#*beats you with a candy cane* | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norikuna · 7 days ago

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LAST FRIDAY NIGHT — choso kamo

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (d) and let the show begin !

prologue. → it's been seven days since you wobbled into your apartment and almost threw up on your best friend. seven days since you confessed your love to him. seven days of radio silence as you've done your best to shut him out, hoping that the earth swallows you whole. there's no way he's going to want anything to do with you now!

but it's been years since choso had started silently loving you.

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. choso kamo x afab!reader

warnings. vírgin!choso, spítting, kíssing, makíng out, thígh kínk (mild), yuuji being a menace 😭

word count. 8k! song inspiration. last friday night — katy perry

a/n. i can't believe i don't write for choso more. i really put a lot of love into this fic but i wish i had expanded on it a bit more 😭 one thing abt me is that i love adding side characters to cóck block

mp3. think we kissed, but i forgot!

"did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion? breakups happen every day — you don't have to lose it."

you jab at the skip button like it's personally offended you, cutting off the mournful strains of the evermore bonus track mid-verse. normally, you'd let the singer's poetic misery hold your fragile heart in a pretty gentle chokehold, for she understood your heartbreak like a nobel laureate in emotional devastation. but not today.

not on this particularly dreary friday, right before christmas, where even ms. swift's dulcet agony felt obnoxiously on the nose.

pinned under the suffocating weight of your quilt, you let out a dramatic sigh that could rival a victorian heroine wasting away from heartache and humiliation.

with the theatrics of someone clawing their way out of a shipwreck, you work one arm free, waving it weakly into the air like your tragic signal of defeat.

the cocoon of your quilts and covers isn't warm nor comforting. it's a smothering trap, a quilted tomb of your own making.

"this is it," you mumble to the empty air of the apartment, your voice muffled by layers of fabric, "this is how i go."

the universe, for its part, remains unbothered by your suffering.

with a theatrical groan that would earn you a standing ovation in a one-person tragedy, you yank the quilt over your head. plunging yourself into darkness once more.

but unfortunately, the muffled strains of your 'sad girl winter' playlist refusing to take the hint seep through, like overly persistent ghosts of your bad decisions in the past. it seemed that evermore was feeling less like a balm for your soul, and more like the soundtrack to your public humiliation.

somewhere in the tangled chaos of your bed, half pillows and half-sulking regret, your poor and neglected nintendo switch lies face down like it gave up on your hours ago. its screen has long since gone dark, but if you listen hard enough, you can almost hear your animal crossing villagers whispering conspiratorially, drafting a formal petition to evict you.

no doubt tom nook is already sharpening his capitalist claws, repossessing your house with an unsettling amount of glee.

but the rest of your room is not much better. the string lights on your walls flicker half-heartedly, casting an uneven glow over the wreckage of the past week.

it's not the charming nor dramatic kind of mess that makes for an artsy photo dump. no, this is the slow and unflattering unravelling of someone who let life beat them up with zero resistance. if rooms could file restraining orders, yours would have done it by now.

teetering laundry piles of discarded sweatshirts are haphazardly stacked in the corner. nearby, an empty hot cocoa mug sits, sticky with the remnants of whipped cream. candy cane wrappers are strewn across the room, the aftermath of a peppermint explosion that made your jaw ache.

but the true centrepiece of this disaster? your phone, face down on your nightstand. neglected and on silent. the one object in this room that's probably begging for attention, and one that you've been skilfully ignoring. and yet, right on cue, it buzzes again.

lighting up with a contact number that you've been ignoring all week.

choso.

and you squint at the notification, at the glowing screen that makes your eyes sting in the dim light.

sweet, dependable and utterly loyal choso.

your best friend of over a decade. the one person that you can't bring yourself to face.

the one person that also deserves so much better than this radio silence, and yet the last person that you can humanly confront. especially not after what happened last friday night.

and here, good friends, lies the crux of your problem.

that doomed night, seven days ago, has mostly dissolved into a series of blurry and fragmented snapshots. like a bad, half-finished film that you'd walked out of halfway through.

but the lead up? oh, you remember that part with the kind of clarity that should have been reserved for more important moments.

you could still feel the heat of storming out of that overpriced restaurant, half-drunk and fully pissed off, tears streaming down your cheeks and thickening your throat.

your ex-boyfriend? well, he had been your current boyfriend, before he decided to break up with you. in public. for all that classy, emotional damage that was so in character for him.

and with a line so perfectly cliché, it practically begged to be immortalised on a 'worst breakup excuses' list in cosmopolitan: i'm sorry, baby. i just don't see it working anymore. we're just too different. oh! and i found someone else.

oh, sure. but you should have been glad to have been rid of the man-child that thought frankenstein was the monster's name, the man who commented 'oxford study' on innocent tiktoks, and called pinterest 'girl instagram.'

god, what a fuckin' loser.

fuelled by a mix of public-induced heartache and questionable tequila choices, you had practically charged across street crossing. your feet hitting the pavement with the reckless kind of abandon reserved for teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

and there choso had been in your apartment. your best friend had been sitting cross-legged on your rug, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbons. probably wrapping yuuji's christmas gifts with military precision. he had been balancing a roll of tape in his mouth, scissors over his lap dangerously close to the family jewels. but you had barrelled through the door like a feral cat in a downpour.

his eyes had widened, a little startled, as you made your entrance. the tape had fallen out of his mouth, chestnut hair falling over his face as he gaped. you couldn't blame choso, of course. you had looked entirely like a bedraggled, disheveled mess in a storm. cheeks streaked with mascara trails, but then everything went...fuzzy?

what did you remember? crying. lots of it.

and boy, was it a show. the kind of weeping where your face contorts into a puffed-up, berry-red disaster, and you would feel the headache creeping in even before the tears had finished.

choso's arms had caught you before you could face plant into the couch. solid, broad. warm and familiar.

you had caught the scent of clove and pepper, alongside faint citrus that you had been associating with him over the years. you had been saying something, raw and desperate.

your words had spilled out of you like water from a broken faucet.

and here you were now, reaping the glorious consequences of your own unfiltered word vomit.

seven days of stewing in your own shame and regret. but seven days were not enough to undo this level of self-sabotage. you briefly considered the options: faking amnesia, dropping out of university entirely, or best case scenario — moving to antarctica and herding emperor penguins.

you groan, sinking deeper into the abyss of your covers. and then, of course, your phone buzzed again. the dull and persistent vibration drilled into your skull like a tiny, digital drill.

cho 💜

(01:09am) hey, are you doing okay? (08:42am) tell me if you need anything! (04:23pm) hello? did i do something?

you peek at the screen, trying to avoid making eye contact with the tiny and terrifying letters. your sheet mask scrunches uncomfortably, making you look like a particularly pathetic mummy. choso's sweet and utterly patient messages were a sharp control to your gross sulk, and his concern makes you want to curl into a ball and crawl into a snowbank.

outside, christmas snow fell gently, blanketing the world in a soft and untouched white. it was like something out of a dream, a world of calm and peace. peace that your trifling ass didn't deserve.

if choso wanted to speak to you, he'd have to drag you out of your self-imposed misery himself. and even if he were to arrive at your apartment door, he'd only find a note tacked to the wall. with a map leading to the south pole.

so, what exactly had happened last friday night?

the memory rolls out like an old film reel, all jagged and distorted. the kind that you can't skip, even if you wanted to. it comes in fragments, each one more excruciatingly clear than the last. the haze of vodka-infused whipped cream shots over hot drinks slowly melting away like a bad handover.

the door to your apartment? you remember that part with embarrassing clarity. you had kicked it open with awful, ragged flair. your heel slipping on the floor, and you had nearly stacked it. face-first into your own doorway, standing there with the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

the second the door had slammed shut behind you, a gust of frigid winter shot through the apartment like a chill reminder of your situation.

choso had been sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, in the midst of complete, barbaric chaos. the roll of mauve wrapping paper teetered precariously on his dark jeans, and scissors dangled from his lap while a stripe of tape was wedged between his teeth. in between the mess of clippings and discarded tape, he seemed more like an absurdly morose-looking christmas elf that had been tasked with being santa's helper after an entire bottle of mulled wine.

but as you had walked in, or rather stumbled in, his gaze had shot up. his chestnut hair falling in messy curtains around his face, with one unruly strand intertwined with a red-white rogue ribbon. choso's face had twisted in alarm, his usual solemn manner replaced by someone who looked like they were trying to figure out whether they needed to brace themselves for good or bad news.

"hey," he had said, voice soft but sharp, like he was trying to handle fragile glass. choso had spat the tape out of his mouth unceremoniously, and he had been tugging the ribbon free rom his hair, concern all over his fine features, "what's wrong? are you okay?"

and you? a disaster. drunk, crying, furious. the recipe for an emotional molotov cocktail.

"i hate him," you had snarled, yanking off your beige coat, hurling it in the general direction of the couch. instead, your aim missed entirely. flopping halfway onto the floor, and halfway across choso's knee.

choso simply plucked the coat off his leg with two fingers, gingerly draping it over the arm of the couch. your best friend was frowning as he set down his oversized scissors, rising to his feet in a fluid motion. amber-hazel eyes flicked to yours, wide with alarm as he stepped closer, "are you hurt? is this about —?" he was hesitating, "your boyfriend?"

"no, my ex-boyfriend!" the words were ripped out of you, and your voice pathetically cracked halfway through as tears spilled down your flushed cheeks, "and 'm not hurt, cho. unless you count emotional damage," punctuating your statement with a tragic, breathy hiccup.

choso's perpetual frown deepened, as thick and unruly brows knit together, "okay," he said, voice low and steady, "do you want to sit down? i can get you some water, wait." his steps are slow, purposeful as he closes the distance between you gently, with measured care. or like he was defusing a bomb.

but you were having none of his gentle care, "no, i don't want water! i want — i want to un-date him," you wail, arms flailing as you start pacing like a caffeinated hamster, "god, i'm so stupid for dating him in the first place. and yes, i know, stop looking at me like that. i know you want to say i told you so, but he's such a —," you pause mid-rant, clawing the air for the right word, "a troll. a goblin, an ogre."

choso blinks, "maybe you should just get some fresh water in you," but there's an underlying layer of grimacing amusement painted over his quiet features, "and i didn't even say i told you so."

"no," you blurt, your head snapping so fast that your neck immediately files a complaint in the form of a sharp crick, "i don't want water. i want —"

and then, your brain short-circuited. because that's when you'd actually looked at him. like really looked.

warm hazel eyes framed by dark, sleepless circles that seemed to follow choso around like cursed ghosts. soft, feathery strands of mahogany hair that refused to stay tied back, and tumbled rebelliously into his face. that damn sweatshirt, loose and charcoal gray, and perfectly slouched over his broad shoulders. the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal forearms so solid that they could make a renaissance sculptor pack and quit.

and like a freight train at full speed, like whee-woo, the realisation hit you. choso kamo.

your best friend in the entire world. your steady and reliable, and kind to a fault best friend. better than any stupid ex that you'd ever had.

and because tequila is the nectar of chaos, and heartbreak has no filter, your mouth decided to unleash the words that you would haunt you for the next week.

"i should have been dating you."

the room is silent, as choso freezes entirely. like someone had smacked the pause button on him, and his hand, mid-reach for a glass of water, stops cold. his eyes are wide, mouth parting as though he hadn't yet processed what you had said.

"what?" choso finally manages, the words soft and stunned, like he wasn't sure that he had heard you correctly.

you, in your infinite wisdom (or rather, drunken idiocy), barrelled on like a bull who had just seen red cloth, "i'm so serious! you're the one i should've been with all along!"

you wave a hand at him, as if showcasing him to an invisible jury, "you're smart and you're sweet, and you actually care about me, unlike him!"

choso blinks, his expression unreadable, "okay," he says slowly, setting the glass back down on the table, "i think maybe, uh, you should sit down?"

"i don't wanna sit down, i want you to stop looking so perfect right now."

there's a faint flush creeping up choso's neck, like red pigment staining cream watercolour canvas, "perfect?"

"yes!" you hiccuped, teetering over the couch, "you're supposed to be my best friend, and instead you just stand there with your stupid forearms, and your everything, and it's not fair!"

choso doesn't move, doesn't even speak. just stands there, vaguely dumbstruck. like you had hung the moon, and then yanked it back down to earth to hurl it at his chest.

"i should've been dating you, cho," you declare again, louder this time, and your finger jabs his broad chest like it was somehow his fault, "you're the best, y'know that? and you're so hot, how did i not realise this sooner?"

your best friend's expression goes on a journey of varying emotions, shock and disbelief, panic and confusion. all while his candied pink lips open and close, "uh," because by now, eloquence had left the room for both parties. his hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to steady you or flee. his ears noticeably red, the flush creeping down his neck.

but drunk-dumped you wasn't done. oh no, this was your oscar moment. the hill you were going to die on. the ted talk that no one asked for.

and you were on a roll now, "i mean, look at you! you've got the broody, hot guy thing down so well, and you know that's my type. and everyone knows it, like why aren't we dating already?"

choso's mouth curls again, but no sound comes out. he looks like he wants to crawl into a snowbank and bury himself there forever, "okay, i think maybe you should sit down before you hurt yourself, or, uh, the furniture."

"i'm fine!" you'd declared, throwing your arms up in defiance just as your knees decided that they were absolutely not fine. you wobbled, and in an instant, choso's warm hands are on your shoulders, steadying you with ease.

the searing heat of his touch makes your heart lurch in a way that felt far too real for comfort. you look up at him, his face close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, and your breath hitches.

he's close enough now that his lips could press against yours with the mere turn of his head. but you know that choso's just too kind and thoughtful to kiss you in this state right now. he also looks like he's about to gently suggest that you pull yourself together. you wouldn't know, because you've just bulldozed right over him with zero brakes.

tears stream down your face still, but they're starting to slow. sticky and hot, tacking to your cheeks, as you deliver the final blow, "if i asked you to kiss me now — like genuinely right now, would you, cho?"

you would never know what choso's reply would be, because you hiccup violently. the kind that punches your chest and makes you sway. fate was never done with you, because your stomach lurches in warning. you had clamped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with panic.

choso, bless his heart, had looked ready to throw himself in front of you, "bathroom. now," he'd commanded, his voice taking on a rare, firm edge.

and that's right where your memory cut off, mercifully plunging you into the black void of your vodka-soaked brain. no idea if you'd made it to bathroom. no idea if you'd thrown up all over him, classy as always.

but the last thing you did remember, the thing that haunted you eve now, like a ghost tapping on your shoulder, was the look on choso's face. wide-eyed, jaw slack. like you had flipped his entire world upside down.

choso sits cross-legged on the cold dorm floor, the faint creak of wood beneath him. in his hands is a neatly wrapped gift, small and unassuming. but painstakingly chosen for you. the crimson ribbon, shiny and festive, catches the light of the desk lamp.

it wasn't extravagant, nothing flashy nor pricey. but it was thoughtful, personal. something that he had picked out weeks ago, back when everything between you two had been normal.

back when you didn't look at your phone, and decide he wasn't worth answering.

choso's thumb grazes the corner of the box, smoothing over the edges of the paper that he had meticulously folded after watching youtube tutorials. but now? the box felt heavier than it had any right to. would you even want this anymore? would you even want to see him?

choso sighs, letting his head tip back against the edge of his bed frame. it was a tight and awful feeling, something small and sharp that had wormed its way into his chest.

it wasn't just the silence. it wasn't even the unanswered texts or the way you’d been avoiding him like he was the human incarnation of bad news.

it was the fact that you were you. his best friend. the person he always knew how to read — until now, when everything felt scrambled.

he stares at the gift again, his brows furrowing. he'd been turning this over in his mind for seven straight days, wearing grooves into his thoughts like a track stuck on repeat. did you regret it? did you even remember what you said?

and worse — what if you did mean it?

that last thought was the one that always hit hardest. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the dark strands falling back into his face. somewhere on his desk, his phone buzzed softly, and for a second, his pulse jumped. but when he checked, it wasn't you.

because of course it wasn’t.

"pathetic," choso muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

seven days.

seven long, agonising days since you'd stumbled into your apartment like the ghost of heartbreak past — tear-streaked, half-drunk, and dropping words so raw they’d knocked the air out of choso's lungs.

seven days since you’d looked at him like he was everything good in the world — right before nearly puking on him and passing out on the couch in a heap of drunken devastation.

and seven days of brutal radio silence ever since.

choso groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he slouched against the edge of his bed. he got it — why you'd be embarrassed. he, he was still processing it, the memory looping in his head like a cursed highlight reel.

"you're amazing, cho. you're perfect."

the words echoed, soft and slurred, over and over like a broken record choso couldn’t shut off. a selfish part of him — a really shameful, awful part — had been glad your ex was out of the picture. not that it was a surprise; choso had never liked that guy. too loud, too cocky. the kind of guy who thought buying overpriced cologne absolved him of skipping deodorant.

but then there was the other part of him — the one that made him feel like a jerk. the part that felt guilty for feeling anything at all. because he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about you.

choso wasn't supposed to have spotify playlists privately curated with all your favourite songs. wasn't supposed to have started buying extra hair ties, just because the thought of you stealing one was so annoyingly appealing.

and he definitely wasn't supposed to have been quietly, hopelessly in love with you for five years and counting.

how many times had he messaged now? four? five? enough that he was starting to feel like that guy, the one who couldn’t take a hint. what if you'd sobered up and realised last friday was just drunk nonsense? what if you didn't like him like that at all?

had he not spent seven days drowning his misery in tubs of mango and pistachio ice cream? enough was enough.

choso's thumb hovered over your contact for a long, stupid second, debating whether to send one more pointless text. but before he could add another "hey, just checking in," he swiped away and hit a different contact. a boisterous teenager with a shock of pink hair.

he shoots off a quick text, almost grimacing as he hits send.

Choso Kamo: Need advice. Got a hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: if this is smth weird i'm not googling it for u

choso rolled his eyes, already regretting this decision. but he needed to hear an outside opinion.

Choso Kamo: It's not weird, serious this time. If someone confesses something private to you while they are drunk, then avoids you for a week, what do you do? Hypothetically?

a pause, and then:

yuujithegoat2003: is this someone a hot girl lol

choso sighed, his dry lips twitching despite himself.

Choso Kamo: Yes. Also, serious answers only. yuujithegoat2003: ok ok. do they remember what they said? Choso Kamo: Most likely not.

yuujithegoat2003: huh...so did they say something good? or was it rude? Choso Kamo: It was good. Really quite good. yuujithegoat2003: bro this seems easy, just ask if they meant it.

choso blinked at his phone, at the...almost reasonable response. suspiciously reasonable, coming from his younger brother.

Choso Kamo: And if they freak out? Or say that they didn't mean it? yuujithegoat2003: then u say 'just kidding' and blow the place up and leave the country. i can get u a fake id, i know a guy. i know lots of guys.

Choso Kamo: You need to stop being influenced by Gojo Satoru. Just because his public break-up landed on national news does not make it a premise for my own situation. Hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: ok, gojo just said no one gaf abt your love life anyway. seriously tho if u like this hypothetical person, just be chill. don't be all intense and scare them off bc its never that deep.

Choso Kamo: Love is that deep. Especially when you care for the other person a lot. yuujithegoat2003: ur so dramatic bro. anyway good luck.

yuujithegoat2003: also if you get rejected don't tell me bc i can't handle second hand embarrassment. thx. gtg to work. these pizzas don't deliver themselves ay

choso glances down at the gift still in his lap, the ribbon he'd so painstakingly tied now a little crushed — much like his pride. the box stares back at him accusingly, as if to say, what's the plan here, genius? wait for her to magically show up?

choso exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. sitting here wallowing wasn’t doing him any favours, and neither was yuuji's unhelpful voice.

"yeah, sure," he mutters under his breath, shoving the box into his jacket pocket. he stands abruptly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his desk chair.

if you weren’t going to talk to him, fine. he'd bring the conversation to you. answers, he thought, stepping out into the cold. the winter air bit at his face, but it was bracing, grounding even. one way or another, tonight was going to settle this.

the knocking was relentless.

you tried to ignore it at first, clutching your blanket like it was a shield against all outside forces. whoever was at the door would get the hint eventually. probably. hopefully.

but no, the knocking persisted, evolving into a deliberate rhythm, like some overzealous drummer auditioning for a garage band.

"unbelievable," you groaned, peeling your headphones off and tossing them onto the pillow where they landed with a hollow clatter. if this was the pizza guy you'd ordered from two hours ago, he was wildly late, and you were too broke to tip him anyway.

dragging yourself off the mattress felt like an olympic event. your legs wobbled, your blanket fortress collapsed behind you, and your pride was buried somewhere under the covers still. at least you'd showered earlier — small victories.

your damp hair dripped cold trails down the back of your oversized sweatshirt, and you caught a whiff of cocoa butter as you shuffled to the door. that was…something acceptable at least. but then the mirror by the entryway betrayed you, reflecting sleep-swollen eyes, and the faint ghost of face mask residue clinging stubbornly to your skin.

perfect. a vision of grace and dignity.

you yank the door open, ready to unleash a pointed what do you want? — but the words lodge somewhere in your throat.

smooth. and oh, just your luck.

there stood choso, a walking anomaly in the drab matrix of your sad little existence. his tall frame fills the doorway, backlit by the flickering hallway light, clad in a baggy black tee and faded denim that didn't quite match the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. his hair was tied up in a messy bun, spiky strands sticking out like an afterthought, and of course, he looked unfairly good for someone who had probably spent the past week avoiding the sunlight.

"uh, hey," he says, his voice softer than usual — careful, even. like he thought you might throw the nearest piece of furniture at him and sprint into the night.

"hey?" you echo, voice brittle as you folded your arms tighter. the sweatshirt you were wearing — his sweatshirt, one that he had left here weeks ago — suddenly felt two sizes too big and painfully obvious, "what are you doing here?"

choso scratches the back of his neck, his gaze flickering over you briefly before darting to the floor, "i needed to see you."

"at…eight at night? without warning?"

"would you have answered if i'd texted you?"

the air between you stilled as your brain scrambles for a retort, but he had you dead to rights. with a reluctant huff, you step aside. "fair point. just come in."

choso hesitates for half a second before stepping inside, his presence making your already small apartment feel even more claustrophobic. he's taking a quick glance around, and you watched, mortified, as his eyes landed on the pile of crumpled tissues precariously close to a half-drunk mug of cocoa and a bottle of jack daniel's teetering on the edge of the coffee table.

"sorry for the mess," you mutter, your voice defensive as you crossed your arms tighter.

"it's fine," choso says, a little too quickly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, "i didn't mean to…interrupt."

"you didn't interrupt anything." you wave vaguely at the disaster zone that was your apartment.

choso's lips twitch, almost like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure if now was the time, "look, i just —" he trails off, his usual dull voice faltering as he pulled something small and neatly wrapped from his pocket, "i came to give you this. and talk."

you stare at the gift in his hands, shiny crimson ribbon and all, your pulse kicking up like it had somewhere urgent to be, "christmas came early? thanks, cho," you say, mirroring his words with the kind of ease that only comes from too many shared silences. "i'm fine, though. i wasn't up to much."

choso cracks a small, half-hearted smile, but it's like watching a flicker of light in a dim room — there, but not really there. "i tried texting," he says, glancing at you, searching for something.

"i know," you murmur, suddenly finding the floor very interesting, "i just wasn't in the mood for much talking."

choso huffs, a sound halfway between exasperation and amusement, "i noticed," he says dryly, and that only makes the air in the room more thick and uncomfortable.

you sigh, letting your shoulders slump as you flop back onto the couch, curling your knees up to your chest like you're trying to make yourself small enough to disappear, "so, what? you came here to check if i'm still breathing?"

"kind of," choso admits, settling awkwardly on the edge of your coffee table, his long legs folded beneath him in that way that makes him look like he’s trying to physically contain himself. his knees bump into yours, and you have to fight the urge to pull away, like you could get too close, "but mostly...i came to talk about last friday night."

your stomach does a horrifying little flip, the kind that sends cold fingers crawling up your spine. you stare at him, silently willing him to read the begging look in your eyes and back off, but he doesn't. he's never been the type to take the hint.

"i've been thinking about it all week," he continues, his voice quiet but steady, as if he's preparing himself for something big, "and i need to know if —"

"nope," you interrupt, holding up a hand, "nope. we're not going there."

choso blinks at you, like he's trying to process the sudden barricate that you've just put up. but you're so not ready for this conversation, not now, nor ever. and you'll be damned if he gets any closer to the minefield. he scowls, his brows knitting together like he's resisting the urge to push you off the couch, "why not?"

"because it doesn't matter, okay?" you lean your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like you can will this conversation away, "i was drunk as hell, cho. you're overthinking it."

he scoffs, his voice sharp now, like he's cutting through your flimsy deflection with a blade, "i don't think i am."

you wince, shrinking a little under the weight of his stony gaze, "why does this even matter?"

"you think i can just brush it off like it didn't happen?" and there's a rawness in choso's voice that hits you harder than expected.

your cheeks heat up, a fiery blush creeping up your neck, "i didn't mean it," you mutter.

"yes, you did," choso snaps back, with uncharacteristic heat, and he leans forward, enough to close the distance between you two, "and you know how i know? because you've been ignoring me all week. if it was just some drunk nonsense, you would have laughed it off by now. but you haven't."

you open your mouth to argue, to push back. but the words stick heavy in your throat. nothing comes out, and it must prove choso all the more right, because you watch as his bottom lip is captured by his teeth, suddenly watching plush skin split.

"do you want me to apologise?" you ask finally, voice a little too sharp for comfort, "because i will. i'll say i'm sorry for putting you in that position and —"

"i don't want an apology," choso cuts you off, and the dim light of your apartment makes the dark circles under his eyes stand out like bruises, "i want the truth."

you freeze, your heart thudding like a drum in your chest, "what truth, cho?"

"that you meant it," choso says softly, "that you meant it when you said that you wish it had been me."

the words hang in the air, heavy and electric. your breath catches, as your mind goes blank. an entire power outage, as you blink at him like a fish out of water. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you force the knot in your throat to loosen just enough to speak, "yeah," you whisper, "i meant it."

choso's whole body seems to deflate, like he's been holding up the weight of the sky. his shoulders slump, and the sheer relief on his face hits you like a tidal wave. it's almost enough to undo you. there's a sound, soft and shaky and far too vulnerable that escapes him.

neither of you move. the moment stretches out, fragile. like it could snap in half if either of you dared to breathe too loud.

then, choso is the first to move.

there's no hesitation, no uncertainty. just pure intention, like a dam finally bursting open. he shifts forward, hands finding their way to your waist with an urgency that makes your pulse go into overdrive. choso's grip is firm, but there's a reverence to it, as if you're something he's waited his entire life to touch. he pulls you to him, and you can feel the heat of him flood your chest, your blood, your bones.

"what if you regret this?" you murmur into his chest, voice muffled as your arms slip around his necks, holding onto the beautiful man like he may float way.

"not a chance," choso replies, and his voice is raspier than you've ever heard it, like he's saying it more to himself than to you.

choso kamo finally kisses you.

the kind of kiss that feels like a storm is finally breaking over clear skies, with an unrestrainted longing that crashes over the both of you.

his sweet lips meet yours with a hunger that makes your head spin, raw and real. choso clearly doesn't want to hold back, and neither do you.

his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly at russet strands.

choso groans into your mouth, a soft and burning thing that ignites every nerve in your body.

without breaking his hold on your lips, his wide hands slide down, finding the back of your thighs, making you shamefully clench them closer together.

but he's tapping them in silent invitation, and you leap into him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. the world around you blurs as he stumbles backwards.

and when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed, gravity does its job. you both tumble into the mattress in a jumbled mess of limbs and muffled laughter, your heart pounding so loud, as you muster up the courage to prod your tongue at his lips, letting him part his mouth so you can take up more of choso.

you land beneath him, his weight pressing into you in the best way possible, sending sharp spikes of heady arousal through you. and you blink up at him, breathless.

choso is so close now, his hazel eyes locked on yours with a rare intensity, like the calm façade is entirely shattered now. but there's a smile on his lips, a crooked little thing that sends a rush of warmth through you.

"hi, choso," you whisper, your voice soft yet breathless as he chases your lips again, a desperate hunger in his eyes. it's as if he can't bear to be apart from you, even for a heartbeat.

"hey," he murmurs back, that low rumble sending shivers down your spine, igniting a heat you can't ignore.

you keep pressing kisses to his glossy lips, the world narrowing down the press of his mouth and how choso's hands cradle your waist like you might slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

without breaking contact, choso shifts, his strong hands guiding you gently, firmly.

"don' wanna crush you," he spills against your mouth, his voice low and rough, and before you can reply, he flips you effortless.

the movement is seamless, fluid even. and you're suddenly perched atop him, straddling his thighs and sinking into the worn denim of his jeans.

he's leaning back against the covers beneath him, as his chest rises and falls in unsteady waves as he gazes up at you. expression caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

choso looks so completely, heartbreakingly in love with you that it leaves you breathless. his hands tighten on your waist, fingertips pressing with a near bruising intensity into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt that clings to your frame.

his cheeks are flushed a deep, telling pink, and you can't help the soft, teasing coo that slips from your lips as you trace the curve of his temple with gentle fingers, "is something wrong, cho?" you murmur.

his lips, swollen and glistening from your kiss, part slightly, his breath uneven and catching on the edges of unspoken emotions, "nothing. nothing, i swear," he says, the words tumbling out rough and raw, his voice pitched low and vulnerable.

his hands slide you closer, his grip firm but trembling slightly, and his next confession nearly undoes you, makes your core moisten even, "just…never done this before."

"really?" you whisper, eyes widening as you take him in — the flush on choso's cheeks, the way he won't quite meet your gaze, the way he holds you like you're something precious.

the realisation that he's never shared this part of himself with anyone else tugs sharply at your heartstrings, "never?"

choso swallows thickly, nodding once, his voice a quiet hum as he admits, "mhm."

"ah, you're so cute, cho," you giggle, watching as the man scrunches his nose in mock protest.

"tch, 'm not meant to be cute."

you huff, feigning disappointment, "and here i was, wishing you a very merry christmas eve." he whines as you lean in, pressing a teasing kiss to his neck, right where his heartbeat thrums beneath his pale skin. your lips find their home at the juncture, and you can't help but smile at the way he whines at your touch, bucks his hips up into yours.

"must have been real good to get a holiday gift like this."

you pull back just enough to admire your handiwork, a little red bloom that blossoms on thin skin, bruised petals that mark him now. choso's swallowing thickly, his adam's apple bobbing, as a soft whine escapes his lips again as you lean in, this time closer to the jaw. leaving a trail of kisses in a messy that makes choso squirm.

you press your thumb against his lower lip, feeling the soft and trembling skin quiver under your touch, "hey. open up," you coax, a teasing lilt colouring your voice.

choso looks up at you, his wide eyes clouded with desire as dark strands of hair fall across his forehead, "huh, what?"

you tap his lip again, impatience bubbling in your chest, "c'mon, open your mouth. properly," and the way he immediately obeys, parting his glossy lips sends a thrill through you. the scent of clove and citrus envelops you as you lean in closer, running your tongue over his lower lip.

you let a glob of spit fall from your lip into his mouth, with a thick thwack! echoing in the air. you deliberately miss, just a little bit, to watch him squirm as he swallows, eyes fluttering shut and inky lashes staining his cheeks.

"so good, aren't you? good at playing nice, hah," you use your thumb to smear the slick over his lips, just a bit. to watch him shudder, entirely captivated by you. it's exhilarating and makes your cunt clench around nothing. probably seeping through the thin material of your shorts and onto his thick jeans.

bang bang bang!

a sharp knock that booms at your door, enough to make your ears ring. you hear choso groan beneath you, shifting slightly so you can feel the full, thick curve of his bulge right where you need him most.

"think we can ignore that?" he rasps, his voice rough and low, the sound of it leave slick strands clinging between your thighs.

you spread your legs just a little wider over him, watching as his frown dissipates and his jaw drops, distracted by the preview you've given him, "i'm really hoping so."

but whoever is at the door has no intention of being ignored. another knock rattles the wood, followed by an all-too-familiar voice yelling, "hey! open up! delivery!"

your brows furrow, recognition sparking, "cho, isn't that—"

he cuts you off with an apologetic sigh, lifting you off his lap with surprising gentleness. choso sets you down on the quilt, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before muttering under his breath, "it better not be."

you watch him go, more than a little distracted by the sight of his broad shoulders and the way his messy hair bobs with each step. already, you're plotting exactly how you’ll get your hands back in it once he returns.

choso swings the door open, and you hear a collective, "what the hell?" echo through the apartment — one part you, one part choso, and one part…

"itadori yuuji?" you blurt, leaning over to get a look. sure enough, there's choso's younger brother, standing in the doorway in a bright red pizza delivery uniform, balancing three large boxes in one hand and his phone in the other.

yuuji blinks at the two of you, then raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of confusion and something vaguely accusatory before reading off his phone in a robotic voice, "uh…merry christmas eve. i have three pizzas. extra cheese. stuffed crust," he pauses, not able to keep the act up as his golden eyes narrow, "but, uh — bro, what happened to your face?"

you bite your lip to keep from laughing as choso straightens, his expression caught somewhere between mortified and furious, "yuuji—"

but the younger man's attention shifts to you, his gaze taking in the oversized sweatshirt you're wearing, choso's sweatshirt, and his jaw drops, "oh hell no. this is the hot girl you texted me about?"

choso visibly flinches as you burst into giggles.

"that's like your best friend? that's like my sister-in-law!" yuuji throws up his hands in mock disbelief, "you really keep your circles tight, huh, man?"

before choso can even respond, yuuji leans in closer, squinting at his older brother, "and seriously, dude, what's all that on your face?"

choso groans, snatching the pizzas from yuuji with one hand and shoving him toward the hall with the other, "okay, that's enough. get out."

"you haven't paid me! that's against the law!" yuuji protests, but choso grabs the scruff of his brother's uniform collar, steering him out the door.

"i'll pay you double. triple. just leave."

"my pizzas are probably cold now anyway," you call out, adding fuel to the fire.

"yeah? well, you look a bit too busy to eat them anyway," yuuji swivels his head over his shoulder to wag a finger at you with a grin, before choso finally shoves him fully into the hallway.

as the door slams shut, you hear yuuji's muffled voice echoing, "i'm telling everyone. i'm telling dad. i'm telling sukuna. i'm telling gramps, gojo, nanami —"

you can hear their bickering voices fade down the hallway, to where choso is probably gonna pack him into the car and send him off.

you glance down at the box you'd set aside earlier, your curiosity getting the better of you. carefully pulling at the ribbon, you open it to find a small scrapbook, beautifully made. inside are photos and clippings of you and choso: movie ticket stubs, receipts from late-night takeout runs, train tickets from your trip to the coast.

your chest tightens as you run your fingers over the familiar handwriting scrawled in the margins, a quote from a cheesy romantic movie that you had forced choso to watch with you a few months ago. what an honour it is to be loved like this.

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archiemcphee · 23 days ago

Text

Hot Dog Candy Canes

Tastes like hot dogs! Hot Dog Candy Canes will remind you of school lunches and backyard BBQs. Instead of cookies this year, maybe Santa would prefer a wiener? Boiled, grilled or steamed, everybody loves a hot dog! Sure, traditionally they aren’t made from the highest quality meat, but it’s a nostalgic flavor that can’t be beat.

#candy cans #hot dog #hot dog water #christmas

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revasserium · 3 months ago

Text

you

hayato suo; 5,844 words; fluff and angst, semi!dark content, obsessive behavior, stalking, emotional manipulation, stalker!suo,big brother!togame

summary: fool me once, shame on me. fool me twice, shame on you.

a/n: this was written for both @pixelcafe-network's challenge friday prompt (i got the song 'shinunoga e-wa' which... well.) as well as @peachsukii's wonderful horror event! pls proceed with caution!

It is not a healthy obsession.

But obsessions rarely are.

The first time he sees you is through the hazy mist of a Monday morning, walking to school with Sakura and Nirei trailing behind him, bickering about a possible pop quiz in Japanese Literature that afternoon. Suo grins, his fingers laced behind his back as he nods along. He’ll do fine even if there is a pop-quiz. He knows, he knows —

And then, there you are, caught in the glimmer of sunrise, your cheeks brushed pink by rosy-fingered dawn — standing across the street, a tinkling conglomeration of phone charms dangling from your wrist. You’re turned to one side, laughing with someone he can’t quite see — and in that moment, Suo Hayato learns the meaning of the word jealousy.

He thought he had known it before but he knew then that every emotion he’d felt prior to this has been a mere shadow, a weak and straggling imitation of the real thing — curiosity, jealousy, fear, want —

“Suo-san?” Nirei’s voice is an unwanted interruption to his intense study of you, but he has a reputation to upkeep, so he turns and grins.

“Hm?”

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Sakura supplies over Nirei’s hitched hesitation.

Suo turns back towards where you were standing just a second ago, but you’re not there anymore. For a stomach-wrenching moment, he thinks he’s lost you, and he scans the street desperately for the shape of you until — ah — there.

“Who is that?” Suo asks, taking care to keep his voice casual, leaning over to bump Nirei with his shoulder. Nirei goes red at the contact before whipping out his little black booklet and flipping through the pages, clearing his throat.

“She just moved here!” Nirei supplies after announcing your name, “seems like she’s good friends with Togame from —”

“Shishitoren,” Suo finishes, his voice falling flat. His eyes catch on the sweep of your skirt as you casually loop your arm through Togame’s, leaning into his body as he ruffles your hair. Suo wonders, briefly, if he’d have been able to beat Togame had they been paired together in the faceoff and for a second, he resents Sakura for being the one chosen to fight him.

That night, he dreams of the softness of your touch, the tenderness of your palms, warm against his, and the intoxicating sweep of your eyelashes. He dreams of the milky skin of your thighs, of the candy-cane sweetness of your breath when you lean in to whisper something in his ear.

He wakes up sated and tempered, and he resolves to find out everything about you.

And it’s not difficult, not with a friend like Nirei.

You’re a childhood friend of Togame’s, a recent addition to the Shishitoren roster, though you’re not a fighter yourself. You remind him of Kotoha and he can already imagine you quipping back at his good-natured banter, how you’d flick your bangs from across your eyes.

He wanders across the borders on purpose, just to see you, but he’s good enough to stay out of sight. Though, even if he were found out, things between Boufuurin and Shishitoren are good now, aren’t they? There’s no reason he shouldn’t act as liaison, and build some new bridges between the two, is there?

“You were so serious for a while, Jou,” he overhears you say, hidden behind a hedge at a nearby park, his back pressed to the large tree under which you and Togame are, the pair of you on the park bench just beneath it’s shade.

“Was I? Yeah… guess I was. Went through a bad patch there,” Togame’s voice is deep, churning Suo’s stomach till it goes sour. Suo wonders if you like guys like this — all whisky and smoke and lazy Sundays. Somehow, he thinks you’d be more into guys like him —

Guys who would hold your hand like it’s the only thing they were put on this earth to do right. Guys who might kiss you and keep kissing you till he’s sure it’s perfect. He feels a gut-deep hatred of Togame, of the careless way he slings his arm around your shoulders, or the way he reaches out to ruffle your hair, mussing up your bangs.

Suo closes his eyes and leans back against the thick tree trunk and to anyone else, it might’ve looked like napping, or an afternoon meditation session. But in the theatre of Suo’s mind, he can see the way he would comb his fingers through your hair, how he’d treasure each silken tress, how he might press his nose into the crown of your head and breathe in deep — he can almost smell the citrus and coconut scent of your shampoo — he’d seen it when he paused by your house earlier that week.

It had been such an easy thing, and you’re so, so trusting. Leaving your front door unlocked, hurrying out because you were late for an afterschool cram session. Suo had followed you all the way from underneath the train tracks, telling himself that he was only watching out for you, like any good gentleman might do. He couldn’t exactly count on the ruffians from Shishitoren to look out for you — not like he would.

He’d slipped into your small house, easy as pushing through the door. And immediately, he’s caught by the scent of you — the slightly musty smell of wood and tatami mats, the floral, milky scent of your body cream, the damp trail that undoubtedly leads into your bathroom, where you’d just taken a shower (he’s sure; your hair was still wet when you ran out the door). He’d wandered through your house as if walking through a dream, lingering over the plastic wrappers in your garbage, from convenience store sandwiches. He frowns — a girl like you should have a more balanced diet, and he makes a mental note to change that.

He’d gone from room to room, pausing over this and that, tracing his fingers over the corners of your cabinets, the thin wooden railing along the steep flight of stairs leading to the second floor. He’d paused by your bedroom just to take it in — the girlishness of it, the pink bedsheets, patterned with tiny flowers, the stuffed animals toppled one over the other, the indent where you’d probably sat as you dried your hair. It’s not as neat as his own room, but there’s an orderliness that pleases him. He smiles as he notices a pair of discarded sleep shorts, crumpled by the bed; he toys with the idea of picking it up before thinking better of it.

Not now — not yet.

He takes careful stock of your medicine cabinet in your bathroom, memorizes the shampoo and conditioner bottles. He uncaps your favorite bottle of perfume (the one that’s almost finished) and breathes in deep, his senses sizzling within him as he feels his body prickling with heat, a swirling desire crystalizing at the base of his stomach.

Carefully, he unscrews the top and dabs a drop on each of his wrists before capping the bottle and placing it back exactly as it was.

And now, sitting here, listening to you and Togame talk, he feels a deep sense of satisfaction as he pulls a fresh bottle of the perfume from his pocket, turning the little bottle over and over in his palm. He’d found it easily enough, it’s a well-known brand, and not overly expensive.

“Oh — thanks for the fruits, by the way,” you say, “it had all my favorites!”

“Ah… fruits?” Togame asks.

“Mm — the basket that was sitting outside my door… wasn’t it from you? Or maybe Chouji… but anyways, it was nice! I had almost finished the lychee in one sitting — had to stop myself before it gave me a stomach ache.”

You laugh and Suo basks in the sound.

Togame chuckles, though there’s a distinct note of uncertainty that makes Suo’s lips twist.

“You used to eat them until you gave yourself nosebleeds,” he says, and there’s the distinct sounds of a tussle. You yelp, the sound dovetailing into a laugh as the smile slips off Suo’s face. His eyes snap open — he can almost see it, how Togame might reach over to pinch at your cheeks, how you might duck or swat him away.

Suo himself would never be so unruly.

“I gotta get to the bookstore — I’m covering for Momo’s shift today.”

He hears you getting to your feet, Togame following suit. Togame offers to walk you but you decline. And then you separate, each going your own ways. Suo waits till he’s sure you’re both gone before slowly getting to his feet, tucking the bottle of perfume back into his pocket.

The bookshop is a quaint little thing, tucked into a row of storefronts, all family owned and run. He takes a deep breath before ducking in, hitching a pleasant smile onto his face.

“Welcome!” your voice is bright as silver bells, “can I help you find anything today?”

Suo makes a show of looking around, eyes scanning the rows and rows of books, and then the manga section in the back. He points.

“Actually, yes — there’s a manga series that I love and I’m waiting for the next installment.”

You grin, “Sure! What’s the name? We don’t carry a huge stock, but I can definitely check for you!”

Suo delights in the blush that seeps into your cheeks as he mentions the name of your favorite shoujou manga (he’d seen the volumes at your house, the latest volume left open on your bed).

“O-oh! You like that one too?” you ask, your eyes scanning his face, as if this all might be a joke.

“Yeah!” Suo answers, linking his hands behind his back as you round the front table and lead him towards the manga section, “I think the art is nice but mostly, I like the slow development of romance between the two main characters — even though you know from the beginning they’re meant for each other.”

He’d done his homework; it’d taken a few days for him to read through the entire series, but he’d done it. For you, he would’ve done that and more.

You turn towards him, eyes wide and bright and excited.

“Yes! That’s so true! Here — this is the newest one, just came out three days ago —”

Suo takes it, letting his fingers skim by yours, reveling in the way your skin feels against his. Of course, he’s already read the latest volume, but he clutches it to his chest anyway and follows you to the front, content to listen to you chatter about the series and the reasons you love it.

“— just… I know it’s a shoujou series, and the main guy is meant to be lovable but — it’s just so realistic! Like he’s not perfect, but he just wants to do his best to protect the girl, y’know? And it’s so cute —”

Suo nods, reaching into his pocket for some cash.

You flap him away, “You can have that one! Think of it as a bribe — to keep you coming back for the next one,” you say, twin patches of darkness riding high in your cheeks.

Suo schools his expression into a bashful grin, “Are you sure? I can pay — I mean, I’d never turn down a gift from a pretty girl but —”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fiddling with your fingers, “I’m sure! Just… promise you’ll come back when you finish it so we can talk about it, okay?”

Suo nods, curling his fingers into the cover of the book, his heartbeat in his throat.

“Alright then. It’s a date.”

That night, he places the manga volume and the bottle of perfume next to each other on his shelf, leaning back to admire his handiwork. He brings his wrist up to his nose, taking a long breath — it’s not the same, the perfume against his skin as it would be against yours, but it’s enough for now — enough to pretend.

It does not take long after that, not with his frequent visits to the bookshop (he’s long since memorized your work schedule) and the growing friendship between Shishitoren and Boufuurin — it’s almost easy. Too easy.

And you are so perfect, so naive — so easy to manipulate that Suo almost feels bad — almost. When he leans in to kiss you for the first time, the pair of you tucked in the far stacks of the bookstore, him under the guise of helping you reach the upper shelves, he nearly loses himself in the way you gasp against his lips, your fingers curling into the front of his uniform.

He feels the reckless hunger that has been threatening to tear him apart every night since he first saw you that morning across the street coiling up the back of his throat as he curls his fingers into your hair and presses you to him.

When he forces himself to pull away, he’s pleased to find your eyes glassy, your lips dark and kiss-bruised, slick with spit and parted. You’re panting, your chest heaving with the sheer force of the kiss.

Suo leans down to press his forehead to yours.

“Finish your shift… I don’t want to distract you from your work.”

You nearly whine as you bury your face in his chest.

“What if — what if I want you to distract me?”

It’s a horribly cliche thing to say — in fact, Suo is certain that it’s a line lifted straight from your shoujou manga. He swallows down a groan at the thought of pushing you into the back closet and having his way with you then and there but — he reels in his mind and takes a breath, shaking his head.

“Finish your shift first,” he says, playing the part of the ever-considerate boyfriend, “then… I’ve got a present for you.”

He tugs away to press a chaste kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger, before pulling away completely and bending down to pick up a stack of books that still need to be shelved.

You heave a long sigh, but don’t complain as you follow after him, trying your best to hide a smile that nevertheless pulls at your cheeks.

Outside the bookshop, Suo presents you with the bottle of perfume.

“I know it’s not very expensive but… for some reason, the scent made me think of you,” Suo says, his voice the perfect timber between hopeful and hesitant. You gasp, looking down at the label.

“Hayato! This is my favorite perfume! How… how did you know?”

Suo shrugs, smiling that enigmatic smile of his, “I didn’t — I just… I saw it at the store and thought of you,” he lets the heat flush into his cheeks, pursing his lips in a perfect imitation of bashfulness.

You throw your arms around him and press your lips to his cheek.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! And I was so close to finishing my own bottle too! Ugh — this is just too perfect!” you sink back to your feet, your arms still looped around his neck.

Suo lets his hands settle around your waist, laughing as you smile up at him. And then — you’re tugging him down by the collar of his uniform, your lips finding his, and all coherent thought leaves him again.

It isn’t till someone coughs that the pair of you pull apart.

“Ah… if it isn’t Suo-san,” Togame’s voice is at once amused and slightly suspicious. Suo peers over your head and shoots him an unassuming grin.

“Togame-san — it’s been a while.”

“Jou… I didn’t know you were coming over today,” you say, ducking your head as you surreptitiously wipe at your lips with the back of your hand.

“I wasn’t, but I found myself in the area so I thought I’d drop by,” Togame’s eyes flicker between you and Suo before settling on you. There’s a curious tick to his eyebrows as you refuse to meet his gaze.

You chew on your bottom lip for a good second before saying, “So… you guys have met before, right?”

Suo nods, “Yep! It was quite a meeting, but I think we all came out of it pretty okay.”

Togame lets out a low chuckle, “Sure. You could say that. How’s Sakura doing?”

Suo shrugs, “He’s fine — but there’s not much that’ll get him down. I heard Tomiyama-san’s doing much better now too.”

Togame bobs his head, tucking his hands into his pockets, “Yeah, he is. Uh listen… I didn’t mean to intrude or anything — just wanted to check in on my uh — friend here —” he jerks his head in your direction, smirking as you blush, looking anywhere but at his face.

“I’m fine Jou — I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“Dunno, you still act plenty like a baby sometimes.”

You pout, eyes flashing as you turn to glare at him. There’s an easy tease in the lilt of Togame’s voice that sets Suo’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t like how close you and Togame are — never have — but he supposes there’s nothing he can do about it. Not right now, at least.

“Okay well we were just leaving —” you say, tugging on Suo’s sleeve.

“Yeah? Where to?” Togame asks, casual as anything, sauntering over to keep pace with the pair of you as you start down the street.

“Uhm…” you start, clearly not having thought this through, but Suo swoops in gallantly, reaching down to lace your fingers through his in a smooth, familiar motion.

“We were going to her place — to watch a movie.”

“Yeah?” Togame peers at you from over the rims of his tinted shades.

“Yeah!” you answer, perking up as you give Suo’s hand a grateful squeeze, “there’s one we’ve been meaning to watch —”

“The Talented Mr. Ripley,” Suo supplies, easy as anything.

You blink up at him, startled, but he only grins. A moment later, you blush, eyes flickering back towards Togame.

“Y-yeah — that one —”

Togame’s gaze ping-pongs between you and Suo, his brows ticking up ever so slightly.

“Yeah… I’ve seen that one — about a guy who pretends to be someone he’s not, right?”

You frown, but Suo squeezes your hand.

“Yep, that’s the one. It’s got a great roster of A-list actors, and the cinematography is really good.”

Togame nods, his eyes settling on you. You lick your lips, nodding along with Suo, flashing Togame a smile that he doesn’t return.

He walks all the way to the end of the street with the pair of you before pausing, cocking his head to watch you turn down the right with Suo at your side. You glance over your shoulder and catch his eyes; there’s a strange glimmer in them that you can’t name but it roils your stomach and makes your heart sputter like a blown out candle in your chest.

You don’t end up watching a movie at yours, but you do laze against Suo’s chest, his fingers threading through your hair as you flip through your favorite volume of your shoujou manga. Suo shifts, his nose pressing into your hair.

“I’ve always loved the scent of your shampoo — you’re almost out though, right?”

You nod absently, “Yeah, I need to buy more…”

You flip another page, and then another. In the intricately drawn manga panels, the protagonist blushes as the male lead traces his fingers along her jawline, tipping her head back for a kiss.

Suo trails deft fingers along your jaw, twisting you around. The manga falls face-down on the worn tatami mat as he covers your lips with his. There’s always been a ferocity to his kisses, but while at the bookshop, he tried to keep his decorum. Here, however, he makes no attempt to mask his hunger, his urgency as he digs his fingers into the skin of your cheek, holding you so tightly you nearly gasp at the sting.

You’re breathless when you pull back, and so is he, his eyes unfocused, his fingers curling into your hair till you wince.

“H-Hayato?” you ask, pressing a palm to his chest.

“Hm?” his single eye flickers wildly over your face, as if desperate to capture the image of you, as if might never be enough just to see you, but to carve you into his memory —

“How… how did you know about my shampoo?” you ask, tilting your head, a tiny frown creasing your forehead.

“What… what do you mean?” he asks, tugging you back down to graze his lips along yours, his words soft and distracted. You groan as he kisses you again, hoisting you up till you’re sitting over his lap, your thighs straddling his.

But you pull back, shaking your head, laughing as he chases you.

“No — I was just — I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my shampoo running low.”

Suo’s frown mirrors your own, his expression one of perfect, innocent confusion.

“Hadn’t you? Maybe I saw it the last time I was in the bathroom.”

You purse your lips, but decide not to think too hard on it. You’d probably mentioned it to him in passing — you’d spent so much time together in the past few weeks. It’s not an impossible thing.

He does so love to listen to you talk, about anything, about everything.

It isn’t till he leaves much later that night that you flick on the light in your bathroom and pull back your shower curtains.

There sit your shampoo and conditioner bottles, lined up along the wall just as they’ve always been. And, just as you remember — the bottles are definitely not see-through.

Little things start to go missing after that — your favorite hair tie, one of your well-used pencils, a single earring, a pair of sleep shorts. Though when you complain to Suo that you seem to be losing more things than usual lately, all he’d done was grin and take you to the shopping center, promising to buy whatever it is that you’d lost.

He helps you pick a new hair tie, a new set of pencils, new earrings that sparkle just as well as the first pair. You blush as he leads you towards the loungewear section, but he presses a reassuring kiss to your temple and tells you that he likes shopping with you — for you.

He whispers against the shell of your ear that he likes the thought of you in things he’s picked out for you.

You shiver at his words, all thoughts about your lost items forgotten.

Togame, though, does not seem to share your optimism about the relationship.

“Dunno — I thought he was alright when I first met him but — even then…” he trails off, casting his eyes up at the light-specked canopy of the large tree you’re both sitting under. You’d wanted to do a picnic before the weather gets too cold for one, and he’d begrudgingly agreed.

You reflect, vaguely, that you’d been seeing less and less of him these days too.

“You’re just mad that I’m spending more time with someone from Boufuurin,” you say with a determined, teasing smile. Togame fixes you with a look over his customary shades, holding your gaze till you flush and look away.

“Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

You huff, folding your arms, “He’s not that bad! He’s actually really nice to me!”

Togame chuckles, “I believe it, it’s just… nice isn’t exactly the same as good.”

You scowl at him, “What does that even mean?” but something crystalizes in the back of your mind, hardening into a dark speck of suspicion.

You try not to think about it, try not to let it invade your thoughts — but sometimes, when you’re at the bookshop, or even when you’re home alone at night, you’d feel it — the sense that something isn’t right, that someone might be watching you.

But every time you’d turn around, you’d find yourself alone — the bookshop empty, the house quiet, except for the ancient creak of wood and the shuffle of tiny little critters beneath the floorboards.

“Why do we never go to your place?” you ask one day, over steaming bowls of noodles, the wind outside howling something fierce. Suo looks up, blinking.

He swallows his mouthful of ramen and wipes his mouth with pristine, practiced motions.

“Ah — it’s honestly a little embarrassing but… my place is a bit uh —” he shrugs, “a bit messy.”

You frown, “But… you told me that you hated mess. And there was that one time you offered to help me organize the books at the bookstore alphabetically because you said that’s how you organized them at home… right?”

Suo stares, something very much like annoyance flickering behind his eye. But a second later, he lets out a bright laugh.

“No, you’re right! It’s just — it’s not very clean right now — but if you want to see my place, you’re more welcome to see it.”

You nod, trying to convince yourself that you’d been worried for nothing.

“Yeah, I’d love to see it! And you don’t have to clean stuff up for me — I won’t judge you, I promise!” you grin, and lower your eyes back to your own bowl of ramen.

“Sure, you can come over tomorrow if you’d like,” Suo says, watching you slurp at your noodles with an indulgent grin.

You nod, flushing as you almost choke on your mouthful of noodles in your eagerness.

“Y-yeah! I’d love to! We can — we can watch that movie you were talking about.”

“Hm? Which movie?”

“Oh — that one you mentioned to Jou that one time —”

Again, that flicker of something like annoyance, sharp as a knife’s edge, and gone just as quick.

Suo’s smile is impeccable as he calls for the check, “Oh yes — it’s a great movie, one of my favorites. And I think you’ll like it too.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will! Our tastes are so similar,” you say, grinning as the waiter brings over the check and Suo sets a stack of immaculately folded bills on the table.

“You don’t always have to pay for things, you know,” you say as he laces your hands, the pair of you ducking out into the mid-autumn chill. He reaches out to pull on your collar, adjusting your muffler, tracing the line of your cheek with an affectionate finger.

The muffler, he’d given to you as a gift only two weeks prior, saying that he’d seen it at a sale. It’s your favorite color — but just last week, you’re sure you’d passed by a storefront with the exact same muffler, touting the season’s latest fashions, with a price tag that had made your stomach drop clear out of your body.

You’d convinced yourself that there’s no way he’d spent that kind of money on a gift for you. You’re both still in school — where would he have gotten the cash? Briefly, you consider that he might’ve stolen it.

But you quickly discard that line of thought as well, berating yourself internally for doubting your own boyfriend like this.

“I know,” Suo says, grinning as he leans down for a kiss, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” And he sounds so earnest, so utterly besotted that you don’t have the heart to doubt anything else.

“You’re too good to me,” you say, shy as the pair of you start on the now familiar walk back to your tiny, two story apartment.

“Banish the notion,” Suo declares, his voice gallant, and you laugh. But he tugs you close to wrap an arm around your middle and press chilly lips to your cold-kissed cheek, “there’s no such thing.”

You flush with a delighted warmth and lean into the comfort of his embrace.

The next day, Suo brings you to his place, just as he’s promised. And just as you’d expected, it’s impeccable to the point of derision. You bite your lips, looking around at the immaculate walls and floors, the perfectly lined shelves, the cupboards stocked and stacked as if by a rather neurotic military sergeant.

“So… I’m guessing you cleaned?” you ask, setting down your bag by the door and toeing off your shoes.

Suo laughs, nodding, “Just a bit, yes.”

“A bit?”

He grins, leading you into the living room, where a tea service is set up and water is already boiling in the kitchen.

“How… what —” you’re at a loss for words as Suo kneels by the low table and washes the tea with the boiling water.

“Can you blame me? It’s my girlfriend’s first visit to my place — I had to make it perfect.”

By the time he puts on the movie, you’re already heavy with an amazing dinner and sleepy with hot tea. You lean against him, drowsing as the movie picks up and a gorgeous, dirty-blond man chats up an equally gorgeous platinum blond woman.

“Mm… which one’s the bathroom?” you ask, your voice sleepy as you totter to your feet.

“Just down the hall — second door to your right,” Suo calls.

You nod as you patter down the dark hallway, keeping one hand on the wall to steady yourself. At the first door, you twist the knob out of reflex, only to find it locked.

Frowning, you twist it again, feeling the old lock jiggling in the door frame.

Suddenly, all hints of drowisness gone, you go still, a strange, vibrating giddiness welling up inside you at the thought of seeing Suo’s bedroom.

Why would he keep it locked? What embarrassing things might you find?

You twist the doorknob slowly, putting pressure on the bottom of the knob till you feel the lock give and the door swings open into a dark, nebulous space. And with one last glance over your shoulder, you slip inside.

The bedroom is small, and neat to the point of sparseness. There’s a writing desk sitting beneath a small window, and a small bookcase tucked against the opposite wall, next to a chest of drawers.

There are no posters on the wall, but there does seem to be a map of some sort. And at first, you think it’s one of those artistic print-maps of Tokyo or some bigger city, but as your eyes adjust to the dimness, you notice tiny little flag markers, and streets that are all too familiar.

You creep closer, as if drawn by an invisible string, until you’re almost nose to nose with the map — and seeing it clearly now, your breath deadens inside your chest.

You know these streets because they’re the streets of this city — of your city, and Suo’s as well. But it’s the thin lines that connect a series of tiny flags that makes your chest go cold — spot markers of your house, your cram school, the bookstore you work at, your favorite shops and restaurants, even the park that you and Togame always go to on weekends.

And the thin lines between them — the routes you take, day in and day out, all meticulously mapped.

Dizzy, you spin around, your eyes catching on the bookshelf, where a series of little trinkets sit in succession —

An empty perfume bottle, a volume of shoujou manga, a hair tie, a pencil stub, and a single glimmering earring.

Blood thunders behind your ears as you brace yourself against the writing desk, the wood creaking slightly beneath your palms.

Your eyes catch next on the chest of drawers, and a single article of clothing crumpled, sitting at the very top — a pair of sleep shorts, thin and worn and trimmed in lace.

Yours.

“I thought you needed to use the restroom.”

You jump at the sound of Suo’s voice, soft and calm and unnaturally steady.

You press a hand to your mouth to stifle what would’ve been a scream as Suo steps into the room and closes the door with a snap behind him.

“You know… it’s not very good manners to go into someone’s bedroom without their permission.”

You lick your lips, shaking your head.

“Hayato… what —” but you can’t the words — because there are no words. Instead, you gesture at the strange collection of baubles on his shelves before turning back to motion at the giant map tacked to the wall.

Suo nods, his hands laced behind his back, his expression amiable.

“What… is all this?” he asks, taking a few steps towards you. You scramble back, but find yourself already cornered against his writing desk. He makes no sudden movements, even as you look wildly around for any kind of escape route, your heart battering against your ribs, a scream building just beneath your lungs.

“It’s… a testament, I suppose,” he says, opening his arms, sighing, “to my feelings for you —” he takes a few more steps, closing the distance between you and him in a single, shuddering heartbeat.

His eye glitters almost red in the iridescent darkness.

“Because… don’t you see?” he asks, his voice now nothing more than a whisper as he reaches out to cup your cheek. You go still beneath his touch, as a deer caught beneath the bright beam of a hunter’s light.

“It’s always been you…” he says, crooning the words into your ears as he trails his fingers along the line of your jaw down to your throat, his thumb dipping into the hollow there before his fingers dig themselves into the nape of your neck.

You let out a soft whimper, feeling the hard crescents of his finger nails as they sink into your skin.

“I love you,” he says, his voice smooth as silk and sweet as poison, “and I wanted — no… I needed you to love me too.”

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pandapetals · 10 days ago

Text

Christmas Cards

Logan joins you to write Christmas cards for both of your students.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - married couple, cute, fluff, banter, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor, holiday vibes, logan being a softie

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @saradika

“It’s Christmas Eve, sweetheart,” Logan drawled, leaning against the doorframe of your office, his arms crossed. “Shouldn’t you be relaxin’ or somethin’?”

You looked up from your desk, where a small mountain of cards and colored pens had taken over. "I would be, but I completely forgot I wanted to give my students little holiday cards," you replied, biting your lip as you scribbled another message with a flourish.

Logan raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between the cards and the assortment of little trinkets you’d gathered—stickers, candy canes, even tiny snowflake charms. "Darlin’, it’s a little late for that, don’t ya think?"

"Nope," you said with a determined smile, stacking a finished card on top of the pile. "Christmas doesn’t truly end until New Year’s. Besides, I think they'll appreciate it whenever they get them."

Logan shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

Without waiting for an invitation, he crossed the room and pulled up a chair beside you. He picked up one of the cards you’d finished, reading it with a soft huff of amusement. It was a little message to one of the younger students, reminding them of how much they’d grown over the semester and encouraging them to keep believing in themselves. You’d doodled a tiny snowman in the corner, complete with a scarf and hat.

"Ya really think they’ll care about these little notes?" Logan asked, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he picked up a blank card.

"They will," you replied, nudging his shoulder playfully. "A little kindness goes a long way. Besides, who doesn’t like a surprise message now and then?"

He rolled his eyes, but after a beat, he grabbed a pen, his fingers almost hesitant. "Fine," he muttered. "Just don’t expect me to get all mushy.”

You hid a smile, pretending to focus on your own card as Logan tapped his pen against the table, thinking. Finally, he started writing, his brow furrowed in concentration. He went card by card, jotting down blunt little messages in his scrawling handwriting.

For Bobby, he wrote: “Stop sneakin' food from the kitchen after midnight. It’s not like we don’t notice. - Logan”

You snorted, glancing over his shoulder. "Subtle," you teased.

"Kid needs a reminder," Logan replied with a smirk, moving on to the next card.

For Jubilee, he scribbled: “Quit blowin' stuff up just to get outta class. Nice try, though. - Logan”

You couldn’t help but laugh. "At least they’ll know it’s from you," you teased, nudging him. "No one else could get away with being that blunt."

"Yeah, well, if I’m doin’ this, I’m doin’ it my way," he grumbled, though there was a spark of enjoyment in his eyes. After a moment, his expression softened as he picked up a card for one of the quieter students, a young girl who often struggled in his history class.

He paused, then wrote carefully: “You’re stronger than you think. Don’t give up, kid. - Logan”

You felt your heart swell, watching him put real thought into each message, even if he tried to hide it behind his usual gruffness. He moved from card to card, alternating between gruff advice and unexpected words of encouragement, and you could see a part of him genuinely enjoyed it, even if he’d never admit it.

By the time he was done, a small stack of Logan’s cards sat beside yours, each one unique, each one touched with his blunt honesty and hidden warmth. You picked up the stack, leafing through his notes with a grin.

"See? You’re more sentimental than you let on," you teased, nudging him playfully. "Bet you even enjoyed writing these."

Logan scoffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah, right. I just figured they needed a reminder not to slack off next semester."

"Oh, sure," you replied, eyes twinkling as you held up his card for a shy student with a note that read, “You did good, kid. Keep at it.”

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck with a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "Well, maybe… maybe they could use a little encouragin’ once in a while. Doesn’t mean I’m gettin’ soft."

"Of course not," you said, trying to stifle a smile. "You’re as tough as ever, Mr. Sentimental."

Logan let out a grumble, but you caught the tiniest hint of a smile. "Alright, alright. Enough with the mushy stuff," he muttered, standing up and stretching. "Let’s get these cards wrapped up before I start regrettin' this."

You leaned over, kissing his cheek quickly, catching him off guard. "Thank you, Logan. I think this will mean more to them than you know."

Logan grunted, trying to keep his expression stoic, but his eyes softened as he looked at you. "Yeah, well… sometimes a little kindness goes a long way."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Really? Are you quoting me back to myself now?"

He rolled his eyes, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile fighting to break through. "Don’t get all smug about it," he muttered, crossing his arms. "Just sayin’. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna start handin’ out compliments every day."

"Oh, of course not," you replied, leaning in closer, the amusement clear in your voice.

Logan snorted, shaking his head as he glanced down at the cards. "I still think it’s a little ridiculous," he said, though his fingers lingered over the stack of notes he'd just written as if he couldn’t help but be a bit proud. "But… I guess these kids mean somethin’ to you. So maybe it’s worth it."

You reached out, covering his hand with yours, your smile gentle. "They mean something to you too, Logan. You don’t have to say it—I can see it."

He huffed, pretending to be annoyed, but his thumb brushed over your hand, a rare, tender gesture. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go expectin’ me to dress up as Santa or somethin’ next."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Trust me, I know my limits." Then, with a wink, you added, "But if you did wear a Santa hat, I bet the kids would love it."

Logan groaned, his smile betraying him as he muttered, "You’re impossible, you know that?"

"That’s why you love me," you teased, nudging his shoulder.

"Maybe," he muttered, his voice low, almost shy. "Now let’s finish up these cards before I lose my patience."

The two of you finished up, and a quiet warmth settled between you. As you stacked the cards, you knew that these little notes, full of honesty and humor, would be a gift the students would treasure—and, secretly, a holiday memory that you’d hold close to your heart, knowing just how much Logan cared, even if he’d never say it out loud.

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mieldreams · 16 days ago

Text

A Very Berry Christmas

Summary: A certain berry incident leads to finally getting to know the family from down the hall. Could the season's greetings blossom into the start of something sweet?

pairing: single dad!Anakin x single nurse!reader

warnings: lame attempts at humour, brief mentions of barf. a whole lotta xmas puns.

word count: ~4.5k (someone needs to teach me how to not make everything 2k+)

You're sleeping peacefully in your cozy bed when you hear it. Three loud knocks that rouse you from your sleep. Or try to– you have half the mind to simply turn around and pull the covers back over your head and go back to sleep. In fact, that's exactly what you do, maybe this is just some weird dream.

Three more knocks, and they beat down more urgently on your door. That's when your reptilian brain kicks in, instincts taking over as your eyes fly open and you push off the covers to grab the giant candy cane prop you'd gotten on discount that you'd temporarily propped by your bed. It's not that you live in a shady area or anything, but you'd rather take chances on your poor hand-eye coordination with a fake candy cane than face whoever was at your door at– you check the clock on the wall, at 1 in the morning without one.

As you reach the front door you curse the old apartment and your annoying landlord for not installing even just a peephole to see who you'd have to fight off at the witching hour. There had to be some sort of basic requirement for safety in these apartments right? You'd have to check for that later since the more pressing matter was now loudly knocking on your door once again. You're thankful it's only you and that man with the twins on your floor, though for his sake you hope the twins aren't light sleepers.

This time the person only knocks twice before abruptly stopping. Should you open the door or simply walk away now that the knocking had stopped?

Your contemplation doesn't last long as you hear voices through the door, a rough voice telling someone to go back inside followed by loud shushing sounds as you hear a child crying. Curiosity gets the best of you and you quickly toss the candy cane aside to throw the door open and the sight that greets you immediately concerns you.

It's the man from down the hall, Mr Skywalker, and gosh he looks miserable. Though it's not like you'd know what he usually looks like, you'd only ever seen him in fleeting moments – sometimes with the twins, sometimes alone, the only reason you even knew his name was because you'd accidentally gotten his mail once. He's halfway down the hallway between his and your apartment and you assume he's the one who had knocked. When he turns around at the sound of your door opening you realise he's carrying a small boy on his hip who's a little red in the face, eyes still scrunched from crying.

"Oh thank god," he makes his way towards you again, "I know this is really sudden and I apologise for disturbing your sleep, but could you please look after my daughter for a while? I have to take my son to the hospital urgently and I don't want her to be alone, she's very well behaved— won't cause you any trouble I promise—" he's frantic as he explains, "Leia! Can you come out here please?" He's calling her over before you can get a word out, not that you were against helping him.

A girl, just as small as the boy, peeks her head around the doorframe of the apartment down the hall. Her father lightly bends down and wiggles his fingers to call her over. You use the brief moment to observe the man for the first time since he appeared at your door. You take in his sleep-tousled caramel blond hair, the wrinkled white henley that was clearly old from the way it stretched over his broad chest and shoulders despite the buttons being undone, probably bought at a time when he wasn't so...muscley. Your eyes quickly move down before your thoughts can continue down that line only to make it worse when your gaze lands on the strip of skin exposed by his shirt riding up, the prominent v-line peeking above the black sweats that sit low on his hips.

As the little girl slowly makes her way to where the two of you are you quickly avert your gaze. It would be mortifying to be caught ogling her father.

"Sir, if you don't mind me asking, what happened to your son?"

Once little Leia reaches him and takes his hand he turns to you again, "We were making blueberry pie— going to— but Luke ate some of the blueberries and then started throwing up," he worriedly looks back at his son on his hip, tucking him closer as Luke shivers in his arms and curls into his dad.

Looking at Anakin, then back at Luke you clear the remainder of sleepiness from your voice, "I don't mean to intrude sir," you start slowly, "but I happen to know a thing or two about allergies, you can totally still go to the hospital but maybe I can take a look at your son for you?"

When he doesn't answer you get nervous and start rambling, "I know what I'm doing, I'm a nurse you see— I swear, I even have my certification for this– I could show you if you want," You make a move to retreat back into your apartment but Anakin's hand on your wrist stops you.

You gasp when you feel cold metal rather than flesh, eyes going wide as you turn to look at his palm wrapped around your wrist and for the first time you notice that his arm isn't human.

Anakin hears the little sound and immediately curses himself in his mind.

What the fuck were you thinking – grabbing her wrist like that, specifically with the metal arm when it's already freezing.

He quickly apologises before dropping your hand and you look at him again as he runs a nervous hand through his hair, "Could you do that? Would you do that? Take a look at him I mean," if it weren't for the situation at hand you'd have thought his stuttering and awkwardness were cute and holy shit he was so much prettier up close but you push those thoughts aside as your work brain kicks in.

You hope it's nothing too serious and that the poor man doesn't have to rush to the hospital at this hour.

You invite him and his children into your apartment, leading the little boy and his father into the kitchen while giving Leia full access to your plushie collection as you drop a whole bunch of them on the couch to make her a little more comfortable and keep her distracted while you check on her brother.

Though, when you tell her to get comfy she singles out a fluffy highland cow plushie that you'd customised to match the holiday spirit with a mini red santa hat, and then turns to you with big eyes, "Can I read those?"

When you follow her little finger you realise she's pointing at the stack of old newspapers. You shrug, "Sure, why not," you pick up a part of the pile and lay it out in front of her to let her pick.

Whatever keeps her busy you guess. She thanks you for it and you leave her there on the couch before heading to the kitchen. On the way you make a detour to the bathroom to check for any allergy medicine in case it was something mild.

When you walk into the kitchen you notice Luke is no longer crying, rather slumped against his father, cheek squished against his dad's shoulder. Probably tired from all the crying and throwing up, you think to yourself. You place the few bottles of medicine you had grabbed on the counter and ask him to sit Luke on it as well.

You fill up two glasses of water, handing one to Anakin and holding one out for Luke but he simply shakes his head.

"Does he have any allergies or anything like that?"

Anakin shakes his head no, "Not that I know of. And he's had blueberries before but never such a reaction to them," he tells you, worried eyes constantly shifting between you and Luke.

"Did he have any other reaction other than throwing up?"

The man shakes his head no again, "He only threw up. At first I thought it was one of those 'kids puke all the time' things but then he threw up again and complained about his stomach hurting and wouldn't stop crying."

You walk over to the cabinet in your kitchen and pull out an old friend, hiding him behind your back as you walk back to Luke. He was somewhat calmer now but you didn't want him getting upset again so maybe a distraction would be nice, "Hey Luke. I have a little buddy here who'd like to get to know you, he wants to play with you, do you wanna meet him?"

Curious but still shy he slowly nods his head, a feeble "okay" escaping his lips.

You pull out the old dinosaur toy you'd had since...gosh you couldn't even remember anymore. It was a little faded and worn (well loved is what you called it) but he was soft and smelled clean so maybe it would help.

"This is Rex the T-Rex. He says he's really happy to meet you." You wiggle the dino's hand in a little wave. You pretend that Rex the T-Rex whispers something in your ear, nodding like you understand what he wants to convey.

"He says he wants to talk to you, but he's very shy so maybe you can hold his hand to get to know him? He's a doctor you see, so he wants to ask you a few questions, can you answer them Luke?"

The little boy thankfully looks intrigued enough by the old toy, quietly taking him when you place it in his lap and nodding okay once again.

You then quickly start your assessment with a few questions, "Luke, do you feel any itchiness anywhere?"

The boy shakes his head no. You then ask him how he feels right now and only get a 'sleepy' in response. You could never be too sure with allergies, it was different for different people, but judging from everything you knew till now you had a suspicion this wasn't allergies.

"Luke, how many blueberries did you eat?"

The boy holds up his tiny fist, closing and opening it to show you, "just this much."

"You only had that many berries?"

He gives a 'mhm' while fiddling with the rainbow bracelet on his wrist, "I had them after dad washed them, then I had them after they were cold in the fridge then when we baked the crust and then when we were making the inside thing."

You have to stop yourself from laughing as Luke's father narrows his eyes at him, "Luke, how many blueberries did you have?"

The boy innocently holds up his tiny fist again, waving it in his dad's face this time, "this much."

"But you had that much four times?"

"Uh-huh," hearing his dad's tired sigh as he drops his head into his hand is what breaks you, and you can't help but snort.

You move towards the sink to wet a small cloth before taking it over to him, "Here, you can wipe the fruit on his face, the smell of it might be making it worse," then you leave them alone to head to your bedroom to find one of your older sweatshirts that had shrunken in size after your friend accidentally machine washed it when she borrowed it for a Christmas party.

You finally manage to pull out the old garment from the corner of your closet after struggling to pull out one sleeve that was stuck under a heap of clothes, making you fall on your ass when it finally came loose. You get up and dust your shorts off with a glared huff at the pile of clothes that you were too lazy to sort before heading back to the kitchen.

Since you had already decided what to do for Luke's nausea, you ask Leia if she would like some of the ginger honey tea you were planning to make. When she answers with a "yes, please," you smile at her and tell her you'll bring it to her in a minute before entering the kitchen.

Seeing that Anakin has finished cleaning up all the berry stains from Luke's hands and around his mouth you walk over to hand him the sweater, "I think it'll be better to have him out of that t-shirt, it doesn't exactly have the most...pleasant smell." You try not to make a face at the faint lingering smell of barf and blueberries – a combination you know will haunt you for quite some time.

Anakin takes the sweater from you, and you turn around towards the stove to start making the tea, "I think a little honey-ginger tea might help with the nausea, can he have that?" You glance at Anakin as you stretch up to pull out the ingredients and he barely avoids being caught staring at the sliver of skin peeking under from your shirt when it rides up.

He clears his throat, "Um, yeah— yeah he can have it." He glances at Luke who's still toying with the dino plushie you gave him. You turn back around to watch the boiling water and hear Anakin gently talking to Luke as he switches his spoilt shirt for your sweater.

With your back still turned to the two you realise that Anakin has a very nice voice – it's very calm and gentle, a smooth cadence that makes you think you could listen to him forever. You wonder how old he is, he didn't look that much older than you but the way he panicked with Luke made it seem like he was a bit inexperienced with such occurrences. Though you definitely had the advantage of your job to thank for your knowledge.

A soft amused chuckle is what pulls you from your thoughts, making you turn around as you switch to low heat. You see Anakin smiling at his son's form on the counter, drowning in your shrunk sweater that was still too big for him. You notice his gaze fixed on the graphics of the sweater – a 'Sleigh All Day' written above the picture of Santa Clause and Rudolph chilling on a sleigh like it was a beach chair, sunnies on and drinks in their hands.

His gaze then shifts to the sweater you're wearing, a dark blue with a white font that says, 'Birch, please.' with the photo of a sassy Christmas tree and it actually makes him snort. You smirk at him before turning back to the tea as he asks, "How many of these do you have?"

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, still smirking, "Do you really wanna know?"

He shakes his head with a smile before clearing his throat, "I uh- I want to thank you for doing all this. Specifically so late at night, and also— I'm really sorry for barging in on you and disturbing you. Neither of the twins have ever had a reaction like that, they're really smart and absolute angels, so tonight just...scared me a little." His voice fades out at the end and you turn the stove off as you turn to look at him again. He's gently running his hands through his son's hair, somehow smoothing out and messing up his hair at the same time.

Luke hasn't said much in the past few minutes but seeing the little boy almost drowning in your too-large sweatshirt as he's lost in his own play world makes a warmth bloom in your chest. Both the twins seem so well-mannered and calm that you're sure Anakin's right and they really must be angels.

"That's alright. Takes a village to raise kids, right? I'm glad I could help. And that it wasn't something too serious."

"I'm sorry— I feel like I've intruded in your house and haven't even given a proper introduction. I'm Anakin. The little blueberry monster is Luke," he points at his son, playfully ruffling his hair and making him giggle and duck to avoid the attack, "and my daughter— that's Leia."

You smile back at him, telling him your name in return, "It's nice to meet all of you." You turn back to finish preparing the tea, pouring it into four different cups for which you apologize with a grimace, "Sorry they're all...like that. I hardly have people over so I don't really have proper tea cup sets..."

Anakin would reassure you that it was nothing if he wasn't busy trying to contain the immediate smile threatening to grow on his face when he sees his cup – a white mug with the words, 'I just took a DNA test turns out, I'm a 100%' on one side and 'that Grinch' on the other, with the Grinch's iconic smiling face staring back at him of course.

He then takes a look at Luke's cup as you go to call Leia for the tea, not wanting the little girl to be alone in the living room. He notices it's a plain white porcelain with the words 'Wake me up before you cocoa' and a cartoon of a singing chocolate bar wrapped up in a red and green scarf.

You must really like Christmas he thinks.

You hear the little patters of her feet before she shows up at the doorway and you call her over. Before you can ask if she wants to sit next to her brother she's already raising her arms to be lifted onto the counter, and before Anakin can step in you're already lifting her into your arms and gently placing her on the countertop next to her twin who excitedly begins to show his sister his new friend while waiting for his tea to cool down.

Leia thanks you for the help again and you can't help but be amused at the kid's manners. She seems to be very well-spoken for someone so tiny, and you wonder if that's from her father or her mother, which in turn makes you think about these kids' mother.

Anakin seemed to live alone, and you had never seen any woman visiting his apartment, other than the one time you saw the twins with a tan woman in the parking lot when you came back from work, though you're pretty sure you overheard them call her 'Auntie'.

"Ouch, hot! Hot! Hot!"

Luke's tiny yelps snap you out of your thoughts and you watch as Anakin quickly puts down his own cup and reaches out to take Luke's from him, placing it on the counter beside him while scolding Luke with an 'I told you to wait till it cools down—'

Followed by a whine from his son "I did! It didn't have the hot floating steam anymore—"

"—and I told you that you should always check first with a tiny sip."

"But you always drink really hot coffee really fast."

"That's 'cause I don't have time in the morning and need to at least pretend to be listening when someone talks to me."

" I wanna try coffee too—"

Anakin sighs, "—No Luke, you cannot—"

Leia simply sits beside her twin, shaking her head with a soft sigh as she listens to her father and brother argue.

You can't help but be amused by this little family before you as they continue their bickering, entertained by their chaos and curious because—

"Why were you guys baking at one in the morning?" It escapes out before you realise and you quickly bite your tongue, chastising yourself in your mind, ohmagosh you can't just ask people why they're baking at one in the morning.

"—sorry you don't have to answer that, just got curious," you awkwardly shuffle on your feet, laughing in embarrassment before you move forward to take everyone's empty cups to the sink.

"It's okay," Anakin speaks up, "We have a tradition of baking something every weekend for the entire month of December. The twins were craving some pie and it's the weekend so I thought why not? Their mother used to bake the best desserts, I can't live up to that standard but...I try."

His words once again make you curious about their mother but this time you manage to bite your tongue in time. From his slightly breathier tone you can tell that the story here isn't exactly happy so you don't try to pry.

Seeing as the twins were getting drowsy, now that the adrenaline of the chaos had worn off and been replaced by the warmth of the sweet tea, Anakin pushes off the counter, "Anyways, thank you so much for helping us— helping me. And sorry we disturbed you."

You dismiss his apology with a wave of your hand as Anakin lifts the kids off the counter though Luke requests to be carried back again.

"I'm glad I could help. Kids can give real scares to their parents sometimes, I know I did –many times," you joke as you follow the man and his children out of your kitchen to the front door.

Anakin didn't know you too well, just a few casual run-ins that come with living on the same floor. Though he doesn't know how casual he can consider it when you always seemed to be in a hurry of some sort, finding out your job as a nurse makes things make more sense but still, you were a jittery little thing. He remembers that time when he was awake late one summer night, the twins were at Ahsoka's and he couldn't sleep so he'd stepped out for fresh air. He guessed you were coming home late from work, hair a tangled mess and feet dragging on the ground. You were carrying some paperwork and maybe it was the late night shift or maybe it was the dark parking lot but you accidentally ran into a tree near the door to the building, your paperwork falling from your hands. You quickly bent down to pick it up and then immediately started apologising to the tree and thanked it for helping you pick up the papers, then wished it a good evening and walked away.

He also remembers the time he overheard you talking to your friend in the hallway about babysitting their cat, but the next morning when he ran into you at the laundry there were long claw marks running up and down your arms that you quickly tried to hide by pulling down the sleeves of your sweater and a sheepish smile.

"Took my friend's cat for a walk. Some of the neighbourhood strays didn't like that. Almost lost an eye trying to separate those little bastards." "I mean catfights, amiright?" You had joked and he had only stared in disbelief and mild concern, hoping you had at least gotten the scratches checked out for infections.

He also remembers seeing you a few days back, struggling to drag a too-big-for-an-apartment Christmas tree across the parking lot, he would have helped you if he wasn't sure that he'd spook you in the dark empty lot. Though he didn't see the tree anywhere in your living space when he walked in so he wonders what happened to it.

He turns around at your doorway to look at you again.

"I don't doubt it."

Is that a smirk on Anakin's face? Is he messing with you right now?

You roll your eyes, shaking your head with a laugh.

"I'm just glad it wasn't anything too serious, hopefully though we'll keep the blueberry consumption to a limit from now on." You tease as you ruffle Luke's hair. He makes a gagging face at the mention of eating blueberries and it makes you laugh again.

"Guess berry pie will have to be put off for a while, huh?"

Anakin sighs as he adjusts Luke on his hip, pulling his daughter closer as she slips her tiny hand into his, "I guess so."

He looks back up at you and you're once again stunned speechless by how pretty he is, long eyelashes fluttering and pretty thunderstorm eyes rimmed red by the lack of sleep. He is still one of, if not, the most gorgeous man you've ever seen.

You've noticed that Anakin is a somewhat hard person to read. With the diverse variety of people that came to your work and the ones you helped, you had become sort of used to being able to read people. The way they behaved in emergencies alone told you a lot about a person. But for some reason, other than the panic when he first knocked on your door, you couldn't at all tell what he was thinking right now. And considering he seemed to be a first-time father, especially to twins, you suppose the panic was warranted.

Anakin's intense gaze fixated on you makes you nervous, so you let out an awkward chuckle while wringing your sweater paw hands, "I'd wish you an advanced 'Berry Christmas' but I feel like we've had more than enough of those, huh?"

You cringe and once again curse yourself at the lame attempt at breaking the silence that had lulled over and trying to escape Anakin's sharp eyes. You expect him to scoff and walk away from you as quickly as possible and maybe never talk to you again but instead he just smirks and looks down. He catches sight of the giant candy cane decoration you'd thrown aside and shakes his head, chuckling.

He starts guiding Leia and carrying Luke back down the hall towards their apartment and you think you're right, he's never gonna wanna talk to you again. He probably thinks you're some Christmas-obsessed weirdo who makes godawful jokes and he's gonna tell Luke and Leia to never talk to you again as well and—

With his back turned to you, his voice carries across the hall, snapping you out of your thoughts. He enters his apartment and pokes his head out to give you one last look, eyes looking you over once before he smirks, "There's better weapons out there than candy canes." And then his door shuts.

Your eyes widen when you realise he's joking with you and not immediately rushing to report you or something, and you laugh as you close your door.

As you stand in your apartment with your back pressed against the closed door, you can't contain the growing smile on your face. You hope you get to see more of the cute and slightly chaotic family living down the hall.

dividers by @strangergraphics and @tsunami-of-tears

A/N: an advanced berry christmas to everybody! :)

ps. what do y'all call Anakin's hair colour?

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #hayden christensen #star wars #anakin imagine #christmas floof #fluff #miel works

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goldfades · 16 days ago

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𝟎𝟎𝟐 UNDER THE MISTLETOE ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꪆৎ ˚. RAFE CAMERON

12 days of christmas celebration!!

as holidays approach, it’s important to remember those who are facing hardships, such as the people of palestine. in times of crisis, solidarity matters more than ever. you can support palestinian communities by donating to reputable organizations providing aid, such as food, medical supplies, and shelter. help palestine with a click | heal palestine | unrwa | resources for palestine

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 6.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | At a posh Tannyhill Christmas party, you get caught under the mistletoe with none other than Rafe Cameron. Friends egg you on, but what starts as a joking kiss turns into something much deeper.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kinda a fluffy slow burn? rafe being a little ass (but still sweet obvs), one kiss, nothing else!

There’s something different about the Outer Banks when Christmas rolls around. The air isn’t colder—it never really is—but it feels sharper, fresher, like the breeze carries more secrets than usual. The usual salty tang is sweeter now, tinged with the scent of evergreen wreaths hung on shop doors and strings of twinkling lights snaking through palm trees. Tannyhill, though, is where the real magic happens.

Or at least, where it pretends to.

It’s the kind of place that looks like a Christmas card came to life: wreaths on every window, a tree the size of a lighthouse in the foyer, and catering staff that fuss over candy cane platters like they're hosting royalty. For the Camerons, appearances are everything, especially at this time of year.

“You’re really going to wear that?” Sarah’s voice cuts through your thoughts as you stand in front of her mirror, smoothing the hem of your dress. She’s perched on the edge of her bed, her hair pinned up in half-done curls, a bottle of champagne tucked between her legs. It’s not even six, but she insisted tonight required proper pre-gaming.

You roll your eyes and turn to face her. “Yes, I’m wearing this. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just… safe,” she says, raising a brow. “It’s Christmas at Tannyhill. You’re supposed to be…” She waves her hand in the air, searching for the right word. “…a little dangerous.”

“Dangerous like you?” you quip, nodding toward her shimmering red dress that somehow manages to be both floor-length and scandalous.

“Exactly,” she replies without missing a beat, taking a triumphant sip of champagne. “Anyway, I’m just saying. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight. Could be worth the risk.”

“Risk of what?” you laugh, but it’s a little hollow, your gaze drifting back to the mirror.

You’ve been to these events before. You know how they go. It’s all champagne flutes, polite smiles, and whispered gossip. Nothing remotely risky. But still… there’s something about the way Sarah looks at you that makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t.

The mirror’s reflection isn’t much help. The dress is nice enough—a deep green velvet that hugs your frame, with thin straps and a hem that stops just above your knees—but “dangerous” isn’t exactly the vibe it’s giving. It’s more “holiday cocktail party chic,” which, to be fair, is exactly what you were aiming for. But Sarah’s words buzz around your head like a pesky gnat. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight.

“Maybe I like being safe,” you counter, but the words sound less convincing the moment they leave your mouth.

Sarah snorts, setting the champagne bottle aside and rising from the bed. “Oh, please. You don’t come to a Cameron Christmas party to blend in.” She strides over, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and spins you to face her. Her eyes narrow in assessment, scanning you from head to toe. “Okay. Hair? Gorgeous. Dress? Very… respectable. But—” She steps behind you, pulling a strand of your hair over your shoulder, “—you need something to make people stop and stare.”

You watch as she opens a jewelry box on her vanity, her fingers rifling through an assortment of glittering pieces. “Ah-ha,” she says triumphantly, holding up a delicate gold necklace with a teardrop pendant. “This. It’s simple, but it catches the light just enough. Trust me.”

Before you can protest, she’s clasping it around your neck. You glance back in the mirror. She’s right; the necklace adds something—a quiet elegance that makes the whole look seem intentional, like you tried just hard enough to care without overdoing it.

“Better,” Sarah says, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied smile. Then her eyes narrow mischievously. “Now, shoes. Please tell me you didn’t bring flats.”

You groan, nodding toward the corner where a pair of nude heels sit. Sarah clicks her tongue in approval. “Good girl. If you’d shown up in ballet flats, I would’ve sent you home.”

“Why do I let you do this to me?” you mutter, sitting on the edge of her bed to strap the heels on.

“Because deep down, you know I’m right,” Sarah says, smirking. “And because you secretly love the drama.”

She’s half right. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but there is a part of you that loves the energy of these parties—the music swelling as the night goes on, the clinking glasses, the undercurrent of excitement that hums through the air like static electricity. It’s impossible to ignore. The Camerons don’t do anything halfway, especially when it comes to Christmas.

“I just hope I survive the night without falling on these death traps,” you say, standing up and wobbling slightly as you adjust to the height of the heels.

Sarah grabs her champagne bottle, lifting it in a mock toast. “To surviving the night—and maybe even having some fun while you’re at it.”

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. “Cheers.”

By the time you both make your way downstairs, the house is already buzzing with life. The foyer is packed with people, a mix of family friends, business partners, and the kind of people who always seem to be at events like this but never seem to actually belong anywhere. The smell of pine, cinnamon, and something faintly citrusy hangs in the air, mixing with the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the next room.

Tannyhill looks like something out of a magazine spread, with garlands draped over the banisters, twinkling fairy lights tucked into every corner, and an absurdly large Christmas tree that dominates the main hall. Ornaments catch the light like little stars, and at the very top, a glittering silver angel tilts slightly to one side, as though even she’s exhausted by the sheer extra-ness of it all.

“Remind me again why I let you drag me to this?” you whisper to Sarah as you both pause at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene below.

“Because you love me,” she says sweetly, linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward. “And because this is way more fun than sitting at home watching Hallmark movies alone.”

You’re about to argue when you catch sight of Rafe Cameron near the bar, and your heart stutters. He’s standing with a group of his friends, all laughter and easy charm, a glass of something amber-colored in his hand. His hair is perfectly tousled, his suit crisp and tailored to perfection, but it’s his smile that catches you off guard. It’s sharp and confident, but there’s something about it that feels… dangerous. Like Sarah said.

And, just for a moment, you wonder if tonight might be more than just another Cameron Christmas party.

The party is a well-oiled machine by the time you and Sarah descend the staircase. Conversations buzz, laughter punctuates the hum of polite chatter, and the clink of glasses mingles with the soft holiday music floating from the grand piano in the corner. It’s glamorous, sure, but you can’t help feeling like an outsider looking in.

Sarah tugs at your arm as you reach the bottom step. “Alright, split up. You mingle, I mingle, and we reconvene for champagne refills. Sound good?”

“Wait, what? I thought we were sticking together,” you hiss, but she’s already slipping away into the crowd, greeting some distant cousin with a dazzling smile.

You sigh, smoothing your dress nervously as you scan the room. No familiar faces—well, not anyone you’d feel comfortable just walking up to. Except... your gaze flickers back to the bar, where Rafe stands. He’s laughing at something Topper just said, the sound loud and unapologetic. Kelce is leaning on the counter, gesturing wildly as he tells some animated story.

You’ve been in the same circles as Rafe Cameron for years, thanks to Sarah, but he’s always felt like… a lot. He’s intense in a way that makes him hard to pin down. Most of the time, he’s all bravado and sharp edges, but every now and then, you catch glimpses of something softer beneath it all. Not that you’ve spent much time trying to figure him out.

Still, as if drawn by some magnetic pull, your feet begin to carry you closer to the bar. Not to him, specifically. You’re just heading in that general direction, you tell yourself. It’s not your fault he happens to be there.

As you approach, you catch snippets of their conversation.

“—and then the idiot didn’t even see the wave coming,” Kelce is saying, his words punctuated by Topper’s loud cackle.

“Classic,” Rafe says, smirking as he takes a sip from his glass. His eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the room even as he listens to his friends. It’s like he’s always on high alert, even at his own party.

You hesitate, hovering a few steps away, trying to decide if you should keep walking or stop for a drink. The bartender glances your way, and before you can chicken out, you step up to the counter.

“White wine, please,” you say, your voice steady despite the knot of nerves tightening in your stomach.

As the bartender pours your drink, you feel eyes on you. Sure enough, when you glance over, Rafe is looking right at you. Not in the casual, friendly way people look at someone they sort of know. No, this is something else. His gaze is sharp, piercing, like he’s sizing you up, trying to figure you out.

“Didn’t know you were coming tonight,” he says, his voice low and smooth. It’s not a question, but it feels like one.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. Sarah dragged me along.”

His smirk deepens. “Sounds about right. You let her boss you around like that?”

“She’s very persuasive,” you reply, taking a sip of your wine to steady yourself.

Rafe chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, she is.” He leans back against the bar, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your plan for the night? Stand around sipping wine, or are you gonna do something interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Define interesting.”

Topper, ever the instigator, interjects before Rafe can answer. “Oh, she’s a wild card. Watch out, Rafe. She might even… I don’t know… dance under the mistletoe.”

Kelce laughs, nudging Rafe with his elbow. “Yeah, or start a snowball fight with the fake snow machine. Real party animal.”

Your cheeks heat at their teasing, but Rafe doesn’t laugh. Instead, he tilts his head, his smirk softening into something that feels almost curious. “Maybe we’ll find out,” he says, his tone light but with an edge you can’t quite place.

Before you can respond, Sarah reappears at your side, her timing impeccable. “There you are,” she says, looping her arm through yours. Her gaze flickers to Rafe, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Causing trouble already?”

“Me?” Rafe says, feigning innocence. “Never.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, pulling you away before you can say anything else. “Come on,” she whispers. “We’ve got to get you in a prime spot before the games start.”

“What games?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder to find Rafe watching you as you walk away.

“You’ll see,” Sarah says with a grin, her tone conspiratorial. And just like that, you know the night is only getting started.

Sarah doesn’t give you much time to process the interaction—or the way Rafe’s gaze seemed to follow you, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let you leave. She’s already pulling you through the crowd with purpose, weaving between glittering guests and servers balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the central hall, where the Christmas tree stands tall, glowing with soft golden light.

“Okay,” Sarah says, stopping abruptly. “Here’s the deal. Wheezie has this whole mistletoe situation set up.”

You blink at her, confused. “What?”

She grins mischievously, clearly enjoying your bewilderment. “She’s been on a mistletoe kick all week. She got the staff to hang them in, like, every doorway. It’s ridiculous. But tonight, we’re turning it into a game.”

“A game?” you repeat, feeling a sense of foreboding creep in.

Sarah nods, her grin widening. “Every time two people end up under the mistletoe, they have to kiss. No exceptions. Wheezie’s patrolling to enforce it.”

Your eyes widen. “Sarah. You’re kidding.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement. “And don’t even think about trying to dodge it. Wheezie’s got this sixth sense for people sneaking around.”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Why do I feel like this is going to end badly?”

“Badly?” Sarah repeats, feigning offense. “This is the best part of the party! Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? A little harmless fun never killed anyone.”

Before you can argue further, a familiar voice calls out.

“Sarah!” Wheezie appears out of nowhere, clutching a clipboard of all things. Her excitement is infectious, her cheeks flushed pink as she skids to a stop in front of you. “Did you tell her about the mistletoe?”

“Oh, I told her,” Sarah says, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “She’s thrilled.”

You glare at Sarah, but Wheezie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Good,” she says, beaming. “Because I already saw, like, three people cheat, and I had to threaten them with no dessert.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sarah says, high-fiving her little sister.

Wheezie turns to you, her expression suddenly serious. “You’re not going to cheat, right? Because I’m keeping track.”

You force a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Wheezie hurries off to continue her self-appointed duties, leaving you and Sarah standing near the edge of the room.

“I’m going to regret this,” you mutter, taking a long sip of your wine.

Sarah just laughs. “Not if you end up under the mistletoe with the right person.”

You’re about to retort when the sound of laughter nearby catches your attention. Rafe, Topper, and Kelce are heading your way, all of them holding fresh drinks and clearly in high spirits. Your stomach does a little flip as Rafe’s eyes find yours again, that same sharp intensity from earlier still lingering.

“Speak of the devil,” Sarah murmurs, her tone teasing.

“What?” you ask, your voice a little too high, but she just smirks.

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “But maybe Wheezie’s mistletoe isn’t such a bad idea after all.”

The night progresses in a blur of laughter and champagne. Guests drift from one room to the next, admiring the decorations, exchanging pleasantries, and inevitably finding themselves caught under Wheezie’s strategically placed mistletoe. You spot her several times, clipboard in hand, ushering reluctant participants toward their obligatory kiss with all the authority of a seasoned party planner.

It’s silly and lighthearted, but every time you see a pair of people beneath the mistletoe, your stomach tightens. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-wondering when—or if—you might end up in the same predicament.

And then, of course, it happens.

You’re standing near the fireplace, chatting with a distant family friend of Sarah’s, when someone brushes past you, drawing your attention. You turn—and immediately regret it. Rafe is there, his broad frame just a little too close, his expression unreadable as he looks down at you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and casual, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your pulse quicken.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice a little breathless.

Before either of you can say more, Wheezie materializes out of nowhere, her eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. “Oh my gosh, you guys!” she exclaims, pointing above your heads.

You don’t even have to look. The knowing smirk that spreads across Rafe’s face tells you everything you need to know.

Mistletoe. Of course.

Your heart plummets straight to your stomach as Wheezie bounces on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Well?” she says, grinning like she just uncovered the juiciest secret. “You have to kiss! Rules are rules!”

Rafe leans against the edge of the fireplace, casually glancing up at the offending sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ornate mantle. His lips twitch into a smirk as he looks back at you, clearly enjoying how flustered you are.

“You heard the boss,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement. “Rules are rules.”

Your mouth goes dry. Of course, this is happening. Of course, Wheezie—sweet, well-meaning, meddlesome Wheezie—would find a way to make this the most embarrassing moment of your life. You try to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky, barely convincing.

“This doesn’t count,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction. “We were just—”

“It absolutely counts,” Wheezie cuts in, clutching her clipboard like it’s a gavel. “You’re right there. No cheating.”

Rafe tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s sizing you up. You hate how effortlessly cool he looks, like this is all just a game to him. And maybe it is.

But for you, it’s anything but.

Because standing this close to him—so close you can catch the faint scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy—you’re dragged back to a version of yourself you thought you’d buried years ago. A younger you, sitting cross-legged on your bed, scribbling in your journal about Rafe Cameron like some lovesick fool.

You had a crush on him once, back when you were too naive to realize what it meant to like someone like Rafe. It started the summer he came to one of Sarah’s golf lessons, tagging along out of boredom. You’d been there, too, struggling with your swing and trying desperately not to let anyone notice. But they did. A couple of boys from your class—Topper included—had decided to make you their entertainment for the afternoon, mimicking your stance and snickering loudly enough to draw everyone’s attention.

You’d been mortified, red-faced and blinking back tears, until Rafe—taller, older, and impossibly confident—had stepped in.

“Got something better to do?” he’d said, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Or is bullying girls your new hobby?”

The boys had stumbled over their words, mumbling excuses before scurrying off, and Rafe had shrugged it off like it was nothing. But for you, it wasn’t nothing. For you, it was everything.

You never told anyone—not even Sarah—how much that moment stuck with you, how it planted a seed of something small but stubborn in your chest. A crush, yes, but more than that: an infatuation with the idea of him, the version of Rafe who might actually care.

But crushes fade, and years pass, and you convinced yourself that Rafe was just a fleeting thing, a schoolgirl daydream you outgrew. Or so you thought.

Until now.

Now, he’s standing in front of you, taller and sharper than you remember, and the way his gaze lingers on you makes it impossible to breathe.

“You okay over there?” Rafe asks, his voice cutting into your spiraling thoughts. He’s smirking, of course, because why wouldn’t he be?

“I—uh, yeah,” you stammer, cursing yourself for how obvious it is that you’re not, in fact, okay.

“Sure?” he presses, taking a deliberate step closer. “You look a little nervous.”

“Stop,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

“Stop what?” he asks innocently, though his grin says otherwise. “I’m just standing here. You’re the one making it weird.”

You glare at him, but it’s weak at best. “I’m not—this isn’t weird.”

“Oh, it’s definitely weird,” he says, and there’s a teasing edge to his voice now, one that sends your heart racing. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

Behind him, Topper and Kelce are already snickering, clearly enjoying the show.

“Just kiss her already!” Topper calls out, his voice loud and obnoxious enough to make a few heads turn.

“Yeah, Rafe, show her what she’s been missing!” Kelce adds, and you want to sink into the floor.

Rafe shakes his head, laughing softly under his breath. “You guys are the worst,” he mutters, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes you think he doesn’t mind the attention.

Then, before you can think or move or even breathe, he closes the distance between you.

The kiss starts slow—surprisingly so. His hand brushes your arm lightly before settling on your waist, steady and sure, and his lips are soft, warmer than you expect. The world around you seems to blur, fading into the background as he deepens the kiss, just enough to make your knees weak. It’s not a joke, not teasing—it’s deliberate, measured, and devastating in its intensity.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, his smirk softer now, almost curious.

“There,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

In the background, Topper and Kelce erupt into a chorus of cheers and whistles, and Wheezie claps her hands in triumph, shouting something about how this is how the game is supposed to be played.

But you’re barely aware of any of it. All you can feel is the ghost of his lips on yours and the weight of his gaze, still locked on you like he’s trying to figure you out.

And for the first time all night, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he feels the same pull you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

Your face burns as the cheers and whistles rise around you, but Rafe doesn’t move away. He stays close, his hand still lightly resting on your waist, and for a brief, dizzying moment, it feels like the two of you are suspended in a bubble. His expression is unreadable, a mix of amusement and something softer, something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Man, look at her face!” Kelce crows, doubling over with laughter. “She’s blushing so hard right now.”

“Classic,” Topper chimes in, grinning like an idiot. “Rafe, you’re out here making girls fall in love under mistletoe. What a gentleman.”

You flinch, wanting to glare at them but too mortified to do much more than focus on breathing. Rafe, however, seems entirely unbothered by their antics. If anything, their comments only deepen his smirk.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving them off without looking away from you. “Go bother someone else, will you?”

Kelce and Topper groan dramatically but wander off soon enough, still laughing and elbowing each other. Wheezie lingers for a moment longer, beaming at you both like she just orchestrated the match of the century before skipping away to enforce her rules on the next unsuspecting pair.

Finally, it’s just you and Rafe, standing far too close for comfort in the shadow of the grand fireplace.

“You good?” he asks, his voice quieter now, a little more serious.

You blink up at him, your thoughts still scrambled from the kiss. “What? Oh—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “You sure? You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m sure,” you say quickly, your voice an octave too high. You take a step back, desperate to put some distance between you, but the movement feels clumsy, like you’ve forgotten how to use your own legs.

Rafe chuckles softly, and you hate how effortlessly cool he is, like kissing you in the middle of a crowded room was just another thing he did to pass the time. “Relax,” he says, his tone lighter now. “It’s just mistletoe. Not a big deal.”

Not a big deal. Right.

“Right,” you echo, forcing a laugh that you hope sounds convincing. “Totally not a big deal.”

But it was a big deal—at least to you. Because no matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise, you can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the warmth of his hand on your waist. You can still hear the way your heart pounded, loud enough to drown out the world.

And worse, you’re starting to realize that all those old feelings you thought you’d buried years ago? They’re not as buried as you’d like to think.

Rafe seems to sense your discomfort because his smirk softens into something almost... kind. “Hey,” he says, leaning in just enough to make your breath catch. “You don’t have to overthink it, you know. It’s just a kiss.”

You nod, though the lump in your throat makes it hard to speak. “I know.”

“Good,” he says, straightening up again. But then his gaze dips to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—and your stomach flips all over again.

“Rafe!” Sarah’s voice cuts through the air, startling you both. She’s weaving her way toward you, her champagne glass in hand and her eyes sharp. “Stop tormenting my friend.”

“I’m not tormenting her,” Rafe says innocently, but the glint in his eyes tells a different story.

Sarah rolls her eyes and loops her arm through yours, tugging you away from him. “Come on. You’ve spent enough time under his spell for one night.”

You let her pull you along, but as you glance over your shoulder, you catch Rafe watching you again, his smirk still in place. There’s something in his expression, something almost... contemplative.

For the next few days, you try to shake him. You really do.

You fill your hours with anything and everything that might distract you. You hit the beach early one morning, hoping the salty air and crashing waves might clear your head. It doesn’t. You sit on your towel, staring out at the horizon, only to find your thoughts drifting back to the kiss—the way his hand lingered at your waist, the infuriating confidence in his smirk, the warmth of his lips.

Next, you try golfing with your dad, thinking that muscle memory and the sharp focus the sport demands will drown out the noise in your head. It doesn’t. Instead, your dad spends half the morning teasing you about your distracted swings, and you nearly send your nine-iron into the pond after imagining Rafe standing behind you again, casually correcting your form like he’d done at Sarah’s lesson all those years ago.

Even shopping—your fail-safe remedy for every stressful situation—proves useless. You wander aimlessly through the boutiques in town, running your fingers over racks of clothing you barely glance at. It’s like he’s everywhere, lingering in the background of your mind, taunting you with his too-perfect grin and that stupid, stupid kiss.

By the fourth day, you’re ready to admit defeat. Whatever spell Rafe Cameron cast on you under that mistletoe, it’s clearly working.

Then Sarah calls.

“Dinner at ours tonight,” she announces, her voice cheerful. “Seven o’clock. No excuses.”

You hesitate. The thought of being at Tannyhill again, surrounded by all the memories of that night, makes your stomach twist into knots. “I don’t know, Sarah. I’ve got a lot going on—”

“You’re coming,” she interrupts firmly. “Rose’s in a rare good mood, and Wheezie’s been talking about it nonstop. Plus, my dad will be grilling, which means no catering disasters. Just come. It’ll be fun.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she barrels on before you can get a word in.

“And before you ask—no, Rafe won’t be there. He’s got some golf thing with his buddies, so you’re safe. Okay? Seven. Be there.”

“Fine,” you sigh, knowing better than to argue with her. “I’ll come.”

Tannyhill is as breathtaking as ever when you pull up to the sprawling estate later that evening. The driveway is lined with twinkling lights, and the sound of soft laughter and clinking glasses drifts out from the open veranda doors.

As soon as you step inside, Sarah greets you with a hug and a glass of wine, chatting easily as she leads you out to the patio. Wheezie waves excitedly from her seat at the table, and Mr. Cameron gives you a warm smile from his spot by the grill. It’s all perfectly normal, perfectly comfortable, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself relax.

And then he appears.

You catch sight of him out of the corner of your eye, and for a second, you think you’re imagining it. But no—there he is, walking toward the patio with all the easy confidence in the world, wearing a plain gray t-shirt and faded jeans that somehow look like they were tailored just for him.

“Rafe,” Sarah says, her tone sharp with surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were golfing with Topper and Kelce.”

“They canceled,” he says casually, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling on his sister. “Figured I’d stop by. Didn’t realize we were having company.”

You’re frozen, clutching your glass of wine like a lifeline as his gaze drifts back to you, slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and smooth, a little too knowing.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small.

Rafe leans against the edge of the patio railing, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes linger on you just a second too long. His smirk is back, subtle but

persistent, like he knows exactly how much space he’s taking up in your head and plans to keep doing it.

“You’re just in time,” Sarah says, her tone tight. She shoots you a glance—half apologetic, half questioning—but you can’t muster a response. “We’re about to eat.”

“Perfect,” Rafe replies, his voice laced with a casual charm that feels anything but casual. “I’m starving.”

You focus on your wine, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Sarah said he wouldn’t be here. But now, he’s standing just a few feet away, and it’s like the air itself shifts around him, crackling with something unspoken.

Dinner is a blur. You sit between Sarah and Wheezie, trying to focus on the conversation and ignore the fact that Rafe is directly across from you, his presence magnetic even when he’s silent. He doesn’t talk much, content to let the others fill the space, but every once in a while, you catch him glancing at you, his smirk barely concealed.

At one point, you drop your fork, and when you lean down to grab it, you swear you hear him chuckle softly, low enough that only you notice.

“You okay?” Sarah whispers beside you, her brow furrowing.

“Fine,” you say quickly, sitting upright again. “Totally fine.”

But you’re not. Not even close.

The kiss, the mistletoe, the way he looked at you that night—it all comes rushing back, as vivid as if it just happened. And the worst part? He knows. Every time his eyes meet yours, you can see it: the awareness, the confidence, the silent challenge in his gaze.

By the time dinner wraps up, you’re practically vibrating with tension. You help clear the plates, grateful for an excuse to leave the table, but as you step into the kitchen, you hear his voice behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You don’t turn around. “I’m fine.”

“Come on,” he says, his tone amused. “Let me help.”

Before you can argue, he’s next to you, reaching for the stack of dishes in your hands. His arm brushes yours, and you swear your heart skips a beat.

“You don’t have to—”

“Relax,” he interrupts, his voice low and teasing. “I’m just being polite.”

You glare at him, but it lacks bite. “You? Polite? That’s a stretch.”

His smirk deepens. “Ouch. I thought we were past all that.”

“Past what?”

“You pretending not to like me,” he says simply, his eyes locking onto yours.

Your breath catches, and you hate how easily he gets under your skin. “I don’t—”

“Sure you don’t,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me all week, right?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” you lie, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.

He chuckles softly, setting the dishes on the counter before turning to face you fully. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Hiding it,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. His gaze flickers to your lips, just for a second, before meeting your eyes again. “You might’ve fooled Sarah and everyone else, but not me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. The air between you feels charged, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

And then, just as quickly as it started, he steps back, his smirk firmly in place.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he says, his voice light and infuriatingly casual as he strolls toward the door, leaving you standing there, your pulse racing and your head spinning.

You scoff under your breath, abandoning the plates on the counter and following him out of the kitchen, your irritation bubbling over. “What is your problem, Rafe?” you hiss, grabbing his arm before he can make it back to the patio.

He stops, turning slowly, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Problem?” he repeats, like the word itself is foreign to him. “I don’t have a problem.”

“You know what I mean,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you glance toward the dining room to make sure no one’s listening. “All this—this... thing you’re doing. What’s your deal?”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What thing am I doing, exactly?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap, your frustration boiling over. “You’ve been messing with me all night. Ever since the mistletoe. Ever since... I don’t know. Just—stop.”

He tilts his head, his smirk reappearing. “Messing with you? I think you’re imagining things.”

“Imagining things?” you repeat, your voice rising slightly before you catch yourself. “You’ve been looking at me like... like—”

“Like what?” he presses, stepping closer, his tone maddeningly calm.

“Like you’re trying to get in my head!” you whisper-shout, jabbing a finger at his chest. “And guess what? It’s working. So congratulations, Rafe. You win. Happy?”

His smirk falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something darker, more serious. He straightens, his easy posture stiffening as he steps closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“You think this is a game to me?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes!” you say, though your voice wavers slightly. “That’s all you do, isn’t it? Play games? Mess with people’s heads? Well, I’m not Sarah or Wheezie, and I’m not going to just—”

“God, would you shut up for a second?” he growls, and before you can even process what’s happening, his hands are on your face, pulling you toward him as his lips crash against yours.

It’s nothing like the kiss under the mistletoe. There’s no teasing smirk, no slow build—it’s raw, urgent, and impossibly overwhelming. His hands cup your face firmly, holding you in place as he kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the contact.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to react. But then your body betrays you, melting into his touch as your hands grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Your mind is screaming at you to stop, to push him away, to demand answers—but your body has other plans, and you give in, kissing him back with just as much intensity.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours.

“Still think this is a game?” he murmurs, his voice rough and barely above a whisper.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Your brain is short-circuiting, stuck somewhere between disbelief and the lingering haze of his kiss.

“I’ve been trying to get in your head,” he admits after a moment, his tone softer now but no less intense. “Because you’ve been in mine. Ever since that night. Hell, maybe even before that.”

Your heart stutters, and you pull back just enough to look at him, searching his face for any sign that he’s joking. But his expression is serious, his eyes locked onto yours with a weight that makes your knees weak.

“I—” you start, but the words die in your throat, your mind too jumbled to form a coherent thought.

Rafe exhales sharply, his hand slipping from your face to rest on your waist. “Say something,” he mutters, almost pleading.

You bite your lip, your mind still spinning. Finally, you manage, “You’re an ass, you know that?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s something softer in his eyes now, something almost vulnerable. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

And before you can second-guess yourself, you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him again, pouring every ounce of confusion, frustration, and unspoken feeling into it. This time, there’s no hesitation, no lingering doubt—just the two of you, tangled in something you’re no longer sure you can fight.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps you both back to reality. You pull away quickly, your face burning as Sarah stands in the doorway, her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised.

“Really?” she says, her tone equal parts annoyed and amused. “My kitchen? Now?”

You glance at Rafe, who’s grinning unapologetically, and groan, covering your face with your hands.

This is going to be impossible to live down.

She turns on her heel and stalks out of the kitchen, leaving you and Rafe alone once more as if she knows she couldn't stop it, even if she really wanted to. And, she didn't—it was bound to happen. She calls it, "best friend intuition", or something like that.

"So," he says, his voice dropping slightly as he takes another step closer. "Are you done pretending you don’t feel this, or should I kiss you again and really settle it?"

You glare at him, your pulse quickening. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," he murmurs, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch, "you’re still standing here."

Your brain is screaming at you to walk away, to put some distance between you and the boy who’s been driving you crazy for years. But your feet don’t move, and when he leans in closer, you know you’re not going anywhere.

"Rafe—"

He cuts you off with another kiss, softer this time but no less consuming. And despite everything—you kiss him back, giving in to the pull you’ve been fighting for far too long.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

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lovebugism · 1 year ago

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Okay, for your Blurbcember what about "Don't you think gingerbread houses with gingerbread men are kinda morbid? I mean, it's a house made out of flesh?" with Steve? And reader just pauses, bag of icing in hand while the gingerbread roof slowly slips off and stares at Steve like boy, I love you but what tf is in your eggnog?

you might be genius for this one, anon. hope u like it!! — you, the grump of the group, try hopelessly to decorate a gingerbread house with your perfectly ditzy bf (grump!reader, established relationship, fluff, 0.8k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

“We can’t decorate this if you keep eating all the candy. You know that, right?” Your voice comes in a concentrated, half-annoyed monotone. You’d be grumpier about it if you weren’t so focused. Now, you’re more worried about piping even shingles on the gingerbread roof than your boyfriend eating all of your supplies.

Steve stops chewing with a cheekful of something sugary. “Sorry,” he apologizes, mostly muffled.

You lay the piping bag on the tabletop and flash a deadpanned glance to the boy beside you. With his hair grown out and pushed over his head, chiseled jaw scruffy and unshaven, and ugly Christmas sweater pushed up to his elbows — you think he’s the coziest he’s ever looked. Far too pretty to be mad at.

“Can you hand me the gumdrops?”

He nods enthusiastically, happy to finally help in some way. He reaches to his left for the plastic bag of vividly colored candies. The bag is lighter than he expected, and much much emptier. It shouldn’t surprise him. He’s the one that ate them all.

“Sorry…” he repeats as he passes the bag to you. He gives you a crooked smile in return, an enthusiastic glimmer in the honey of his eye. “It looks really pretty so far, though!”

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” you murmur.

Dustin told you that this was usually a team effort, a friendly competition between the whole group, but your fingers are the only ones cramping now. You delicately stick each gumdrop into place and try to ignore how tense your wrist has gotten. You figure the Henderson boy must be much of the same in the living room — he’s too much of a perfectionist for anything else.

“You’re the one that told me to stop helping!”

“‘Cause you almost broke the ceiling off, remember?”

“You underestimate my strength, sweetheart,” Steve argues, only half-joking. He leans his elbow on the table and props his scruffy chin on a balled-up fist. “My strong hands can crack that gingerbread, no problem.”

“Yeah. Okay,” you scoff.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, okay? We just have to make it better than Dustin’s, because I do not want to spend another year with that little shit bragging about making the best house.”

Dustin Henderson is a little super genius, and Nancy, Robin, and Will are the judges this year. The odds of beating everyone’s favorite smartmouth aren’t exactly in your favor. You’re not the most creative person either, but you are pretty competitive. To a fault, some might say.

Honestly, the only reason you took this gig was because you wanted to spend more time with Steve.

He doesn’t need to know that, though.

“Well, you didn’t have me a year ago, did you?” you quip, eyes still trained on the creation before you.

Steve grins so wide that it’s audible in his sickly sweet tone. “No. I didn’t. I got real lucky this go around, didn’t I?”

His smile grows when your face screws up in annoyance. “You’re disgusting…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Hand me the candy canes,” you tell them. And then, because you’re trying to be nicer — “Please.”

With his lips quirked in a lopsided smile, he hands you the plastic bag. You stick a couple of the mini sticks into the makeshift yard, then break the ends off to use as windowsills. You put two of them together in a heart shape and stick them to the front of your house, just below the roof.

Steve’s chest swells with warmth. “Aw, that’s cute. You big softie.”

“Shut up…” you grumble.

“It’s a compliment,” the boy laughs, a sunshine sound that turns the kitchen golden. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. The bottom of his sweater lifts slightly, flashing a sliver of his stomach. “It’s real nice, you know, for a gingerbread house and everything.”

You squint at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I mean— don’t you think gingerbread houses are kinda morbid? Like… It’s a house. Made out of their flesh.” He explains it all like it’s obvious, like it’s a thought he’s had a million times before. He scoffs out a laugh, amused by your visible confusion. “It’s kinda weird when you think about it.”

At a loss for words, you blink at the boy beside you. You don’t think you’ve ever been more dumbfounded — more in love with anybody else in the whole entire world.

Steve is so much different than you are. You’re sometimes too serious, easily annoyed, and a little bit gauche. And Steve is… like walking into the sun. He’s like walking into the sun for the very first time after a terribly long winter.

“What?” he says, chuckling at the silence. The plastic on the table crinkles audibly when he reaches for another gumdrop. He chucks three into his mouth at once, then remembers he isn’t supposed to be eating them at all. “Oh, shit— sorry, babe.”

“Did you spike the eggnog?” you blurt.

“No,” he scoffs, trying to get the candy out of the back of his teeth with his tongue.

You shake your head with a distant smile and try hopelessly to hide it from him. “You’re crazy,” you murmur under your breath.

Steve grins, lopsided and rosy, and with grains of sugar stuck to the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. For you.”

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #st drabbles #stevie drabble #event: blurbcember

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golden1u5t · 8 months ago

Text

early christmas gift | a.h x fem!reader

ꨄ requested: anonymous

ꨄ genre: smut

ꨄ summary: at the christmas party hosted at the bau, aaron can’t keep his eyes off of you and that results in a quick fuck in his office.

aaron had been watching you all night, watching you mingle with the rest of the team and sip at your drink. he listened to your voice, all cheerful and filled with the christmas spirit.

he wanted to fuck you, no doubt about it, take you back to his place or take you right in his office and pray that the rest of the team didn't hear you. he was able to keep his thoughts at bay for majority of the night but when you unwrapped the candy cane you'd grabbed from the christmas tree and wrapped your lips around it, aaron couldn't take it any more.

you walked away from emily and headed to refill your cup in the kitchen, aaron figured that now was the perfect time to talk to you. aaron set his cup down on the counter and cleared his throat.

"you look beautiful tonight." he turned to face you and stuffed his hands in his pockets. you choked on your drink and quickly set it down, you put your hand on your chest and turned to look at him.

"oh- thank you, sir!" you smiled at him and looked him over. "you look good too."

aaron hummed and looked around the area, making sure that no one was in earshot of you both. still, he moved closer to you for good measure.

"do you- can i- i'll be in my office." it was an invitation for you to join him without him coming outright and saying it but you understood him perfectly. you watched him turn around and walk away, your eyed trained on his backside. you moved back into the bullpen with everyone else but your mind was stuck on hotch, you looked up at his office nearly every 5 seconds.

the last time you looked at his office you saw him closing the blinds, a silent cue that he was ready for you to join him. you made sure that no one was paying attention to you before slipping away into his office. when you walked into his office, aaron was already waiting for you, you locked the door behind you and leaned against it. aaron stalked closer to you and pinned you against the door but still gave you enough room to walk away.

you could smell his cologne and it was driving you crazy. you had always found aaron charming, ever since the first day you joined the team, but you never would've thought that he felt the same towards you. aaron reached up and cupped your face, he leaned in close but not so close that his lips touched yours.

"can i?" he muttered.

you nodded quickly and put your hand on the back of his head, aaron was quick in leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours. aaron moved his hand from your face and hooked it under your thigh, he pulled your leg around his waist and pressed you against the door with his body.

your heart was beating so hard you thought it just might beat out of your chest. aaron pulled back from the kiss and moved to start placing open mouthed kisses on your neck, you arched into him and tugged at his hair.

"you're so beautiful, been watching you all night." he groaned, you could feel his cock pressing against your thigh. you reached down between your bodies and started to unbuckle his jeans, a soft whine falling from your lips as you felt him start to suck on the skin right under your jaw.

"not enough time, aaron. please- please just fuck me, i've wanted you for so long." you gasped and tugged his head back by his hair. while you pushed down his jeans and boxers, aaron made work of ripping your panties off, literally. you opened your eyes and looked down to see his cock, you couldn't help but moan when you did get a good look at it.

aaron moved forward just a step so he could guide his cock through your slit, spreading your arousal up to your clit. you held onto him tighter when he finally did push his hips forward and his cock slipped through your entrance.

your head fell back against the door with a loud moan as aaron pulled his hips back until only the tip of his cock was in and thrust forward.

the christmas music that played just outside of the door was loud enough to drown out the sound of sex and luckily with how crowded the bullpen was, no one really noticed you and aaron's absence.

eventually, aaron moved you off of the door, after he'd made you cum, and bent you over his desk. the party was starting to die down, people were starting to leave to go home to their families. he started to fuck into you faster and harder to bring you both to your releases before too many people had left.

it worked, you held onto the edge of his desk and bit down on your lip to silence your moans as you came for the second time, aaron's hands tighten on your hips as he leaned over your trembling body and tucked his head in the crook of your neck to silence his groans.

after you both cleaned up and straightened out your clothes, you stood at his door just staring at each other. neither of you could hardly wrap your heads around what just happened but all you knew was that you wanted it to happen again.

"i'll be at home." you smiled at him and slipped out of his office. that was your silent invitation for him to join you. aaron didn't even have to think about it, he got to your place before you did.

#golden1u5t #myrarants #criminal minds fandom #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #dom aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch smut #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner x fem!reader smut

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harrywavycurly · 6 days ago

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Christmas fluff with the Lonely couple? I miss them🥹

Hiii babes!! I’m sorry I haven’t given a Lonely update in a bit! I miss them too!! So I hope you enjoy this little fluffy holiday blurb for them!💖

-find all things Lonely here✨

CW: None

Tag List: @blckburd @fangirl509east @ell0ra-br3kk3r @youngpastafanmug @mattieshattuck1 @outofthisworl-d

Summary: You and Harry come home after a holiday party and he’s upset about the outcome of a certain competition✨

You have to fight off the laugh that’s trying to bubble its way out of your mouth as you see Harry standing in the middle of the kitchen with his eyes set in a hard glare and one hand on his hip while the other is resting on the kitchen island. You notice his suit jacket is draped over the back of one of the barstools as you take a step into the kitchen, you place your handbag on the same stool his jacket is on and walk around the island so you can look at him from the other side. Harry bends down and leans in closer to the object in front of him as if he’s searching for a flaw and you decide to copy his actions, leaning in and giving it a good once over.

“What exactly are we looking for?” You whisper, not wanting to break his concentration. Harry’s gaze softens as his eyes find yours from across the island, you give him a smile as you stand up.

“Do you see anything wrong with it?” He questions as he looks away from you and goes back to looking over the object in front of him.

“No? It looks nice.” You answer honestly making him let out a sigh as he runs a hand through his hair while he stands up straight.

“Then how the hell did Jim’s gingerbread house beat mine? His was basic and didn’t even have a theme.” You shrug as you walk around the island so you’re standing next to him.

“Was his the one with the skittles as roof tiles? That was cute.” Harry turns to look at you with a look of absolute betrayal on his face as he takes a step away from you with his hand that was on the counter coming up to clutch at his chest.

“Cute? You thought his tacky skittle roof was cute? How can you be my fiancé but fancy another man’s gingerbread house?” His words come out with a more playful tone that you know he intended but you ignore it and turn to look at the gingerbread house he spent probably a good two hours on earlier in the afternoon, wanting to win the contest at the neighborhood’s little holiday party the two of you just got back from.

“I mean Harry your icing job does look a bit rushed on the icicles coming off the roof.” You feel Harry take a step towards you as you lean in and point to the candy cane he used as a support for the roof. “And why is there only one of these? It looks like an after thought.” You add with a playful smirk because you know Harry ran out of candy canes half way through since his roof is covered with icing and crushed up candy cane pieces.

“You voted against me didn’t you? You wanted Jim to win?” He accuses as he stands behind you and looks at the red and white themed gingerbread house from over your shoulder, you roll your eyes as Harry places his hands your hips giving them a little pinch.

“Now why would I do that?” You question while you stand up and turn around so you can place your hands on his shoulders. Harry looks down at you and can see the smile that wants to take over letting him know you did in fact vote for someone else’s gingerbread house over his.

“I thought you loved me?”

“I thought I did too but then I saw Jim’s skittle roof and it was just so colorful and-”

“Colorful? Really? Baby you helped me pick my whole candy cane theme.” He says cutting you off with a playful glare and you just bring your hands up from the tops of his shoulders to the sides of his face, cupping his cheeks.

“I love you.” Your voice is sweet and soft making Harry want to melt against your touch. You smile as he lets out a clear sigh of defeat while his hands slides from your hips to your lower back so he can gently pull you closer.

“You’re mean.” He pouts making you giggle as you reach up on your tiptoes and place a quick kiss to his lips. “But I love you too.” He says with a smile when you pull away.

“Now admit it Jim’s skittle roof was impressive.” Harry laughs as your hands fall to his chest where the first few buttons of his dress shirt are undone allowing your fingers to trace the edges of the swallows on his chest.

“I don’t know if it was impressive but it was cute.” He admits before he leans down so he can place a kiss to the top of your head. “But not nearly as cute as you.” You smile at the line that although it may be super cheesy, still makes your cheeks turn pink because even after all these months together as a couple you still find yourself in shock sometimes that Harry even says things like this to you even as you catch a glimpse of the engagement ring on your finger, a clear sign that he not only thinks you’re cute but wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

“God I’m going to have to deal with lines like that for the rest of my life aren’t I?” You tease as you look up at him and you smile when you see he’s already looking down at you.

“Oh yeah and don’t worry they’re only going to get better when we’re actually married.” He reassures you as he pulls you even closer while he leans down and places a kiss to your lips and in that moment Harry finds himself forgetting all about the gingerbread competition he didn’t win because all he can think about is how this time next year you’ll be his wife and not just his fiancé.

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inksoakedparchment · 9 days ago

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UGLY SWEATER

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

genre: fluff

trope: couple goals

word cunt: 315

tw: nond

a/n: my dear babyyyy

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.

taglist: @sunkissedscribbles @kandis-mom @idkkkkkkk123lgb @nottslvttt

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discoscoob · 5 days ago

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⋆⭒˚.⋆ ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU

˙ ✩°˖🎄⋆｡˚ Ted Logan x Reader

KEANUVERSE SECRET SANTA: My contribution to @faerl’s Keanuverse secret santa project for my giftee @scarlettspectra! 🎁

SAN DIMAS, CHRISTMAS EVE 1992

Below a slanting ‘Merry Christmas’ banner, Ted is sprawled across the well worn, pre-loved couch, his long, gangly frame fitting awkwardly. Mismatched socked feet dangle over the edge of the armrest, while his arms drape snuggly around your waist as you nestle peacefully across his body with your head tucked under his chin. A santa hat sits askew atop his unruly dark locks that have fallen over his sleeping face.

You sniffle as the framed photo begins to gently blur from the gathering tears clouding your vision. Bill had captured the candid moment of you and Ted having a post Christmas dinner nap. How you wish you could travel back to that precious moment, nuzzled comfortably in Ted’s warm embrace. Of course, afterward, Bill had taken a permanent marker to both your faces, leaving the two of you with drawn-on moustaches until the new year — it earned Ted some strange glances when he served customers at Pretzels ‘n’ Cheese.

Carefully returning the photo to its pride of place on your nightstand, you pick up the mixtape Ted sent you. The hand drawn candy canes, forming the shape of a love-heart on the cover, brings a watery smile to your lips — reminding you how much thought he puts into even the simplest of gestures. The smooth melody of Please Come Home for Christmas by Charles Brown drifts from the cassette player and seeps straight into your aching heart, stoking the heavy swell of longing that presses against your chest.

Yesterday, Ted called you from a payphone at Fairbanks Airport with the devastating news that a blizzard was grounding all the flights, forcing him to holdover at the military base in Alaska for the holidays.

The moment you pressed the phone to your ear and he uttered your name in a quiet quiver, you knew something was wrong. Your heart sank like a boulder. He sounded so defeated. The two of you had exchanged stacks of letters filled with plans and promises of making the most of your time together over the holiday season, hoping to compensate for the months spent apart. Now, you can’t even talk to him over the phone because the lines are down.

You haven’t physically seen him since he left for military school in the spring — the longest the two of you have ever been apart since you met in high school. Both you and Bill had begged him not to go, insisting that you were happy to support him as he couch-surfed between your place and Bill’s dad’s after his own father flat-out refused to take him back in. That refusal came after he and Bill got evicted from their apartment for falling behind on the rent.

At that time, it felt like one knock back after another. With the band going nowhere, no matter how hard they tried, Ted couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a burden and a failure. His father’s relentless words would echo in the back of his mind, always there to remind him he would never amount to anything.

It had all come to a head one night after yet another failed audition to get on the bill at some music club. That’s when Ted ran into Colonel Oats. The man barely had to say a word — just a gruff “it’s not too late” — and something inside Ted broke. He was so beaten down, so full of self-doubt, that he thought it might be his only option left. A week later, he was packing for Alaska.

You had wept your heart out — not only for the fact that Ted would be miles away, but for how beat down he must’ve felt to even consider leaving in the first place. You had let him down. You hadn’t reminded him enough of how incredible he was. You hadn’t defeated his father’s voice in his head. You felt like a terrible girlfriend.

You cross the room, switch off the cassette player, and eject the mixtape just as the opening notes of Darlene Love’s Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) start playing. Ironically, most of the songs Ted had chosen were about longing for loved ones to be home for the holidays, and with him stormbound in Alaska, they’ve become unbearable to listen to.

Your doorbell chimes and you quickly check your reflection in the mirror above your dresser. Puffy red eyes stare back at you with glistening tears reflecting the glow of twinkling Christmas lights, you soak them up on the sleeve of your sweater in vain as more soon gather.

As soon as you open the door, a hard chest ploughs into you, almost knocking you off balance until a pair of strong arms swoop you off your feet — all before you even get a good look at your visitor. You would have kicked and screamed if it weren’t for the sweet scent of blue raspberry swaddling your senses, Ted’s favourite candy, inviting you to sink into his sturdy embrace.

With all the enthusiasm of a boisterous Great Dane, blissfully ignorant of its own colossal size and strength,

Ted clutches you tightly against him, his arms noticeably bulkier than the gangly limbs you recall.

He burrows his face into the curve of your neck as you cradle the back of his head, eager to delve your fingers into his thick tousled mane. Instead, they stroke over smooth, freshly chopped strands. You falter briefly, before pulling back to get your first proper look at him since he arrived on your doorstep.

“Your hair…” you blink, momentarily stunned as you drink in the sight of him. Where an unruly mop of tousled locks once sprouted and tumbled over his eyes, there’s now a military buzz cut, clipped uniformly to reveal the sharp angles of his face and stubble-dusted jaw.

You didn’t intend for that to be the first thing you said to him after all this time apart, it tumbled out before you could stop it. You wince, realising how many other things you could have — no, should have — said instead.

“You hate it.” Ted’s broad grin falters as he sheepishly rubs the nape of his neck, dipping his gaze to the floor, clearly self-conscious.

Your lips part, and you quickly shake your head, your heart hammering at the thought he might believe you could hate anything about him.

“You… your ears will get cold.” you caress his jaw, noticing the reddened tips of his ears.

Your concern eases his pink lips into a coy smile as he leans his rose-tinted cheek into your warm palm.

“Mhm… then you’d best let me in before I turn into a popsicle or something.”

Wrapping your fingers around the edge of his jacket, you tug him inside as he kicks the door shut against the cold with the heel of his combat boot. He eases his bass guitar case carefully against the wall and shrugs his heavy duffle bag off his shoulder, letting it thud softly to the floor.

“I don’t understand…” you step back deeper into the living room, still tugging Ted along with you. “How did you get here? I thought the flights were grounded.”

“Santa’s sleigh!” he jokes with a giggle, ducking his head to pepper kisses across your cheeks and forehead. His enormous hands hold you steady while his eyes sparkle with delight.

You’ve always known Ted to be affectionate — it’s undeniable that physical touch is his love language. But even by his standards, there’s a noticeable shift. As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder — and in Ted’s case, bolder. His once restrained and hesitant displays of affection, shaped by his benign nature and lack of experience, have given way to a liberated eagerness to show you just how much he’s missed you.

“There’s this, like, total rich dude at school,” he pauses just long enough to rest his forehead against yours. “His dad’s some mayor or something, like, really important. He managed to pull a few strings and got a private jet to fly him out.”

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his dilated pupils flicker to your neck. “And… he offered me a ride.”

“Wait…” there’s a noticeable flutter in your voice when he starts kissing the side of your neck, sending pleasant shivers down your spine. “A private jet?”

“Hm-hm…” his warm breath fans across your skin and you feel his lips twitch into a smile. “Felt like a total rockstar.”

Ted raises his head with a softening expression. “I missed you.” he murmurs, his doe eyes briefly meeting yours with timid sincerity, before dropping back to the carpeted floor.

“I missed you too, Ted. So much.” gently, you curl your forefinger under his chin, giving him a soft nudge to lift his head. As he looks up, you lean in and press a tender welcome home kiss to his lips.

˙ ✩°˖🎄⋆｡˚

Cocooned by Ted’s impressive wingspan, his chin hooks over your shoulder as his nimble fingers flit across the fretboard with a newfound ease. No longer is he serenading you with out-of-tune melodies or clumsy, off-beat riffs. Now, you’re motivated to softly sing along to the unmistakable, toe-tapping groove of one of your favourite songs.

The fluidity of his precise and controlled movements are so captivating, you’re locked in an almost hypnotic trance as your gaze lingers on his long and skilful fingers. The dedication he must’ve poured into practicing during his downtime at military school is remarkable, however, your unrestrained mind is soon bombarded with vivid images of all the possible ways you could reap the benefits of his enhanced dexterity.

Regrettably, the visions only intensify when he gently guides your far less experienced fingers along the neck of his bass while his breath tickles along the shell of your ear with soft-spoken instructions. You gulp, noticing that it’s not just the calloused tips of his fingers that are new. A fresh scar cuts across the back of his hand, presumably left behind by the whip of a snapped string — a subtle badge of honour to his devotion and passion for music.

Unfortunately, a dark cloud lingers at the back of your mind, casting a shadow over the moment, reminding you of how fleeting it is. When the new year arrives, Ted will return to Alaska and you won’t see him again until blossoms bloom on the trees and rainbows are painted across the sky after sunshowers. While you want to be content and savour the moment, there’s a throbbing ache in your chest that is impossible to ignore, it snatches your focus and prevents you from fully appreciating the time you have together.

“Babe, you totally keep zoning out.” Ted teases, cutting through your spiralling thoughts to pull your focus back to the present.

“Huh?” you freeze, trying to buy yourself some time to come up with an excuse by feigning confusion. You’re already working on eradicating whatever outward expression you were wearing as you nose-dived through the whirlwind of trepidation.

Your Ted, ever patient and sweet, sets his bass aside with care to give you his undivided attention, attentively settling his now-empty hands lightly on your knees.

“Something’s wrong. What is it?” he coaxes, his brows scrunching with concern.

You rearrange your face into a smile, trying to alleviate that heavy pressure in your chest.

“I’m just distracted by how skillful you’ve become with your fingers now.” you tease, your smile turning cheeky as you take his larger hand in your own, pressing your lips to his calloused tips.

“Oh…” Ted gulps, his cheeks tingeing pink as he shyly averts his gaze. Even after all these years together, Ted still becomes a flustered puppy at the slightest hint of suggestiveness.

In the background, Die Hard plays on the staticky TV. Neither of you have been paying much attention, but just as Hans Gruber plummets from the window of Nakatomi Plaza, Ted blurts out, "I'm not going back to Alaska in the new year."

Your head snaps toward him, your wide eyes meeting his as your mouth falls agape.

"What?"

"I'm not going back," he repeats, and the weight of his words settles over you like the warmest blanket, replacing the suffocating mass of anxiety that had been choking you moments before.

Your face eases into a genuine, uncontainable smile as your heart leaps weightlessly in your chest. You throw your arms around him, nearly knocking him across the couch in your excitement. “I’m so relieved you’re not leaving. I couldn’t bear saying goodbye again.”

“Me neither.” Ted mirrors your smile as he secures his arms around you properly, but there’s a slight shadow in his expression — something else lingering unsaid.

“There’s, uh… there’s more,” he says, tugging himself back but keeping his hands on your shoulders.

“More?”

“I’ve um… like put in an application to the LAPD.” the excitement bubbling in your chest is replaced by confusion.

"Wait. You want to be a cop?"

Ted nods slowly.

"Like... your dad?"

Ted looks startled, his brows shoot up and he waves his hands as if trying to manually wash away the thought from your mind.

“Woah, no way! That, like- he has nothing to do with it. I mean, I don’t care about what he thinks anymore. It’s… I dunno-” he looks down at his lap, his shoulders lifting slightly in a small shrug. “I had a lot of time to think in Alaska and… I guess I was actually pretty good at some of the stuff they taught us… for the first time in forever, I felt like I wasn’t flailing around trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life. And maybe… maybe I could use that to help people… like be a hero or something.”

You tilt your head as his words settle over you, still processing them. Despite his sincerity, apprehension lingers. You can’t shake the worry that he might be rushing into something else he feels he has to do — just like he did with military school. "But... the LAPD?"

"Yeah." His gaze softens, and his lips curve into that sweet, earnest smile that always makes your heart flutter. "I don't want to go all the way back to Alaska. I can't stand the thought of being away from you again until the spring. If I stay in LA, I'll be much closer… and maybe…” he pauses, his smile turning hopeful. “Maybe you could even come with me…”

Your breath hitches at his words and the endearing sight of his hopeful smile. You don’t even question the thought of uprooting your life to follow Ted, there’s no doubt in your mind, your heart belongs with his. Before you can respond, his hand drifts up to play with a strand of your hair, idly twirling it around his finger as he gazes at you, his voice softening.

“I know it’s a lot to think about, you don’t have to decide anything right now.”

“I’d follow you anywhere, Ted.” you assure him, needing no time to make up your mind.

Ted’s face lights up brighter than the Christmas lights.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He pulls you into his arms again, his fingers threading through your hair with care. You close your eyes, nestling into the crook of his neck as Ted tucks his head against your shoulder.

Credit to @scarlettspectra for the headcanon that Jack Traven is older Ted if he was sent to military school. I love that headcanon so much and I had to steal it writing this so technically this is a little bit of a pre-speed Jack fic too. Chopping off Ted’s floppy hair did hurt me though 😔

My little easter egg is that the rich kid who’s father is the mayor is Scott Favor who was forced to go to military school if he wanted to receive his inheritance

#keanu reeves #ted logan #bill and ted #ted logan x reader #jack traven #jack traven x reader #speed 1994 #keanuverse secret santa

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