kiara

It’s your last year in high school, you’re already an adult - you’re eighteen years old - but also a teenager with a more mature mind than the people your age. And you have a crush on your fucking English teacher. His salt-pepper hair and beard with his muscled body but also he has a tiny stomach. The way his veins hands play with the marker when he doesn’t write on the board or when he bites his lip while searching for the right word. It’s your favourite lecture.

He always gives a story, a novel or an essay for every week and he gives a topic or a word to make you write anything that comes to your mind. Last week’s word was ‘Forbidden’ and you immediately started writing a teacher-student novel. It came out about fifty-two pages. You gave it to him two days ago during the last lecture you had and today? You have English again.

The lesson finishes and you make your way out of the classroom but he calls out.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

“Yes, Mr. Pascal?” you turn around and look at him.

“Lock the door, please,” he asks you seriously and you do as he asked. “Come here,” he gestures and you stop next to him, dropping your bag on the floor.

“I want to talk about your novel, Miss,” he looks up at you.

“What’s the problem with that?” you raise your eyebrow.

“Nothing just, ‘His dark blue jeans stretch on his perfectly shaped thighs, the white shirt almost rips when he lifts his arm to write on the board, and I just want to bite in those biceps. Mr. P looks like a man who likes to fuck rough and I want to be under him. Or on top of him, I don't care. His salt-pepper hair looks so soft, and the way his brown eyes meet mine when he talks about some age-gap romance, it turns me on. I want to be fucked on his desk. And he does it after the lesson’ about this,” he looks up at you. “Mr. P? Age-gap romances and I think this ‘Mr. P’ is an English teacher. Or am I reading too much into it?” he runs his hand through his hair.

“You’re not,” you shrug nonchalantly.

“It’s inappropriate, Miss Y/L/N,” he shakes his head and sighs.

“The look in your eyes when you see me in skirts, that’s inappropriate. This is just a novel,” you call him out.

“It is?” he runs a hand up on your thigh. “Did you put this short skirt on, because you want to tease your teacher, Miss?” he grips your inner thigh and you gasp.

“I did, sir,” you nod and he stands up, letting your thigh go.

“You’re filthy,” he pushes your head down on his desk. “But you get what you want. You get what your young pussy needs,” he leans to your ear, pressing his crotch to your ass. “A real man’s dick, princess,” he whispers.

Pedro rolls your skirt over your ass and spanks it.

“No underwear? I knew you were a slut. The look in your eyes, the way you’re pressing you’re thighs together during every damn lesson, thinking I didn’t notice,” he scoffs. “I did.”

You hear he pulls his belt out of his jeans and without hesitation, he spanks your butt with a damn belt. Five times on each cheek. You can’t help but moan from the pleasure and pain. He knows exactly what he’s doing and damn you like it.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he traces circles on your hips.

“I want you to teach me how you like to fuck. I want to be sore and I don’t want to walk properly,” you moan out.

“Good girl,” he groans and takes off his trousers.

With a fast, ruthless thrust, he slams his dick into your pussy, stretching you open as he fucks you hard and relentlessly, his pace brutal from the start. The force knocks the breath from your lungs, your body jerking against him, but he doesn’t slow down—he only grips you tighter. His fingers twist into your hair, yanking your head back until your scalp burns, but all you can do is cry out his name, your voice breaking with every punishing thrust.

You can only hope the building is empty because there’s no way in hell you’re being quiet. His other hand slides down, rough fingers wrapping around your throat, forcing you upright against his solid chest. Your head spins as he tightens his grip just enough to steal your air, to remind you who’s in control. His breath is hot against your ear, the low growl of his voice sending shivers through your overstimulated body.

“Take it,” he orders, his teeth grazing your jaw before he drags his mouth down to your throat. His lips crash against your skin, kissing, biting, sucking hard enough to leave marks—proof of how thoroughly he’s claiming you. Your body trembles, helpless against the onslaught, but fuck, you don’t want him to stop. Every rough, punishing thrust sends shockwaves through you, pushing you closer to the edge, your mind unravelling in the pure, raw intensity of him.

“Cum for me, my dirty little secret,” he bites your earlump.

Your eyes roll back in your head and you cum with trembling body, moaning his name while your pussy squeezes his dick and that was the last push for him too. He bites your shoulder as he cums in you.

“You’re mine, understood?” he pants caressing your waist.

Your relationship with Phil is, well, quite odd to say at least. You and Phil became friends when you joined WWE and he just approached and welcomed you warmly. It was strange at first because when you watched WWE and him on TV, he was a damn asshole - but still he was your favourite. Then within a few months, you started hang out as friends, then on a night when you were drunk, - he was drinking Pepsi - leaned in and captured his lips in a soft kiss. When you leaned back he was staring at you with widened eyes and totally shocked by your actions. The next day you met at work and he asked you out but you laughed and said the previous night’s kiss was a mistake and you were drunk. He pressed his lips together and just nodded and from then you’ve been in a frenemy status. Not friends anymore, not enemies but something is off and this hatred is still between you. He’s angry because you rejected him after you kissed him, you’re furious because he’s avoiding you like it’s his full-time job.

Before your biggest match tonight against Rhea Ripley - for the Women’s World Championship title -, he approaches you with a serious expression.

“Good luck tonight, Angel,” his face softens with a smile.

“Thank you,” you look into his gorgeous green eyes which are full of support.

You turn around as your entrance song ‘Rein Raus’ by Rammstein starts playing after Rhea gets in the ring and you start walking in confidently.

You’re mouthing the lyrics, it’s one of your favourite songs so it was obvious this gonna be your entrance song, it’s powerful with dirty meaning. Perfect.

The match is still going after twenty minutes when you finally drop your bomb; ‘Flames’. Your finisher move. With a fierce rush, you execute a powerful double underhook DDT, spinning her in midair before slamming her headfirst to the mat. The impact is so intense, that the crowd collectively gasps, holding their breath. You don’t stop there. You quickly climb on the top rope and spring off into a Phoenix Splash, landing perfectly on Ripley. You pin her down, the referee starts counting and then the bell rings. You stand up in disbelief, she couldn’t kick out your pin. A smile spreads across your face as you close your eyes and in a moment the title is in your hands. You climb on the top rope holding the belt in the air and the crowd chants your name like it’s a pray.

After you change into comfy clothes in the locker room, ready to leave, he leans on the doorframe.

“Congratulations, Y/N,” he smirks and nods proudly.

“My body is screaming in pain, Mami is reckless,” you laugh “But thanks, it means a lot actually.”

“You’re the Women’s World Champion, Angel. You should be proud,” his eyes soften and you feel your stomach flip.

Angel. The nickname he gave you when he first saw you in all-white gear with extreme white makeup. Punk complimented you before, then after the match, he said you look like an angel and a goddess at the same time. But your angelic eyes made him stuck with Angel.

“I’m proud to be honest. I earned my title and I fought for it a lot,” you smile at him.

“You sure did,” he laughs softly “Have a good night, Y/N.”

“You too, Phil.”

When he turns around a piece of paper falls out of his back pocket but he doesn’t notice. Punk disappears behind the corner as he makes his way out. You pick up the paper and fold it out, revealing words. Lots of words. It’s a damn letter. You look around and when you make sure you’re alone you sit down on the bench and start reading it.

‘Dear Angel,

I’ve written a hundred letters to you, and I never had the guts to give you a single one. This one’s no different. I don’t even know why I’m writing it now, but here I am. I don’t think I’ll ever give it to you, but I guess sometimes you have to get things off your chest, even if they never see the light of day.

I’ve been standing here, watching you win tonight, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of you. You’ve worked so damn hard for this, Angel. I’ve always known you had it in you, but watching you finally take that belt? That’s something else.

It’s funny, though. I’ve been thinking about that night two years ago more than I’d like to admit. We hung out, you got drunk, and yeah, you kissed me. You were stumbling, and I was just there—doing my best to keep it together while you had your fun. I didn’t drink, I don’t do any of that, but I couldn’t help but feel… something. And the next day, I asked you out. I’m sure you remember it. You rejected me. Said it was a mistake, that you were drunk and it didn’t mean anything.

I wasn’t pissed off. Hell, I was probably more disappointed in myself for even thinking there could be something there. Maybe you didn’t want someone like me. Maybe I’m just too damn old, grumpy, and set in my ways for someone like you. I mean, maybe that’s why you rejected me, right? I’ve got this edge about me, and the age gap—hell, it’s probably just another thing to add to the list of reasons why I’m not what you’re looking for.

But here’s the thing, Angel. I’ve been lying to myself ever since. I’ve been acting like I don’t care, like it doesn’t matter, but it does. I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this now—maybe it’s because tonight, watching you with that championship, I can’t pretend anymore. I’m proud of you. I respect you. I don’t care if you never feel the same way, but I can’t keep pretending I’m not still a little hung up on you.

I’m not asking for anything, Angel. Don’t worry, I’m not about to lay all of this at your feet. I’m not going to make things complicated. I’m straight edge, I’ve always kept my distance, and I’ll keep doing that. But I needed to write this, for myself. To stop pretending I don’t feel this way.

You’re a champion. You always have been. I guess I’ve just been too scared to admit how much you mean to me.

Anyway, this letter probably won’t ever see the light of day. You won’t ever know it exists, and that’s okay. Maybe it’s for the best. But just know, somewhere out there, I’m still cheering you on.

Punk’

Your tears are flowing down your cheeks, regretting these two years you avoided your feelings for him. God, you’ve been in love with him since you first talked to him and he made you become his friend. You still can’t forget that kiss, his soft lips on yours, kissing you back. The surprise in his eyes being slowly replaced by desire but he took you home and tucked you in bed.

You stand up still crying, the letter in your coat’s inner pocket and you start running like you do it for your life. Actually, you are. Because it’s your life and you want him to be in your damn life as a lover. As a partner.

When you reach his house, soaking wet because of the rain, you lie on the bell. He opens the door only in grey sweatpants clearly confused.

“What are you doing here, Angel? Did you run? Jesus, you’re soaked,” he sighs and pulls you in.

“What is this?” you take out the letter from your pocket and push it on his chest.

The air stuck in Punk’s lungs and slides his hand on the letter, staring into your soul.

“Did you read it?” he asks with fear.

“That’s why I'm here, dumbass,” you laugh bittersweet as you take off your coat and kick your boots off.

“How did you—”

“—It fell out of your pocket. And you disappeared before I could take it after you,” you wipe away a tear “Do you really feel this way?”

“I do,” he mutters under his breath.

“Oh my god,” you laugh and grab the back of his neck, crashing your lips to his.

He kisses you back but in a second he gently pushes you away.

“Angel, what was this?” he lets the letter fall on the ground and cups your cheeks in his hands.

“I don’t know why I rejected you two years ago. I was afraid that I’d be a young toy for you. I was afraid I’d fall for you damn hard. But I did anyway,” you swallow nervously.

“So you say we’ve been feeling the same thing for two years now? And neither of us did anything?” he laughs bitterly.

“Looks like,” you shut your eyes.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he lifts your chin and you open your eyes.

He leans in and kisses you deeply with hunger and frustration. The situation quickly turns heated and your hands slide on his naked chest, he grabs your thighs and lifts you up effortlessly. You wrap your legs around his waist and he carries you into his bedroom and throws you on the bed.

“You thought I only wanted you as a toy back then?” he grabs your ankles and yanks you to the edge of the bed “I’m going to play with you. You’re my dirty little slut, my nasty toy from now on. And I’m going to make sure you will never forget this night, and me,” he whispers in your ear and shivers go down your spine “Got it?”

“Mhm,” you hum. The heat which radiates from his body makes you weak. His words make you feel you’re going to cum right now.

“Good girl,” he smirks and takes off your jeans with your thong and throws it away “You’re so damn wet for me, Angel,” he mutters on your inner thigh and presses sloppy kisses on it. In a second he buries his head in your pussy, and a loud moan escapes your lips. His tongue - oh my holy fuck - fucks you. Licking and eating you out like you’re his last dinner, sucking on your clit while looking into your eyes.

“Phil,” you moan his name “I’m gonna cum,” you grip his hair and press his face more into your pussy.

“Not yet, Angel,” he leans back grinning with your juices on his chin.

You groan impatiently. He grabs you and puts you on middle of the bed, then takes off your t-shirt.

“No bra? You filthy slut,” he sucks on your nipples, while you arch your back for him.

He kisses your body everywhere he can, and then he takes off his sweatpants, kneeling on the bed naked.

“How is that gonna fit in me?” you look at his penis then into his eyes.

“Oh, Angel. I’ll make it fit,” he smirks and he climbs on top of you, positioning himself between your legs.

Without hesitation, he pushes his dick inside you, with one, long thrust. You cry out his name loudly, making sure his neighbours going to know who’s living in this house.

“Jesus Angel, you’re so damn tight,” he sucks in a sharp breath.

He starts thrusting first slowly and when you start moaning in pleasure, he picks up a rough pace. Your hips meet with loud sounds which makes you feel more desired. His hunger is apparent in his groans and whimpers. Before you could cum, he slides out of you and he turns you on your stomach and pulls your ass up.

“Count to ten. This is your punishment for making me wait this long for your delicious pussy and your perfect heart,” and he slaps your ass light.

“One,” you hum. The second slap is way stronger than the first.

“Two,” you moan softly. The third? Ruthless. Finally, you reach ten, and your ass cheeks are burning, and your pleasure is dripping down on your inner thigh.

He positions himself behind you and slams into your pussy and starts fucking you like a damn animal. He turns you on your back and grabs your throat tightly while rocking his hips to yours.

“My little, kinky slut. I feel your pussy squeeze around my dick as I apply pressure on your perfect throat. Like your new necklace, Angel?” he pants as he throws his head back. He looks like a fucking god.

“Yeah,” you force out the answer. You can’t think just feel. You feel everything. He grabs your hips and you already feel the marks of his hands are going to be there tomorrow.

He doesn't slow down, if it’s possible he just fastens his pace.

“Cum for me, Angel,” he groans.

And this pushes you over the edge. You scream his name, tightening around him and his dick twitches, cumming inside you.

He leans down and kisses your jawline then your lips with affection and care. And with love.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers on your lips, staring into your soul.

“I love you too, Phil,” you smile at him softly.

He slowly pulls out of you and goes for a warm, wet towel and takes care of you. Wiping away your and his mixed cum which is dripping out of you, then he gives you one of his boxers and t-shirt, but he sees how exhausted are you and dresses you up. He puts on sweatpants too then climbs next to you, pulling you close to his body.

“Please be here when I wake up,” he whispers, begging with his eyes.

“I would never leave,” you shake your head and snuggle to his chest “I love you,” you close your eyes and immediately drift off to sleep.

“My Angel,” he presses a kiss on your temple and slowly falls asleep too.

“Alright, team,” Tony announced, clapping his hands together. “This year, we’re going all out. I want the tower to scream Christmas overload by the time we’re done.”

“Overload is an understatement,” Natasha muttered, untangling a string of lights with a pointed glare in Tony’s direction.

You laughed as you carried a box of ornaments to the tree, nearly bumping into Bucky, who was hauling an enormous wreath over his shoulder. “Careful there, doll,” he teased, his lips curving into a small smile.

“I’m careful,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “Unlike you and that monstrosity of a wreath. Where’s that even going?”

Bucky glanced at the oversized decoration and shrugged. “Stark said ‘bigger is better.’ You know how he is.”

“Yeah, I do,” you said with a grin, setting the ornaments down. “Need help with it?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, actually. If I’m going to survive this decorating extravaganza, I could use a partner.”

You followed him toward the massive windows overlooking the city, the wreath wobbling precariously in his grasp. “You’ve got this,” you encouraged, steadying it as he hooked it onto the wall.

When he stepped back to admire the work, you realized you were standing closer than you’d intended, his presence warm and solid beside you.

“Looks good,” you said softly, glancing up at him.

Bucky’s blue eyes met yours, a flicker of something softer crossing his face. “Yeah. It does.”

“Hey, lovebirds!” Clint shouted from across the room, breaking the moment. “Stop staring at each other and get back to work!”

Your face flushed as Bucky rolled his eyes, but you caught the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Guess we’d better get back to it,” he said, handing you a strand of tinsel.

“Guess so,” you replied, your smile matching his as you got to work.

The quiet hum of Christmas music filled the cozy apartment as you added the finishing touches to the hot cocoa. Steam curled from the mugs, carrying the scent of cinnamon and chocolate, and the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights cast the room in a warm, golden hue. You could hear Bucky moving around in the living room, his heavy boots thudding softly on the floor as he adjusted a string of lights on the window.

“I think you missed a spot,” you teased, stepping into the room with the mugs.

Bucky turned, his lips quirking into a small smile. “You’re lucky I’m letting you talk to me like that,” he replied, his tone light. “I don’t do this decorating stuff for just anyone, you know.”

“Wow, I’m honored,” you said, handing him a mug.

He took it, his gloved fingers brushing against yours, and for a moment, the room felt warmer than it should have. His smile softened, and he nodded toward the couch. “Sit with me?”

You followed him, settling beside him on the plush cushions. The snow was falling steadily outside, the world beyond the window a blur of white. It felt like you were in your own little bubble, removed from the chaos of the world—a feeling you cherished more than you cared to admit.

“I don’t remember the last time I had a real Christmas,” Bucky said quietly, his gaze fixed on the snow.

You glanced at him, your heart tugging at the vulnerability in his voice. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, taking a sip of his cocoa. “I mean… all of this. The lights, the tree, the quiet moments. It feels normal, you know? I haven’t had normal in a long time.”

You reached out, placing your hand over his. “Well, you’ve got normal now. And you deserve it, Bucky. More than anyone.”

His eyes met yours, and something unspoken passed between you—a quiet understanding, a recognition of shared pain and resilience.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but rather comfortable, like a blanket wrapping around you both. You leaned your head against his shoulder, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly, his arm coming to rest along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against your shoulder.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment.

“At what?”

“Making someone feel like they belong.”

Your heart squeezed at his words. You tilted your head to look up at him, finding his blue eyes already on you. “That’s because you do belong, Bucky. Here, with me.”

For a second, he looked like he was going to say something, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Instead, he reached up, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb brushed against your skin.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“You don’t have to do anything to deserve being loved,” you replied softly. “You just have to let it in.”

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the truth in your words. And then, slowly, he leaned in. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile. But as you kissed him back, his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the hesitance melted away.

The world outside disappeared, the snow, the lights, the music—all of it fading into the background. All you could feel was him, the steady warmth of his body, the way his lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads resting against each other, you couldn’t help but smile. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

He chuckled softly, his breath brushing against your lips. “Best Christmas I’ve had in a long time.”

The snow continued to fall outside, and for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt at peace. And as you sat together by the light of the Christmas tree, wrapped in each other’s warmth, you knew this was only the beginning of something beautiful.

You’d never seen Bucky Barnes look so uncomfortable.

Standing in the middle of your living room, he tugged at the garish red-and-green sweater you’d insisted he wear. It was adorned with blinking LED lights, fluffy white pom-poms, and an image of a winking Santa holding a candy cane. If that wasn’t enough, the words “Sleigh My Name” were embroidered in glittery gold across the front.

“This feels like a crime,” he muttered, glancing down at himself with a grimace.

“You look amazing,” you teased, biting back a laugh.

“I look ridiculous.”

“That’s the point! It’s an ugly Christmas sweater, Bucky.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. “You couldn’t find one that was… less ugly?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you countered, crossing the room to adjust one of the pom-poms dangling precariously off his shoulder. “Besides, I think you’re pulling it off. You’ve got that whole rugged charm meets festive disaster thing going on.”

Bucky snorted, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “Festive disaster, huh?”

“Exactly.”

His gaze softened as he looked down at you, the faint glow of the sweater’s blinking lights reflecting in his blue eyes. “You’re lucky I like you,” he murmured, his voice low enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You grinned, stepping back to admire your work. “You’re lucky I didn’t get you the one with the reindeer twerking.”

He laughed at that, the sound warm and genuine, and you couldn’t help but join in.

“Alright,” he said, rolling his eyes but still smiling. “But if Steve ever sees me in this, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“Deal,” you promised, though you secretly planned to snap a picture the first chance you got.

And as you both settled onto the couch, the blinking sweater still obnoxiously glowing, you couldn’t help but think Bucky had never looked more perfect.

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet, save for the gentle crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of wrapping paper. You sat cross-legged on the rug, carefully tying a silver ribbon around the small box in your lap. Across from you, Theo leaned against the armrest of the sofa, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he studied something in his hands.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you teased, nodding toward the neatly folded green wrapping paper beside him.

He glanced up, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Just making sure it’s perfect.”

“For who?” you asked, your tone light but curious.

Theo hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing over the edge of the gift. “Someone important,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual.

You tried not to read too much into it, focusing instead on placing the finishing touches on your own gift. “Well, I’m sure they’ll love it.”

“Yeah?” His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he cleared his throat and set the wrapped box on the table. “Here.”

You blinked as he pushed it toward you. “For me?”

He shrugged, looking almost shy. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Smiling, you reached for the box, untying the ribbon with care. Inside was a delicate charm bracelet, the silver chain glinting in the firelight. Each charm was intricate—an open book, a tiny serpent, a star—and you couldn’t stop the warmth that bloomed in your chest.

“Theo,” you whispered, “this is beautiful.”

His ears turned slightly pink, but he played it off with a casual shrug. “Figured you’d like it.”

Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love it. Thank you.”

His smile widened, rare and genuine. “Good. Now, your turn.”

Grinning, you handed him the box you’d wrapped earlier. He unwrapped it with an almost boyish eagerness, his brows lifting when he pulled out a sleek, leather-bound notebook.

“For your thoughts,” you said softly.

Theo ran his fingers over the smooth cover, his expression unreadable. But when he looked back at you, the gratitude in his eyes said more than words ever could.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Merry Christmas, Theo,” you replied, the moment lingering like a promise between the two of you.

The house was quiet, save for the crackling fire in the stone hearth and the occasional creak of the wooden beams. Snow swirled furiously outside, blanketing the world in white and ensuring you were thoroughly stranded until the storm passed. Not that you minded.

Carlos stretched out on the plush rug in front of the fire, his dark eyes watching you as you set down two mugs of hot chocolate. “I didn’t think Madrid would ever see snow like this,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, just like the flames casting golden light across his features.

“You’re welcome,” you teased, sitting beside him. “I must have brought it with me.”

He smirked, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Then I owe you a gracias. It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper white Christmas.”

His hand lingered for a moment before he pulled it back, fingers brushing over yours as he reached for his mug. The touch sent a shiver up your spine, though you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the way his gaze lingered.

You leaned back against the couch, cradling your mug as you watched the firelight dance across the room. “Not quite the holiday you had planned, though,” you said, glancing at him.

Carlos shrugged, setting his mug aside. “I wasn’t expecting to spend Christmas Eve snowed in with you, no,” he admitted, his voice dipping just slightly. “But I’m not complaining.”

Heat crept up your neck, though you weren’t sure if it was from the fire or the way he was looking at you—soft, warm, and undeniably intent.

“Come here,” he said suddenly, his tone gentle but firm as he reached for your hand.

You let him guide you closer, your heart beating a little faster when you found yourself lying beside him, your head resting on his chest. His arm curled around you, his hand tracing slow, lazy patterns on your back.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair.

Your laugh was soft, a little breathless. “Getting snowed in?”

“No,” he replied, his fingers tipping your chin up so you could meet his gaze. “Getting to spend the holidays with you.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them made your heart ache in the best way. And when he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and impossibly tender, you felt the world melt away—snowstorm and all.

“Carlos,” you whispered against his lips, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater.

He smiled, his forehead resting against yours. “What?”

“Don’t stop.”

His laugh was low, almost a growl, as he shifted closer, his hands roaming your back as the kiss deepened, the warmth between you growing hotter than the fire crackling in the hearth.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, the only thing that mattered was the way Carlos held you, his touch soft and strong all at once, making you forget the cold entirely.

His hand’s sliding under your sweatpants and he started to pleasure you.

“How does this feels, amore?” he whispered in your ear.

“I didn’t know we’re together,” you panted as his fingers sliding into your vagina.

“Now, you should consider the idea,” he pulled his hand out of your underwear and he took off his t-shirt.

“I’m in, if you’re gonna be in me,” you smirked as he crashed his lips to yours. The moment just getting more heated, the clothes were falling on the floor and before you even realized, he started fucking you fast and rough. His right hand captured your throat and choked you, the other pleasured your clit as he was moving fast like an f1 car.

“Chili,” you pulled his hair as your back curved under the temptation.

“Amore, come with me,” he growled in your ear, which made you cum at the same time with him.

Both of you were laying in each other’s arms when he looked at you. “So, you’re my girlfriend now. And you’re gonna be my wife,” he kissed your forehead.

“Sounds perfect,” you snuggled to him more.

The Slytherin kitchen was an absolute disaster. Flour dusted every surface, eggshells littered the counter, and a bowl of suspiciously green batter sat forgotten by the sink. You weren’t even sure why this chaos had started—Mattheo had probably lost a bet with Lorenzo—but here you were, trying to keep three overly confident boys from burning down the dungeons.

“Theo,” you said with as much patience as you could muster, “that’s not how you fold the dough.”

Theo looked up from the sticky mess on the counter, his brows furrowed. “I’m folding it! Look!” He aggressively mashed the dough with the heels of his hands.

“That’s kneading,” you corrected, biting back a laugh.

From across the room, Mattheo was cracking eggs—if you could call it that. Most of the yolk ended up on his hands or the floor. “Who needs a wand when you’ve got skills like these?” he declared, smirking.

“You’re a menace,” you shot back, tossing him a rag.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo was humming to himself, diligently decorating cookies with far too much green icing and silver sprinkles. “These are masterpieces,” he said, holding one up like it belonged in a museum.

“They’re snakes,” Theo pointed out, squinting.

“They’re abstract snakes,” Lorenzo replied, unbothered.

As you turned back to Theo, he gave you a sheepish smile, flour smudged across his cheek. “I’m terrible at this,” he admitted.

“You’re not terrible,” you said, stepping closer. “You just need practice. Here—let me show you.”

You placed your hands over his, guiding him through the motion. His hands were warm under yours, and for a moment, the chaos around you faded. Theo’s lips quirked into a soft smile. “This isn’t so bad,” he murmured, his voice low.

“See? You’re a natural,” you teased.

Behind you, Mattheo groaned dramatically. “If you two start making heart-shaped cookies, I’m leaving.”

Theo threw a handful of flour in his direction without even looking, hitting Mattheo square in the chest. You burst out laughing, and before you knew it, flour was flying everywhere, Lorenzo was yelling about his ruined masterpieces, and Mattheo was declaring a full-blown flour war.

In the midst of the chaos, Theo leaned closer, brushing a stray bit of flour from your cheek. “We should bake together more often,” he said softly, his green eyes sparkling.

You grinned. “Only if you promise not to destroy the kitchen next time.”

“No promises,” he replied, smirking, just as Mattheo hit you both with a perfectly aimed handful of dough.