#keifanfics

Mermaids, mermen, and fishmen of all shapes and sizes sang and danced before your eyes, the room threatening to burst with laughter and music and the rumble of feet on the floor. It was something you’d never forget, you hoped, letting the familiar post-battle relief seep into your veins and loosen up your muscles.

Up until yesterday morning, you hadn’t seen anyone for two years. Part of you was convinced that your dangerous yet thrilling life on the seas was over, and that you might not run into your long lost friends on Saboady. But of course they would never let you down. When you arrived at the Sunny, there they all were: beaming down at you as if nothing had changed. 

Perhaps nothing had changed, after all. The past few years without them were erased in an instant upon your frantic descent to Fishman Island, and it was business as usual - fighting then feasting then repeating. You took this rare moment of peace to admire your friends from afar, nostalgia aching and eating away at your heart.

Zoro already drank his fill and fell asleep, while you winced at the face stuck to Sanji’s face as he laid in a mermaid’s lap. Chopper was next to him, frantically scolding him for yet another nosebleed. Brook - the Soul King - started performing with the band while Franky taught some fishmen fellows his signature pose, yelling at the top of his lungs, “Suuuuper!” You couldn’t help but choke on your laugh.

Your esteemed captain, Luffy, was deflating slowly after eating so much food, waving his arms about and talking excitedly with Jimbe. Ever the social butterfly, Nami chatted away to Camie while Robin sat still and listened, a small and graceful smile upon her face. Usopp soon joined in, spinning his silly but entertaining little stories.

“Why are you crying?” you look up to find Luffy, his eyes wide with innocent confusion, his body already returned to normal. When you don’t respond right away, he tilts his head and asks again, “Are you still hurt from earlier?”

You shake your head, only just noticing how the tears stung your eyes. Frantically, you wipe them away with the back of your arm, no doubt rubbing your face a little raw. He plops down next to you, taking in the same views. You wonder if he’s thinking of the same thing as you, or maybe he’s just zero’d in on how much more he wants to eat - you can never tell. That’s your captain. 

You clear your throat and say, “I gotta admit something stupid.”

“Yeah?” is all Luffy can say. He doesn’t even turn to you, mesmerised still on what’s before him.

“I’m so happy we’re back together,” you smile, finally tearing your eyes from him, “Even though we’re still going to be bouncing from one place to the other, just like always, I still… I never want this night to end!”

He throws his head back and laughs, “It never will!” he announces proudly, “We’re pirates. We’re gonna live this good every day. I promise!”

Right then, a long-forgotten feeling blossomed in your chest once more. It climbed up into your throat and threatened to choke you, for you were finally back with your friends and your captain - the future King of the Pirates, and you didn’t have to fear what would come next. This is what the past two years were for.

As Luffy’s laugh died down, his wide smile still plastered across his face, you found yourself thinking that you love your captain, who bears so much for you all with no hesitation, so much that you could kiss him. And you do.

It’s quick, fleeting. You race forward and press your lips against his, the music around you fading into the background for a moment, but sense washes over you and sobers you up fast, and you pull away. To your surprise, Luffy doesn’t seem angry or confused. His eyebrows are twisted in shock and his mouth hangs open slightly, but at least he’s not upset. It only makes you feel even more embarrassed, twisting your body away from him and hiding your now red face. “I’m sorry!” your mind races to find the right thing to say, but Luffy’s response takes you out once more.

“Hey, can we do that again?” 

You freeze. Then you slowly turn back to him, only to find his face centimetres from yours. Scooting backwards against the floor to put some distance between you, your response is scattered as you fan the heat away from your face, “What do you mean?”

“That- It felt good! I wanna try it again!” he’s smiling again.  Of course, you huff. Luffy’s actions shouldn’t surprise you anymore. But you give in, feeling yourself lean in to connect your lips again, your hand flying up to cup his cheek and pull him in closer and keep him there longer. Luffy smiles toothily and clumsily into the kiss, reminding you again why you love him so much in the first place.

@12daysofchristmas

With so many people working at the Agency now, the boss greenlit the idea to host a Christmas party in the office. After all, what else was a gang of stray dogs going to do, with nowhere to go, on Christmas Day?

Each desk was set with a different board or card game - Monopoly, Uno!, Catan, Cluedo… There would have been space for Scrabble, but Kunikida insisted his desk was not to be touched. He did not leave its side all night, watching innocent bystanders from behind his misted glasses. 

You tried each of the games once, but strategy wasn’t your strong suit. You won one game of Uno! and lost at all the other board games - the ones where luck was not the only important factor in winning. Heavily, you fall into one of the couches in the corner, letting yourself sink far into its worn cushions. Dazai was watching from the opposite couch with an unreadable expression.

He throws a standard pack of playing cards on the table between you. That would have been enough to convince you, but of course, this was Dazai. Sparks were practically shooting from his head, “I’ve always wondered - can you beat The World’s Greatest Detective, bella?”

With a tut and a flick of your hair, you stride over to your colleagues playing Scrabble at your desk, and motion for them to move to the floor. Atsushi was not going to say no to you. With their tiles carefully replicated in the middle of the office’s green-tiled floor, you pull the poker set out of your top drawer - the one Dazai took the cards from. 

The World’s Greatest Detective, aka Edogawa Ranpo, needed no convincing from Dazai, he sat at the other side of your desk in an instant, his eyes following your nimble hand movements as you distributed the poker chips between you evenly. “Does anybody else want to join?” You called out to the rest of the room. They all shook their heads; now was the time to watch. Even you didn’t know what would happen - you wondered if Ranpo did?

Your special ability was Good Luck. It didn’t always work in the way you wanted, but it got you to where you were today. Before joining the agency, you had made a living in casinos and then by playing poker professionally. Not once, in your life, have you ever lost a game. But facing off against the world’s smartest man (sorry, detective) left you stiff in your chair. He can’t read minds or break through poker faces, but he was your boyfriend too - he knew every single face you could make like the back of his hand. Chances are that your luck, your reality-altering ability, may not save you this time. Not against the talented Ranpo. 

Twice! He’s beaten you twice now! Your chips dwindle - they’ve never done that before. Ranpo guards them nonchalantly, waving a lollipop around as he talks, “The World’s Greatest Detective really is unbeatable, huh?” he pops the sweet back into his mouth. One more time, you can’t walk away from this a total loser.

Yosano collects the cards and begins shuffling them, weaving them elegantly between her fingers. You close your eyes and exhale, turn it off, the sound of the cards slapping against each other is like music to your ears, give me something terrible. The last, and only, time you ever turned your luck off truly was terrible. Fukuzawa restrained it in you, a poor attempt to stop you from ‘swindling’ patrons at casinos. “It’s unbecoming of a future detective,” he’d said. 

Well, you got it back two days later. Only because it became evident that you couldn’t live without it - a close call with the stairs, the lift, a car on the street. It was more trouble than it was worth, as you weren’t even able to leave the agency office - or indeed stay inside it - unharmed. 

But this would be worth it, you decided, and Ranpo wouldn’t see it coming. Fukuzawa’s theory that it helped you function was being proven once again, for you cut yourself on your cards as you picked them up and you bruised your knee on the underside of the table in your excitement. You couldn’t be unluckier. A black two, a red three. There’s no way a sane person could win with this hand. Straight lipped and dead-eyed, you stare at Ranpo over your cards. 

The flop. Both you and Ranpo are confident, you raise the bet and he matches. The turn. He hesitates when you raise your bet by a substantial amount, but pushes the same number of chips in anyway, “Call,” he mumbles.

The river. “All in,” your excitement is beating through your chest, you swallow the smile crawling onto your face. Ranpo’s too distracted by your erratic move. Surely you’ve got something good?

He contemplates for an eternity, jade eyes dart between his hand, the dealer’s hand, your face. Ranpo can’t see through you at all. This is the smart man’s dilemma, you’re beaming in your head, the most intelligent man in the world could never call such a foolish bet, no matter how good his cards were. 

“I fold,” he throws his cards face up on the table, a whine tinges his voice. 

“Ha!” You slam both hands on the table, startling Ranpo as he’s rocking on the hind legs of his chair. He quickly reaches for the desk to steady himself and looks at your measly two and three. If he just had the nerve, if he matched you at the end, he would have ruined you with the singular Ace in his deck. But he didn’t. He surrendered to you, of all people.

He huffed and crossed his arms, turning his face away from the amused laughter and chatter. “What an entertaining game!” Dazai clapped his hands together slowly, a disturbing smile spreading across his face.

“Anytime,” you bow to them all with exaggerated hand movements, relief washed over you as you felt luck, pure gold, returning to your veins.

Ranpo sulked all the way home. Not a single word, not a single sweet eaten, not a single brush of his fingers against yours. Just him trailing two paces behind while you still basked in the glory of your dramatic win.

Click! The front door of your shared apartment shuts behind you, there’s no time for you to lock it as Ranpo takes both your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. He locks you in place with a knee between your legs, pushing up just enough to make you whimper.

Your boyfriend leans forward and whispers in your ear, “I’m gonna punish you for showing me up in front of everyone like that.” He presses his leg higher again into your core, just a little; just enough to leave you wanting more.

“I have no regrets,” you grin.

@12daysofchristmas

Letting Astarion drink your blood had become a regular occurrence, one that developed its own routine. He’d let you get comfortable on your bedroll, crawling over your tense body with his sweet touch and even sweeter words encouraging you to relax. Then his fangs puncture the sensitive skin on your neck, pain coursing through your veins as your blood leaves your body. Astarion strokes your hair, runs his hands gently through it, bringing you back to the mortal fold. But you want more.

You want to feel his arms graze your bare skin. You want to feel his fangs on other parts of your body, his tongue lapping at more tender areas… You blink fast as if that would banish such thoughts. It’s scarier, somehow scarier than trusting a vampire to not drink you dry, so you leave it.

Yet Astarion seems to be able to read your mind, for his hands move from your hair to your waist, tracing the outline of your body, they travel first down to your hips and back up to the sides of your breasts. Something ignites within you and you lean into his touch, satiating that yearning in your belly. Then you place a hand on his chest and gently push him away, careful not to use so much force that he might rip your throat out. 

Astarion releases you and pushes himself back onto his knees. He’s towering over you, kneeling between your legs, but his eyes are soft, free from their usual malice or glint of mischief. He sucks in a breath before he speaks, “It seems I’ve crossed a boundary…” he sighs, “I apologise.”

He shifts his weight, moves to stand up, but you sit up with such speed that you nearly knock your forehead against his. Your vision splinters, scattered with sparks and stars as your heart works to pump more blood around your body. Astarion holds you up by the shoulders, taken aback by your foolish and sudden movement, “What are you doing?”

“You didn’t- I, uh, I-” pausing at the mess of words streaming from your mouth, you look down and frown. Why was this so difficult? You bite your tongue, think it through, and look at him again with determination. His eyes, blood red, flicker in the nearby firelight. They’re searching your face for an answer, and you nearly choke on your words again at their beauty, but you push through, “I-I want to, but, you know,” your cheeks were uncomfortably hot now but you refuse to let your eyes wander, “I’ve never done it before.”

Astarion’s eyebrows jump, his eyes blown wide and reflecting your face clearly back at you, “You haven’t?!”

“Um…” This was definitely not the reaction you were expecting, “...No?”

He smiles. A genuine smile; it’s faint and small and disappears in an instant, but it was there. “My darling, you are so beautiful, I thought you would have used it much to your advantage, but…” Astarion leans forward, threatening to push you back into the bedroll if it weren’t for one strong arm wrapped around your back and holding you in place. Your heart stutters at how close his face is to yours now. He continues, “I don’t think I deserve it, but the thought of being your first is exciting. To hear what vulgar sounds might come from your mouth, or how you might react if I touched you elsewhere.”

They were only words, but you could feel his touch already, his cold hands setting your body on fire. You needed him tonight, you were ready, “You do deserve it, but…” there was one small problem, “I’m just, I don’t know, scared?”

“You? Of pain?” he chuckles, his free hand brushing against the fresh wound on your neck still dribbling blood. Astarion brings his now bloodied fingers to his mouth, sucking up the remainders of his feast without breaking eye contact. Then he pulls his fingers away with a pop and says, “Would I ever hurt you, dear?”

When you shake your head - no, you could never hurt me, truly - he pushes you the rest of the way into the bedroll and adjusts the flat pillow behind you, making sure you’re comfortable.

And then his hands slip under your shirt, his ice cold touch sending shivers through your body as he travels further up. One finger traces a circle around your nipple, the other hand cups your breast and plays with it gently. You’re unsure what to do with your hands at first, so you place one at the back of Astarion’s neck and pull him close, kissing him gently.

His hands travel even further up, wrapping around your back and lifting you off the ground for a moment, breaking your kiss to pull your shirt over your head. Before the fabric is even on the ground, your lips are crashing against his again and your tongue is begging to go deeper. Astarion lets you in, and you’re so lost in your kiss that you don’t have time to shy your now bare torso from him. 

When Astarion breaks away again, he makes up for it by leaving a scattered trail of kisses, bruises, and shallow bites down your neck and then your chest. He’s planted his knees either side of one of your legs now, and when he latches onto your nipple with his mouth, he pushes his thigh into you at the same time. You let out a weak groan, but with each swish of his tongue against your tit, Astarion has you whimpering. 

He wants to hear you more, so he drags his tongue further down, his lips meeting the band of your trousers. When he looks up at you through dishevelled white locks, you don’t hesitate to nod your approval. He’s pulling your pants and underwear off in an instant, peeling them from your legs and letting you kick them off your ankles. You freeze up for a moment when you realise that you’re now fully naked and powerless before him, while he remains fully clothed. But there’s nothing you can do or say before he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, pushing the other to the side as he descends upon your needy clit.

You immediately feel a pressure building in your core, only much more intense than anything you’ve experienced before. You decide you want more and roll your hips forward in an attempt to feel more of him on you. Astarion obliges, parting your already sick folds as he pushes his tongue into you. The feeling is budding, it threatens to spill, wash over you and drown you. Astarion pulls away.

Cool air taunts your aching core, the pleasure you were chasing now regrettably subsiding. You grab at the fabric of Astarion’s shirt in a feeble attempt to pull him closer, and whine “Please…”. But he just smirks at you.

“You were so nervous just moments ago,” he teases, “but you’ve forgotten it all from just a few flicks of my tongue,” he’s toying with you, but he still pulls his shirt over his head and finally reveals himself to you. You get busy roaming his skin with your hands, exploring as much as possible, while he continues to taunt you, “You’re so beautiful when you writhe around underneath me like that.”

His lips are on yours again, his tongue fighting and beating yours in a futile game of dominance. Your face burns even hotter when you realise you can taste yourself on him, but you’re distracted again when you feel Astarion tugging at the drawstrings of his pants and pulling them down just enough that his already hard member springs free. He bites your lower lip playfully and drags it out as he breaks the kiss, shifting his weight to line up his dick with your entrance. It takes all your self-control not to push yourself onto him. 

“Are you ready, my love?” he asks. 

You nod. Astarion holds himself up with his arms either side of your face, eyes trained only on you as he pushes himself into you. You wrap your arms around his neck for support while he watches in admiration as your face twists in pain and pleasure. He stops when you let out a sharp gasp, watching you bite at your lip so hard you taste blood. Astarion stays completely still inside you, giving you time to adjust as he leans down and laps at the traces of blood pooling in your lower lip.

When you finally relax a little - welcoming him - he slips in further, groaning into your ear as he bottoms out in you. And when he begins to move, the feeling is strange at first: the pain of his cock stretching you open sets you on fire and leaves you wanting more, melting into tasteful pleasure. Everytime he pulls out, you moan into his lips, not wanting to lose him from you. 

Sounds tumble from your mouth, spurring Astarion to move faster and harder with each whisper of his name. You feel that tight pressure returning to your stomach, your walls clenching around him and drawing a grunt from him as he continues to thrust into you. He’s chasing his own high still as every part of you crescendos, pleasure crashing through your body in waves. Your body falls limp as you feel Astarion finish, too, inside of you, his cock twitching once, twice, three times in your cunt.

Astarion makes no effort to move, collapsing on top of you and burying his face in your shoulder. After a few moments of silence, punctured only by the dying fireplace and your harmonising and desperate pants, he mumbles into your ear, “You feel amazing.”

@12daysofchristmas

Weeks have passed since you first moved to the North, but it seemed the cold was something you might never adjust to. Just when you thought you discovered the ideal number of logs for your fireplace, or the minimal number of layers you needed to wear to not shiver while dining in the great hall, the next day would surprise you. The seasons turned; barren tree branches bent to the howling will of the wind and the sun dipped below the horizon faster with each cycle. You, too, had all but retreated, hugging your knees by the desperate fire.

“It’s snowing!” Laughter and footsteps barrel down the corridor outside your room, just as they pass your door the shrill voice rings again, “It’s stuck to the ground, come on- come on Bran, let’s go!” Slower footfalls follow, and they descend the spiral staircase together with varying levels of care.

Snow. The first snow of the winter season, and the first snow you had ever experienced. Dorne was lucky that it ever rained at all; snow was not something to dream about. It didn’t even appear in stories. All you knew was that it was cold and white, it looked soft but would sting your bare skin… Of course, you needed to see it for yourself.

You reluctantly crawl away from the fire and cringe at the draught that pours in through your window. But it pleasantly faces the courtyard, and for a moment you are blinded by how bright it is, like the Dornish summer sun. The courtyard is devoid of its usual drab of greys and muddy browns and darker greens, covered instead by a thick, white blanket. Already, Bran and Arya had ruined the perfectly flat surface, free from any grime or imperfection, in their valiant attempt to wade through. Now two lines streaked from the corner - the great keep’s exit - to the very centre of the courtyard. You’re a married woman, you remind yourself as you look away, you can’t just throw yourself face-first into the snow.

So, of course, you put on your layers and cloak, a warm hat and gloves… You’re still pulling them on your icy fingers when you, too, descend the spiral staircase. The doors at the bottom swing open for you and there it is: a wall of pure, white snow that reaches well past your ankles - the paths carved out by Arya and Bran before you would have to suffice to stop your skirts from getting soaked.

With one hand still bare, you reach out and close your fingers around a chunk, digging your nails in deep and prying a misshapen handful from the low wall. It really does bite, you wince but refuse to let go. It doesn’t slip through your fingers like sand. It just stays. And then it stings.

You drop the ball to the ground, wiping the cold and wet from your red palm on your skirts before finally putting on your glove. I’ll just check on Arya and-, you bravely step into the path they left for you, like trampled wheat in a field, when you notice a third party leaning against the stone wall - your husband.

“Good morning,” you say. Robb dips his head in acknowledgement, his attention still fully on his siblings playing in the snow. You hope that was enough to distract him from your spirited attempt to hold the snow bare-handed. There’s no way you can join the kids now unless your husband might start taking you for a fool. You turn to the door.

“This is your first time in the snow?” he calls out. He’s looking at you now, brown curls scattered with snowflakes and falling wildly about his face. He doesn’t wait for your answer and just holds out his own gloved hand - of course it’s your first time in the snow. “Let’s help Bran and Arya make their snowman.”

Robb leads you through one of the small paths, stopping now and then to push more snow aside with his foot or free hand, widening the path. Your skirts still scraped past it, but at least you didn’t need to push through with so much force. “What exactly is a ‘snowman’?” you ask.

He snaps his head around, “You don’t know?” You shake your head. Robb sighs, his breath turns to mist on its flight into the early winter morning, “It’s, uh, a man made of snow- We usually just roll up two balls of snow and stack them, and give it a face.”

You push your eyebrows together, “Why?”

“Why not?” A fair point. When you finally stop in the centre of the yard, you’re able to stand comfortably without the snow pushing into your dress - Arya and Bran had already cleared out an almost perfect circle in their excitement. “Here, if you push the snow together,” Robb grabs some from the infinite supply, clasping it carefully between cupped hands before holding it out to you, revealing a flawless ball, “It sticks, and we make our snowman like this, but bigger.”

You take the ball from him, watching it roll from one of your palms into the other with awe. “Man-sized?” You say. A laugh sticks to his throat. “Yes, man-sized, my lady,” he smiles.

The two of you spend the morning scraping and pushing snow into the centre of Arya and Bran’s carved-out space. Icy cold seeps through your thick leather gloves, rendering your fingers immobile, but you were desperate to see this snowman. Just when you thought the pile was tall enough, Arya piped up, “Taller! You’ve got to make his body taller!”

Looking at Robb in exasperation, your face twists in pain and horror when he simply nods at his sister and says, “Yes, ma’am.” She huffs in satisfaction and returns to the smaller pile that she and Bran are working on - it is to be the head, according to Robb. Finally, when the snow is piled as tall as you, and Arya gives a nod of approval. You and Robb start shaping it into a ball. He kindly offers to work on the lower half, so you don’t have to crouch and ruin your dress. Part of you wants to retire and just watch from your cosy window above - you swear you’d never forsake that draught again - but shaping really took no time at all. Sometimes he’d get carried away with his handiwork, sliding his hand over yours before you snapped your hand back. It warmed your face up just a little every time, making you thankful the cold had already bruised it red, and each glove-to-glove kiss reminded you of the last time you two actually touched.

Embarrassingly for a woman long-married now, it was when you exchanged vows on your wedding day. Robb’s warm hand, calloused and rough from swordplay, grasped yours gently. At night, you shivered in front of him in just your night shift, and he shook his head. “Only when you’re ready,” he said. You should have stopped him from leaving the room, but you didn’t want to. Weeks of nothing passed since; only polite, awkward conversations and short-lived glances.

“Finally!” Arya says. She was crouching by her perfectly round, smaller ball of snow. Bran smiled sheepishly on the other side as he watched his older sister spring to her feet and wrap her arms around their own masterpiece, lifting it up with ease and waddling over to Robb. He graciously lifts it from her without a word, carefully placing it in the divot the two of you left at the top of your perfect sphere. Robb steps back, and you follow, to admire the fruits of your labour. He leans over your shoulder and whispers in your ear before you can protest his proximity, “He looks like Lord Manderly, does he not?”

You scoff, trying to stifle your laugh, but it takes you by the shoulder and shakes you, “He does.”

Rickon soon comes flying into the clearing, holding out his hands to reveal several black and jagged stones in his palms. He looks up at you and Robb with blue eyes blown wide and mumbles, “I want to give him a face, but he’s too tall.”

“Oh dear,” you crouch down to face him properly. His lower lip is stuck out, pulling the corners of his mouth down, and his lopsided hat is evidence of a struggle to dress him properly. You tug it over his ears before scooping one arm around his shoulders and the other around his backside, pulling him close to your chest and standing up with effort. “How about now?” you bring him closer and he beams when he is perfectly level with the snowman’s soon-to-be face.

One stone is slightly off-centre - the nose, he says - followed by two eyes, one much bigger than the other. Then he presses the remainder into a jagged, upward-curve smile, underneath the nose. “Perfect,” you marvel. Robb smiles at you from the corner of your eye, and you shoot one back.

“Yeah! His name is Wyman,” Rickon exclaims, throwing out his arms in celebration and nearly throwing you off balance.

“Gods,” you whisper in shock.

Unsurprisingly, you were bedridden by the next morning. You weren’t even in the cold for as long as you thought, but your body had yet to adjust to such extreme conditions. The Maester assured you would be better in a few days. You hoped the snow would come again before then, staring fondly at the now lopsided Wyman, who smiled at your window from the courtyard below.

Two knocks at your door pulled you from your thoughts. “May I come in?” Robb’s voice was muffled through the thick wood.

Your hair was unbraided and, instead of the usual shapely dresses, you were just a ball of blankets and furs. You were sick, you could say no. What could he possibly want, anyway? To slide his ungloved hands over yours? To warm your shivering yet feverish touch? Finally, you speak up, “Come in.”

Robb slips into the window nook next to you, but you don’t take your eyes off the men at work in the dwindling snow. Every single one makes an effort to leave the proud snowman uninterrupted. A smile creeps across your face at the sight, at Robb’s presence, and at the way his fingers so naturally slip through yours.

@12daysofchristmas

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“You want me to drive you four hours to your Mom’s house?” Minho groans, his voice muffled through the phone line. “Yep,” you say confidently. If you pretended nothing was wrong with the idea, maybe there wouldn’t be?

“In this weather?” He says. You force yourself to look up. Snow blanketed every available surface - the train station roof, the tops of cars, the bins. The pavement and road before you were clear but slick with muddy snow and grit salt. The cement absorbed each meagre snowflake that fell atop it. You shake a few from your eyelashes and hum, “Mhm.”

He can't mask his sigh, “On Christmas Eve?” 

“I was screwed over by the trains, how was I supposed to know they’d cancel them all just because of some snow? Minho, please! Can you help me out?” You were desperate now. You’d fall to your knees in front of him, in the snow, if he was there in person.

Shuffling around, keys jingling, the chk of a door handle, “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Thank you so much!” You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding. It turned to steam and lifted itself into the air gracefully, more graceful than your little celebratory jig. Minho hangs up without a word, I should buy him some snacks, at least, you think.

As promised, Minho pulls into the train station within fifteen minutes and you hear the boot unlock with a click. He motions to the back of the car with a lazy hand, making no move to get out the car himself. You grumble to yourself as you dump your heavy suitcase in the back and slam the door a little harder than you should, but when you climb into the passenger seat and greet him, it's with your biggest, toothy smile.

You met him on your first day at university, and the two of you were inseparable ever since. Both of you took the same electives every year, rocked up to every party together, and hung out every day. You’ve called on his help more than you’d care to admit, sometimes just to feel his hand guide yours, or to watch his shirt ride up when he searches the top shelf for you. But he always came. This was your worst grievance by far, though.

“Coffee,” you announce, putting two cups into the holder. “Snacks,” you dangle the bag of crisps and cookies in front of his face before tossing it to the back seat. 

“Not only are you using me as your personal chauffeur, but you want to ruin my skin, too?” he tuts. 

“Just get to the motorway, I’ll guide you from there,” you pull out your phone and open Maps, but Minho has pulled out, the gritty roads adding a tasteful crunch to the low rumble of the car.

Hour one is spent fighting over the music, complaining about your teachers, and complaining even more about your classmates. Hour two, you feel, is socially acceptable for you to reach into the seat behind you and open up the snacks. “This dude texted me just this morning-” you're cut off by Minho.

“Your flatmate’s ex?” He asks. Far into the infinitely straight motorway, he holds the wheel with just one hand, slouched into his chair a little. He does everything so effortlessly, you can't help but linger on it for a minute. With his eyes fixed on the road, all Minho has to do to be fed is hold out his free hand. Last time you pressed a singular Dorito into it, this time it's a whole chocolate chip cookie. He frowns at your choice, but obliges himself anyway.

Nodding at his question, you leave your directions app to read the text verbatim, “He texted me, ‘I can’t keep this to myself anymore. I broke up with her because I like you more.’” You giggle to yourself as you read - you and your housemate enjoyed poking fun at him together this morning, but you look up to see Minho was not laughing at all. Both hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles turning slightly white.

What’s wrong? You wanted to ask, but you just still your laughter and glance out the window. Something turned in your gut, maybe you knew why, but asking him so directly… that risked making it real. “Turn coming up,” Minho’s voice slashes through your thoughts, you scramble to change back to your app. 

Mobile Data is Turned Off Turn on mobile data or use Wi-Fi to access data.

No matter, “It’s the second lane,” you say, certain in your memory. I’ll get my signal back in a moment. 

Hour three: you had guessed two more turnings, but you recognised neither. Your hometown was, apparently, still a little further, so you were looking out for the town before it on the signs that flashed past, to no avail. Did you remember wrong earlier? You look down at your phone but, still, no signal. 

The car was silent from your conversation earlier, but if Minho was still brooding, you were too panicked to notice. Another sign wooshes past, this one informing you of a petrol station a few miles away.

“Can we stop there?” You point it out to Minho.

He nods, “You... you okay?”

Elbow leaning against the car window sill, head in your hands, you shake your head. It was no use lying to him. Only when the car rolled to a stop did you show your face to him. Your vision was blurred with tears that were yet to fall, but you could see him jolt back a little, as if the sight scared him.

“Why are you crying?” He undid his seatbelt and reached forward, using his thumb to wipe one eye clear. A tender move he only reserved for you in dire moments. You run your sleeve across the other eye and mumble, “I think you know why.”

Minho purses his lips together, searching your eyes for a clue, “I really don’t, to be honest.”

“It begins with an ‘L’?” The frustration was a knot in your stomach, balling up tighter and tighter. How was he not getting it? “Like the ‘L’ word?” A poor choice of words on your part, but you were out with it now.

“...Lesbians?” he sits up straight, his eyebrows knitted together. God, you thought, is he trying to be funny, or is he just clueless? 

“Lost. Minho,” you say with snark, your eyes turn away from him for a moment in disbelief, “We’re lost!”

Now he seemed to get it, “I thought you knew where you were going?!” his voice peaks. A little too loud. 

The tears are seeping into your eyes once more. You want to say something - an excuse, an apology - but nothing comes out your stupid mouth. Instead, you watch yourself open the car door, practically rolling out of your seat before throwing the door back against the car. Then you’re walking towards the little petrol shop lighting up the dark sky. Since when had the sun set? What time even was it? You dreaded the answer.

Minho catches up to you in an instant, planting himself in front of you. The light from behind illuminated the outline of him; he was glowing. Glowing, like an angel who came to save you. He always came to save you, and yet you never did him any favours. Avoiding his eyes, you take one step to the side and try to walk around him. He blocks you again, this time with a hand on your shoulder.

“Can you just slow down and talk to me for a second?” Minho asks. “You always storm off when you’re upset and do something stupid.”

“I’m trying to buy a map,” you spit.

He sighs, then he’s winding his arms around your shoulders and pulling you in. You stumble forward, head against his chest and dizzy from his cologne. It’s far from the first time the two of you have hugged; goodbye hugs and ‘friendly’ movie cuddles and hugs when you’re feeling down. But it was strange this time. Minho committed himself to driving four - no, eight - hours through snow for you, you had just extended that time by getting lost, and now he was the one comforting you. You finally wrap your arms around his back.

“Why’d you bother driving out for me?” You say into his shoulder.

“Because you asked.” He pulls away, one corner of his mouth was pulled upwards into a smile. Then he turns on his heel, “Go sit in the car, I’ll get the map.” 

Thanks to that conveniently placed station, and Minho’s suspiciously fast driving, you were waylaid for only an hour. He did slow down, eventually, when you were back on track, for the increased snow covering the windshield and sticking to the road started to scare you a little.

“I hope it clears before you have to drive home,” you chew at your lip, but the snow showed no sign of letting up. When he pulls into your Mom’s driveway, the sky was pitch black. You wouldn’t have noticed it was there save for the snowflakes that fell from it in torrents now. Minho was adamant not to leave his heated car, but you drag him through the front door anyway. “At least stay for a coffee,” you say.

“Goodness,” a familiar voice rings from the kitchen, and your mother soon totters over to the front door, “I was about to ring you my dear- Oh, who’s this?”

“Mom, Minho. Minho, my Mom,” you sputter, realising how woefully unprepared you were for this interaction.

“Hi, Miss,” Minho says awkwardly, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“You didn’t mention a boyfriend to me, dear, or did it slip my mind?” she pauses, “No, I would surely remember such a thing-”

Both of you cut her off in unison, “Oh, he’s not-” “Uh, I’m not-” You glare at him and he shrinks back into himself. “My train got cancelled so he drove me here,” you explain, “he was about to leave.”

“If he drove you all this way, then he must stay!” your mother beckons the two of you further into the room with wild hand gestures, “I won’t let him drive home so late, and in this weather too!”

“It’s alright, uh, Miss, I don’t mind,” Minho stumbles. What was he supposed to say? Your mother wasn’t listening. “I’ve plenty of food - too much! And her bed is big enough for the two of you–”

You didn’t hear anything else she had to say after that for she was running back into the kitchen, chatting to no one in particular. Minho turned to you, wide-eyed and lips twisted in an exasperated smile. Snow was still melting into his hair from your brief adventure outside. You reach up and pick one from his hair, watching it sink into your skin, “Sorry, looks like you’re staying here,” you say, the corners of your mouth heaving a smile onto your face.

When your mother finished feeding the both of you and talked Minho to exhaustion, she ushered you upstairs to get some sleep. You looked at the double bed in your room, still in the same place as it was when you first moved to uni. It was like nothing changed, except it had; Minho was in the room with you now. Clambering under the covers, you refuse to look back at him. The bed shifts and bounces a little when he slides under the sheets next to you.

You shared a bed with him many times before, for cheap hotel rooms and unplanned sleepovers, of course it didn’t matter this time. But it did. He’s next to you in your childhood bed, he’s met your mother, and it’s Christmas. You huff and submerge yourself further under the covers, making a point to face away from him. Minho turns off the lamp, rustles around behind you for a moment, then silence falls around you. Silence weaves its way between his steady breaths and your whirling thoughts. 

Hours felt like minutes, staring at nothing behind your closed eyelids. You sigh and roll over, hoping Minho had the sense to sleep the opposite way too. He did not. When your head hits the pillow again and you open your eyes out of curiosity, he was staring back at you.

It’s just dark, you think to yourself and blink away the static. But warm streetlights bleed into your room through cracks in your blinds, and you knew you weren’t dreaming. Why is he so weird? Yet you stare back.

“What?” He finally whispers.

Yes, what? You’re drawing blanks, then you can think of only one thing. You absolutely cannot say that, but your mouth is moving anyway, “I really wanna kiss you.”

“Okay,” he blinks. A few rogue strands of hair, freshly washed of snow, fall delicately across his face. 

You’re stunned. “...Okay?” 

“So?” His lips are parted, inviting you in, deliciously open so that all you need to do to taste him is attack. But you can’t.

This is far from your first rodeo. You’ve always been able to hit on other guys, to pull them closer by their collars, to drag them through your apartment door, to wrap your legs around their waists before you reach the bed. Minho is not other guys. What if you mess it up? Yet another sigh, so far reaching it blows his stray hairs back out of his face, “So, can you help me out?”

Yes. His answer, just like every other time, is yes. But he doesn’t say it; he snakes his arm around your nape, tugs you closer, and that’s all it takes. Your lips are on his, your body is static, your mind is lost from you. You shut your eyes and allow yourself to melt into him. But then your leg is hooked around his waist. His hands travel from your clothed thighs to rest on your ass. Rolling your hips down onto him, hard, he groans into your lips. The vibrations travelling through you only spur you to move faster.

Shirts, pants, underwear, they’re all on the floor in an instant. Five minutes ago, you did not have the faintest idea you’d end up in this position. You're knelt between his legs. Minho’s hard and looking up at you expectantly. His eyes are mocking you, challenging you. So you take him on. Lips closing around his member, you cast your eyes up as you take in as much of him as you can. He’s already tensed his eyelids shut in pleasure. A devious swish of your tongue, another and another, and his head is lolling backwards. 

Minho tangles his fingers through your hair, pushing you down further onto his cock. Obliging, you begin to bob your head up and down, moving faster with each of his grunts, tongue working at him furiously. He tenses, dick throbbing and releasing warmth to your mouth; you ride him through it, his shallow panting a musical backdrop as you watch white cum drip from the corners of your mouth, down his shaft. When you release him, the rest spills onto his toned stomach. A deep inhale, to catch your breath, then you swallow what’s left.

With nothing to focus on now, no high to push him to, you’re suddenly very aware of his eyes on you. With delicate fingers, he traces the outline of your hips to your waist, lingering on your breasts and how your nipples are hard with cold and pleasure.

“Your turn,” he grins, sitting up and pushing you back into the bed before you could even defend yourself, capturing your lips with his once more.

@12daysofchristmas

Imagine you’re working on Christmas Day - it’s bothersome, but someone’s gotta do it. Crime doesn’t stop just because everyone else is on holiday. Besides, it pays extra.

Ranpo was not pleased with the idea. He made you late by clinging to your leg and pinning you to the bed that morning. You were only able to wriggle free when you promised to bake his favourite cookies when you got home.

It was a ridiculously easy recipe, and you had perfected making it all within just twenty minutes, thanks to how often your boyfriend ate them.

Days off were always spent with Ranpo slumped over the kitchen counter, scrambling for cookie dough remains from the bowl while you carefully peeled the baked goods off the tray.

So, in the spirit of Christmas, Ranpo tried his hand at baking them himself. He found your handwritten book of all your favourite recipes and said to himself, “This can’t be too difficult.” Besides, he’d seen you do it a hundred times.

When you burst through the front door, nose red and hair littered with snow, you did NOT expect to be greeted by the blaring fire alarm, or by Ranpo frantically waving the oven gloves around the little machine to silence it.

Smoke and burnt sugar wafted past you. You sigh, unphased only because work had already done you in enough today, and ask, “What happened?”

“I tried to bake the cookies…” he trailed off, moving himself in front of the smoky oven tray and obscuring it from your view. He’s frowning and pouting like a dog being scolded, tail curled between its legs, you can almost see big floppy ears drooping over his eyes.

He quickly steps aside when you approach, assessing the damage.

Usually a sweet gold-brown when you baked them, Ranpo’s cookies had been flattened into the tray, brown in the middle and black around the edges. 

You can’t contain your laughter, but you know he really tried. You finally settle on saying something more ambiguous, “That definitely looks… interesting? What happened?”

“I added more sugar because I thought they could be sweeter,” he explained nonchalantly, “then I doubled the heat because ten minutes was just too long to wait!”

“Pftt,” you giggle, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on his lips, “It was a courageous attempt, Ranpo. Let’s try again, shall we?”

In a clean bowl, you guide his every movement, measuring the ingredients precisely together and scolding him when he tipped a little more sugar in than needed.

Finally, with your supervision, you got to enjoy the cookies you promised after all. Even if they were a little sweet.

@12daysofchristmas

Christmas sucks.

Christmas wasn’t about giving presents, eating good food, or smiling with family and friends. For you, it was about faking smiles, navigating shouting matches, and forgetting to breathe.

Well, you’d had enough.

This was your first year spending Christmas alone. All your friends had gone home to their warm and loving families, while you… sat. The white walls of your apartment, barren from fairy lights or tinsel, were your company for tonight. If you squinted, you might believe you weren’t drinking on your own.

Your hand held, rather carelessly, a whisky tumbler. Filled to the brim with the remainder of a nice spirit a friend left you with, the glass’ rim was stained red from how many times you brought it to your lips that night. Why did you even put on lipstick? There was no one to impress, no mistletoe to kiss under - just a burn in your throat, and another dish to scrub at tomorrow. 

One more gulp, one more greasy red stain on the glass, and you downed the rest of the drink. “I should set an alarm for tomorrow,” you’ve started thinking out loud. But you don’t set the alarm. Your phone was- somewhere, and probably dead. “I’ll only check it when Christmas is over,” you promised yourself while still sober. If you received just one message, notification, photo, of someone enjoying their time, you’d break your phone for sure. 

Still, this was better than being at home.

You put the fragile glass down on the floor with a not-so-fragile bang. Then you bundled your blankets around you, over your head and around your shoulders, until you were completely covered. It was definitely warm, but the soft fleece was just a reminder of how utterly cold you felt; no blanket could fix you. 

Knock knock.

Blinking, like an owl, you swivel your head round to face the door. It’s Christmas Eve, what could anyone possibly want? Maybe your neighbours were just being loud, or you were finally starting to hear things. You turn back to face the wall.

Knock knock knock. With more urgency this time.

“Okay! Fine, wait!” You yell. You’re trapped in your prison of blankets, sluggishly fighting your way through the soft mess. Every movement rattles your brain in your skull like a violent child with a snowglobe. It hurts, pounding behind your eyes and pulling your scalp tight. The whisky glass comes into view, in threes, when you finally break free. You curse it.

Your hands find purchase on any nearby surface - the couch, the doorframe, the coat rack (it nearly topples over), and finally, the door handle. With all your strength - a little too much - you yank the door open, “It’s Christmas Eve,” you slur with little pride, “what- Minho?”

It takes two blinks to be sure. At first, you’re not surprised he’s there, you’re just unsure whether it’s actually him. Yes, that’s the stern expression you know so well, cutting through you. Well, now there’s two of him.

“Yeah, it’s Christmas Eve,” he scoffs, inviting himself inside, “so why,” he stops when you wobble and plant your hands on his arm for support, “are you like this?”

“‘Cause it’s Christmas!” you cheer. You’re too dizzy to feel any shame. 

Minho’s eyebrows snap together at your state. What would have happened to you if he didn’t come? 

“When I told my parents you were spending Christmas alone, they asked for you to come over, but…” he sighed, looking you up and down as you pawed at his jumper, “I can’t bring you over like this.”

One arm wraps around his torso, then another, then he’s being squeezed. Tight. You knock the air out of Minho for a moment, but your face shows no sign of any evil deeds. You’re burrowing your head into the space between his neck and shoulder, the fabric of his red Christmas jumper is horrible and scratchy but he’s warm, in a way much more fulfilling than any blanket or hard liquor. 

“Then don’t,” your voice is muffled into his neck. Minho’s more taken aback by, more than anything else, the fact that you managed to hear what he said, “Huh?”

You shoot your head up to look him in the eyes. It takes a minute, they finally sink into your vision without you seeing doubles, but they’re definitely there - he’s definitely there. His face is so close to yours, you’re sure he can smell the alcohol in your breath. Hot, you think, snapping your mouth shut. “Stay here? For a bit?” you plead, “I don’t wanna be alone for Christmas after all- it’s awful,” your eyes are welling up now, tears separating Minho from your sight once more.

But he wasn’t going to say no - you didn’t even need to start crying for that. “I wasn’t gonna leave you,” there’s the tiniest bit of venom in his voice, as if he were offended you would even think otherwise, “You need to go to bed.”

“No-” your voice catches, a hiccup stops you from finishing your sentence. “Maybe,” you giggle. Minho just shakes his head, but he winds one arm around your shoulders, the other snaking behind your knees. Your stomach drops for a second as he lifts you up without a struggle or grunt of effort. You swing your legs back and forth a little, testing his balance, but he doesn’t falter. 

Then you’re in bed, and he’s pulling the covers up to your chin. Despite sitting on the edge with you, Minho makes no move to get in until you wrap your hand around his wrist and pull, hard. “Okay, okay, fine,” he wraps the blankets around the both of you. He lets you curl into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, fitting together perfectly like puzzle pieces. 

His smell, the steady rise and fall of his chest, his shallow breaths against your head, the heat from his palms pressed into your back - finally, you feel warm. Actually warm. 

For the first time ever, Christmas doesn’t suck. 

@12daysofchristmas

Your mysterious Yaksha companion never gave you a break. Danger was always around the corner with him, and you started to think your body couldn’t produce adrenaline anymore. Or maybe you were just high on it all the time. Today was no different.

“Xiao!” You call out after running down the inn’s many stairs. He’s not standing too far, back facing you as he stares at the fresh snow thinly veiling the ground. “What is it this time?” You say exasperatedly. It’s not that you don’t care, but running after him like this all the time, finding him contemplative after defeating the threat before you could even lift your own sword, was exhausting. Why do you stick around? Why does he bother to keep you around?

He doesn’t respond. It’s unlike him. Xiao’s usually too on edge to let anything slip past him, or maybe he was ignoring you unintentionally. You curse under your breath as you take careful steps towards him, your foot slips on a particularly wet and icy patch but you dig your sword into the ground, you find your balance again. Always a fight to get closer to him, huh? You laugh to yourself.

Finally, you reach him in one piece, and ask again, more nonchalantly this time, “Whatcha doing?” Yeah, you’re totally chill right now, you think. Except you’re only chill in the sense that it’s cold, and you forgot to put on an extra layer when you ran out to find Xiao. You grimace - at the cold and at your stupidity.

When he turns around, his eyes aren’t dark and brooding like always. They’re wide and shining and a brighter gold than you’ve ever seen before. He’s holding a clump of snow in his gloved hand, close to his face, his cheeks puffed out as innocently as a squirrel. Xiao swallows - what, you don’t know - and finally responds, “Eating.”

Your eyes search over him once more; he’s holding nothing but the snow. When you peer over his shoulder, you can see where he’s dug it straight out of the ground. Your vision tilts, “The snow?!” you exclaim.

“...Yeah?” He takes another bite. Xiao has mused about eating snow before, but you could never take the childish fantasies of an immortal so seriously. Forgetting how slippery the ground was beneath you, your quick step forward (in a valiant and sick attempt to knock the snow out of Xiao’s hand) did not land. Instead, your heel just kept slipping forward, then it was arcing in the air, and your limbs were too numb with cold to move quick enough. You slipped. In your shock, grief, stress, you slipped . You shut your eyes and braced for impact.

Woosh , a warm arm wrapped around the back of your waist, pulling you away from your terrible fate written in the ice. Of course Xiao is the one who caught you. Opening your eyes, a breath hitches in your throat at how close his face is to yours, you can feel his breath against your chin, and it’s… It’s cold from the goddamn snow. 

“You’re so strange,” you scoff. You’re very much safe from falling now, but Xiao doesn’t let you go or help you to your feet. He just stares at you longer, his gold eyes wide and unfazed still. When you start nervously looking beyond him, he finally says, “Your heart is beating so fast. Are you that cold?”

Indeed, it’s pulsing violently in your chest right now, desperately pumping blood to your freezing skin. It’s thumping so loud you can feel it behind your eyes and in your stomach, setting your blood on fire, urging you to do something stupid. Doesn’t he realise how his grip around your waist burns? That you might want to feel even more of him against your icy skin?

He’s still holding onto the dwindling pile of snow in his free hand, swallowing yet another mouthful. This side of him was absurd, ‘normal’ was not the right word - normal people did not eat snow - but it was so… mundane? Wide eyes and puffed cheeks and a disturbing curiosity suited him surprisingly well. It was cute. How could Xiao be cute?

Fuck it, you think, I can always leave tomorrow. You hook one arm around the back of his neck and close the gap, catching his lips in yours.

But he pulls away instantly. Ouch, he could have at least been shocked for a moment. You breathe a sigh, thinking up your dramatic escape. At least that weight was off your chest now. Xiao doesn’t let go of you, though, and you’re reduced to staring at him awkwardly once again. His brows are creased but he’s not angry with you, maybe confused? You’d rather he was angry, then it would be easier to walk away.

Then your back falls into the snowy ground, clothes already soaked through, “Thanks,” you snark and try to sit up, but Xiao’s eyes are in front of yours once more. His cold, gloved hand (it’s no longer holding the snow!) pushes you down by the shoulder, traces down the side of your arm and intertwines with your own hand. Xiao’s knees are planted either side of your leg and he’s hovering over you completely, blocking any light or sky from your view. There’s only him. 

And there’s only his lips on yours. Again. For longer, much longer, this time. He moves slowly, with uncertainty, unlike his usual grace in battle. You cup his cheek and welcome this surprise, just like he welcomes your tongue when you ask. Xiao’s mouth is still frozen from the cold, but you’ll soon change that. 

@12daysofchristmas