting on his knees, staring you in the eye with the promise of a better tomorrow.

You earned this.

Your heart clenches.

“He, uh… I think he passed away a few months back. I don’t really know what happened to him. I hope it didn't come to that, but it was unlikely he survived. I think my wish would be getting to see him again, some day.”

The awkwardness of Phia’s stare makes you down the rest of your ale before giving it back.

“Mind topping me off?”

The twi’lek nods solemnly, taking the ale and disappearing around the semi-circle bar to bring you a fresh pint.

His words linger on your tongue, sticking to the roof of your mouth.

You earned this.

Living.

Breathing.

Being.

“Bloody awful wish if you ask me.”

The stranger beside you speaks up.

Their voice is baritone, low with an unmistakable growl.

You almost drop your drink from the shock.

In a flash, you whip your attention to an older man staring back at you: white curls with a growing salt and pepper beard, shorter in height yet twice as intense in the eyes.

His cheeks and nose are reddened by the cold outside.

Maybe Phia laced the ale with something, because you know you’re not drunk.

Maybe you’re tired. Hallucinating.

Or maybe—

“Should spend a wish on something that’s not so easy to come true,” Kino Loy grunts, setting his hands on the bar top as he regards you.

You can’t speak.

Won’t.

You’re too afraid to blink the illusion away.

The older man stares you down, waiting in silence until Phia brings back your second ale.

“Mind giving me what she’s having?” he asks the young barkeep, knowingly making her take a second trip around the other end of the bar to give you space.

"Sure thing! She likes 'em strong, hope that's alright," Phia chirps.

Kino thumbs at his nose. "I'll do my best to handle it."

You haven't stopped staring. You're sure Phia notices your wide-eye gaze.

It doesn't matter, because no matter how much you blink, Kino is still there.

He keeps his chin ducked while he waits to be alone again, before his voice smooths out the edges.

(Just like he always did, when it was only the two of you.)

“Didn’t bring a bloody bouquet of Queen’s Hearts with me, but—”

“How?”

You hate how much of a bark the question is, but the blurt must come before you’re rendered mute.

Kino’s mouth presses to a thin line of regret.

“Is this real?” you whisper, voice dropping to a whisper of uncertainty. “Because I heard—”

“I know.”

“And I saw—”

“I know,” he repeats with a heavy sigh. “It’s more complicated then what we have time for tonight. I’m not here to relive the past, kid. Maybe another night, but not this one.”

Your brain reels with memories you once swallowed so far down they stuck to the pit of your stomach, now threatening to spill here:

Kino Loy, alive and well, at the very Outer Rim city you’ve been hiding in all this time.

“How the hell did you find me?” you quietly reply, absently tightening your grip on the handle of your ale as you process the scent of him.

Faint cologne lingers, new, but it’s still him.

It’s still him.

Kino mumbles a thank you to the twi’lek bartender who then disappears once she hands him the ale, allowing you the illusion of privacy in this cantina.

“...you’re not easy to find, I'll give you that,” he explains, taking a sip of the ale.

His eyes slip close, relishing in its taste, before taking a second, much bigger gulp.

“Had to ask around, but I remember you mentioning this place. Remember you mentioning a couple of places, figured maybe you chose to hide out on one of 'em."

"And you..."

"Went to every single one? Yeah," he supplies. "I’m not one to waste time. Not when we’re living on a borrowed case of it, so I hit up as many places as I could. Finally found you on this one.”

Kino allows a moment to pass, settling his ale back on the bar top, before he leans in.

You don’t move, mesmerized by the way his chest rises and falls under his gray tunic.

Alive.

Alive, alive, alive—

“I told you once that we’d get the hell out of that shitehole, once and for all, and I’d buy you whatever drink fits your fancy at the nearest cantina.”

The man reaches a slow, cautious hand from the table.

Magnetism draws you in, desperate to feel something stable, something warm.

Eventually his palm connected with your cheek and you’re threatened with a surge of emotion.

Same calluses. Same stroke of his thumb.

Simultaneously, you both suck in a sharp breath — two octaves of the same relief.

It’s as though an electric spark flows between you, and you find yourself nuzzling his palm with a longing that’s propelled you for six straight months.

Kino chuckles under his breath at this, only to move in closer. 

His other hand cups your face, cradling your head in his reach.

“Sorry I couldn’t find the bloody flowers,” he exhales. “Not exactly welcome at the pearly gates of Naboo, if you could imagine that.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the flowers, Kino,” you inhale, earning another rumbling laugh from the older man.

“No, didn’t think you would.”

When you slip your eyes open, you see him shake his head as if mesmerized by what’s before him.

You stare right back, raising your hands to gently rest against his.

Kino studies your face in the dim lights of the cantina, Adam’s apple bobbing from a thick swallow.

He frowns briefly, as if plagued by a morose thought, before his shoulders droop.

There’s so much to say.

So many doors have closed…

Yet reuniting with the man who taught you to fight to live feels like a fresh start, all the same. 

“I’ll take that drink, though,” you murmur, forcing a tired smile to play on your lips.

The former unit manager’s eyes instantly drop to your mouth.

“Whatever you want, love, so long as you’ll have me.”

The smile on your face grows.

He mirrors, huffing and smiling back — only to drag you in for a searing, devastated kiss.

For the first time in years, hope is within the confines of your galaxy.

.

#kino loy x reader #kino loy x f!reader #kino loy x you #kino loy fanfiction #andor fanfiction #andor fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #star wars fic #kino x you #kino x reader #andor fic #kino loy fanfic #twelve days of amymas

[amywritesthings]

the third day of amymas ( joel miller x reader, from seeing you seeing me ) will drop on wednesday, december 6 ❄️

#joel miller fluff #this one is for the last of us stans who blew up SYSM earlier this year #we're continuing straight from SYSM! #i just have to format and edit lol #twelve days of amymas

[amywritesthings]

Hi Amy! Sending you love this Saturday night. I wanted to thank you for a Din reprise. I miss him so much and this Mando stan almost cried seeing your Christmas post. Thank you THANK YOU for a great gift!

HI OH MY GOSH I'M SORRY I'M LATE TO THIS. Life has been crazy for the holiday week with work. But I am really happy that you're happy!!!! That's one of the fics I already have finished, I just need to edit and post it once December rolls around xo

It was literally so fun getting back into Din's mindset (...helmet?) after not hanging out with him for the last year.

#anon response #feedback. #twelve days of amymas

[amywritesthings]

DIN!?!?e!##ij@#!!!?!?!?!?!!?#$@#$ HOLY SHIT

Hehe, happy holidays, anon!

#feedback. #twelve days of amymas #fic: point a to point b #an appropriate reply to a fic i haven't updated in over a year lmfao #i cant believe it's been a year good god #anon response

[amywritesthings]

Din Djarin will return for a special Point A to Point B holiday one shot on Friday, December 1, 2023 ✨

#din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #holiday fanfic #holiday one shot #the twelve days of amymas #fic announcement

[amywritesthings]

a silver truce in snow. / a levi holiday ficlet

pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) word count: 1.8k summary: Snow is a mythical thing in the Underground City. Now, on a Scout mission, you get to experience the real deal. Naturally that means starting a snowball fight with Levi Ackerman - but make it horny. tags: 18+ MINORS DNI! pre-aot, explicit language, snowball fight, secret relationship, kisses, power/authority kinks, sexual tension, implied sexual content, touch-starved idiots, friends to lovers, fluff w/a little slutty note: set in the universe of silver underground credit: dividers by @saradika

welcome to the fourth day of the twelve days of amymas 2023 !!

Snow was such a bitch.

Beautiful, something people in the Underground City would never get to see in the flesh, but such a bitch.

Carrying the last of the supplies up the mountain yourself towards the rendezvous cabin had been one hell of a choice.

Captain Levi was explicit about trudging on foot and leaving the horses behind, so it was up to the team to meet with the rest of the Scouts waiting with Erwin.

It's not a competition to get there, but of course it's a competition to get there before Oluo — not that beating him is hard to do.

Petra and the others are eons ahead, likely already nestled inside tonight's shelter. You move slower, somewhere between a purposeful and accidental pace.

Because it's snow. Real, tangible snow.

At first you were excited to see the flurry, experience the cold, for yourself — snow was just a fairytale in smuggled books for the kids in the Underground City.

Now?

Now you’re sinking one foot into another pile of snow, and you’re really over the novelty.

(You can’t remember the last time you felt your fingers in these mittens.)

“Tired already?”

A voice calls to you from the top of the hill, and the snow beneath your feet illuminates.

Your cold-worn chin lifts to the sudden array of light: Levi Ackerman stands over you, nose pink from the chill and brow quirked with interest.

The fire from the lanterns illuminating the cabin create a halo effect behind his emerald Scout hood.

His words are meant to be a jab, but you know what he’s really saying:

Sorry I couldn’t help.

Helping signals favoritism.

Favoritism would sell you out — to Erwin, to Hange, to the team — in five seconds flat.

(You could — and have — argued that most of the squad already has an idea. Forever bound to the cards held to his chest, Levi insists keeping your secrets to yourselves.)

“And you’re not?” you ask in an exhausted huff.

“I can carry supplies double my weight,” he replies in that playful monotone, “unlike someone I know.”

“Oh?” You exhale again. “You calling me weak, Ackerman?”

“I’m not the one out of breath, am I?”

Levi retorts in jest, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Well, then — if that’s how he’s going to be.

“You might wanna check on Oluo,” you add, taking one last step to land on flatter earth. You wipe the sweat off of your forehead with the back of your mitten and drop the supply bag to the ground. “I think I lost him down the hill.”

“He’ll make it up the mountain eventually,” Levi reassures, relieving the second sack off of your hands.

You relent, not willing to spoil the moment by pointing out that this can be considered helping.

“He’s all the way down the hill?”

He tosses the sack to the cabin’s stoop, then bends to remove the first supply bag from the snow. He tosses that, too, and fully turns to greet you.

His cheeks are equally pink from the cold, and you can't stop staring.

(It's adorable. He'd hate being called adorable.)

"Yeah," you nod.

Levi trudges through the snow towards you.

“All the way?”

"Yeah, why?" you repeat with confusion.

You see where it’s going as soon as he crosses the threshold into your orbit.

"And, Lieutenant, in your best estimation," Levi continues, feigning professionalism, "it will take at least ten minutes for Oluo to reach the Scout cabin?" 

A smile grows on your face, careful yet delighted.

“Fifteen minutes, Captain, at the very least.”

Your body is compelled forward when Levi loops an arm around your waist, dragging you to him.

The laugh on the tip of your tongue dies when he presses a freezing kiss to your lips.

It's risky, but you're so glad he's willing to take it.

When it comes to expeditions, your lives are a simple mosaic of stolen kisses and phantom touches. Alone time is impossible when you’re traveling on the road.

(Except it's just usually you who makes the first move.)

The dark-haired man sighs, breath hot in comparison to his lips, when you return the kiss with equal passion.

He turns his head to deepen the stolen kiss, eager for a moment — only a moment — where he can have you.

Everything feels warmer in this small pocket of two.

Emboldened by his spontaneity, you flick his lower lip with your tongue.

Without fail, Levi makes a noise of want.

His fingers under his gloves squeeze your side for foundation.

( Maybe tonight, if you’re quiet.)

Except you had your own plans.

Surely he'll veto a midnight tryst at your childish desires, but what you're about to do to ruin the moment was decided upon well before this surprise kiss.

Somewhere around the time of Levi leaving everyone else in the snowy dust and now, Gunther had taught you about things kids on the surface did when it snowed.

Build snowmen.

Make snow angels.

Snowballs, though... a packed little ball of snow, ready to launch at a moment's notice.

A fight.

Levi Ackerman was so focused on the two bags over your right shoulder that he never saw the traveling ball you'd made while climbing the mountain.

A sizeable weapon, not wholly round but resembling enough of what Gunther showed you on the road.

And now he's focused on the kiss that he doesn’t see your arm rise—

Slowly, without detection—

Abruptly you pull away, sliding back to create space.

His eyes belated flutter open, lips pursed in warmth by the kiss — then explode wide when he sees a glob of white.

Bam.

It's a successful first throw.

Levi stumbles, sputtering and wiping his cheeks and chin with gusto.

"James—!"

You back up with a laugh to the gray sky, all too proud of your accomplishment.

It’s a full belly laugh, giddy with childlike excitement that you managed to pull that off.

"That's what you get for going way ahead of the rest of us, Ackerman."

The hair framing his face is dipping with water, pout palpable.

He looks like a human-sized cat, sopping and annoyed.

“You little shit,” he growls, but it’s not out of anger.

It's determination.

He bends at the knees to gather snow into his gloves with quick precision, leaving you little time to run backwards.

“Where’re you going?” he calls. "What, you thought you'd get one hit and win?"

"Levi!" you shriek when he throws the first snowball.

Humanity’s Strongest doesn’t miss.

His snowball lands against your white trousers, wetting the fabric.

You use the hem of your cloak to try and protect yourself from the inevitable war you’ve started.

“I’m sorry!” you exclaim, unable to stop laughing.

(Clearly not sorry enough, since you reach down to start making up a sphere in retaliation.)

“Uh-huh,” he huffs, doing the same. “Should’ve thought that one through before you threw snow in my face.”

“You had us walk up a hill!” you call to him, and he holds up another snowball as a threat.

You continue sliding backwards, doing your best to quickly compact a ball.

You fail, miserably.

“So now my Lieutenant complains?” Levi asks, and a fire ignites in your belly.

You’ll never get over him calling you his. 

(Mine, he whispers in your ear at night when your wrists are pinned over your head, one crossed over another, as his other hand holds your chin in place. Levi has to make sure your eyes are on him and only him when he enters you, slow and deliberate, to witness your eyes flutter from the stretch. You’re mine.)

He throws another.

It hits you square in the chest.

Every time you throw another pathetic little snowball back at him, the dark-haired man easily dodges the attack.

He’s agile, focused, as he steps closer and closer.

You yelp again when you manage to finally dodge a fluffy puck coming right for your face.

Your hands shoot high, parallel to your head, to surrender.

“Truce!”

Levi squints, making up another snowball.

“A truce? I don’t think you get to call one.”

You take a leap of faith, dropping to your knees in the heavy snowfall.

Your clothes are going to be soaked right through, but you don’t care.

The look in Levi’s eyes when he realizes you’re giving up in this fashion is enough to make the chill running up your body worth it.

He nears, snowball in hand.

You lift your chin, your gaze meeting stern gray eyes.

You have to pray those cabin windows are as frosted on the inside as they look on the outside, but Levi blocks you from view as he stands directly in front of you.

“What are your terms and conditions, Lieutenant?” he asks, voice heady.

He rips the mitten off by his teeth, ripping it clear off of his free hand.

A pale hand reaches for your chin, thumb pressed against the center of your lower lip.

You don’t move, hot in the face from sudden arousal.

“I—”

His thumb glides along your frozen mouth, back and forth, allowing you time to contemplate your answer.

Nothing comes to mind.

You’re too focused by how warm the digit feels against your weather-worn skin.

“Speechless?” he mocks. “That’s unlike you.”

When you fail to speak again, Levi leans down to whisper in your ear.

“We can call a truce for now, but this? Isn’t over.”

All the air escapes your lungs when his lips press a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to your earlobe.

“Meet me at midnight, my door. We'll draw up a peace treaty, but on my terms."

That kiss turns into a nibble, and you make a small nose of desire.

Levi's voice is an octave deeper.

"Is that understood?”

If it wasn't so cold, you'd fuck him in this damn snow storm.

Unable to help yourself, you turn your chin and give a kitten lick to his jawline.

“Yes, sir,” you mock in return.

You’ve only ever called him sir to grate his nerves.

Now isn’t any different.

He pulls away.

"Good."

Opening his other gloved palm, Levi makes a point to show the readied snowball — only to drop it back to the pillowy earth below.

"I won't tolerate lateness."

Before he turns, you see it:

A grin, gone as fast as it appears, on his lips.

You can't help but grin yourself, heart racing at the night that lay ahead.

Yeah.

This fight isn't over.

And you'll gladly take the punishment that fits the crime.

.

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