#HES MY TRUE ONE AND ONLY THE LIGHT OF MY HEART

[lale-txt]

EXOPLANETS ; Iwaizumi x gn!reader

five times Iwaizumi almost kisses you and one time he does

contains: gn!reader (no pronouns or gendered terms), strangers to lovers, 5+1 things, fluff, mutual pining, diy tattoos, alcohol mention, weed mention, Oikawa mention, shotgunning, five slightly suggestive lines if you squint, a lot of easter eggs and cross-references. written as a gift for @eggyrocks ♡

word count: 4.5k

✧. ┊ ONE

It’s Kyotani’s birthday party and you’re sitting outside on the fire escape, covered in five buckets of fake blood and rolling yourself a cigarette. The wind is icy on your face and the air would smell like early snow if it wasn’t for the dubious popcorn experiments happening in the kitchen right now. You weren’t allowed to smoke inside anymore after someone set one of the dried up houseplants a little bit on fire when stubbing out a cigarette on it (it was just once but the pot was fuming for two days and a half).

Kyotani always brings a mix of the strangest people together. There’s you and your other fellow students from your gender studies class, then guys from his former highschool volleyball team. There is also a bunch of men with face tattoos and a criminal record from his underground fight club (who are currently nailing the choreo to Rihanna in Just Dance), some nerds he met at a Pokémon TCG tournament (you and him once bought a hundred booster packs together while high and he thought he could recover from the financial ruin by winning one of these things) and the small group of housewives from his DND group who he meets once a month.

It’s unclear why Kyotani asked everyone to dress up for this but you’re not mad about having an occasion to drench yourself in fake blood and call it a night. In true Patrick Bateman fashion you also spent hours with excessive skin care prior to the party while you watched your best friend and roommate Atsumu zip himself up in the skimpiest maid outfit you’ve ever seen. It may be early December but that wouldn’t hold him back from showing off his thighs and a bit of his ass cheeks–maybe at heart he was just a 2000s British party girl trapped in the body of a 6’3 athlete. You shared the same cheap cherry lip gloss before heading out in the cold. 

A few drinks into the night and your head starts to hurt, which is when you retreat outside through the kitchen window to your usual spot on the fire escape. With the rolled cigarette dangling from your lips, you pat down the pockets of your suit in search of a lighter. You let out a frustrated groan when you realize you lent it to two guys dressed as Melody and Kuromi and that you’ll probably never get it back, which sucked because it had a kitty cat leaning on an eight-ball while smoking on it and you got it for free from your local conbini girl in exchange for a hand-crocheted triangle bikini top.

Someone taps your shoulder and you almost drop your cigarette if it wasn’t for the stranger’s quick reflexes, catching it for you before it would be gone with the wind. His fingers tilt your chin up a little and he puts the cigarette back between your lips. You look up and meet the gaze of Inuyasha.

Or well, a guy dressed as Inuyasha, but it might as well be your childhood crush come to life. Tan skin, sharp snaggleteeth that weren’t part of the costume but still fitting, and a pair of eyes that feel like they’re piercing straight through you. Your stomach does the little flip thing and you briefly wonder what was in the drinks you let Atsumu mix for you, but that was something to ponder on later. For now you only stare back at him, nodding when he asks if the seat next to you is free.

He sits down close to you and then reaches for something hidden in his sleeve and pulls out–your lighter. 

“Sorry about my friends. They have a knack for never returning things,” he huffs and you snatch the lighter from him, your face cracking into a smile. 

“Very noble of you,” you say, then hold up the light for him when he reaches for the cigarette behind his ear and puts it between his lips as well. His hand comes to cup yours to shield the flame from the wind and for a second your faces are close, so close, before you lean back again, taking a deep inhale of your cig. 

“Cool costume. You watch a lot of movies? Me too,” he says and rests his chin on one palm, looking at you. There’s something about his gaze that makes you feel drawn to him and you briefly wonder what he’d look like without the cheap white wig and also if he’d keep the costume on if you were to hook up with him and ask him nicely about it. 

“Is that so? Name every movie then,” you retort and it makes him laugh. Fuck. He has a really nice laugh.

You lean over and brush a few strands of the plastic hair behind his ears because the combination of the wind and the lit cigarette seems like a potential fire hazard (you learned a lot about fire hazards this year) and you’d kinda hate to see him combust too soon. 

What you don’t expect is him leaning in, almost nuzzling his face into your palm when you do, and looking back at you with a flicker that can only be described as drunk and lovesick. It makes your heart stumble in your ribcage a little. 

“Or you can just tell me your name. Unless you want me to save your contact as ‘Inuyasha’ in my phone. I can do that too,” you add when you pull your hand away, as if you’ve burned yourself by getting a bit too close to the sun. You put your cigarette between your lips and pull out your phone, tapping the screen a few times before glancing up at him again.

“It’s Iwaizumi. Hajime Iwaizumi.”

You think a lot about kissing Hajime Iwaizumi for the rest of the night.

✧. ┊ TWO

Osamu and Suna share the apartment directly below yours and when they text you that they made weed brownies, you didn’t really think about just how many of them they made. Together with Atsumu you shuffle downstairs, not expecting a bunch of other people to be there. Maybe then you would’ve worn something that wasn’t Atsumu’s old highschool club shirt and a pair of velour track pants you bedazzled yourself so it would read “soup” across your butt, but here you are. 

“Is this some kind of side business now?”, you ask Suna when you pull him aside. He has the biggest, shit-eating grin known to man plastered across his face and shakes his head. 

“A bunch of guys from his culinary school said they didn’t know how to bake weed brownies and Osamu offered to teach them, and somehow it turned into a ‘bring your own weed, get a tray of brownies’ party,” he replies and leans a little closer to you, which you know means he has a piece of juicy gossip to share. “One guy here totally got scammed, too. Spent ¥24,000 on some, can you believe?”

You almost choke on the piece of brownie in your hand. Osamu pressed it faithfully into your palm the moment you entered the kitchen, knowing he could trust you with it. Both of you had a very loose definition of trust–to Osamu it meant believing you won’t be dumb enough to eat more than one piece of the brownies, to you it meant you won’t change the contact names in his phones to soup ingredients again, no matter how high, and you both respected that.

“What, was it gold-dusted or something?” You cough and laugh, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes while Suna pats your back with empathy. “What a guy. Introduce us, I need to add him to my dream blunt rotation.”

Your eyes follow the direction Suna is nodding at, somewhere in the living room, and you meet the gaze of Iwaizumi Hajime slash Inuyasha from the fire escape. You start laughing again and head over to him, the sulk written all over his face.

“Not a word. I know, I know,” he groans when he makes space for you next to him on the couch. You squeeze in beside him and hug your knees to your chest, then catch the pillow he’s throwing at you when you can’t stop laughing the second you look at him.

“It’s okay. Actually, it’s kinda cute.” “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” “So what if I do?”

Iwaizumi huffs again and his arm just happens to be behind you on the couch, his fingertips ghosting over your shoulder. Appreciate it, he grumbles, and eventually his face softens when you start telling him some anecdotes of your high life that definitely make the ¥24,000 weed purchase seem a little less dramatic. 

It’s loud in the apartment, with music blasting and people chattering, but you barely register any of it; too absorbed by his eyes that dart to your lips every now and then, and his tongue poking out from between his lips when he does, and the rattling desire in your chest that he could kiss you right here, right now. 

His fingers grab your chin and tilt your face up again, just like they did last time on the fire escape, except now he’s brushing over the corners of your mouth, collecting a few crumbs that were still there. He brings them to his lips, licking them off in one clean swipe of his tongue, and you’re pretty sure you’d let him devour you.

✧. ┊ THREE

Mattsun–the Kuromi from Kyotani’s party–and his friends from the forensics science department are hosting an Addams Family themed christmas party on their floor of the dorm and this time you don’t make the mistake of giving your lighter away. Atsumu is on a noble mission to “get laid by one of the goths” and you’re on your own, but not for long. 

“Oh, it’s you! Almost didn’t recognize you without all the fake blood,” Makki–the Melody from Kyotani’s party–shouts across the room when he spots you in the crowd and squeezes past all the people to clink his drink against yours. “You left quite the impression.”

“That so?”, you ask with a raised eyebrow and Makki gives you a boyish grin. You already have a feeling where this conversation is heading.

“Hajime won’t shut up about you. Like, ever,” he says and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the other end of the hallway. “He’s here too, by the way. Last time I saw him he was winning some kind of arm wrestling contest, but if you ask me people just wanted to ogle at his biceps. Can you blame them?” 

Speaking of the devil, you find Iwaizumi stumbling out of the bathroom, stilling when he sees you. His hoodie is tied around his waist and he’s wearing some baggy jeans and a tight, sleeveless compression shirt that does show off his arms nicely. Very nicely. So nicely you forget what to say for a brief second. 

Makki shoves you into Iwaizumi’s arms before heading off somewhere else, probably asking Mattsun to push him against the nearest wall, and you’re alone with the boy again. He caught you by your shoulders, his hands now resting on top of them while he looks you up and down. You wonder if he’ll do the chin thing again, and maybe if third time’s a charm and he’s gonna kiss you tonight for real. 

Instead he asks, “do you want to check out the tattoo station they set up in the other room?” and because your impulse control has vanished the moment you entered his orbit, you agree without a second thought. Maybe not even a first thought. Ten minutes later you’re wearing a pair of black latex gloves and hover over Iwaizumi who is lying shirtless on his back in front of you.

“Kinda sad you don’t want a tramp stamp. It’d look good on you,” you sigh with feigned annoyance while rubbing an alcohol soaked pad over his hip bones to disinfect that part, trying hard to keep your eyes pinned on there, but it’s kind of an impossible thing to ask of you. It would be a shame if you didn’t appreciate the canvas in front of you.

“Maybe next time,” Iwaizumi exclaims with the confidence of a man who simply doesn’t do the whole ordeal of regretting. It’s admirable, really. “And I let you pick the design of this one, didn’t I?”

That he did. You drew a wonky oval shape on the stencil paper which was kind of impressive as it was, given the drinks you had prior to that. Iwaizumi took the pencil from you and added a similar one, overlapping with yours. 

“That’s two eggs,” you muttered, tilting your head to the side and trying hard to focus–which again, was a hard task at hand, given that Iwaizumi leaned over your shoulder shirtless. He smelled nice. You noticed that the first time you met already. Something between fresh laundry, a spritzer of YSL Y on the side of his nape and a hint of sweat, but not unpleasant. It made you want to dig your teeth into the curve of his neck and shoulder.

“It’s a heart, dumbass,” Iwaizumi huffed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, second to how much both of you were thinking about kissing the other. 

✧. ┊ FOUR

When Kenma invited you over to his place for the Bouncing Ball winter party, you were promised free unlimited food and a goodie bag, but all you got was ancient rage and a badly rolled cigarette passed back and forth between Iwaizumi and you.

“I will fucking kill Oikawa with my bare hands,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze the can of lychee soda (branded with the Bouncing Ball logo) that you’re holding a little tighter. 

“Believe me, I’ve tried many times in the past but this bastard always comes back. Like some demon lord or something.” Iwaizumi takes an angry drag of the cigarette before holding it between your lips again. His fingers brush lightly against your skin when he does and it’s the only thing that calms you down a little. 

“Like. The blue shell right before the finish line felt so personal, right?”

Kenma had sent both of you into timeout outside when you almost flung the unstrapped Wii remote towards the flatscreen and Iwaizumi might or might have not punched a hole into the shoji door after Oikawa won the third round of Mario Kart in a row and was being awfully smug about it.

You’re sitting on the backstairs together, huddled close to each other from the cold and the unspoken desire to kiss the other one stupid. With every minute you spend like this your anger vaporizes little by little, until all you can feel is the body heat radiating off Iwaizumi’s body and how calloused his hand is when he takes yours into his.

He’s wearing the hat you crocheted for him, an apology for the crooked hand poked tattoo you gave him a few days prior to today which now adorned his hip bone. At least it wasn’t infected which was a tiny miracle given the circumstances. His face lit up when you handed the hat to him, wrapped in some tin foil because neither you nor Atsumu own gift paper and that’s the most festive you could do with the utensils you had at hand. At least you threw in a little bit of confetti which was now stuck in his dark hair.

You pick some of it off his strands and Iwaizumi leans a little closer. It reminds you a lot of a big cat asking for head scratches. 

“‘s nice, with you,” he mumbles without looking at you and gives your hand a small squeeze. His thumb rubs over your knuckles with unexpected gentleness and your head sinks against his shoulder.

“Really nice,” you agree quietly, allowing yourself to close your eyes. 

The moment could have been perfect. Just the two of you, the stubbed out cigarette at your feet and the sweet taste of artificial lychee on your lips, the slowly falling snow. If only it wasn’t for the backdoor being flung open again, carrying the chatter and the music from inside towards you and a too familiar voice that will surely haunt your nightmares chirping “yahoo~”, making Iwaizumi next to you groan in agony. 

You spend the rest of the night losing another ten rounds of Mario Kart and Oikawa manifests as your sleep paralysis demon from now on, but at least you got to hold Iwaizumi’s hand under the table a little longer.

✧. ┊ FIVE

Hinata is back home from his semester abroad in Brazil. He texted the groupchat a photo of him (wow, he got really tan and buff, you think) and the three giant boxes of oranges that he brought with him and invited everyone over for an impromptu reunion party at his place. 

It’s not as excessive as other parties of your friends, more of a get together that lasts an entire weekend with everyone dropping by and going as they please, as long as they take a few oranges with them. 

You quite literally ran into Iwaizumi on your way there, your hands full with a bunch of books you borrowed from the library prior to that and him almost crashing into you when he skated around the corner on his longboard. He wore the hat you crocheted him again (with less confetti this time) and offered you his scarf and a ride. You almost wish Hinata would live at the other end of the world just so you’d have an excuse to sit cross-legged on his board in front of him while he pushes it slowly for a little longer. 

Maybe he’ll give you a ride home if you ask him nicely. Maybe the right words would fall out of your mouth this time. Maybe he’ll kiss you on the threshold, with his fingers tracing your jaw and your lips parting for him so willingly.

At Hinata’s place you find your way underneath the kotatsu with Iwaizumi by your side. The air smells like hot punch and christmas cookies and you listen for hours to Hinata talking about the things he experienced while abroad. You swipe through photos on his tablet while around you people come and go, and the entire time Iwaizumi sits so close to you that your knees keep touching underneath the table. Occasionally his hand brushes over the small of your back or pulls you a little closer towards him when someone else squeezes beside you, his touch lingering but never overbearing. 

It’s getting late and you should probably go home soon, considering the last looming deadline you still had to tackle before your winter break, but it’s not easy to peel yourself away from Iwaizumi. Not when he draped his jacket over your shoulders and his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, and especially not when he starts peeling oranges for you and starts pushing the slices directly between your lips when you’re too lazy to lift your head. 

You watch him quietly as he does, his fingers that are usually a little bruised and roughed up now impossibly gentle as he digs through the citrus skin, peeling away layer after layer. It’s beautiful, you think. He’s beautiful. You wonder if he could do the same to you, tearing through every bit of resistance you put up to protect your heart, or maybe if it was already bare in front of him the entire time, ready for him to sink his teeth into your flesh.

You hope he’ll peel a thousand more oranges for you in this lifetime.

✧. ┊ ONE, AGAIN

It’s winter solstice and Atsumu and you decide to host one last party at your home before the year ends. Together you go out to buy liquor and one mistletoe (for the festive spark of it all) but the lady from the flower store insists you take all of them for free since they’re closing soon and she would throw them out anyway. So now there’s around fifty mistletoes hanging from every ceiling of your apartment and the entire hallway of your floor, and you briefly wonder just how many mistletoes it would take for Iwaizumi to kiss you tonight.

Osamu begrudgingly agrees to prepare some food since you’d end up raiding their fridge around 2AM anyway if he doesn’t, meanwhile Suna shows you some paparazzi-esque photos on his phone that he took of Iwaizumi and you over the span of this month. For once you’re grateful that he snaps a photo of everything and everyone, because swiping through these makes your heart do a little flip in your chest.

There’s one with both of you smoking on the fire escape, leaning in close to catch the flame of the lighter. You with your legs thrown over his lap on their couch while waiting for the weed brownies, his arm resting behind you on the couch. The moment when Iwaizumi takes his tight compression shirt off in front of you (it’s slightly blurry and Suna blames it on the goths and their shitty lighting). Iwaizumi and you pinning Oikawa to the floor and a Wii controller on the verge of becoming a murder weapon. You napping with your head on top of your folded arms, a plate with some orange peel in front of you, Iwaizumi’s hand in the back of your neck while looking down at you fondly. 

To be adored by Iwaizumi Hajime feels tender and mellow. There’s something magical about it; never loud or overwhelming, and yet never leaving room for doubt how he does love you with his entire being. It comes to him as natural as breathing. A love as toasty warm like a black cat basking in the sun, storing sunshine in every fibre of your soul. 

When you open the door for him later that night, he hugs you longer than usual, his arms caging you in his embrace. He murmurs something about all these mistletoes against the shell of your ear and you laugh.

“I think it’s a dumb tradition, but they’re quite beautiful, aren't they?”, you ask and Iwaizumi pulls back slightly to look at you, his hand cupping one side of your face now. 

“More than just beautiful,” he mumbles, not talking about the mistletoes.

You learn that night that Iwaizumi doesn’t dance (other than Oikawa and Atsumu who are currently destroying the Dance Dance Revolution dance pads in the living room), but he’ll happily spend hours watching you do your DJ thing. Anything as long as he can be in your proximity. He’s leaning back in the chair in the corner behind your pult, a cold Tiger beer in one hand, his chin resting on the other and his gaze never leaving you. It’s like he’s your personal bouncer for the night. You quite like that. It’s an oddly protective gesture but it makes you feel warm and giddy. 

“Someone just asked me if they can snort protein powder off my biceps,” he tells you when you return from the bathroom back to his side. He holds up a cigarette he rolled for you meanwhile. You lean down and let him put it between your lips before he reaches for your lighter stored in his pocket. 

“And did you let them?”, you ask, your face illuminated for the flick of a second when he lights up the cigarette for you. You’re standing between his spread legs and Iwaizumi reaches for your hips, making you stumble a little closer to where he was sitting. His chest is heaving now, his pupils dilating when he lets his eyes wander over you. You’ve seen this expression before, you think. It’s been the same from when you touched him for the first time, back then on the fire escape.

“Told them I was already taken,” he murmurs, almost not audible, and even in the dim light you can see the tip of his ears dusted in a dark pink color. His eyes flick up to yours and his expression is something between pleading and demanding. Oh. 

How brazen. 

He lets out a labored breath when you push him back in his chair, making room for you to straddle his hips. His hands find your thighs, fingers digging into your supple flesh and it’s clear that he doesn’t plan on letting you go for the rest of the night. Or, forever maybe.

You take a long drag of your cigarette and this time it’s you cupping his chin, tilting it up and hovering above him. Iwaizumi doesn’t need to be told what to do, his head falling back, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly before he parts his lips and lets you blow a mouthful of smoke into his lungs. It’s greedy, how he swallows it so willingly, watching you through half-lidded eyes. Hungry. Begging. Adoring. 

He’s in love with you like no one else ever was. 

“I need to kiss you or else I’m going insane.” 

His voice is hoarse, strained. As if he is clinging to the last bit of his resistance and sanity. In one swift movement he snatches the cigarette from your lips with one hand and carelessly drowns it in his half-empty beer bottle, his other hand wraps around the back of your neck and pulls you closer to him again.

“Please,” he huffs and it sounds like he’s pierced with ten swords, in agony over not feeling your lips against his. “Pretty please.” 

Your arms wrap around him and you kiss him. During the longest night of the year it’s like the sun is rising just for you. You don’t think, just let the feeling wash over you as your body melts against his. Iwaizumi lets out a quiet growl and kisses you back, gently at first, until your tongue slides against his and his calloused hands against your bare skin start trembling slightly. He’s using every ounce of self-restraint so he wouldn’t devour you on the spot. He knows you’d let him and that is a problem. 

“Took you long enough,” you mumble against his lips once you pull apart to breathe, which could have been an hour later or a lifetime. Time becomes a blur under the soft caress of Iwaizumi. He mirrors your smug smile, stealing another kiss from your lips.

“I’ll make up for it,” he rasps, closing his eyes when you rest your forehead against his. His hands on your waist pull you impossibly closer again, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, caressing the sliver of skin there. He lets out a quiet hum, a sound very close to purring. “Gonna kiss you stupid till you forget your own name and can only remember mine.”

“Silly,” you huff back and kiss him again. “Is this a threat or a promise?”

“Both. With you, it’s both.”

a/n: hi eggy ily!! your wishlist was spectacular and i had a lot of fun writing this for you (at some point it got a little out of hand i'll admit lmao). hope you enjoyed your gift and that the rest of your 2024 will be warm and tender. trying not to get sappy here, just know you always leave such a mark with anything you write, it's something i deeply admire. happy holidays & all the love for you <3

[gurugirl]

Quiet Xmas Morning blurb | bfd!harry

⋆꙳•❅‧ ☃️‧❆ ₊⋆

Summary: Your heart is full and you have so much to be thankful for on Christmas.

A/n: I know it's not very long but there's a lot of new things in this one. If you haven't already, I'd suggest reading the previous part before you read this.

Word Count: 1,507

Warning: soft fluffy cuteness - no warnings!

best friend's dad!harry masterlist

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

The house was warm and quiet as you sat in the glider chair with your newborn in your arms. She was falling asleep slowly. She'd suckle and then her eyes would lull shut before she'd startle herself awake and start to pull at your nipple like a ravenous animal again. You smiled and smoothed your fingers over the soft hair on her head. It'd only been a week and a half since she was born but you already felt like she was your everything. It surprised you how deeply you already loved her.

Elara came a little early but you were ready for her. Harry said she wanted to make it in time for Christmas. She had to be monitored for a few extra days but she was healthy and she was perfect.

You saw the glow from the Christmas tree lights filtering into her room from downstairs and then heard a little rustling. Harry must have also been up. He was sleeping when you got up to feed the baby but he often would wake up when you'd get up. It was still something to get used to. You were more exhausted than you'd ever been in your life but maybe that explained why you were so deliriously in love with her.

Her suckling grew weak again, little eyes closed, and then… she was fast asleep. After waiting a few minutes, just in case, you carefully and gently got up from the chair and tiptoed to her crib to lower her down all without waking her.

She was perfect. Yes. That was true. But she was easy to wake and she'd cry for hours if she was woken up before she was ready.

Harry stood behind you and placed a hand on your shoulder as he looked down at your little creation with you. He knew better than to even whisper so you both just smiled at one another before quietly padding out of her room and closing the door behind you.

Your body was still sore. You knew it would take time to get back to feeling like yourself. Even walking downstairs felt like something was going to knock loose and fall out of your body. Harry held your hand.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," he kissed your lips softly when you got to the first floor.

The living room was dark except for the soft golden lights wrapped around the faux Christmas tree. You preferred a real one normally but it was too much work that year. Plus the smell bothered you when you and Harry had gone to check out the tree farm weeks earlier.

"Got your gift under the tree," he motioned.

You looked under the tree to see one small box with a bow. You hadn't wrapped any of Harry's and they were all tucked away, hidden in the closet in the basement.

"I didn't wrap yours. I'm sorry," you reached up to cup his face and he brought an arm around your back.

"You already gave me the best present I could ever ask for."

You grinned, "That I did. But you played a major role in that gift. So technically I could consider that a gift from you as well."

He grinned and pressed his lips to yours, "I'd say my role was very minor. All I had to do was get off a few times. You did all the hard work. All the stuff that counts."

A laugh puffed from your lips, "Okay. That I agree with."

You smelled coffee suddenly and realized Harry was making a pot.

"Decaf." He raised his brows at you. You were staying away from caffeine since you were breastfeeding. The doctor said you could have a little bit every day but Elara was fussy enough as it was. The last thing you wanted was a grouchy, angry baby hocked up on traces of caffeine.

"My mouth is watering," you spoke with a smile.

"Why don't you sit down and I'll get your coffee. Then we can open up your Christmas present."

Harry frothed a little milk for you while he took his coffee black. Even he was drinking decaf when he could have just had regular. He walked back into the living quietly, two steaming mugs in hand before handing you yours and sitting his down on the coffee table.

You took a sip as he reached under the tree to pull out the small red box. It had a small golden ribbon tied around it.

"What is it?" You held your palm out as he placed the box down into your hand.

"Well, you have to open it up first."

Taking another quick sip of your coffee before you leaned forward to place the ceramic mug down you looked at Harry with a big grin. The glittering lights from the tree were twinkling off his eyes as he looked down at the box and then up at your face.

You pulled at the ribbon and then paused when he sat up, about to push himself off the cushion, "What are you doing?"

He swallowed and you noticed that he suddenly seemed nervous, anxious. He shook his head and shrugged, "Nothing. Was just getting comfortable is all."

You squinted at him as he looked down at your hand. Then it was your turn for the nerves to take over. You couldn't be sure what was in the box but something told you that it was going to change everything. You knew Harry very well and his sudden excitement had your heart pounding in your chest. And given the size of the box…

"Harry…" you blinked your eyes and placed your hand over the lid as you swallowed.

"Just open it, baby. See what it is." He was still sitting at the edge of the cushion, watching you as you pulled the lid off. Inside was another, smaller box—a jewelry box.

You inhaled and looked up at him. He wore a soft smile on his face as he tensed his arms, like he was about to spring from the couch.

The moment you placed your fingers on the velvet-hinged top to lift it, he pushed himself onto his knees and scooted in between your thighs as the beautiful little shining diamond glinted from inside the box. A ring. But not just any ring.

He waited for a beat, his eyes on yours as your jaw dropped and you covered your mouth before looking at him in surprise.

Harry took the ring out of the box and held it between his thumb and pointer finger, "I love you. I want forever with you, Y/n. I know we're not in a rush but I couldn't wait another moment to put a ring on your finger. Tell the whole world you're mine."

You gasped out a quiet sob and just as he was about to continue you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around his neck to kiss him hard. You never imagined that you'd cry when he finally proposed but of course, your hormones were all out of whack and you'd been finding yourself crying for the smallest things lately.

He laughed when you pecked kisses over his cheek, "Yes, Harry…"

"Baby, I didn't even finish th—"

You smushed your lips over his again, swallowing his words as he pulled you into his arms until you were in his lap on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

"I love you, Harry…" You smeared your lips down to his jaw and he chuckled quietly.

"Gonna put it on?"

Pulling away from him, you looked down at his hand and spread your fingers out for him to slip the ring onto your finger. It was dainty and perfect—one small diamond at the top, set in white gold. You held your hand up, and you admired the way it looked on your hand for a moment.

Harry wrapped his big palm around yours and pulled your hand up to his mouth, "That's a yes? You'll marry me?"

You sputtered a laugh and nodded, "Of course I will."

He kissed your knuckles and grinned at you before you pulled your hand away and wrapped your arms around his neck to squeeze him tight. Harry tucked his face into your hair and put his arms around your back.

It was going to be the best Christmas day ever. Fae would be coming by for a couple of hours and then your parents later in the evening. Telling everyone you were finally engaged would be exciting but the best part was that you and Harry had the most precious gift lying upstairs sleeping already.

You placed your hand over his chest and ran your nose against his, "I'm so happy, Harry. I love you so much."

He shifted his legs and ran a big palm up your back, "That's all I want, for you to be happy, Y/n."

Harry got exactly what he wanted because you'd never been as happy as you were in that moment.

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[puckinghischier]

Can your beautiful mind provide some domestic Christmas Quinn thoughts?

well…i have been thinking about how quinn is 100% one of those men that can’t wrap a present to save his life. so when you’re out doing some last minute shopping one day, he brings all of your presents out of their hiding spot and tries his best.

he starts out on his own, watching youtube videos and tutorials to try and make sure he measures the paper right and creases it properly. but when he ends up with several…wad-looking wrapping jobs he facetimes his mom, recruiting her as a wrapping coach.

“mom, i’ve tried so many times and i just can’t get it right. she’s told me before how much she loved wrapped presents, so i don’t want to just put them all in bags, but i don’t know if i’m going to have much of a choice at this point.”

ellen laughs at her son, pulling out her own wrapping supplies and tries to show him again. she talks him through the whole process, and when he finally wraps a present right, he’s beaming from ear to ear. she stays on the phone and coaches him through the rest of your presents as he thanks his mom over and over again for her help.

just as he’s placed the last one under the tree (the poorly wrapped ones shoved in the back) he hears the door open and in you walk with a hoard of shopping bags on each arm.

when you walk into the living room, eyes glued to the now full space under the tree, your eyes light up.

“quinn, did you wrap all of these?”

he walks over to you, taking some of the bags from your hands. “sure did. all by myself,” he beams at you.

“excuse me, your mother had a hand in this too. where’s my credit?”

you hear ellen’s voice flowing through the speaker of quinn’s phone, the device still propped up on the coffee table, surrounded by wrapping paper.

quinn’s face turns bright red, forgetting his mom was still on the phone. you look at his embarrassed state, endeared more than anything that he cared about wrapping your presents so much, he called his mom as a reinforcement.

“is that true?” he nods his head.

“well, yeah. i kinda botched the first few, and the youtube videos weren’t helping, so aside from taking them all to a store to have someone professionally wrap them for me, mom was my last shot,” he shrugged, embarrassed about the fact his lack of wrapping skills has been outed.

“q, that’s so sweet oh my god,” you gush at him, batting your eyes and bringing your hand to rest over your heart.

“really? you don’t think it’s embarrassing i don’t know how to wrap a present?”

you balk at him, rolling your eyes. “quinn, the fact you went through so much trouble to wrap them, instead of putting them in a bag like every other guy i’ve ever dated, is the sweetest thing ever. why would i care if they’re perfectly wrapped or not?”

“see, quinn! i told you she wouldn’t care if they were perfect!” you hear from his phone, both of you having now forgotten about ellen.

“yeah, quinn. listen to your mother,” you playfully scold him, walking past him so you’re in frame on his phone. “thanks, ellen. what ever would these boys do without you?” you joke with her, earning a laugh.

“oh, you know, probably bug you a lot more than they already do,” she jests back, referencing how often not only your own hughes boy calls you about needing help with finding things around the apartment, or needing you to tell him what the brand name is of that certain kind of protein powder is he likes, but how often his two brothers call you with their own questions and advice requests.

“alright, mom, thanks for your help and all, but i have all the presents wrapped and i need help her put all this stuff away now. i love you, bye,” quinn interrupts the laughter ringing out between you and his mom, picking up his phone and pressing the end call button.

“quinn, you did not just hang up on your mom,” you scold him, gasping at his actions.

“i’d had her on the phone for hours already it’s fine,” he brushes it off. “plus, i don’t think she’d want to witness what i’m about to do,” he walks towards you, pointing up to the mistletoe strung high above your head.

you look back down just as he reaches you, grabbing your face and pulling you in for a very heated kiss.

dropping the bags in your hands, he walks the two of you over to the couch, all mention of gifts and wrapping forgotten.

[starmocha]

you're the only one, my love [Zayne/Reader ★ 1700 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] The perfect moment is one filled with messy hair, pj’s, and hot cocoa. Day 01 — to: my true love (Sylus/Reader) Day 02 — do you want to build a snowman? (it doesn't have to be a snowman) (Zayne/Reader) Day 03 — in a gingerbread house built for two (Rafayel/Reader) Day 04 — you shine like the stars, you light up my heart (Xavier/Reader) Day 05 — ‘tis the damn season and deck them goddamned halls (Sylus/Reader) A/N: I started writing this immediately after the last one…….and if you saw my tumblr posts chronicling my descent into horniness….no, you did not. Anyway. That One Zayne Post was not an outline for this. I was. Going through something. ✨️This is a wholesome series✨️ Tag list: @miudle @alfredosaws @nezukoo-channn @voidsylus @rose-tinted-kalopsia @lavlynyan 【 request to be added 】

To you, every moment with Zayne felt like a present, always unexpected, always delightful, and every single one you cherished with all of your heart.

You greedily collected all of the precious moments in life, tucking them away in your memories for safekeeping. With Zayne, it seemed you had an abundance of cherished moments, with so many innocuous snapshots that filled you with such wonderous joy when you reminiscence.

The best days always seemed to be the ones alone with him doing nothing, and yet it meant everything to you.

In the kitchen, with your hair up in a messy bun and dressed in only Zayne’s white dress shirt much too big for you, you hummed and danced happily as you gathered items from the cupboard. As you scavenged for everything you needed, you realized Zayne had moved the hot cocoa to a higher shelf. Frowning, you leaned up on your tiptoes, arm outstretched for the cannister just within sight. Just before the pads of your fingers brushed against the container, another arm reached for the same item, easily grabbing it off the shelf. You gasped, looking up and meeting Zayne’s gentle smile.

“Is this what you wanted to grab?” he asked.

You turned around, your back touching the counter, and Zayne keeping you enclosed in this tight space. You nodded happily before frowning. “Why did you move it up so high?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” he said, explaining, “I was reorganizing the shelves by the different types of beverages, and coffee and tea outnumbered the hot cocoa.”

You laughed at his reasoning.

Zayne frowned. “Why are you laughing at me?”

You shook your head and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “You’re cute—in a perfectionist sort of way,” you said before walking away with the cannister of hot cocoa, missing the beginning of Zayne’s ears turning a light shade of red.

You resumed humming as you checked the countertop.

Sprinkles, marshmallows, whipped cream and many other sweet treats were neatly arranged on the counter, creating a little mini hot cocoa bar.

Zayne approached you and peered at the counter curiously. “What’s all this?”

“A hot cocoa bar,” you chirped brightly. “I thought it would be fun if we make our own hot cocoa.”

He smiled. “It is a perfect day for one,” Zayne agreed.

His eyes traveled across the counter, pausing at two items of interest.

Zayne looked on in amusement when he noticed the two mugs prepared. “So, is this one mine?” he asked, holding up one that says ‘hello gorgeous,’ his smile seemed to widened in delight at seeing your pinked cheeks when he purposely turned so the phrase was aimed at you. “I will take that as a yes, and I suppose…this one is yours?”

“Well…” Before you could hide your mug, Zayne had swiped it from you, picking it up and turning it around, pretending to examine it, though you both knew he was messing with you right now. He smirked as he read the text on the mug, “‘Hello handsome’.”

He looked at you pointedly, his suggestive smile making your heart skipped a beat, because he truly did look so, so handsome in this moment. Still dressed in his pj’s with unkempt hair, he looked nothing like he usually did during work days. At home, particularly around you, he seemed much more relaxed and casual, letting his guard completely lowered in your presence.

Your cheeks seemed to burn hotter under his cool gaze. “They’re…a set,” you tried to explain feebly.

“Indeed,” he agreed, handing you back your mug, “I like them.”

You were practically brimming with joy at his comment.

“Now,” Zayne started slowly, his eyes traveling across the counter, taking in the array of preparations you had made. He tilted his head to the side curiously with a teasing smile on his lips. “This is not a trap, is it?”

“A trap?” you questioned, confused as you furrowed your brows.

“You’re not going to scold me, are you?”

Realization dawned on you, and you answered hesitantly, “I—I trust you,” you said, but Zayne’s look of disbelief had you backtracking immediately. “Well, this is not an everyday thing. Occasionally is fine.”

Zayne hummed in agreement.

“Why do I have to tell a doctor this anyway,” you mumbled to yourself, but Zayne heard every word.

“I practice what I preach,” he cut in with his own frown.

“Really?” It was your turn to look at him skeptically. “Greyson mentioned—”

“Greyson, perhaps, has a bit too much idle time at the hospital,” Zayne quipped, “That should be remedied.”

“Oh, Zayne, don’t bully him!”

“I would not,” he said pointedly. He grabbed your wrist and with a gentle tug, he pulled you to him. Your hands rested on his firm chest, your widened eyes darting up to meet his, surprised by this sudden closeness. Zayne reached down and brushed aside the little strands of hair that framed your face. “I feel like I am the one being targeted by everyone.”

You sulked. “Only because we care about you.”

Zayne’s hand paused, resting on your cheek. You turned, pressing a kiss to his palm before placing both of your hands over his larger one. You gently caressed his hand, your eyes looking to him with such sweet tenderness, it made him smile before he sighed resignedly, his hand pulled back and his arms now wrapped around you, keeping you held firmly in his embrace. Instinctively, your burrowed into his warmth, your own arms encircled around him.

“Should we get started then?”

You answered with a grin and pulled away from him.

“Okay, hot water or milk?” you asked him suddenly, “There is a correct answer.”

Zayne pondered, and then smirked as he answered, “Milk.”

“Ding-ding-ding! Correct!” you cheered. Retrieving the carton of milk from the fridge, you poured enough for two servings into an enamel milk pan on the stove, letting it gently warm up as you and Zayne made other preparations.

“Plain chocolate or peppermint?”

“Peppermint,” Zayne answered, smiling when you dropped a green chocolate sphere into his mug. “Now what is this?”

“It’s a hot cocoa bomb. Isn’t it cute?” you asked while placing a similar one into your own mug. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Zayne picked up the little sphere to examine. You refrained from laughing as you watched Zayne eyed it with the same curiosity as a cat would with a Christmas ornament.

Fitting for the Yuletide occasion, the chocolate sphere was shaped just like a Christmas ornament, the deep sage color and light shimmer of edible glitter made it reminiscent of the holiday. Surprised, Zayne was able to catch a faint whiff of peppermint from it.

“Interesting,” he said as he carefully placed it back into his mug.

“Extra chocolately?” you asked, and when Zayne nodded, you dropped a few spoonsful of hot cocoa powder into his mug and yours as well.

“The milk looks ready,” Zayne commented when he noticed the milk was simmering just below the boiling point. He turned off the stove and retrieved the milk pan. Carefully, he poured an equal amount of milk into both mugs, watching with almost childlike curiosity as the two chocolate bombs instantly melted from contact with the hot liquid.

Placing the pan aside, he accepted the spoon you handed to him. You both stirred your hot cocoa, accelerating the melting and emulsifying the beverage. From there, whipped cream, sprinkles, additional crushed peppermints and a snowflake-shaped marshmallow adorned the mug, creating the indulgent hot cocoa of your dream.

“Cheers!” you and Zayne said simultaneously, and the two mugs clinked together. You both drank from your respective mug, laughing when you noticed the whipped cream mustache on the other.

“Hold still,” Zayne said with a soft chuckle.

Compliant but also confused, you gasped when Zayne easily lifted you off the floor and set you on top of the counter. One hand rested behind on the countertop to steady your balance, your other still held your mug firmly. When you turned to face Zayne, he had already leaned forth, catching you by surprise when he seized your lips, kissing and savoring the lingering taste of whipped cream and chocolate on your lips. As you instinctively kissed him back, you also tasted the same sweetness on his own lips, wanting more and more.

“Ah—Zayne…” You nervously set your mug down to the side, your hands reaching up to settle on his shoulders. “Mm…”

He licked the lingering whipped cream from your upper lip, giving you another light nip before he pulled back. His arms wrapped around you and he rested his head on your shoulder, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. You could hear him inhaling deeply, and then a soft sigh escaped.

“You smell so sweet,” he murmured, breathing in deeply again, his lips pressing along your neck to leave little kisses.

“M-must be my lotion…” you said absently, feeling a warmth spreading as he continued to lavish you with kisses, the heat of his body against yours growing stronger.

“Is that so?” He kissed your cheek, his lips lingering long enough for you to notice. For that brief instance, it seemed like he was pondering before he asked, “Vanilla?”

“Yes…”

He laughed softly. Zayne rested his forehead against yours, his eyes peering down at you with so much affections. “You look beautiful, my love,” he murmured.

“Stop it…” you said, embarrassed as your cheeks turned a light shade of pink. “My hair is so messy…I’m not dressed properly…and…”

He reached down and grabbed your free hand, raising it to his lips. “You’re always beautiful in my eyes,” he said, adding mischievously, “Even more so when dressed in nothing but my shirt.”

“Zayne…”

He picked up his mug of hot cocoa, holding it out to you. “Hello gorgeous.”

You laughed, feeling a bit silly but also delighted as you grabbed yours to clink with his mug again. “Hello handsome.”

How serendipitous.

Among the billions of people in the world, to have found each other in this life, to know that he was yours and you were his.

How wonderful, how enchanting, how perfect was this life.

[fangdokja]

You’re his sister, but to him, you’re everything he’ll never let go of.

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in his obsession, your brother’s love is a cage—burning, possessive, and unyielding. Every kiss is a claim, every touch a warning. You’re his, and he’ll make sure the world knows it.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Older Brother x Reader

♡ Novelette. Sins of the Silent Heart - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 6,926

♡ TW. incest, unhealthy power dynamics, toxic relationship, spanking and slapping, emotional and psychological manipulation, social isolation, non-con kissing, physical assault and abuse

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr content guidelines involving minors, some plot details of the original story were changed to fit the platform. If you want the true original story, please look at the author's official website or Ao3.

The dim yellow glow of the bedside lamp painted long, jagged shadows across the walls, distorting the once-familiar room into a grotesque parody of safety. His room—a chaotic vortex of textbooks, rumpled sheets, and the faint scent of stale cologne—now felt like a predator’s den, with you caught squarely in its jaws. The door clicked shut behind you with an almost mocking finality, the latch’s soft groan a promise of no escape.

He stood near the bed, his back to you, shoulders tense as if bracing for an internal war. His silhouette was a study in contradiction—strong, protective lines now cast in a menacing, foreboding light. The distant hum of the world beyond the house seemed to mock the thick silence between you, punctuated only by the rasp of his uneven breathing.

“Why are you here?” His voice cut through the stillness like a blade, low and clipped, every syllable weighted with restraint.

“I… I just wanted to talk.” Your words wavered, the carefully rehearsed lines evaporating under his icy stare when he turned, his eyes locking onto yours.

Those eyes, once a sanctuary of warmth during countless childhood nights, now held a glacial fury, as if he blamed you for some unseen torment. But beneath the chill was something darker, something that churned like a black hole, swallowing reason and morality whole. You couldn’t name it, but you could feel it—a suffocating, primal pull that made your stomach twist and your legs stiffen.

“I’ve been busy,” he said curtly, turning back to his desk, dismissing you as easily as one might swat away an insect. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I miss you.” The words slipped out, raw and vulnerable, a desperate attempt to breach the widening chasm between you. “I thought—now that we’re both here—maybe we could…” Your voice faltered as he turned again, this time slowly, deliberately, like a predator circling prey.

“Miss me?” he repeated, his lips curving into a bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t even know me anymore.”

The accusation hit harder than you expected, making your chest tighten. “That’s why I’m here,” you murmured, your hands clenching at your sides. “To know you again.”

He barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Know me?” His gaze raked over you, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. “You wouldn’t want that. Trust me.”

His words were a warning, but they only fueled your resolve. You stepped closer, driven by the memory of the brother who once held your hand during thunderstorms, who stayed up late helping you with your homework, who always told you everything would be okay. “You’re still my brother,” you said softly, pleadingly.

“Don’t,” he growled, his voice suddenly sharp, his hand twitching as if to reach for you but stopping short. “Don’t call me that.”

The air between you grew oppressive, thick with unspoken truths. Your heart pounded as his gaze darkened, his pupils blown wide as they drank you in. For a moment, his mask of indifference cracked, and what lay beneath made your stomach churn.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was low, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of a confession. “The way you look at me? The way you follow me around like a lost kitten?” He took a step closer, and you instinctively backed into the wall, your breath hitching. “You’ve always needed me. Always depended on me. And now you think you can waltz in here and what? Fix everything? Fix me?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Shut up.” His voice cut through your protest like a whip. He was close now, too close, his breath hot against your cheek. The smell of him—faintly metallic, tinged with sweat—wrapped around you like a suffocating shroud. “You don’t know the first thing about me, about what I’ve done. About the things I think about when I look at you.”

The room seemed to tilt, the floor buckling under the weight of his words. “I… I don’t understand,” you stammered, your voice barely audible.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he sneered, his hand shooting out to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in. “Because you’re pure. Untouched. You don’t know what it’s like to carry this...this sickness. To want something you can never fucking have.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the frantic pounding of your heart. His confession hung in the air like a noose, tightening around your throat.

“I tried,” he continued, his voice shaking now, the cracks in his facade spreading. “I tried to stay away. To forget. Do you know how many women I’ve fucked trying to scrub you out of my head? But it doesn’t work. It never fucking works.” His hand slid down the wall, his knuckles brushing against your shoulder. “You’re in here,” he said, tapping his temple, then his chest. “In here. Like a damn parasite.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Why are you saying this?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why now?”

“Because you’re here,” he said simply, his lips curling into a twisted smile. “Because you walked into my fucking room and looked at me like that. Like I’m still the hero you remember. Like I haven’t been corrupted.”

“You’re scaring me,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

“Good,” he replied, his tone soft but laced with menace. “You should be scared. Because if you stay, I don’t know if I can stop myself.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the room charged with a tension so thick it was suffocating. Then, with a suddenness that made you flinch, he stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. “Get out,” he growled, his voice rough and uneven. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Your hands fumbled with the doorknob, your legs barely supporting you as you stumbled out of the room. As the door slammed shut behind you, the last thing you heard was the sound of his ragged breathing, a haunting symphony of longing and despair.

────────────

It began in your first year of university, with a joke. A harmless, stupid, throwaway line.

"Hey, your sister's cute. Maybe I'll ask her out when she’s older."

You hadn’t been there to hear it. Maybe that was for the best. He’d laughed then, a sound so casual it might have fooled anyone listening. “Don’t even think about it,” he’d said, shoving his friend’s shoulder as if it were all a joke. But deep down, something had snapped into place.

It wasn’t anger, exactly—not yet. Just a quiet, simmering unease that he didn’t understand.

You were always close to him, always lingering just at the edge of his vision, a constant part of his life. He was your older brother; it was natural. He was protective—maybe a little too much so. But wasn’t that what older brothers were supposed to be? That’s what he told himself whenever he felt the strange, uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

It only became a problem the day he saw you with someone else.

It was late autumn, and the world was painted in muted tones of orange and gray. He’d been walking to the library to pick you up when he saw you standing beneath a streetlamp with a boy.

The sight froze him in place.

You were holding a notebook, pointing to something on the page, explaining something with that calm, patient expression you always wore. The boy leaned in, his eyes never leaving your face.

And that was when he felt it. That sick, twisting feeling in his gut. The way the boy looked at you—like he wanted something. Like he thought he deserved something.

His hands clenched into fists, the sharp bite of his nails grounding him just enough to keep him from storming over. He didn’t know what he’d say if he did. What excuse could he possibly give?

Instead, he stayed hidden in the shadows, watching as you finished your tutoring session. The boy lingered too long, said something that made you smile faintly, and then finally walked away.

You didn’t even notice him standing there. You just closed your notebook, adjusted the strap of your bag, and walked off as if nothing had happened.

He followed you home that day, keeping a careful distance.

After that, it was as though something inside him had cracked open.

He told himself it was normal to be worried. You were too trusting, too naive. You didn’t see the way people looked at you. You didn’t realize how vulnerable you were. Someone had to protect you—someone who knew you better than anyone else.

But it wasn’t just about protection anymore.

It was about possession.

He tried to ignore it at first. Tried to tell himself it was nothing. But every time he saw you leave to meet that boy, his anger simmered just a little hotter. It didn’t matter that you were only tutoring him. It didn’t matter that you weren’t interested. He could see the way the boy looked at you, the way he lingered when you weren’t paying attention.

He started watching you more closely after that. You didn’t notice—of course, you didn’t. You never seemed to notice anything when it came to him.

When you weren’t around, he buried himself in distractions. He went out with his friends, dated girls who were nothing like you, did anything he could to drown out the thoughts that haunted him. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked.

Every laugh, every touch, every kiss felt wrong. None of them were you.

By the time you started your second year of university, and him at his Master's, he’d perfected the art of keeping his distance. He didn’t want you to see the way he looked at you, didn’t want you to know the things he thought about late at night when he was alone.

But keeping his distance didn’t mean he stopped watching. He always knew where you were, who you were with, what you were doing.

You were his. Even if you didn’t know it.

Another day, he caught you talking to someone else. Another boy. It didn’t matter that the conversation was casual, that you barely even smiled. All he could think about was how easily someone else could take you away from him.

When you came home that evening, he didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask why he was so quiet, why he avoided your gaze, why his knuckles were red and raw as if he’d been punching something—or someone.

You never asked questions like that.

Maybe you should have.

Now, standing in his room, he runs his hands through his hair, staring at the picture of you on his desk. It’s an innocent photo, one taken years ago during a family trip. But to him, it’s more than that.

It’s proof. Proof that you belong to him. Proof that no one else has the right to take you away.

He knows he can’t keep this up forever. He knows the truth will come out eventually.

But when it does?

You won’t have a choice.

────────────

It began with distance. He thought it would fix things—make him normal again, make you normal again. He pulled back, growing cold and indifferent, watching you from a distance as you stumbled through life. You didn’t even notice, did you? How he deliberately stopped answering your questions with warmth, how he only gave you clipped, efficient replies. How he didn’t teach you the things he should have, the things that would have made you stronger.

You didn’t need friends. He made sure of that.

He liked it that way—your awkwardness, your inability to connect with others. It kept you safe. It kept you his.

But then...

Then, he saw the change.

You became distracted, eyes far away, your lips twitching into little half-smiles when you thought no one was looking. At first, he ignored it. Told himself it didn’t matter. But then he started noticing the way you doodled during your free time, how your handwriting softened, curling into childish hearts.

And then the name.

Daniel.

The rage that erupted in his chest was immediate, primal. He wasn’t proud of how quickly he found your diary, how thoroughly he read every naïve, saccharine line.

"Daniel held my book today! He smiled at me, I think! Maybe I’ll ask him to the dance? Would he say yes? It’s stupid, but I think we’d make a great match."

You wrote about your future. About marriage. Little plans you hid in the margins of your notebook like some ridiculous fairytale.

Marriage, when you didn’t even know what it meant. When you’d never spared him, the one who’s protected you your entire life, that warm, shy smile.

He could’ve broken your door when he threw it open that night. You weren’t even there to hear the sound splinter through the silence, or see the way he stood there, shaking, fists clenched white-knuckled. He tore through your things after that—pictures, scraps of paper, clothes—he wanted to find anything, anything that might explain why you’d betrayed him like this.

You didn’t have the right to want someone else. You barely knew what you wanted! That boy didn’t even like you. Couldn’t you see it?

The world saw you as the awkward, strange little thing you’d always been. And he liked it that way. It kept the wolves at bay. He kept the wolves at bay.

But this boy? This Daniel? He didn’t even look at you the way you thought he did. He didn’t deserve your thoughts, your shy little fantasies. He deserved nothing.

When you finally confessed to the boy, he was there.

He’d hidden in the shadows like a predator waiting for the right moment. Watching as you stood there, clutching that stupid notebook to your chest, stammering over your words.

Daniel’s rejection was inevitable. His awkward laugh, his half-hearted apology—it was all so predictably pathetic. But you didn’t stop there.

Even after being turned down, you followed him. Like a kitten, tail wagging, desperate for scraps of affection. The same way you used to follow him.

That night, he didn’t go home. He didn’t sleep.

His body ached, torn between the raw heat of his anger and the cold clarity of his realization.

You’d never shown interest in romance before. Never spared anyone those soft looks, those quiet smiles. Not until now. And the thought of you giving that warmth—his warmth—to someone else?

He didn’t just want to destroy Daniel.

He wanted to destroy you.

You traitorous, ungrateful little bitch.

The next time he saw you, you didn’t notice anything was wrong. How could you?

“Hey,” you’d said softly, the same way you always did when you weren’t sure if you were bothering him. He didn’t reply.

Instead, he crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. You flinched when he cupped your face, his fingers rough against your skin.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” His voice was calm, too calm, each word slicing through the silence like a blade.

You blinked up at him, confused, your lips parting to stammer out a reply. But he didn’t let you.

“Do you think he could protect you the way I have? Do you think he even sees you? You’re so... stupid.” His grip tightened, just enough to make you gasp. “But I’ll fix that.”

That night, he showed you what it meant to belong to someone.

There was nothing gentle in the way he touched you. Nothing kind. It wasn’t love—not in the way you’d dreamed it would be.

It was sharp edges and whispered threats. The suffocating weight of his body pinning yours to the mattress, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured things too dark to repeat.

“I’ll make sure you never think of him again,” he growled, his voice low and venomous.

You cried. He didn’t stop.

Because you were his. And no one else deserved to have you—not even you.

The next morning, he watched as you sat silently at the table, your hands trembling as you picked at your breakfast.

You didn’t look at him.

Good.

He leaned back in his chair, watching you with a satisfied smile.

“You’ll thank me one day,” he said, his tone light and conversational, as if nothing had happened. “You’ll see.”

But in the dim light of the kitchen, his eyes glinted with something darker.

Something permanent.

────────────

He hadn’t kissed you that night. He hadn’t touched you—not in the way he craved. That would come later.

Instead, he had punished you.

The memory played like a cracked film reel in his mind, skipping over the sound of your muffled cries, the way your body jolted with every strike of his hand. He’d treated it like a lesson, hadn’t he? A father disciplining a wayward child, nothing more.

Except it was so much more.

Each tear that slipped down your cheeks, each broken sob, fed something primal inside him. It made him feel strong, in control—your trembling figure draped across his lap, your protests falling to deaf ears.

“You need to understand,” he had murmured between blows, his voice calm, deliberate. “You don’t need anyone else. You don’t get to have anyone else.”

It wasn’t until your body went limp, your resolve shattered, that he finally stopped. His hand lingered against your flushed skin, his breathing uneven. He could feel the temptation coiling inside him, the desire to leave more than just a warning.

But he didn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Not yet.

You were still too young, too delicate, and he loved you too much to break you completely.

In the days that followed, you clung to him like you always had. The defiance in your eyes was gone, replaced by a docile obedience that filled him with both satisfaction and guilt.

It was better this way. No friends, no distractions.

Just the two of you, the way it had always been.

────────────

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him alone in the suffocating quiet of his room.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as he exhaled sharply.

He could feel the cracks spreading, the fragile dam of restraint he’d built over the years threatening to shatter. You were older now—no longer the awkward, wide-eyed girl he’d once protected. You were beautiful, maddeningly so, and every time he looked at you, he could feel his self-control slipping.

But what was he supposed to do?

His parents had never cared, not about him, not about you. The only thing that mattered to them was the profit you both could generate. He doubted they’d even notice if he crossed the line.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

His gaze drifted to the doorway you’d just passed through, his chest tightening with something dark and suffocating.

He could take you now if he wanted to. No one would stop him. No one would care.

But he cared.

He loved you in a way that terrified him, a way that left him tangled in knots of lust and guilt and longing. He wanted you—to keep you, to claim you, to destroy anyone who dared look at you the wrong way. But more than that, he wanted you to love him the way he loved you.

And that’s where the conflict lay.

Would you still look at him with those soft, trusting eyes if you knew what he was thinking? Would you still cling to his arm, still smile at him, still call him brother if you knew the truth?

Or would you hate him?

The thought sent a shiver of rage and despair through him, his hands clenching into fists.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal.

What was the point of waiting?

Every moment he held back felt like agony, his need for you consuming him piece by piece. You were already his, in every way that mattered. You’d been his from the start, long before you even realized it.

He stopped in front of the mirror, his reflection glaring back at him—a predator barely leashed, a man fighting against the very instincts that defined him.

He exhaled slowly, his lips curling into a dark, humorless smile.

“As long as I don’t get caught, right?” he muttered, his voice dripping with bitter irony.

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

When he finally left the room, his mind was made up.

He’d wait, just a little longer. Long enough for you to grow even more dependent on him, long enough for you to forget whatever fleeting fantasies you’d once harbored about other men.

And when the time came, when there was no doubt in your mind that he was the only one who could ever love you, he’d take what was his.

Until then, he’d bide his time.

But God help anyone who got in the way.

You were his. And soon, you’d know it too.

────────────

Classes had started like any other semester. Despite sharing a dorm, he and you had kept your distance—a mutual, unspoken agreement that suited both of you.

On the surface, things appeared normal.

He excelled as always, juggling academics, sports, and a parade of temporary girlfriends like it was nothing. You thrived in your own way, delving into the competitive grind of your entrepreneurship course with an unrelenting focus. To the outside world, you were two strangers, bound only by circumstance. No one would guess you were siblings, much less tied by anything deeper.

And that was fine by him.

As long as you stayed close—within reach—he could tolerate the cold distance between you.

It began as a flicker, a subtle shift in your demeanor that most would have missed.

You’d always been poised, calm, your expressions muted and unreadable, much like his own. But lately, there was something else—an irritation simmering beneath the surface, barely contained. You’d still wear that neutral, aloof mask, but he could see through it.

At first, he dismissed it. Maybe you were stressed. Maybe it was nothing.

But then he noticed the reason.

It was another guy.

The bastard was a thorn in your side, a so-called academic rival who had taken to hounding you relentlessly. He was obnoxious and petty, constantly goading you with thinly veiled insults and challenges.

Initially, he’d thought it might be a good thing—an opportunity for you to toughen up, to learn not to rely on him or anyone else.

How fucking naive he’d been.

The longer he watched, the more he understood.

The interloper didn’t even realize he liked you, not yet, but the signs were there. The way he hovered around you, the excuses he made to stay close, the looks that lingered too long—it was all obvious to him.

What infuriated him most was you.

You, who never cared about anyone. You, who had always kept your distance from people, brushing off their advances without a second thought.

You weren’t pushing the bastard away.

You tolerated him, even seemed to accept his presence, and that made his blood boil.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

No need to make a scene. No need to draw attention.

But it gnawed at him, day by day, that stupid fucker sticking to your side like a damn parasite. He could feel it building inside him, a storm of frustration and possessiveness he couldn’t fully suppress.

And then it happened.

You were late for dinner one evening, and his annoyance was already simmering by the time he went looking for you. He’d told himself he was only checking in because it was still his responsibility to take care of you.

That’s what he told himself.

He found you in an empty classroom.

And you weren’t alone.

────────────

The moment he saw you with him, it was as if the ground beneath his feet had shifted.

At first, it was confusion—a fleeting, disorienting moment where he didn’t fully understand what he was looking at. The interloper, leaning closer, his expression soft and open, the kind of look reserved for someone you cherished. You.

You, standing there, not moving, not rejecting him. Your hand was still, almost brushing against his, your lips parted as if you might speak—or worse, respond.

The first spike of jealousy hit him like a blade.

Not the dull ache of annoyance he’d felt when you first started tolerating this bastard’s presence. No, this was different. This was visceral. It clawed at him, shredding through his carefully constructed self-control until all that remained was raw, unfiltered rage.

His pulse roared in his ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out reason. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He could feel the metallic tang of it on his tongue, sharp and bitter, mixing with the bile rising in his throat.

He’d always prided himself on being in control. He wasn’t some reckless animal, driven by instinct or emotion. He was better than that. Smarter than that.

But watching that fucking bastard lean closer to you—watching you let him—it unraveled something inside him.

This wasn’t just anger. This wasn’t just possessiveness.

This was a deep, gnawing sickness, a jealousy so consuming it felt like his very soul was being eaten alive.

He couldn’t stand the way the interloper looked at you, like you were something pure and delicate. Like you were a prize to be won.

That was his.

You were his.

The thought burned through him, scorching and absolute.

He’d spent years keeping you close, making sure no one else could reach you, molding your world so that he was at the center of it. And yet, here you were, letting this pathetic excuse of a man step into the space that only he should occupy.

It was a betrayal.

And you—oh, you—were just as much to blame.

You, who never cared for anyone. You, who always kept your distance, your heart locked away. You, who had followed him like a shadow for so long, who had looked at him with that shy, adoring gaze that made him feel untouchable.

Now you were looking at someone else.

And it wasn’t just the look—it was your body language, the way you leaned ever so slightly into the interloper’s space. The way your eyes softened, your lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.

He wanted to rip that expression off your face.

Not because it didn’t suit you—it did. It was beautiful. It made his heart ache.

But because it wasn’t for him.

The jealousy twisted, dark and monstrous, until it became something else entirely.

He didn’t just want to destroy the interloper.

He wanted to destroy you.

Not completely—no, never completely. You were his, after all. But he wanted to shatter this version of you, the one who dared to look at someone else with warmth. The one who dared to let someone else get close.

He wanted to strip you down to nothing and rebuild you in his image, piece by trembling piece, until there was no room for anyone else.

And then the bastard leaned in closer, and the room seemed to tilt.

The distance between you shrank, his lips hovering just above yours.

────────────

You were letting it happen.

Something inside him snapped.

Before he realized it, he was moving. The door slammed open with a deafening crash, and the interloper jerked back, startled, his face paling when he saw the storm etched into his expression.

“Hey, man—”

The words barely left the bastard’s lips before his fist collided with his jaw, the sickening crunch of bone echoing in the empty room. The impact sent the other man sprawling, blood pooling from his broken nose as he groaned in shock and pain.

“Stay. Away.” His voice was low, lethal, the kind of tone that promised far worse if the warning wasn’t heeded.

The room was silent except for the ragged breathing of the crumpled figure at his feet.

He turned to you then, his chest heaving, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

You stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, your lips parted in disbelief.

“Get up,” he barked, his tone sharp, brooking no argument. “We’re leaving.”

You didn’t move, still staring at the man on the floor, and something in him snapped again.

He crossed the distance between you in two strides, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to him with enough force to make you stumble.

“I said, we’re leaving.” His voice was quieter this time, but the edge of danger was unmistakable.

Your gaze finally shifted to him, your eyes searching his face for something—an explanation, a reassurance, anything.

But all you found was rage.

As he dragged you out of the room, his grip unyielding, his mind raced.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

You had betrayed him. Again.

And this time, he wasn’t sure he could let it slide.

No one else gets to have you. No one.

────────────

The door to your shared dorm slammed shut behind you with a bone-jarring finality. The echo reverberated in the small space, amplifying the oppressive silence that followed. You winced, clutching your throbbing wrist where his grip had bruised it. But before you could pull away, his hand was on you again, relentless and unyielding.

“Let go,” you hissed, yanking your arm back, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound resolute. The command only seemed to enrage him further.

His response was immediate, a blur of motion and a sting that burned like fire across your cheek. The force sent you staggering, your knees hitting the cold floor as your vision swam. Pain blossomed, sharp and unrelenting, and you tasted copper on your tongue.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” His voice, usually so measured, so cold, was now raw and trembling with fury. He loomed over you, a monolith of rage, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Did you really think I wouldn’t see? Wouldn’t know?”

You pressed a trembling hand to your face, the sting of his slap radiating through your skull. You glared up at him, defiance flickering like a dying ember in your tear-filled eyes.

“What is wrong with you?” you spat, your voice quaking as you pushed yourself up. “I didn’t do anything!”

The words barely left your mouth before his hand shot out, tangling viciously in your hair. He yanked your head back, forcing you to meet his wild, unhinged gaze.

“Didn’t do anything?” he snarled, his face so close you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His lips twisted into a cruel smile that sent chills racing down your spine. “You let him touch you. You let him. Are you that desperate? That much of a pathetic little whore?”

You choked on a gasp as he tightened his grip, pulling hard enough to send a bolt of pain down your neck. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “I saw it. You didn’t push him away. You didn’t stop him.”

“You’re wong,” you bit out, your voice trembling with fury and fear. “You’re imagining things that aren’t there—”

Another slap cut your words short, sharper this time, enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You crumpled again, your cheek pressed against the floor, and before you could recover, his hand was back, dragging you up like a ragdoll.

“Do you spread your legs for anyone who pays attention to you?” he hissed, his voice venomous, laced with a dangerous kind of desperation. “Are you really that easy? That desperate for it?”

You glared at him through the haze of pain and tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. But he wasn’t looking for defiance. He was looking for submission.

For proof that you were his, and his alone.

His free hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. His expression was a terrifying mix of fury and something else—something far darker, far more possessive.

“Say it,” he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Say you’re mine. Say it, or so help me, I’ll make sure no one ever looks at you again.”

You opened your mouth to retort, to scream, but the words caught in your throat as his grip tightened, cutting off your air.

“Say. It.”

The room spun, your vision blurring as the oxygen left your lungs. Panic set in, and your resolve began to crumble. You clawed at his arm, your body trembling with the effort to stay conscious.

“Yours,” you gasped, barely audible, but it was enough.

His grip loosened just enough to let you breathe, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke.

“Good girl.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, a sickening mix of relief and terror. His grip in your hair eased, but only to drag you closer, his arms encircling you in a cage of muscle and iron will.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less threatening. “I don’t like hurting you. But I will if that’s what it takes to keep you.”

You stayed silent, too shaken to respond, your body trembling in his grasp. Deep down, you knew this wasn’t over. This was only the beginning of the storm.

────────────

Without another word, his lips slammed onto yours, a bruising, punishing kiss that stole what little breath you had left. Your eyes widened in shock, and you squirmed, thrashing against his iron hold, but it only seemed to fuel him further. His teeth bit down hard on your lower lip, drawing blood, and his tongue invaded your mouth with an almost feral desperation.

Every movement was a claim, a declaration, his hands gripping you like you might vanish if he let go. He growled against your lips, his voice a low, guttural snarl as he pressed you against the wall, his body pinning yours effortlessly.

“Since you’re so eager to spread your legs for any man who looks your way,” he hissed, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, “why not for me? Your own older brother. Or does that only make you more of a filthy little slut?”

You shook your head vehemently, tears spilling down your cheeks, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want your consent; he wanted your submission. Your humiliation. His lips crashed against yours again, his teeth marking you, biting and bruising as though he could etch himself into your very being.

His hips pressed against yours, the weight of him inescapable as he ground against you with a possessive growl. Every word that left his mouth was venomous, dripping with jealousy and rage.

“Do you know how sick you make me?” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “How fucking jealous I get every time I see someone else looking at you? Touching you? You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

Your protests were muffled, your struggles weakening under the sheer force of his assault. His hands roamed your body with an almost methodical cruelty, every touch a reminder that you belonged to him and no one else. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air heavy with his dominance, his possessive need swallowing you whole.

“No one else gets to have you,” he growled against your ear, his voice a deadly promise. “No one.”

His lips crashed against yours again, bruising, punishing, and suffocating. There was no gentleness, no hesitation—only raw desperation and rage poured into every motion. His teeth scraped against your lips, a deliberate, cutting edge to the kiss that made you whimper, the taste of blood sharp and metallic as it spread across your tongue. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was claiming you, forcing his presence into every corner of your being.

When you tried to pull back, his hand was there, tangling in your hair with a bruising grip, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Every gasp you took was his to steal, every sound you made swallowed by his insistent, devouring mouth.

His tongue pressed into you, hot and invasive, tasting, consuming, as though he could erase any trace of anyone else with sheer force alone. The kiss deepened with every passing moment, turning darker, hungrier, as his free hand gripped your waist hard enough to leave marks, pressing your body against the wall with an unrelenting pressure.

The sharp pain of his bite pulled a gasp from your lips, and he seized the moment, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that felt almost mocking. It wasn’t enough for him to take; he wanted you to feel it—to feel the way he dominated every inch of you, every sound, every breath.

“You taste like lies,” he growled against your lips, the words vibrating through your chest as his teeth grazed your bottom lip again, threatening another sharp bite. His breath was hot and ragged, mingling with yours, and the fury in his eyes hadn’t dimmed—it had only sharpened, focused entirely on you. “Do you think I’d ever let anyone else have this? Have you?”

Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but it was like trying to move stone. He laughed, a low, bitter sound that sent chills racing down your spine. “Pathetic,” he sneered, the word dripping with venom. “Look at you. Fighting when you know you’ll lose. You always lose.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, his teeth sinking into your lip just enough to sting before he licked the blood away with a slow, deliberate motion. “Mine,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and possessive. “Every inch of you. Every breath you take. Don’t forget it.”

He shifted slightly, his hips pressing against yours, trapping you further as his mouth moved with calculated cruelty. Each kiss was an invasion, each touch a brand, his lips trailing down to your jawline and then to the curve of your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, sending a jolt through your body that you couldn’t suppress.

“You think they could kiss you like this?” he hissed, his voice rough and filled with bitter jealousy. His lips latched onto the base of your throat, sucking hard enough to bruise as his hands roamed your sides with deliberate possessiveness. “Think again.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face inches from yours, his breath fanning against your swollen lips. His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender, before he pressed it against the raw bite mark he’d left. You flinched, and he smirked, leaning in to whisper against your ear.

“You’ll remember who you belong to. Every time you see these marks, every time you feel them—” His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. “—you’ll remember me.”

Then his lips found yours again, relentless, brutal, as though he couldn’t get enough. His fingers dug into your waist, his nails biting into your skin, and every movement was a reminder of the storm raging beneath his skin.

“You make me like this,” he growled between kisses, his voice thick with fury and something darker. “You make me fucking crazy. You make me want to ruin you, just so no one else can even look at you.”

His words blurred with the heat of his kiss, the tension between you a heady mix of fear, pain, and something far more twisted. And in that moment, you knew there was no escape—not from him, not from this, and certainly not from the obsession that burned in his eyes every time they met yours.

"You're a such a fucking cheating bitch. But, you're my cheating bitch."

────────────

List of Fandoms and Characters

Ace Attorney: N/A

Blue Lock: Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi, Yoichi Isagi

Boku no Hero Academia: Dabi

Brutal: Satsujin Kansatsukan no Kokuhaku: N/A

Death Note: N/A

Demon Slayer: Rui, Sanemi Shinazugawa

Dishonored Series: Kirin Jindosh

Genshin Impact: Ayato Kamisato, Childe / Tartaglia, Scaramouche

Haikyuu!!: Atsumu Miya, Hajime Iwaizumi, Kenjiro Shirabu, Suna Rintarou, Tobio Kageyama, Yūji Terushima, Ushijima Wakatoshi

Honkai Star Rail: Blade, Boothill

How to Live as an Illegal Healer: N/A

Hunter x Hunter: Chrollo Lucilfer

I'm Not That Kind of Talent: Demon Aru

Jujutsu Kaisen: Naoya Zenin, Suguru Geto

Kill The Hero: Se Jun-Lee

Mobile Legends: Bang Bang: Xavier

Naruto Shippuden: Kabuto Yakushi, Tobirama Senju

One Punch Man: Amai Mask

Reverend Insanity: Fang Yuan

TOUCHSTARVED: Ais

Undertale Multiverse (Human AU): Dust! Sans / Murder! Sans

Wuthering Waves: Geshu Lin, Scar

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk-blog1

[respectthepetty]

The Heart Killers' Colors? - Ep. 6

I got my bizcochitos and boozy and spicy cinnamon dark hot chocolate (not champurrado, never champurrado), so I'm tipsy, jolly, and ready to watch episode six of The Heart Killers for Joong.

I mean for Fadel.

WAIT! I mean for colors!

Eff the colors! I'm here for water-based lube and condoms! Thank goodness for parents who advocate for safe sex, so I can get myself together after seeing Fadel do the walk of NO shame since Fadel should not feel ashamed for enjoying sex! Thanks, dad, for reminding me of my priorities!

Hold up! Are we switching to Shakespeare's The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice now?! Because that story dealt with lies and manipulation leading to multiple murders, and we all believe Mother has lied and manipulated these boys into killing others for her own agenda. *sips boozy hot chocolate*

Black Brooder Fadel is lightening up but is wearing red and Red Rascal Bison is wearing blue, so does this mean Style is a Red Rascal and Kant is a Blue Boy? I think the behind-the-scenes people are lying to me.

Style is wearing red again! And Kant is still on his bullshit, but they are sitting at a blue covered table. Does that mean anything?

It would be easier if Kant was a Green Guy (or even a Yellow Yal). It just makes more sense!

Because, regardless of what Bison thinks about blue, he is a Red Rascal.

See! Look at the blue disappear when he becomes passionate!

And a Green Guy would complement him and his aggressive and passionate personality. He would balance him out, and he would be the chill to Bison's no-chill self. They'd be chiles! They'd be Christmas!

And Style would make far more sense as a Red Rascal because of the way he brings out Fadel's desires!

Are you really a Blue Boy, Style?! I don't know because Dunk's arms are distracting me!

But I do know that I would go anywhere and do anything for this man just like Style does. If Fadel wanted to go to Top Golf, I'd go to that stupid frat bro place for my man. If Fadel wanted to go hunting in the woods for a week, I, a vegetarian, would go sit with him in silence for eight to twelve hours a day and make just enough noise to warn the animals, so he couldn't shoot any of them. And if he wanted me to eat Colorado green chile, I would NEVER DO IT because that's fake green chile and a stew, but I'd watch him eat it (while I eat Hatch like a proper person). That's the power of Joong Fadel.

Alexa, play Letters from Cleo's version of "I Want You to Want Me" from 10 Things I Hate About You!

Didn't I see you cryin' Feelin' all alone without a friend You know you feel like dyin' Oh didn't I see you cryin' I want you to want me I need you to need me I'd love you to love me I'm beggin' you to beg me

This is literally the only color I trust in this show right now, Cinematographer Rath.

BECAUSE PINK = 💕LOVE💕

Oh, thank goodness, the brothers are back to their true colors, and by that I mean chloroforming people until they pass out.

WHAT ARE YOUR COLORS?! JUST TELL ME ALREADY!

Now is not the time to serve cunt. Put those tits back in, you two!

Interesting that Mother is not in full red, but like a dulled orange-ish red.

Even more interesting that Keen matches her. I'd be wary of this kid if I was Bison and Fadel.

Kant is now giving me Beetlejuice and Foot Locker realness, but, thankfully, Style is offering me up some of that Blue Boy-ness I keep hearing about. Yes, Style, be loyal to your man! You are in love with a criminal and this type isn't rational; it's physical.

WHY ARE YOU WEARING RED AGAIN THOUGH?! Is it for love?! Fadel is, once again, light. He loves you too, Style. HE LOVES YOU TOO!

Bison is fully back in red now, and I do not think it's because of 💕love💕. 😬😬😬

Kant thought he was going to put Bison behind bars.

But it's about to get very gay and murderous up in here. In the words of one of my favorite Kesha songs, "This place about to blow" and not how Bison usually does it for Kant.

Kant, this twink is going to end you.

That's what you get for not showing your true color.

[amalythea]

「 secret santa 」

⤷ info: diluc, wanderer x gn! reader (separate) || fluff and hurt/comfort || wc: 1564 (total)

⤷ warnings: oblivious reader (and diluc himself tbh), wanderer is,,, himself? brief mentions of reader being hurt but not too many details. half the time i write for genshin i dont care to match flower names into canon ones, this is one of those times and you guys just need to deal with it/lh wanderer's part is shorter bc i didn't know how to continue it.

⤷ extra: This is my gift to @daosies for @2024gisecretsanta 's secret santa event! Hope these are okay, haha i was gonna post this on christmas morning but i got impatient.

diluc.

The warm hues of the Mondstadt sunset cast a golden glow over the familiar stretch of rolling vineyards. You sat cross-legged under the towering oak tree by the edge of the Dawn Winery estate, twirling a small daisy between your fingers. Diluc sat a little distance away, leaning back against the bark of the tree. The setting sun framed his fiery red hair like an ember glowing in the dusk, and his sharp, focused eyes stared out at the horizon.

“You’re quiet today,” you said, breaking the silence.

He hummed in acknowledgment, tilting his head slightly to look at you. “Just thinking.”

“You always say that,” you teased, tossing the daisy at him. It landed on his lap, and he looked down at it with the faintest smile.

“Because it’s true,” he replied, lifting the flower and twirling it between his fingers the way you had been moments ago.

You shifted to lie back on the grass, staring up at the sky now painted in shades of pink and orange. “What’s got you so deep in thought?”

There was a pause, long enough that you almost thought he wouldn’t answer.

“...You,” he admitted softly.

You turned your head sharply to look at him, heart skipping a beat. “What about me?”

Diluc avoided your gaze, looking at the daisy instead as if it held all the answers. His usually confident demeanor faltered, replaced with an unfamiliar shyness.

“Just… how long we’ve been friends,” he said after a moment, his voice measured. “How much you’ve always been there.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the sudden flutter in your chest. “That’s what friends are for.”

Friends. The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meanings. You wanted to say more, to ask if he ever thought about you the way you thought about him. But instead, you sat up and plucked another flower from the ground, holding it out to him with a playful smile.

“Here, another daisy for your collection,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

He took it, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment that made your pulse quicken. “You’re strange sometimes, you know that?”

“You’re the one keeping them,” you shot back, grinning.

“I only keep what’s worth keeping,” he replied, his voice soft but steady, his crimson eyes locking onto yours.

The weight of his gaze made your teasing smile falter. For a moment, it felt like the world had gone still—no rustling leaves, no distant chirping of birds, just the two of you under the fading light.

“Diluc…” you began, but you didn’t know how to finish.

He looked away first, his ears tinged red. “It’s getting late. I should walk you home.”

Your heart sank at the abrupt shift, but you nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”

As the two of you walked back toward Mondstadt, the silence was comfortable, yet filled with the words neither of you dared to say. You stole glances at him, wondering if he could hear the rapid thrum of your heart.

And as Diluc walked beside you, his hand brushing against yours ever so slightly, he wondered the same thing.

Days turned into weeks, and the memory of that sunset evening lingered like a half-forgotten dream. Every shared glance with Diluc made your heart race, every accidental brush of his hand left you aching for more, but neither of you said anything.

You told yourself it was for the best. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if confessing ruined the years of friendship you cherished so much?

But your heart had other plans.

It was another quiet evening at the Dawn Winery, this time in the cozy warmth of the study. The crackling of the fireplace filled the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You sat in the armchair across from Diluc, clutching a cup of tea he had prepared.

“I’m surprised you had time for this,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “Doesn’t Master Diluc always have work to do?”

He glanced at you over the rim of his cup, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I can make time for important things.”

You nearly choked on your tea, heart skipping a beat. Was that a compliment? Did he mean you? Shaking your head, you forced yourself to focus on the fire instead of his piercing crimson eyes.

But the moment wouldn’t let you go.

“Diluc,” you said softly, almost without thinking.

He hummed in response, setting his cup down. “What is it?”

Your grip tightened on the porcelain, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I think I love you.”

The weight of your confession crashed into you like a thunderclap. Your eyes widened in panic, your breath catching in your throat as you realized what you’d just said.

“I-I mean—forget I said that!” you stammered, setting the cup down hastily and waving your hands as though you could physically take the words back. “I didn’t mean it, or—no, I did, but not like that, or maybe I did—Oh Archons, just forget it! Please, forget it!”

Diluc blinked, stunned for a moment. Then, to your utter shock, a soft chuckle escaped his lips.

“Why are you laughing?!” you exclaimed, burying your face in your hands.

“I’m laughing,” he said, his voice warm and full of something you couldn’t quite place, “because you’ve just made this much easier for me.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, confused. “What… what do you mean?”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze soft but unwavering. “I’ve felt the same way about you for a long time.”

You froze, the world tilting on its axis. “You’re joking,” you said flatly, shaking your head. “You’re not serious.”

“Do I look like someone who would joke about this?” he asked, raising a brow.

You hesitated, searching his face for any hint of insincerity, but all you saw was quiet certainty. “You… really mean it?”

Instead of answering with words, Diluc closed the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek gently, giving you plenty of time to pull away, but you didn’t. His lips pressed against yours, soft and sure, like a promise made in silence.

The kiss stole the breath from your lungs, and when he finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“Does that convince you?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.

You could only nod, too overwhelmed to form words.

He smiled—a rare, genuine smile that made your chest feel impossibly warm. “Good,” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Because I don’t plan on letting you forget it.”

wanderer.

The sharp scent of antiseptic stings your nose as Wanderer kneels in front of you, his deft hands busy cleaning the gash on your arm. His touch is precise and gentle, yet his words sting more than the wound ever could.

"Do you have any idea how reckless you are? You’re a complete idiot, you know that?" His indigo eyes bore into yours, sharp as a blade, but there's something softer hidden behind his glare. "What were you thinking, throwing yourself into danger like that?"

"I was trying to help," you mutter weakly, unable to meet his gaze.

"Help?" His voice rises, then falls into a low, simmering growl. "You call this helping? Getting yourself hurt like this? You could have—" He cuts himself off, a rare flicker of vulnerability breaking through his irritation.

He sighs, exasperated, and reaches for the bandages. "Hold still," he orders.

The bandage feels cool against your skin as he carefully wraps it around your arm, his hands so steady and gentle that you almost forget the scolding. His fingers brush over your skin with deliberate tenderness, and the contrast between his harsh tone and his delicate touch is almost dizzying.

"You’re so infuriating," he mutters, shaking his head. "Why do you always make me worry like this? It’s like you’re trying to give me a heart attack—if I even had one." His lips twitch into a smirk at his own sarcasm, but the worry behind his words is unmistakable.

"I'm sorry," you say softly, daring to glance up at him.

He pauses, his hands stilling as his eyes meet yours. For a moment, the air is thick with unspoken emotions. Then, with a sigh, he leans in, his forehead briefly pressing against yours. "You really are an idiot," he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost affectionate.

Before you can respond, he tilts your chin up and presses a kiss to your lips. It's firm, lingering, and filled with a quiet desperation that he’d never put into words.

When he pulls away, his glare returns, but it’s less convincing now. "Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you. Next time, stay out of trouble—or I’ll tie you to a tree until the danger’s gone. Got it?"

You can't help but laugh, even though it earns you a half-hearted scowl. "Got it."

"Good," he says, wrapping the final bandage with a precise knot. Then, to your surprise, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. "Because if you pull something like this again, I won’t just scold you—I’ll haunt you. Permanently."

Despite his words, the way he cups your cheek and presses a featherlight kiss to your temple tells you all you need to know about how deeply he cares.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

@amalythea 2024. | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

[tokkiwrites]

Adstrum in ruinas. | part one.

General Marcus Acacius × F ! Reader

• summary: After your father’s sudden death, the general starts spending more time with you. At first, it feels strange, but as you come to learn, he isn't that big a brute everyone thinks he is.

• kind of slow burn ??, age gap (unspecified), forbidden love, marcus is pretty positive and in love, and he's cute, mutual pining, mentions of death, lmk if i missed anything.

• tokkis note: This is the first part of a little fic i wanted to write. the nsfw smut part will be in part two since this part already has almost 4k words. i just wanted a little backstory, so who knows... if you guys enjoy this part, maybe i will make it into a short series. i have lots of ideas. anyways, enjoy!!!

The palace felt colder after your father’s death. Though the sun still danced across the walls, nothing could have warmed you.

He had always been a quiet man, steady in his craft and in his love for you. You had grown up watching his hands work leather as though it were clay, each stitch meticulous, each touch with purpose. He had poured his life into the emperor’s court, shaping beauty out of necessity, and yet, when his time had come, they had discarded him without hesitation.

Accused of theft, he had been taken swiftly, the charges flimsy, the judgment quick. You had not been allowed to speak on his behalf. No one had. And when his life ended on the blade of the emperor’s justice, the world moved on as though he had never existed. You had not cried when they took him. There had been no time, no space for grief within the stone walls of the palace. Instead, you swallowed it whole, the ache settling deep within your chest, cold and unforgiving. You could not cry. In a way, crying was admitting to the gods that he was no longer, so you did not dare slip one tear. Let the pain seethe.

No one spoke his name. To your face, at least. Not until General Marcus Acacius.

You had known his name long before you ever knew his face. The empire’s greatest general, a man whose victories had carved Rome’s borders, who had spilled oceans of blood in the emperor’s name. He was the kind of man you had only seen from afar—untouchable, his presence a thing of myths whispered amongst men. To you, he was just that: a man. A cruel one.

So when he first appeared in the apothecary, you almost did not believe it was him. “The town speaks of… you,” he said, voice filling the room like the low roll of thunder. You turned sharply, the pestle slipping from your grasp. He stood in the doorway, tall and broad, his figure framed by the dim light spilling in from the corridor. His tunic was torn, a gash running across his arm where blood had soaked through. “So I heard,” he continued, stepping inside, “if it is true—”

“Oh, yes, I—yes, it is true,” you stammered, fumbling for words. His presence unsettled you, though you could not say why. Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered or faint something in his tone. It was different this time. “I understand. You have my condolences,” he said. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Something in your heart fluttered. “Thank you, General.” He was not a monster. Not here with you, not now, at least. It seemed sincere enough. You looked him up and down. Why did the blood keep on trickling? For a moment, you thought he might say more, but he simply gestured to his arm. “May I trouble you for assistance?” No monster.

At first, you thought nothing of his visits.

They were sporadic, a few days apart—always under the pretense of some new injury. A cut from a sparring match. A dislocated shoulder. The aches and pains of a soldier’s life. He came to you because it was easier than seeking the palace’s physicians, or so you told yourself. But then the days stretched into weeks, and his appearances grew more frequent.

You noticed the small ways in which he lingered. The way his eyes followed you as you moved about the room, the way his voice softened when he addressed you. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but as the days passed, you found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

For even when he was far, his touch still lingered, you were still drunken on his smell, and his eyes still loved yours.

One evening, as you prepared a salve by the fire, he spoke. “Your father was a great man.” You froze, your hands stilling over the mortar. “I remember his work,” Marcus continued, his voice low. “He made my first pair of riding boots. I was just a young man then.” You swallowed dry, willing your voice to remain steady. “He never spoke of you.”

“No, I suppose he would not have.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, “So why are you telling me this?”

“Because he deserved better,” Marcus said simply. The words struck something deep within you. You looked away, vision blurring as the firelight flickered. Better.

He was all you could think about. Each night, from the first, you would sing sweet, mournful songs to the moon. Maybe it was because you missed your father dearly, and he filled that space up almost perfectly. Or maybe because, when he was with you, he did not seem to be the seven-headed monster all saw him as. Maybe pretending was his virtue.

But you were not the last judgment.

“Why are you always here?” you asked, voice sharper than you intended. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the floor. “Do you not want me here?” A smile played on his lips. “That is not what I said.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I do not understand.” You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “You never cared before. Why now?” His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away. But then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “It is nothing,” he said at last.

“It is not nothing,” you pressed. “You are avoiding the truth.”

He looked at you then, his expression guarded but not unkind. “And if I told you the truth, would you thank me for it? Or curse me for what I know?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “What is it that you mean?” Marcus hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. “Your father,” he said finally. “He did not die because of the charges. He died because they needed a scapegoat. The emperor needed to remind the court what happens when you step out of line.” The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in around you. “You knew?”

“I tried to stop it,” he said quietly. “But there are things even I cannot change.”

You shook your head, the ache in your chest threatening to overwhelm you. “I do not need your protection, Marcus. I do not need anyone’s.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was something raw in his eyes. “But you have it anyway.”

You wanted to be angry with him. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but instead, you stood there, frozen, as he reached for you. His hands were rough, calloused from years of battle, but they cradled your face with a tenderness that left you breathless. You craved it. And you will crave it until the day you are no more.

“I care for you more than I have ever cared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that terrifies me.”

Whatever happened to honor and victory? It was brutal. He was brutal. Raw, bloody, and utterly inhuman. But how could he also be the quiet after the storm? The wind that travels over still waters, the sound of dawn over mountains of dead people? You had to treat him many times, but the wounds he had inside his heart came well over the ones on his skin, you think.

You didn’t want to think of him—Marcus, with his dark eyes and the way they seemed to unravel you each time they met your own. But he lingered, even when he wasn’t here. He lingered in the soft creak of the door, the faint scent of leather and iron that clung to the air after he’d gone. It wasn’t fair, how much space he took in your thoughts. How much warmth he brought into this cold, empty life. You hated him for it. You hated yourself more.

“You work too hard.” You glanced up, startled by the suddenness of his words. He was seated by the fire, his armor stripped away, leaving only the simple tunic beneath. His shoulders were broad, his posture commanding even in repose. “You say that as though there’s an alternative,” you replied, turning back to the herbs in your hands.

“You could rest,” he said simply. “And do what? Dream of better days?” The bitterness in your voice surprised even you. Marcus leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You deserve better days.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Finally, you set the pestle down and met his gaze. “Better days won’t bring my father back.”

“No,” he agreed. “But they might give you something to hope for.” You shook your head, unwilling to let yourself be drawn into his optimism. “Hope is for fools, General.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But sometimes, it’s all we have.”

He wanted to hold you, to let his body meld with yours, ask you to run away to far lands. Let him take care of you, make you have his babies. Love you until there's nothing left.

but he couldn't.

“What would you do with better days?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Marcus’s gaze lifted, startled by the question. He leaned back in his chair, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the dim room.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. he did know. he'd spend them with you. oh, silly it all felt. “I stopped imagining them a long time ago.” You paused, your fingers stilling over a jar. “You must have thought about it. When you were younger, before…” You trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. “Before the blood?” he supplied, his tone sharper than you expected. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I did. Once.” still.

“And?”

He hesitated, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And it doesn’t matter. The man I am now... he has no place in better days.” Something in your chest ached at his words, though you couldn’t say why. You wanted to reach for him, to close the distance between you and tell him he was wrong. But you didn’t. Instead, you lowered your gaze and returned to your work, your voice quiet. “That’s a pity.”

The days stretched into weeks, and though you tried to resist, the threads of your lives intertwined in ways you couldn’t untangle. Marcus became a constant presence, his visits no longer marked by the pretense of injuries. He came for you, though neither of you dared to speak it aloud.

Each touch, each glance, was a betrayal of the barriers you had built around yourself. Yet, you let him break them piece by piece, unable to deny the pull that drew you closer.

One night, as the apothecary lay bathed in moonlight, he found you humming an old melody—a song your father had sung on quiet nights. The tune was bittersweet, a memory wrapped in longing. Marcus lingered in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the room.

“I’ve heard that before,” he said softly.

You turned, startled. “My father used to sing it.” He nodded, stepping closer. “It suits you. Beautiful and haunting.” You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I don’t sing much anymore.”

“You should.”

He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scar that ran along his jaw, the one you’d traced with your eyes so many times but never dared to touch. “Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because it’s part of you,” he said simply. “And I want to know all of you.” His words left you breathless, the weight of them settling in your chest. You wanted to pull away, to guard the fragile thing that was growing between you, but you couldn’t.

But people talk.

They talk in whispers that snake through the palace walls, slithering through cracks and beneath doors. Whispers of his visits, of his presence in the apothecary, of the time he lingers where he should not. They do not speak to you directly, but you can feel their words coiling around your throat, tightening with every passing day.

You hear them behind you when you walk through the halls: the sharp staccato of hurried footsteps, the low murmur of voices that stop the moment you turn. You catch glimpses of knowing glances, the way the maids shift their eyes when you enter a room, how the guards avert their gazes.

They all know, and yet they know nothing.

Because what is there to know? You have not touched him beyond necessity, have not dared to let your hand linger when you tend his wounds. And yet, the air between you is thick, suffused with something that neither of you has the courage to name.

“You should not come here anymore,” It was late. The apothecary was empty, save for the two of you. You stood with your back to him, arranging jars on the shelves in some vain attempt to distract yourself from the weight of his presence.

“I will decide what I should or should not do,” Marcus replied, his voice steady. You turned to face him, exasperation rising in your chest. “They talk, Marcus. Do you not see the danger in that? For you— for me?” His expression changed fast. “I cannot stop them from speaking,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “And I will not stop coming.”

“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why do you care what happens to me? Why do you risk so much just to be here?”

He did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked over your face, searching for something, though you could not say what. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy. “Because you deserve better than this,” he said. “Better than what the court has given you. Just... better." You shook your head, chest tightening. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give you,” he said, stepping closer. “For now." But deep down, you knew better.

And you hated him for it, too.

“I see the way you look at me,” he said one night, his voice breaking the silence. You froze, your hands stilling over the poultice you were preparing. “What?”

“Do not deny it,” Marcus said, his tone softer now. “I know that look. I have seen it on too many faces not to recognize it.” You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “And what look is that?”

“The one that says you hate me as much as you try to fight it." The words struck you like a blow, and you turned to face him, your cheeks burning. “I do not—”

“You do,” he said simply, cutting you off. “And I do not blame you for it.”

His gaze was steady, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say more, but instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against your arm. “I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I hope for it, all the same.” You did not hate him. you wish you could, because falling in love wasn't what you wanted right now.

“I think about you,” Marcus admitted, his voice raw. “More than I should. More than is safe.” Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as his words sank in. “You shouldn’t,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. “I know.”

The silence between you stretched.

“But why?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Why do you care now, after all this time? You never gave me an answer, Marcus..."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Because I see you,” he said finally. “And I see myself in you—the parts of me I thought were dead. The parts I’ve tried to bury.” You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “I don’tㅡ Marcus, if this is all a game to you, of things you want to rediscover within you..."

"It is not. I do not intend to play with your heart."

So why does the blood keep on trickling?

They were wildflowers, clearly gathered from the edges of the palace gardens, and they looked out of place in his calloused hands. He held them out awkwardly, his expression somewhere between defiance and vulnerability, as though he expected you to scold him for the gesture. “For you,” he said simply. You stared at them for a moment, then at him. “Why?” you couldn’t help but smile. “Do I need a reason?” His tone was defensive, but the softness in his gaze betrayed him. No monster.

Your fingers brushed against his as you took the flowers, and he flinched almost imperceptibly, as if the touch burned him. “They’re beautiful,” you said. He didn’t reply, but you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch— an almost-smile, there and gone in an instant.

“Are you trying to court me, General?” you asked, half-joking. The question caught him off guard, and he looked at you with something close to panic in his eyes. “No.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Good. You’d be terrible at it.” But the truth was, you didn’t hate the thought.

He started threatening the others after that.

The first time, you hadn’t been there to see it, but you heard about it from one of the maids who whispered to you in passing. “The general,” she said, her eyes wide. “He nearly broke Marcellus’s arm. All because he said something about you.”

He didn’t deny it. “He should not have said what he did,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “What did he say?”

“It does not matter.”

“Marcus—”

“It does not matter,” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “What matters is that he will not say it again.”

You wanted to argue with him, to tell him he couldn’t go around threatening people in your name. But the truth was, a part of you was glad. A part of you wanted him to protect you. He didn’t just watch over you—he hovered, his presence a constant shadow that both comforted and unnerved you. When he wasn’t by your side, you found yourself looking for him, craving his presence like air. And when he was with you, you felt safer than you had since your father’s death.

Days passed, and though you told yourself you should push him away, you could not.

He was always there, like a storm on the horizon—inevitable, impossible to ignore. You felt his presence even when he was not near, his voice echoing in your mind, his touch lingering on your skin.

You hated yourself for it. Hated the way your heart leapt when you heard his footsteps, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed yours. You tried to convince yourself it meant nothing, that it was a passing infatuation born of grief and the fact that he so happened to be there. You tried to convince yourself that the soft yearning in your chest was fleeting. A passing fancy, born of loneliness and the way Marcus had carved out a space in your world so effortlessly.

But as the days turned to weeks, the intensity of your feelings betrayed you. Every glance he cast your way lingered. Every word he spoke seemed to reverberate in your mind long after it had been said.

And every time his hand brushed against yours—whether by accident or intent—it felt as if the earth shifted beneath your feet.

It was one of those moments now. The two of you stood side by side in the apothecary, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. He was reaching for a jar of herbs on the shelf above, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned closer.

Your breath hitched, and you stepped back quickly, your movements too sharp, too sudden. “Am I in your way?” Marcus asked, his voice low and amused. “No,” you said hastily, turning to busy yourself with a mortar and pestle. “Not at all.” He did not move, and you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unwavering. “You always do that,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful.

“Do what?”

“Step away.” You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. There was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle insistence. “You step away as if the space will make it easier. But it does not, does it?” Your fingers tightened around the pestle. “Marcus—”

“I feel it too,” he said, cutting you off. The words hung between you, raw and unvarnished. You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You should not say that.”

“Why not? Because it is the truth?” He stepped closer, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Because I look at you and I can think of nothing else? Because when I leave here, all I want is to come back?”

“Marcus, stop.” Your voice was trembling now, a plea more than a command. “I cannot stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I do not think you can, either.” The room seemed to shrink around you, the air charged with something that felt too big for your soul to understand. “Tell me to leave,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “If this is too much, if I have crossed a line, say the word, and I will go.” You opened your mouth, the words on the tip of your tongue. But they would not come. Because no matter how much you told yourself this was dangerous, reckless, wrong. you did not want him to go.

You did not step back this time. “I cannot,” you whispered, the words breaking free like a confession. His breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then he reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I do not know how to do this,” you said, your voice trembling. “I do not know what happens now.”

what is this pandora box you have opened?

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw and consuming, as though he’d been holding back a storm and now it was unleashed. His hands slid to frame your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his lips claimed yours. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt. And, oh, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your hands found his tunic, clutching the fabric as though it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His scent filling your lungs, his warmth, the feel of him, it was too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t…”

“You did,” you whispered, your own voice shaky. “And I didn’t stop you.” His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. I swear it.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. But then you shook your head, your hand lifting to brush against his cheek. “I wil not say it.” His eyes closed briefly, as though your words had physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were softer, full of something you couldn’t name but felt in every corner of your soul.

“Then I am yours,” he murmured. “For as long as you’ll have me.” You leaned up, your lips brushing against his once more. A promise, a surrender, a beginning.

[ladypiscesmoon]

I promised you all an update for Timmy and Armie: Consider it a little Christmas present. Happy Christmas to you all, mine starts tomorrow night, Christmas Eve, because I have a danish mother in law and the danish tradition is having dinner with the family and presents on Christmas Eve.

I got two new decks today in a beautiful shop here in the Netherlands, one of my favorites because they have so many beautiful things and good quality decks.

*the following reading is alleged/for entertainment purposes only*

Twin flame Ascension take me home oracle deck:

Armie: 11:11 Twin Flame/everything is possible, 4:4 Transformation/battle of Head vs. Heart

(4:4= alignment with your guides, 11:11=alignment with your beloved)

Armie wants to stand his ground, but his heart and his head are in a constant battle. I feel he knows his love for Timmy is not going away, it's a very unconditional type of love. Even if he knows that it would be easier to move on, he hesitates to let go fully. This love between them has the potential to be one of the greatest I have witnessed in my life and I think Armie feels it, but he wants to be taken seriously and be loved.

Timmy: 1:1 Acknowledge/take responsibility, 3:3 soul merger/ebb and flow

(1:1 =balance between your inner masculine and feminine energies, 3:3= alignment with your higher self)

Timmy has to focus on finding balance within. He feels all over the place at the moment. As ever, his back to back workload is an avoiding strategy, but it exhausts him AND delays reunion with his true love. He's got to accept the natural rhythm of life and the fact that it constantly changes. he's got to take responsibility for his actions and come to terms with what no longer works in his life. He alone has the power to change things in his life, if he makes these changes he will get what his heart desires. he has to connect again with his inner soul and what sets his soul on fire, so his future will be brighter.

Modern Lenormand deck:

the garden/the rider/the stars/the clouds/the mice/the fish

celebrating someones arrival

celebrating a birthday

all will work out for the best

improving confusion

something eating away over time

anxiety

stress

disease

arguments

financial loss

theft of money

Lots to unpack: it's a bit messy and contradictory.

I feel Armie is going back and forward in his head; what is he going to do about Timmy's birthday. I think they will not meet at Christmas probably. Too many hurdles and too much uncertainty about where they stand with each other. But not reaching out to Tim on his birthday is something Armie is not to keen on, even though they're not on the best of terms right now. , because it will hurt Timmy tremendously. He doesn't want to hurt him.

Timmy is all over the place. He has worked too hard and feels a bit manic to be honest. He really has to slow down after this campaign but knowing him he tries to forget his troubles by avoiding talking about them and by running away and working.

I'm not sure, but there seems to be some financial loss, or possibly a theft of money for Timmy.

Light shadow tarot: four of pentacles/knight of swords/seven of swords/ten of cups/eight of cups/ten of pentacles

Both want to keep things private, but it's Timmy particularly I felt when I pulled those cards. He wants to have this love, but he knows it will cost him other things and he's afraid. He's not the best at dealing with his intense feelings and he is ambitious, but I think he will see soon that it's not all that glamorous to have a lot of attention, or be famous because it makes him feel like he lost an important part of himself and in a way he mourns that too. He really does feel fu*d up at the moment, I think he has to rest, think what is important to him in life. I know he works hard, but particularly in the last year, he feels isolated and anxious. Gosh, I feel for him. It's not easy to come into fame so quickly and so young I understand why he's in doubt about a lot of things.

Having said that I feel Armie as well. He doesn't want bullshit like that in his life anymore. And why should he? It has cost him a great deal.

What do they want to say to each other?

the love angels oracle cards:

Tim to Armie: Put yourself first/forgive and release

He acknowledges that Armie has to put himself first and he loves him for being that strong now, but he also hopes Armie will forgive him.

Armie to Timmy: free yourself/twin flame

twin flame twice in one reading!I think Armie realizes it's not so easy to move on from Timmy. He wants Timmy to choose himself, to let go of the pressure to be successful at all costs.

twin flame love notes: top: Timmy, bottom Armie

[beuxwhoyouare]

Escaping Holiday Responsibilities

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and all the boys. And who can forget about singing Hanerot Halalu after lighting the menorah. There’s symbols and entities representing all of the holidays. But outside of the season we enjoy our peace and quiet. Sometimes though a season is so rough you can’t really blame an entity for wanting to get away.

I may or may not be Santa Claus. I’d say the best perk about the gig is that when the time comes you’re almost guided to your successor who then dons the classic look. So it’s a give and take. I mean having the power to fulfill lists of gifts you desire is great, but acquiring the look of a tubby bearded old man isn’t all that. The coolest thing though is you may not know it, but just because you don’t write a list doesn’t mean you don’t have holiday desires. I can still deliver gifts based on the list you make in your hearts. Cute as hell right? I’m basically a mind reader!

Before all this Claus business, I was unemployed and recently divorced when I received the call to step into the good ol boots. So a gig is a gig. I took it and ran, but that was like 30 years ago. So now once I retire I’m actually gonna look old and ragged.

So there I was last night delivering gifts at this random place in Chicago. Doing my best to stay quiet, delivering gifts as low key as possible when CRAAAAAACK! I stepped on a large glass ornament I somehow missed. I thought I was in the clear after no one came to check what happened and as I headed on my way out a baseball bat swung at my head.

I took the hit like a champ but when I turned around to see I saw a man standing there in black sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt with the bat ready to swing again.

“Ho ho hey hey wait. I’m literally Santa.” I whisper yelled while showing snowy crystals come out of my glove.

Right as he began to swing again I pulled more tricks out of my hat.

“I know your name is Russell O’Connor. You got a gunmetal tricycle as a 4 year old because you thought the red ones the store had were tacky and wanted to look tough!”

That’s when he stopped mid-swing.

“How-how did you know that pervert? Have you been watching me for years?”

I began to hear his inner list….a young man now in his mid-20s regretting his life decisions to get a girl knocked up as a teen? Interesting. He desires to get away from the so-called mess he made.

“I can offer you a way out of the mess you made. If that’s what your true hearts wish is this Christmas?!” I pleaded to not be beaten once again.

“How do you know what I want freak?”

“Bro I’m Santa, I know when you’ve been like bad or good and whatever. Listen do you want to get away from the mess you made or what?”

“Yes okay but like how are you going to do it? You’re not going to kill me or anything?”

“Honestly no one’s really ever wished for this so I gotta be able to do it somehow. That’s the Santa magic!”

“Okay let’s go for it. Do it! Get me out of here!”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my gloved hands together and then pulled them apart. As I pulled them apart a spark started forming but I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I tried to hold it steady but before I knew it, the spark grew too wild to control. The energy then turned white and exploded.

There was a ringing and we both yelled but then black.

When I woke up I found myself pushing up from a bed? That’s weird I don’t remember finishing all my deliveries. I reached up to scratch my beard but instead of my long luscious white beard a more close shaved beard grazed my hand. Wait where are my gloves? And my beard?

I looked down at the bed I didn’t recognize before looking back up to walk over to a nearby restroom with the night light on. The dim glow painted a picture I couldn’t believe. Surely I’m dreaming?

I fumbled around the foreign room before locating the light switch, only to have the bright lights confirm what I was seeing. I raised both arms and posed….

“No fucking way!?” The cursing surprised me, being a Claus the job prevents your mouth from ever even forming a curse word.

I’m Russell? But the Santa step down process just returns you to your normal self not swaps you with someone? How did this? Could my desires have matched with his conflicting my magics intent?

I lifted the shirt barely hiding anything of my new body I now resided in. Woah…I wasn’t much of a gym person in my former life but maybe there’s reason to be. I mean look at this beef? I reached my muscular hand up to my new proud chest and squeezed. Ahhh grazing my new nipple I revealed a new found sensitivity I never previously had. Looks like that’s going to be fun, I nearly salivated.

I can do adult things again and live a life again! No more having to spend months working to achieve someone else’s dreams. Or maybe I’ll fulfill other dirtiest dreams. I mean this body should go to work somehow.

I’m sure OnlyFans would love to see how thick I am everywhere. It’s time to be a family man settle down the right way and make a good living by selling the best gift I’ve ever given myself.

My new tool hardening nearly pulling down my sweatpants waistband itself. I grabbed it before taking a peak at my new equipment. Ohhhhh looks like I’ll still be delivering gifts to quite a few people in different ways with this beer can.

[zepskies]

Against the Wind - Part 3

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Merry Christmas! I'm dropping this chapter a day early for you guys. Now, here's the full story, and what Dean is going to do about it…

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, mentions of blood, hint of spice.~

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Part 3: Nothing Left to Burn

“We should start heading back,” you say, looking up at the mid-afternoon sky. It was starting to dip toward the top of the trees in the distance. “It’s going to take a couple of hours to get back before nightfall.”

“Yep, it’s about that time.” Your dad groans as he starts to haul himself back to his feet, where you two had been taking a rest against a tree. “Jesus, I need a new pair of knees. Help your old man, would ya?”

You smirk as you help the middle-aged alpha to his feet. His joints pop and his back cracks as he stretches his arms high.

“Damn, Dad. You’re creakier than the trees,” you quip.

He tosses you a wry look. “Just you wait. In a few years, after wrangling a couple of pups, you’re gonna feel my pain.”

“A few years?” you laugh. “Did I miss the part where I actually met a decent guy, let alone one worth mating?”

“Oh, you’ll find him,” your dad nods, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. “Or he’ll find you, like your mother did with me.”

You follow his lead with your own rifle, falling into step with him through the forest clearing. It’s a beautiful day in late November. Already you can see the edge of frost on the shrubs and half-barren trees. The ground is littered with dead leaves painted in browns, oranges, and dappled with reds.

“You met her in college. It’s not like you guys defied fate,” you say.

“Yeah, but if she hadn’t walked into my psychology class by mistake, and stolen my latte at the campus café, maybe you wouldn’t be here,” he teases. 

You huff and roll your eyes. Yes, your parents are a walking cliché. And by far, your dad’s the bigger sap.

“I’m telling you. Sometimes, the universe does us a solid,” he says, reinforcing his point with a literal pointed finger your way. You push it away from your face in exasperation.

“You might wanna watch where you’re going,” you say, “before you roll your ankle on another pebble.”

“You kidding me?” he exclaims. “That thing was the size of my fist! You’re lucky I didn’t break an ankle. Make you carry me all the way back to the car.”

You snort. “Right. Think I’ll just leave you for the bears…”

You trail off when a sound reaches you and your father. The sound of leaves crunching in the underbrush, quick and light. Your father’s shoulders straighten with alertness, the alpha’s head cocking toward the sound.

“Maybe I spoke too soon about the bears,” you whisper. He shakes his head.

“Nah, too light. It’s probably an elk.” He tosses you a smile. “We’ll have one hell of a haul to bring home, plus a good story to tell your mom.”

Your mother, the vegan veterinarian?

“Yeah, because she loves elk meat.”

“Would you quit being a smartass for two minutes? You go a little west. I’ll see where it’s at,” he says.

He quietly wracks his rifle and steps away from the clearing, farther into the woods. You do what he says, veering west. You don’t see the elk, and soon enough, you don’t see your dad either. You do hear a whistling on the wind, and the cold of it cuts right through your coat.

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

“Go, get out of here!” he shouts and waves you off.

“What? What is it?!” you yell.

He shakes his head, like he’s unable to answer your question. “Run! Run and don’t stop!”

He moves further into the denser trees until you can no longer make him out. With a frustrated huff, you sprint down the hill and try to follow his tracks with your gun at the ready. On the wind, in the distance, you still hear his voice.

Until it cuts off abruptly, along with the terrible cracking of bone.

You gasp and halt in your steps. What the fuck was that?

Tears fill your eyes and blur your vision. Despite what you heard, you realize just how very alone you are in the clearing. Fear and adrenaline make your breath tremulous and shallow, but you can’t just give up. You search for a while longer, making yourself hoarse calling out to your father.

No matter what direction you take, you never find him.

“I ran back to town to get the rangers,” you say, brushing a couple of stray tears from your cheeks. You sniff, licking your lips and swallowing a hard lump of emotion in your throat.

Dean continues to listen intently with his brows furrowed.

“It was too late,” you sigh. “He disappeared. They explained it away, thought a grizzly bear got him, but I know it wasn’t a damn bear.” 

You shake your head as the tears come harder and faster, all over again. Dean’s jaw clenches in sympathy.

“No one believed me about what I heard, not even my mom,” you confess. Your mother had been too distraught to entertain “anything else.” No matter how strongly you’d felt about your suspicions, you understood that she just wanted to put your father’s death behind her after his funeral. Part of you had stopped believing yourself. 

A stronger part of you hadn’t been able to let it go, however. So you had to come back here and try to find any trace of your father. 

When you finally run out of words, you see the proverbial gears turning in Dean’s eyes. 

“What’re you thinking?” you hazard to ask. You can’t help but reach out and grab at his wrist. “Do you…do you believe me?”

Dean’s gaze softens a fraction. He lays his larger hand over yours.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I’m willing to bet on what took him too.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets you go and gets up from his seat. He soon returns with his father’s journal in hand. He reclaims his spot across from you, sitting close to your thigh on the end of the chaise. His gaze falls away from your face to the journal in hand, and he flips it open to a page he knows from memory. You suck in a subtle breath to steel yourself when he turns it toward you—to the very page that had given you nightmares the first night you read it. 

Wendigo. 

“Nasty son of a bitch,” he says. “It hibernates for decades at a time, but when it surfaces, it knows how to get through long winters like this. It takes a handful of people at a time, feeding on its victims slow.”

You feel sick at that, but still, his words elicit a sliver of hope.

“So there’s a chance he could still be alive,” you say, in a brighter voice. Dean gives you a measured look, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “It’s been months, right?”

You nod, though you realize what he’s saying. Don’t get your hopes up.

“But there’s a chance,” you insist, with tears in your eyes. Dean holds your gaze for a moment, and he nods. He squeezes your knee this time, then shuts the journal with one hand as he moves to stand.

You follow him on your crutches over to the kitchen. He pulls out a drawer and retrieves a folded-up map. Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, he opens up the map and lays it out flat next to the sink. It’s a map of the mountain, and the entire forest surrounding the mountain of Big Sky. Dean’s eyes flick up to yours.

“Where did it happen?”

Dean has packed up his supplies and put on his winter gear. You watch him from the living room sofa, trying to hide your unease. You know he’s doing this for you, but there’s part of you that doesn’t want to see him leave, for his own sake, and selfishly for yours.

“Try not to go outside again unless you absolutely friggin’ have to,” he warns. “And if you do, don’t go too far. Make sure you take a weapon, preferably a gun and a knife.”

“Dean, I know,” you reply. You get up and hover by the couch while he finishes lacing his snowshoes and hooks his backpack on. You’re unable to hide your concern.

“You shouldn’t be going out there alone,” you say. 

Dean tosses you a grin. It has the shade of how he was with you before the “journal” incident—self-assured, a hint teasing.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t exactly my first solo mission,” he says, though his devil-may-care attitude soon subsides into something more serious. “If I’m not back inside a week, you need to ration out the supplies here as best you can. That new meat in the fridge should last you a while.”

By new meat, you have to assume he means the bear.

“When you’re healed up, you can make your way down the mountain and back to town with that map I left for you. Kitchen counter,” he says.

Your frown worsens. You step closer to him with the pretense of closing and locking the front door for him after he leaves.

“Dean,” you say, stopping him at the door. He turns to look at you over his shoulder. You hesitate, fidgeting slightly, but you gain your courage.

“If you don’t come back, I’m going to find you,” you warn him.

Dean frowns. He turns to you fully and tilts his head as if to say, come again?

“No, you’re not, Omega. You understand me?”

His terseness doesn’t scare you anymore. You glare up at him, quite literally standing your ground.

“You didn’t leave me out there when you didn’t even know me. You think I’d do that to you?” you counter.

At that, Dean has to pause, tilting his head slightly. He almost smiles at your stubbornness, and just like that, his annoyance dissipates. It softens him, making him reach for your arm in an assuring squeeze.

“I appreciate the thought, but trust me. I’d rather you look out for you,” he says.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about what he’d rather, but you don’t say so. It’s written across your face anyway. Dean’s mouth tugs at a smile.

“All right, I’m out,” he says. “Save me some of Yogi in there.”

You huff, but you shut the door behind him after he steps out onto the porch, down the steps, and beyond. You move to the living room window and watch him get farther and farther away from the cabin. 

Despite the crackling fireplace, you begin to feel cold inside. 

After the first three days, you’ve managed to clean the entire cabin, top to bottom. With the “new meat,” you make a large batch of soup to last you throughout the week. You freeze a couple of servings for Dean.

For when he gets back. 

You try to fill up your time in other ways, like attempting, and failing, and trying again more successfully to make bread from scratch. You haven’t binge-watched every season of The Great British Bake-Off for nothing.

Then you organize all of the alpha’s books by author. You wash all the laundry you can find and fold everything neatly on his bed, and you put away the couple of sweaters you’ve borrowed from him into your own dresser. 

On Day Four, you create a nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of the living room floor. In your anxiety, it’s a reflex you can’t help. Your initial instinct was to nest in his room, but you thought that was too invasive of his privacy, so the living room was your next best option. At least his scent is still somewhat imbued into his favorite chair, and around his records. (You do steal another shirt of his to sleep with though.)

On Day 8, your worry becomes a living thing. You pace the living room and the kitchen on your crutches, probably wearing down the wooden ends of them while you debate what to do. Despite what Dean told you to do if he didn’t get back, you know you’re not just going to leave him out there. But the reality is, you have a problem of mobility.

With a frustrated huff, you decide to try setting your problem foot down normally. Your ankle hurts, a sharp pain shooting up your calf and nearly sending you to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasp, both in shock and aggravation.

You know this isn’t just a sprain. At best it could be a fracture, since no bone is protruding under the skin. It still means you shouldn’t go after him either. 

But you’ll have to try. 

After you manage to clamber back onto your feet using the crutches, you put together some supplies, including the extra med kit in case he’s hurt. (Or in case something happens to you while you’re out there.) This is a bad idea, you think, even as you heave on your jacket.

Then, you hear the sound of a lock turning, before the front door shoves open. 

A yelp of surprise escapes you, though you soon realize that it’s Dean, looking worn down and ragged, but alive. 

“Home, sweet home,” he says wryly, but he looks relieved to see you too.

You help him sink down onto the chaise, where he stretches out with a groan. He tips his head back on the cushion. His jacket is torn in a few places. Blood has dried on his cheek, his neck, and near his hairline, and you worry about where else he might be hurt. 

You quickly go to the kitchen and pour a bowl of warm water and grab a hand towel. You bring it all back to Dean, where you set your supplies on the floor and sit down beside him on the cushion.

“Are you okay?” You try to calm down your racing heart (and the nauseous feeling in your stomach) as you help him work open his jacket, followed by his shirt. Discreetly, your eyes take in the expanse of his tanned skin and pebbling nipples exposed to the cool air, even with the fire roaring nearby.

“Yeah, just peachy,” he says. 

You smile a little. You take the towel, dampen it, and begin to clear the blood from his cheek, his neck, and the upper part of his torso—even his scuffed hands. Then you squeegee out the blood in the bowl and continue your task. Dean subtly watches you, his gaze a bit softer than usual.

He eventually looks you over with a frown as he takes in the way you’re dressed, and then the backpack by the door. 

“What, about to go for a little afternoon stroll?” His sarcasm turns to annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put until you can actually walk?”

Your mouth flattens into a line, but any anger you might’ve felt is waylaid by your relief. It brings tears to your eyes. 

“I thought something happened to you,” you say.

Dean hesitates. Your hand has stilled on his chest. He softens a little more, grasping your hand in his larger one. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “The job’s done.”

Your eyes widen. “You found the…thing? The wendigo?”

His mouth pulls at a cocky grin, tempered only by his tiredness, and the way he’s looking at you. “Sure did. Tried to take a chunk outta my ass, but a little aerosol deodorant and a lighter’s all you need to barbecue that ugly son of a bitch.”

You smile in amusement, but all too soon, it fades.

“Did you find my dad?” you ask.

Dean’s expression sobers as well.

“Yeah, I think so.” His face gentles. “Was he wearing a blue puffer jacket?”

Your lips tremble. As that horrible realization dawns, you break down into tears. You already know from his tone that your father was dead when he found him. 

Dean guides you down to him by your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his neck, and your body shakes with quiet sobs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “Believe me, I am.”

He holds you close, warm and secure. He allows you to stay there as long as you need, where you feel safe, even if this world has become a colder, darker place. 

After a few minutes longer, your intense sobs begin to subside. You don’t mean to, but you turn your nose into Dean’s neck, scenting him on reflex. It calms you down, but it has the unintended effect of arousing him. The alpha rumbles in pleasure. 

You blink in surprise and lean back enough to see his face. Dean’s lips press together as he looks down on you; he seems embarrassed, but you also see the heat reflected in his gaze, so intense in those forest greens. Your face begins to warm in a blush.

He brushes your cheek with his thumb, collecting your tears there. You glance down at his plush lips again, your own parting with a breath. His hand moves to cup your cheek, framing the side of your face. Please…

He finally drags you to him in a kiss. 

It’s heady and passionate, and also comforting. Your fingers wind into his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growls as his arm tightens around your waist. You shiver in delight.

You press a hand to the center of his chest, giving you leverage to rise up and slide your thigh over his legs. There you sink into his lap. Your breasts pillow against his chest when you lay on top of him, your elbows digging into the cushion on either side of his head. His hands move down your body, feeling down your sides, squeezing your hips, and then your ass. You hum into his mouth and roll your hips into his. Already you feel him hardening through his jeans.  

But somehow he breaks away from your kiss, even though your hands are still in his hair. 

“Sorry…we can’t do this,” he says, with difficulty.

He sits upright and nearly makes you fall over in the process. He grabs your arm before you tip over, but he keeps himself at arm’s length from you after you’re forced to slide off his lap, sitting on the end of the chaise instead. Your eyes glisten with hurt and confusion. 

“Why?” is all you can ask.

He doesn’t want to answer. 

“Dean?” you ask, inching towards him. He raises a hand to keep you at bay.

“Just…it’s not a good idea, okay?” he says, with the clenching of his jaw.

That cuts into you even more. Your heart pulses with pain.

“Do you know what your scent is to me?” you ask, in a voice slightly trembling. You glance at the fireplace that has dimmed to embers. “It’s better than that fire at full blaze. Every time I went camping with my dad, that’s what I loved the most. Sitting by that fire, talking, laughing, and for the millionth time, telling the story of when I gave my sister micro bangs in her sleep when I was ten.”

You wipe a stray tear from your eye, but you respect the distance he’s put between you two.

“The second I met you, I knew what this was,” you say. “I think you know it too.”

Dean shakes his head. His face betrays his wariness, his desire, and his obstinance. 

“Look…even if that’s true, you don’t want this with me,” he says. His handsome face becomes marred by a frown, his brows knitting together. “I don’t even own this place. Besides my car, I ain’t got much of anything to give.”

You shake your head in dismay. “I know that’s not true.”

“I’m not bullshitting,” he says. “Listen…I’ve never had much. And what I did have, I found a way to lose. I’ve let my people down. Just about everyone I’ve ever…”

You can’t help but reach out a hand for him, your heart hurting, but he leans away, pressing himself back against the seat. It cuts even deeper into you; now though, you wonder if it’s because he feels the same gut feeling you do when he’s this close—close enough to touch, but almost afraid of the burn.

“They’ve been hurt, almost always because of me.” His voice shakes imperceptibly, with a wry, humorless turn of his lips. “So take it from me, sweetheart. You’ll wanna steer clear.”  

“Dean,” you say. You expel a breath, digesting his words, while thinking of what you want to say.

“I’ve never not felt safe with you,” you confess. “Even when I screwed up and drove you crazy, I’m sure, I knew you’d never hurt me. The same way I know…”

You reach out a tentative hand to lay in the center of his chest, over his heart. Your thumb brushes the edge of his strange tattoo, over the dark ink in his skin. 

“You’re my mate. My one, true mate in this world,” you say, meeting his eyes. “And I want to know you.”

You see inner conflict in the depths of Dean’s eyes, dark green and troubled. You take a chance and lean in, brushing your cheek against his, nuzzling, laying a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“Omega,” he warns, but the grit in his voice has little heat.

Or at least, it’s heat of a different kind, as his strong hands once again find your waist. They hold you still, but also hold you to him. Your gentle affection is making him ache, deep in the shadowy cavern of his chest. He’d never admit it, but loneliness had set in there, burrowed deep with a stronghold on his heart. Without knowing, you’ve been carving it out with those gentle hands. 

You now slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, warm palms on his skin. 

“Alpha, I want to know you,” you insist. Quiet, but steady, your voice is a mere brush of words near his ear, against his cheek. “Please.” 

Dean’s brows furrow as he briefly shuts his eyes tight. With your whispered plea, the brittle chain of his restraint finally snaps free. 

He cradles the back of your head and guides you back into a feverish kiss.

AN: Sorry to cut it off there lol, but the big (steamy) finale is coming up next week! Perhaps a little earlier than Friday. 😘

Next Time:

“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.

You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

Your lips curve upwards in return.

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[profoundbondfanfic]

More Holiday fic recs!

-Part 3 of 5-

Angel Cookies by noxsoulmate (Explicit, 245k words)

“On Christmas Eve, if you eat Angel Cookies right before bed and then dream of your one true love, he will be your destiny.” The Shurley clan sure believe their old family legend, but not Castiel James – not since he was a pudgy teenager, running down the church aisle on Christmas Day, trying to stop his very handsome and very straight teacher Dean Winchester from marrying someone else. He may be grown-up, well-toned, bestselling Young Adult’s book author “C. S. James” now, but Castiel will never forget that day. And he’ll never fall foolishly in love again, especially not for Dean Winchester. But when the wish for a big family Christmas from his sick father brings him back home, Castiel has to confront his past. And not only that: a letter from a little fan from his home town is weighing heavy on his conscience. Reaching out to a troubled kid might endanger his secret identity. Adding to the problem is the shock of discovering that Dean is the little girl’s father – unattached and hotter than ever. Dean’s smile still makes Castiel melt, but Castiel knows that ship has sailed. The fact that Dean seems to be on board this time, however, doesn’t make it any easier for him.

I Won't Even Wish for Snow by Annie D (scaramouche) (Teen and Up, 6k words)

It’s the third year that Castiel’s spending Christmas with his best friend’s family, and he expects it to be much like the previous two. Then mistletoe happens.

Nine Times We Met (And One Christmas We Parted) by almaasi (Explicit, 58k words)

On the last day of school before Christmas vacation, Mr. Castiel Quinn discovers that one of his young students has smuggled male pornography into the classroom. Upon being told that the photos belong to the boy's uncle, Castiel vows to himself that he will keep the other man's preferences a secret. It's 1947; a man experiencing attraction to another man or fantasising about his sexual touch are transgressive faults, which could potentially result in imprisonment - or worse. But then the uncle walks in. The photos are of him: Dean Winchester, a rogue with an empty pocket and a child to feed. Castiel doesn't know it yet, but his life is never going to be the same again. Years pass between chance meetings, but even though they live their lives apart, Dean and Castiel's story is proof that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.

One for Each Night by VioletHaze (Explicit, 3k words)

A chance look at a Chanukah display in a shop window takes Dean back a quarter of a century to a childhood memory he thought he’d forgotten. Cas can’t change what happened then, but he finds a way to make sure Dean has a new, happier association with the holiday. Dean knows just how to thank him.

Serendipity by whelvenwings (General audiences, 23k words)

Stuck on opposite sides of the country, Dean and Cas make big sacrifices to be together at a special time of the year. However, when they realise that their joint idea of paying a surprise visit to each other's faraway home has left them still trapped miles away from each other, they have to find some way to meet in the middle - and it has to be before midnight if it's going to be perfect…

T'was the Night Before Christmas by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett (xaandria) (Teen and Up, 1k words)

Surgical tech Dean and vascular surgeon Cas share their first Christmas -- but they've only been together a handful of days.

The Secret Santa of Cubicle Land by followyourenergy (General audiences, 4k words)

Castiel Novak has never loved the workplace Secret Santa tradition, but he loves watching his coworker (and his very straight, secret crush) Dean Winchester’s enthusiastic responses to his daily gifts. Dean is so enthusiastic that he declares he’s going to ask his Secret Santa on a date. They’re both in for a surprise.

where you lead, I will follow by teacass (Fushigi) (General audiences, 6k words)

“Cas,” Dean says. “Light of my life. The sole provider of my happiness. The reason I get up in the morning. The bestest friend I have ever had. Please, give me coffee.” -- Or five Christmas Eves Dean had coffee at Cas' cafe, and one Christmas night he didn't. A small Gilmore Girls AU with coffee, Christmas trees, and first kisses.

[starmocha]

and this year i promise [Rafayel/Reader ★ 1220 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Impromptu Christmas shopping with Rafayel. Day 01 — to: my true love (Sylus/Reader) Day 02 — do you want to build a snowman? (it doesn't have to be a snowman) (Zayne/Reader) Day 03 — in a gingerbread house built for two (Rafayel/Reader) Day 04 — you shine like the stars, you light up my heart (Xavier/Reader) Day 05 — ‘tis the damn season and deck them goddamned halls (Sylus/Reader) Day 06 — you're the only one, my love (Zayne/Reader) A/N: Merry Christmas~ Kind of disappointed I ended having to miss a few days of writing and that threw off the whole schedule. :’) But I hope everyone still enjoyed this series. The remaining stories will go up gradually. I still intend to finish at twelve stories in this series. Tag list: @miudle @alfredosaws @nezukoo-channn @voidsylus @rose-tinted-kalopsia 【 request to be added 】

“Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not.”

“Someone’s lying.”

“Rafayel—mmph!”

You glared at Rafayel when he grabbed your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks tightly.

“Quit it!” you protested as you gripped his arm, gasping when he finally released you. You shot a quick glare in his direction, but he shrugged it off.

“I’m not mad,” you repeated firmly before adding quietly, “Just…disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” Rafayel questioned with a confused furrow of his brows. “About what? The Christmas tree?”

“I was hoping…”

“Hoping what?”

“To decorate it together,” you finished meekly, “I didn’t think you were going to hire professionals to do the job…”

“I mean, only because the tree is so tall and…”

“Aren’t you always sitting on that ladder?”

Rafayel discreetly glanced at the ladder he used when he painted. “That’s…different,” he answered vaguely. Noticing you still seemed upset, Rafayel leaned down, forcing your eyes to meet. He smiled. “Is this really that important to you?”

You tried to look away, but Rafayel refused to give you a chance. His finger lifted your chin higher. You nodded reluctantly, a little embarrassed, “Just…a bit.”

“A bit, huh,” he murmured thoughtfully, and then he beamed, exclaiming, “Okay! That settles it!”

Before you could question what Rafayel meant, his hand was already wrapped around your wrist, and soon, he had you sitting in his car, and the two of you were already speeding away to the shopping district in Linkon City.

“Wait, isn’t this too much, Rafayel?” You gasped as he tossed a giant peppermint-shaped throw pillow into the shopping cart. You frowned when a matching candy cane-shaped pillow followed. “This doesn’t seem like your style…”

“You’re right, cutie, it’s going over to your place.”

You gaped at him, and then glared. “Why are you trying to clutter my place with these items?”

You grabbed some of the random Christmas-themed items from the cart to put back on the shelf, but when you turned back around, Rafayel was already tossing new items in, negating your progress. You whined helplessly at him, “Rafayel!”

“What?” he asked, confused, as he leaned against a four-foot wooden nutcracker soldier.

“Don’t you dare put that thing in the cart!”

He glanced at the nutcracker again, and nodded. “You’re right,” he said solemnly, “We should have a sales clerk keep this on hold for us at checkout—”

You quickly pushed the shopping cart away, forcing Rafayel to chase after you.

“Okay, okay!” he rushed past you and then gripped the opposite end of the shopping cart to stop you. He sighed and awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “What do you want then?”

He looked up, appearing embarrassed. You quickly forgotten your earlier exasperation with him, realizing he was doing his best to cheer you up. You smiled. “We don’t have to decorate…it’s not a big deal…”

He walked around, and suddenly you found Rafayel had trapped you between him and the shopping cart. His larger hands rested on the cart handle next to yours, his presence looming behind you as he looked down.

“What if I say it’s a big deal to me now?” he asked with a smile. He pretended to pout at you, asking with a pitiful whine in his voice, “You’re not going to deny me this Christmas joy, are you, Miss Bodyguard? Even you wouldn’t be that cruel to this poor, fragile fishie, right?”

You stifled your giggles and shook your head. You turned around and leaned up to kiss his cheek, delighting in the growing blush on his face and the red in his ears. “It’s still important to me…spending time with you, at least.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet, cutie…” he said, his eyes softening. Suddenly, it looked like something caught Rafayel’s interest, his eyes sparkling brightly like a kid in a candy store. “Hold on…”

Confused, you remained in your spot as Rafayel dashed down an aisle. A moment later, he returned with a small Christmas tree, about the same height as his torso. “Ta-dah!”

You smiled. “How cute.”

“We can decorate this tree together,” he said, “And I know the perfect spot.”

You nodded excitedly, watching as Rafayel placed the small tree into the shopping cart. He gripped the cart basket, leading you down an aisle with miniature ornaments and Christmas lights. For the rest of the afternoon, you happily let him led the way, watching as the cart filled up with Christmas decorations and treats until it was nearly overflowing with an assortment of goodies.

To your surprise, when you returned back to the studio, Rafayel pulled the Christmas tree out of the shopping bag immediately, placing it on the coffee table next to Reddie’s fish bowl.

You knelt down next to him as he adjusted the tree, frowning and contemplating as he appeared to be searching for the perfect angle. Smiling in satisfactory, Rafayel stopped and looked down at you expectantly.

“Why are we putting the tree here?” you asked.

His eyes glanced over at Reddie, who swam closer to the glass, appearing curious by the sudden sight of the Christmas tree next to his fish bowl. Rafayel chuckled. “I thought our Reddie would appreciate celebrating the holiday with us as well.”

You smiled at his explanation, turning your sight to the red fish swimming happily side-to-side. “You’re right,” you agreed, “Our Reddie should be a part of this.”

You sat down on the floor, your head resting against Rafayel’s shoulder as he strung up the fairy lights around the tree. The sun slowly set, the studio darkening, but Rafayel called out, “Let there be light…”

In that instance, the miniature Christmas tree lit up brightly, the fairy lights glowing warmly in the dark living room. Your eyes shined as it took in the wonderous sight. “How cute,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” Rafayel agreed, his eyes resting solely on you, “Very cute…”

The time passed, ornament after ornament quickly found their rightful place on the little tree. You smiled across the table, touched by Rafayel’s thoughtfulness and determination to make you feel better. Pondering now, you did feel a little silly about your earlier mood swing, but happy to know that Rafayel didn’t dismiss your feelings, and instead made it his mission to make you smile again.

Once the last decoration went on the tree, you crawled back over to Rafayel’s side. Instantly, he had you settled in his lap, your head resting against his chest as you both admired the bright tree on the table.

“Next year, I won’t hire professionals,” Rafayel said, promising, “I’ll wait for you.”

You shook your head and leaned up to kiss him. “It wasn’t about the tree,” you explained, looking a bit embarrassed, “I just wanted to spend time with you.”

Rafayel’s cheeks appeared rosier, his smile tender. “Then the feeling is mutual,” he answered, taking your lips for himself, long and slow, just as the larger Christmas tree by the windows also lit up, casting the whole room in a bright warmth.

“I promise,” he whispered, his forehead against yours, “we’ll make many more memories together in the future. Christmas, New Year’s, a random Wednesday, all of our memories will be golden.”

“They already are,” you answered back, kissing him again, both of you unaware of Reddie swimming away to hide.

[winxanity-ii]

DO YOU STILL BELIEVE?

ship: odysseus x fem!penelope!reader warnings: non-explicit (emotional intensity, mentions of war and trauma, heavy themes of longing and separation, a bittersweet reunion) word count: 5.2k a/n: I had so much fun writing this one-shot inspired by Epic the Musical and The Odyssey! Penelope and Odysseus’ love story has always fascinated me, and I wanted to explore the raw emotions of their reunion while staying true to the themes of trust and enduring love. 🥹 I hope you enjoy this piece, and as always, feedback is welcome! Next update for Catch Me If You Can is in the works, so stay tuned! 👀.

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

An unsettling silence clung to you as followed Eurycleia down the quiet corridors back to your chambers. The weight of the contest bore down on your shoulders like a storm cloud, and your mind churned with thoughts too heavy to quiet.

As you reached your room, Eurycleia stopped, turning to face you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. Her aged hands, calloused from years of service, trembled slightly as she reached for the latch. "My lady," she began, her voice low and trembling, "you must remain in your room at all times tonight. No matter what you hear, you cannot leave."

Her words struck you with a jolt of unease, and you frowned. "Remain here? What do you mean, Eurycleia? What is going on?"

She hesitated, her gaze darting to the side as if the walls themselves might overhear her. "Please," she said softly, bowing her head. "Forgive me, but it is for your safety."

The cryptic answer only deepened the knot in your chest. "Eurycleia," you pressed, stepping closer, "tell me—"

"I cannot, my lady." Her voice wavered, but she straightened herself, her resolve unwavering. "I ask only that you trust me. Stay here, and do not leave until someone comes for you."

Before you could utter another word, she dipped into a deep bow, her gray hair catching the faint lamplight, and hurried away, the door clicking shut behind her.

For a moment, you simply stared at the door, her final words echoing in your ears. Trust me. What could she mean? What danger awaited beyond these walls?

Letting out a shaky sigh, you turned toward the room. The weight of your robe dragged against your shoulders as you pulled it tighter, seeking comfort from its soft folds.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls. It was a futile attempt to drive out the chill that had seeped into the room—and into your very bones.

Crossing to the window, you pressed your palms against the cool sill, your gaze drifting out over the kingdom below. The village lights flickered like stars scattered across the darkened land.

Beyond them, the sea stretched into the horizon, its surface shimmering faintly under the light of the crescent moon.

Your thoughts wandered, as they always did in moments of stillness, drawn to the same familiar ache that had lived in your chest for years.

The contest... Would it truly decide your fate? One of those suitors, those arrogant men who had feasted in your halls and mocked your son, could soon become your husband. The very thought sent a shudder down your spine, and you hugged your arms tighter around yourself.

A whisper escaped your lips, barely audible over the soft crackle of the fire. "Odysseus..." The name hung in the air, a prayer, a plea, a question. "What would you think of me now, letting this madness continue? Letting strangers fight for what was never theirs to claim?"

Your vision blurred, and you lowered your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. For years, you had waited. For years, you had woven and unwoven that shroud, holding on to a hope that had felt as fragile as a thread in the loom.

Was it foolish to hope still? To think that he might return, that the man who had held your heart so completely could be more than a memory?

Your lips trembled as you forced a bitter laugh. "I am not you," you murmured, the words breaking the silence. "I am not brave enough to fight this battle. All I can do is endure."

Your mind drifted, as it often did, to Telemachus. A smile tugged at your lips despite the ache in your chest. "Oh, Odysseus," you said, a soft chuckle escaping through your tears. "You would adore our son. He has your mind—so sharp, so clever. And your smile..." You let out a watery laugh, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound. "Even when he's being stubborn, I see you in him."

The image of Telemachus as a child came to you, vivid and warm—a boy who had once clung to your skirts, demanding stories of his father's heroism. Now, he stood tall, a man in his own right, with the weight of the kingdom already pressing on his shoulders. How proud Odysseus would be of him.

Your musings were cut short by a sudden, sharp sound—a shout echoing faintly down the corridors.

You froze, your heart leaping into your throat. Another shout followed, then the unmistakable clash of steel against steel.

Your breath hitched, and you stumbled back from the window, your pulse racing. What was happening? Panic swirled in your chest, and you turned toward the door, your hands trembling as you reached for the latch.

It didn't move.

You tugged harder, a frustrated gasp escaping you. "Open the door!" you shouted, pounding against the wood with the flat of your palm. "What is going on out there?"

A muffled voice answered from the other side, strained and apologetic. "My Queen, please—forgive us. You must remain inside."

"Why?" you demanded, your voice rising as fear clawed at your throat. "Tell me what is happening!"

But the only response was silence, broken only by the distant sounds of chaos—the cries of men, the clash of swords, and the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

You staggered back, your chest heaving as you tried to make sense of it all. Your mind raced, grasping for answers. Was it the suitors? Had the contest descended into violence? Or was it something else—something you dared not name aloud?

Your knees buckled, and you sank onto the edge of the bed, your hands clutching the fabric of your robe as though it could anchor you. The air felt thick, suffocating, and your thoughts spiraled, each one more desperate than the last.

"Odysseus," you whispered, the name falling from your lips like a prayer. If he were here, he would know what to do. He would protect you, protect Telemachus, protect this kingdom.

Another shout rang out, closer this time, and your breath caught in your throat. You could do nothing but wait, trapped within these walls, your fate hanging in the balance.

☆

☆

You paced the length of your chambers, your footsteps muffled by the thick rug underfoot. Every pass brought you closer to the walls and then away again, as if your own restlessness could push the heavy silence out of the room.

Minutes ago—minutes that felt like an eternity—the shouts and screams that had echoed down the corridors had gone silent. That silence pressed on you now, as heavy as the stone walls of Ithaca's palace.

Your mind churned, spiraling into darker and darker thoughts. What had happened? Had the suitors staged an uprising, turning the contest into bloodshed? Did Ithaca fall under siege from an unseen enemy?  What if the guards were overwhelmed, and Telemachus...

You stopped mid-step, your breath catching painfully. Telemachus. Your son. The boy you'd raised to be strong, who carried so much of his father's spirit. Had he fallen in the chaos? Was he lying out there, cold and lifeless while you were locked away, helpless to protect him?

"No," you whispered, shaking your head furiously, as if the motion alone could banish the thought. But your heart wouldn't listen, and it dropped like a stone into your stomach, twisting painfully.

What if the suitors had taken over? What if they had harmed Telemachus? The thought of losing him, your son, the last piece of Odysseus you'd held onto, made the breath hitch in your throat. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the world around you.

No, no, no. Your mind flashed to his strong but still-youthful face, the way he carried himself with the dignity of a man but the vulnerability of a boy. Your knees weakened at the thought of him hurt—or worse.

"Telemachus," you whispered, clutching your robe tighter around you. Panic clawed its way up your throat, and you rushed to the door, slamming your fists against it. "Let me out! I demand to see my son!" Your voice cracked, trembling with desperation. "Open this door! What's happened to him?"

From the other side came a muffled voice, hesitant and filled with regret. "My lady... forgive me, but I cannot. I have my orders."

"Orders?" you repeated, your voice rising with fury. "To keep me locked away while my son—while my kingdom—falls apart?" Your fists pounded harder, the sharp thud echoing in the empty room. "I beg you, please! Telemachus! Is he—" Your voice broke, and the words wouldn't come.

Your knees weakened, and you leaned heavily against the door, pressing your forehead to its cool surface.

No response. Not even the muffled, apologetic voices from earlier. Just silence.

You leaned your forehead against the wood, trembling as your thoughts spiraled further. Pressing your palms flat against the door, you whispered a prayer to the gods above, your voice trembling. "Please gods... protect him. Protect my son. Keep him safe. Please."

The silence beyond the door stretched on, heavy and suffocating. You stayed there, trembling against the wood, every second a fresh torment.

And then... the latch clicked, breaking through your whispered pleas.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as you staggered back. Slowly, the door inched open, the dim light from the corridor spilling into the room.

Relief surged through you, mingling with your anger as you rushed forward, ready to demand answers. "How dare you keep me—" But the words died in your throat, caught like a fish in a net, as your gaze landed on the figure standing in the doorway.

Your heart stopped.

"...Odysseus?" His name escaped your lips in a whisper, barely audible, trembling like the flicker of a candle in the wind.

It couldn't be.

Your eyes widened, your mind struggling to reconcile the man before you with the ghost of the memory you had clung to for so many years. But there he was, standing in the doorway, real and solid, and yet so very different from the man you had kissed goodbye all those years ago.

He looked older. His once-youthful face was lined with the passage of time and the weight of what he had endured. Faint scars crisscrossed his hands and forearms, reminders of battles fought and hardships survived.

His frame was leaner than you remembered, his once-strong build worn by years of trials, yet he carried himself with a strength that belied the weary lines etched into his features.

His hair, streaked with silver, curled just slightly at the edges, framing a face that was both familiar and foreign.

And his eyes—oh, his eyes. They were the same piercing eyes you had fallen in love with, though now they carried a heaviness, a burden of things seen and done that you could scarcely imagine.

You took a trembling step closer, your breath shallow. Your gaze darted over him, drinking in every detail as though you feared he might vanish if you blinked. His clothes were ragged, torn at the edges, and caked with dust and blood, but he stood tall, the weight of the years and his trials radiating off him like a shield.

When your eyes met his, something shifted. The hardness in his gaze softened, the lines around them easing ever so slightly as his lips parted.

"Penelope," he rasped, his voice hoarse, as though it had been too long since he'd spoken your name aloud. He took a step toward you, his movements slow and deliberate, as if testing the waters of a dream.

Your head shook slowly, side to side, as tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them. "N-No..." you stammered, your voice trembling, barely audible. "No... no!" The word grew louder as you turned abruptly, your legs buckling beneath the weight of the moment, sending you stumbling back toward the window.

You pressed your palms to the cool stone sill, your gaze locking onto the distant horizon as though it could anchor you. Your mind raced, each thought more frantic than the last. This isn't real. It can't be real. Fear clawed at your chest, your heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might break free. A strangled laugh escaped your lips, wild and unbidden.

The sound startled even you, cracking like thunder in the stillness of the room. It morphed into a sob, the sound catching in your throat as you gasped for breath. "I've lost it," you whispered, a broken, bitter laugh slipping through your trembling lips. "The gods have taken pity on me—or perhaps they've cursed me." Your shoulders shook as the dam finally broke, tears spilling freely now, mingling with the bitter laughter that refused to stop.

You clutched at the sill, your fingers digging into the stone as if you could steady yourself against the onslaught of emotions. The ache in your chest was unbearable, a mixture of disbelief, longing, and the fear that this was nothing more than a cruel trick of your mind—a dream that would shatter as all the others had.

A warm hand rested gently on your shoulder.

You froze, the heat of his touch cutting through the storm raging within you. A gasp escaped your lips, and your eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to face whatever was behind you—whether it was real or a phantom conjured by desperation.

The warmth seeped through your robe, grounding you, making it impossible to ignore. The sobs caught in your throat, and you were left trembling, torn between the urge to lean into the comfort and the fear of being hurt by it.

"Penelope," he said again, his voice softer this time, filled with something raw, something that threatened to undo you completely.

Your breath hitched, and with painstaking slowness, you turned. Your legs felt weak, as though they could give out at any moment, but the pull of his voice, of that warmth, was impossible to resist.

Your gaze lifted, hesitantly, until it met his. There he was, your husband, the man you had mourned and prayed for.

His face, lined with years of hardship, was impossibly familiar yet so changed.

His hair was streaked with silver, his cheeks sunken, but his eyes held the same warmth, the same depth that had drawn you in so many years ago.

Your hands shook as you raised them, trembling in the space between you, hesitant, unsure. Your lips quivered, the words catching in your throat as you whispered, "Odysseus... is it really you?"

He didn't speak. Instead, he reached out, his calloused fingers wrapping gently around your trembling hands. You flinched at the contact, the shock of it too much, but he didn't let go. Slowly, he guided your hands to his face, pressing them against his cheeks.

His skin was rougher than you remembered, his beard thicker, weathered by years of trials and battles, but the warmth—the life beneath your touch—was unmistakable. It grounded you in a way that no words ever could. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as though savoring the moment, as though he feared you might pull away.

"It's me," he murmured, his voice low and steady, his breath warm against your hands. His thumbs moved in small, gentle circles over your wrists, as if to reassure you, to anchor you both in this moment.

Your breath hitched, and fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. "O-Odysseus," you choked out, the name falling from your lips like a prayer. Your hands, still trembling, curled slightly against his skin, afraid to let go, afraid to believe, and yet unable to deny the truth of the man before you.

He opened his eyes then, meeting your tearful gaze with a tenderness that took your breath away. "Penelope," he said again, the way he spoke your name like a vow, a promise that he was here, that he was real.

Your heart stuttered, caught between disbelief and an aching hope that threatened to overwhelm you. The tears you had tried to hold back now flowed freely, your chest heaving as you fought to find words, any words, to bridge the chasm of years and heartbreak that separated you.

"Have my prayers been answered?" you whispered, your voice trembling, fragile as the thread of a spider's web. Your eyes searched his face, tracing every new line, every scar, every mark of hardship etched into his features. "Is it really you standing there, or am I dreaming once more?"

Odysseus' lips parted, as though he, too, struggled with the enormity of this moment. He tightened his hold on your hands, his calloused thumbs brushing against your skin in a gesture so tender it made you tremble. "It's me, Penelope," he murmured, his voice low but steady, a reassurance as much for himself as it was for you.

You shook your head slightly, as if to clear it, your tears blurring your vision. "You look different," you said, your voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "Your eyes... they look tired. Your frame is lighter, your smile..." You swallowed hard, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Your smile is... torn."

A flicker of pain crossed his face, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of years. "I... I am not the man you fell in love with, Penelope," he admitted, his voice soft but unwavering. "I am not the man you once adored. I am not your kind and gentle husband."

His words struck you like a blow, each one driving home the truth that you had feared, and yet something in his gaze kept you rooted, unable to look away. "And I am not the love you knew before," he finished, the admission hanging heavy in the air between you.

Your lip quivered, your knees threatening to give out again. "What kinds of things did you do for you to believe such things?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question carried no accusation, only a desperate need to understand, to piece together the years that had separated you.

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped for a moment, as though the weight of the answer was too much to bear. "I left a trail of red on every island," he said finally, his voice raw with the truth. "I traded friends like objects I could use. I hurt more lives than I can count on my hands." His eyes flicked back up to yours, and the pain in them was almost unbearable to witness. "But all of that was to bring me back to you."

Your breath caught, your hands trembling in his grip. He was baring his soul before you, and yet you couldn't stop the flood of questions, the fears and doubts that had plagued you for years. "So tell me," he continued, his voice softer now, carrying a note of something fragile. "Would you fall in love with me again, if you knew all I've done? The things I can't undo? I am not the man you knew, Penelope. But I know you've been waiting for my return, my love."

You felt as though the air had been knocked from your lungs, his words hitting you with a force that left you reeling. "Odysseus..."

He stepped closer, the air between you heavy with unspoken emotion. The years of longing, the nights spent weaving and unraveling hope, the ache of absence—all of it welled up inside you, pressing against your chest until it was hard to breathe.

"If that's true," you began, your voice trembling with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve that even you hadn't expected, "could you do me a favor?"

Odysseus tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied you, the faintest flicker of concern crossing his features. "Anything," he rasped, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had carried countless burdens but would shoulder another if it meant easing yours.

You drew in a shaky breath, your hands twisting in the fabric of your robe as you glanced toward the corner of the room, where the wedding bed stood—a monument to the love you had cherished through the years, even as it seemed impossible to hold onto. "Just a moment of labor," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you struggled to keep it steady, "that would bring me some peace."

He straightened, his brows drawing closer together as unease flickered in his gaze.

You swallowed hard and gestured toward the bed. "See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here."

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Even the crackling of the fire in the hearth seemed to fade into the background as your words hung heavily in the air.

At first, Odysseus didn't move, his body as still as stone, but the change in his expression was stark. Confusion gave way to disbelief, then hurt, and finally, a simmering anger that seemed to pulse just beneath the surface.

He took a slow step forward, his eyes fixed on the bed as though it had somehow betrayed him.

"How could you say ask this?" he asked, his voice low and tight, the tremor in it betraying the storm of emotions he was struggling to contain. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles whitening as though he were trying to ground himself. "That bed isn't just wood, Penelope. It's us—it's everything we built, everything we were."

You held your ground, your heart hammering in your chest. "I know," you replied softly, though your voice carried a sharp edge, your words deliberately chosen. "That's why I ask."

His gaze snapped to yours, his eyes flashing with a pain that struck deep. "I built that bed with my own hands," he said, his voice rising, the anger now bubbling to the surface. "Do you remember the olive tree, Penelope? The one in the garden, where you smiled at me for the first time—truly smiled, not out of courtesy or politeness, but with a warmth that lit up the whole world? That tree was alive, vibrant, like you. I could have built a bed from any wood in the kingdom, but I chose that tree. I thought it would hold us together, root us, even when life tried to tear us apart."

You said nothing, your eyes brimming with unshed tears as he continued, the floodgates of his heartbreak fully open now.

"When I carved it..." he said, his voice breaking slightly, "I poured everything into it—my love, my hope, my belief that what we had was unshakable. And now, after all these years, after everything I've done to get back to you, you ask me to destroy it? To tear it from its roots and cast it away as though it means... nothing?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he shook his head, stepping back as though the distance might protect him from the blow you'd just dealt.

Your lip quivered, but you refused to look away. Instead, you stepped closer, your voice quiet but resolute. "And do you know why I asked, Odysseus?" you countered, your tone measured, a mixture of cunning and vulnerability. "Because I had to know. After twenty years, I had to know if the man who stands before me is the man I loved, the man who could never move that bed because he made it immovable—because he made it ours."

He froze, his breath catching in his throat as your words sank in.

You took another step forward, your tears finally slipping down your cheeks as you continued, your voice softening. "Only my husband would understand what that bed means, what it represents. Only he would react the way you just did—with anger, with heartbreak, because it's not just a piece of furniture, is it? It's us. It's the life we built together, the promises we made under the shade of that olive tree. Only my Odysseus would carry that weight with him... even after all these years."

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, and the anger in his eyes melted into something deeper—something raw and unguarded. He took a shaky breath, his hands relaxing at his sides as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Penelope..."

"Yes," you murmured, your lips trembling as a smile began to form. "Yes, only my husband knew that... So I guess that makes him you."

The tension in the room shattered, replaced by a flood of emotions that neither of you could fully contain. Odysseus took another step toward you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek with a gentleness that belied the storm that had just passed.

"Penelope," he said again, his voice full of reverence, his thumb brushing away your tears. "You... you are still the clever woman I fell in love with, the woman who could outwit gods and men alike. And you’re right. That bed... it's us. And I could never, would never destroy it. Not for anything."

You placed your hand over his, your fingers trembling against his calloused palm. "And I could never stop loving you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Not then. Not now. Not for anything or anyone."

Your tears fell freely now, your voice breaking as you spoke. "I will fall in love with you over and over again, Odysseus," you said, the words tumbling from your lips like a confession, raw and unguarded. "I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been... you're mine."

His eyes opened, meeting yours with a fierce intensity. "Don't tell me you're not the same person," you continued, your voice trembling but determined. "You're always my husband, and I've been waiting for you."

His hands cupped your face then, his touch gentle but firm, as though grounding himself in your presence. "Penelope," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, his forehead resting against yours. "For you, I would wait an eternity."

"How long... has it been?"

His lips curled into a faint smile, bittersweet and full of unspoken apologies. "Twenty years," he said, the weight of those two words pressing against you like a physical force.

Twenty years. Twenty years of pain and longing condensed into this moment, the air between you heavy with unspoken promises and the undeniable truth of a love that had endured against all odds.

And then, without warning, he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative or shy but raw and consuming. His lips claimed yours with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. You felt the tremor in his hands as they cradled your face, his calloused fingers rough yet gentle, grounding you in his presence.

The weight of twenty years was in that kiss—two decades of longing, of yearning, of pain too deep to articulate.

He kissed you like a man starved, as though you were the first taste of life he’d had in an eternity. The press of his lips was firm, insistent, yet reverent, as if he were terrified that you might slip away if he loosened his hold for even a moment.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, the rhythm faltering before surging forward with a force that left you lightheaded. Your hands, trembling and unsure, found their way to his chest, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic as if to anchor yourself, as if to remind yourself that this was real, that he was here. His heart thundered beneath your touch, the rapid beat matching the wild cadence of your own.

The kiss deepened, his desperation bleeding into every movement. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. His beard brushed against your skin, rough and unfamiliar, but it only added to the heady sensation, grounding you further in the reality of him.

When he pulled you closer, his arms sliding around your waist to hold you firmly against him, the warmth of his body seeped into yours, chasing away every lingering doubt, every shadow of uncertainty.

You could feel the tension in him—the coiled strength of a warrior who had been fighting for so long, the vulnerability of a man who had feared he might never return home.

A small, broken sound escaped him, muffled against your lips, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine. His lips lingered on yours as though memorizing the shape, the feel, the reality of you.

When he finally pulled back, his breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead resting against yours once more. His eyes were squeezed shut, his lashes damp with unshed tears, and his grip on you remained firm, as though he feared you might vanish if he let go.

"Penelope," he whispered again, his voice hoarse, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. "I thought... I thought I'd never hold you again."

Your own breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts, your lips tingling from the intensity of the kiss. Your chest heaved, your hands still clutching at him as if you might fall apart without the solid weight of him beneath your fingers.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, and the raw vulnerability you saw there stole whatever words you might have spoken. His lips were red and slightly swollen, his cheeks flushed, and the way he looked at you—as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded—made your heart ache and soar all at once.

You lifted a trembling hand to touch his face, your thumb brushing against the tear trailing down his cheek. "Odysseus," you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of everything you felt but couldn't say.

And as his lips found yours again, softer this time but no less fervent, you knew without a doubt that this was your Odysseus—the man who had left, the man who had fought, the man who had returned.

And you kissed him back with all the love, all the pain, and all the hope that had carried you through the years. The two of you stood there, the world falling away as time seemed to collapse.

He pulled back slowly, his breath mingling with yours, the space between you charged with everything unspoken. For a moment, he simply stared, his hands trembling against your skin.

"Penelope," he whispered, his voice breaking, his tears falling freely now. "After everything... after all this time..."

You placed a trembling hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm, a grounding warmth that made you choke on a sob. "I—I love you, Odysseus."

His hand covered yours, pressing it tighter against his chest as though to hold you there, to keep you from slipping away. "I love you, Penelope," he murmured, his voice steady now, resonant, filled with everything he couldn't say before. "Always. Forever. Even when I thought I'd never see you again... it was always you."

And in that moment, twenty years of separation melted away, leaving nothing but the love that had never wavered, the bond that time and trials could not break.

A/N: Ahhh, y'all im crying in bed!!! i just listened to the last saga of epic (ithaca saga) and it got me sobbing, just a mess.  jorge did a phenomenon job portrtaying odysseus love for penelope ❤️❤️ i just had to create my one-shot/interpertation of this 😩❤️

[allieslittlewritings]

Homemade Ornaments

Spencer Reid x daughter!reader

Summary: How the Reids spend the Christmas season

Word Count: ~1.8k

Warnings: None that I know of :)

A/n: Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate <3

Christmas in the Reid household was always a little bit extra. Spencer could count how many actually enjoyable Christmases he had growing up on one hand. Even as an adult, before having you, it was a time when he more often than not just felt the sickening feeling of loneliness eat him up. He once bought himself a Christmas tree and decorated it with ornaments he bought. For a second it was nice. Until it wasn't. It didn't feel the same as when he was five and him and his parents would dedicate hours to decorating their tree. It felt lonely and desperate. He didn't have the heart to put that tree up again.

Until you were born. For you, he would make Christmas fun and lively for as long as he physically could.

Your first Christmas was one of Spencer's favorite days of his life. Though you couldn't actually participate in decorating the Christmas tree or baking the cookies you couldn't eat, it no longer felt lonely.

Even if all you did was wordlessly stare at the pretty lights on the tree, it filled Spencer's heart with joy. You were going to love Christmas, he made sure of that.

The older you got, and the more things you were able to do, Spencer happily made up new family traditions for the two of you.

You always decorated the tree together. There wasn't a set date you did it, given his unpredictable work schedule. Sometimes it was as early as November 29th, and sometimes as late as Christmas Eve.

Spencer was busy attempting to plug the Christmas lights in while you made cups of hot chocolate. The same playlist of Christmas songs you listened to every year was quietly playing in the background.

You stood in wait, hot drinks in hand, and watched Spencer struggle far more than he should have knowing he'd done that every year for over a decade.

"Can I please just help you?" you asked.

"Nope, you could get electrocuted."

"So could you."

"True, but that's different," he insisted. "It would be irresponsible of me to knowingly put you in harm's way."

Finally, after what felt like a very long seventeen minutes and nineteen seconds, Spencer happily emerged from behind the tree. He adjusted his ugly Christmas sweater and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and then turned the lights on.

You lovingly admired the lights and handed your dad his mug.

"Ah, thank you, sweetheart."

You sat down in front of the tree and quietly sipped your drinks for a minute before you started hanging ornaments.

You cringed a little when you picked up the very misshapen ornament you made when you were a toddler. "Do we really have to hang this one up?"

Spencer gasped in hurt and took the ornament from your hand. "Yes. The tree would be incomplete without it. It was the first one you made without my help." You couldn't help but notice the absent-minded smile on his face as he admired the ornament in his hand.

Few words were spoken as you contently sat and continued decorating and sipping hot chocolate for the next hour or two. Every now and then you would reminisce on another old ornament. By the time you were done, Spencer could only count two that were store-bought.

Despite very year's activities being more or less the same, the tree, decorations, hot chocolate, music, and Christmas sweaters (Spencer bought you one slightly bigger than your size so you wouldn't grow out of it), it never got less enjoyable for either of you.

Baking cookies used to be a lot more chaotic. Spencer wasn't necessarily bad at baking, he just happened to burn or overbake cookies sometimes in fear of them not being baked enough and leading to you getting salmonella.

When you were old enough to help bake, the cookies turned out a lot better, they were (usually) edible.

This year you wanted to try baking gingerbread men. You gathered all the ingredients, your mixing bowl, and measuring cups.

While you made icing, Spencer measured out the ingredients. He liked to tell you about the exact ingredients and their chemical reactions when mixed together. It made baking twice as fun.

On the dining table you laid out things you could use to decorate your cookies. Frosting, chocolate chips, crushed pieces of candy. You removed a bowl of melted chocolate from the microwave and added that, too.

For no real reason, you and Spencer were excessively precise with your first ones, making sure your little gingerbread men looked like they were from a decorating cookbook. Admittedly, his looked a little better than yours.

Your second ones you did were far more messy. They all tasted the same any way, and the two of you devoured every bite.

Building snowmen was one of your personal favorite winter activities. Spencer always insisted you wear warm enough clothes, almost in excess when you were little.

Your snowman was almost complete, but it needed one last thing. And only then did you realize you failed to bring it with you.

"Dad, please tell me you remembered a carrot for his nose," you said, a dramatic amount of worry in your voice.

Spencer laughed quietly, "I was hoping you would remember but since you didn't..." He reached into your snowman making bag (something you thought of when you were four) and pulled out a carrot.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." You excitedly added the carrot to your snowman's face and stepped back to admire you and your dad's work.

"I think he looks gorgeous," you gushed.

"I have to agree," Spencer said. "Now, let's build him a daughter."

Christmas movies were a staple for the Reids during the holiday season. Most films you watched throughout the month were rewatches, but you would occasionally watch something new.

Spencer settled comfortably on the couch and and sipped his eggnog. You were busy putting your favorite Christmas movie in the DVD player. When you once suggested watching it on a streaming service, Spencer was horrified and told you to never say that again.

"How many times have we watched this movie?" you curiously asked your dad as the film started.

Spencer swallowed a gulp of soup. "Thirty-one and a half. If we continue at that rate, we'll be at a hundred-and-four when you're my age."

Not every Christmas was celebrated on actual Christmas Day. Spencer tried his best to be there every year but sometimes it simply wasn't possible. This year he was lucky enough to have the whole day off.

You woke up bright and early, so as to extend Christmas as far as possible, and sneaked to your dad's room.

Spencer snored quietly as he slept. You softly walked over to him and poked his arm repeatedly. "Dad."

Spencer hummed in response without actually opening his eyes. "It's Christmas, wake the fuck up."

Tiredly blinking his eyes open, Spencer started to groggily sit up. "Language." He wiped sleep out of his eyes and looked at the alarm clock next to his bed. "Sweetie, it's barely 6 AM."

"And?" You fiddled with the strings on your hoodie.

"And, your dad needs sleep." He lay back down with a groan but he could tell you weren't going anywhere.

He sighed and sat up again. "Fine, go get our hats."

You squealed happily and ran to get your mandatory Santa hats from the living room.

You already had yours on when you got back to his room.

"Running on socks is a bad idea." He yawned.

"Will coffee make you less of a Grinch?" you put his hat on his head, making sure to adjust his hair accordingly so it wouldn't feel off to him.

Spencer smiled tiredly. "Yes. Yes, it will."

The two of you made your way to the kitchen and you started making your coffee while Spencer put waffles in the toaster for breakfast.

He added whipped cream and chocolate chips to your waffles and crafted an almost snowman shaped clump.

You sat down in the living room — you opted for sitting on the floor in front of the couch — and ate your waffle.

You and Spencer were by no means chefs, but you still managed to make a decently good Christmas-esque meal. Some of the food was admittedly store-bought but you still tried to make a couple of things yourselves. The next few hours were spent cooking, baking, and talking with soft music playing.

Regardless of how well a dish actually turned out, you loved cooking with your dad. If it were anyone else you'd likely bump into them every other minute but you and Spencer worked well together. It was frankly quite surprising given your shared knack for clumsiness.

Spencer handed you a cherry and ate one himself. That was a mistake. You both thought the cherries were exceptionally good and thus the dessert you made ended up severely lacking in them.

"Two is probably enough, right?" You placed two cherries on top of the cake.

Spencer nodded in agreement as he popped another one in his mouth. "Definitely."

Once all the food was done, you took all of it to the dining table and set it out nicely.

"Bone apple teeth," you said with a bad attempt at a southern accent.

Spencer cringed. "Y/n..."

You cleared your throat. "Да ти е сладко." You smiled.

"Velbekommen," Spencer said back.

You continued to say the same phrase in every language the two of you knew. You stopped when you got bored, Spencer could say it in at least three more languages.

You took your emptied plates to the kitchen, though you delayed washing them until much later, and then joined your dad by the Christmas tree holding two slices of cake.

Every year, you challenged yourself to find Spencer a book you thought he would like, but hadn't read yet. This year you finally found one of the books you knew he'd been looking for for a long time. An old book from the early 19th century written by a not-so-famous mathematician.

Along with the book, which he greatly appreciated, you also got him a T-shirt and an oversized hoodie, one red and one purple. Ninety-nine percent of his outfits were made up of button-up shirts and ties, you wanted to get him something comfortable.

"Are these-"

"The exact hexcodes of your favorite shades of your favorite colors? Yes."

Spencer laughed. "Thank you, I love it."

"Did you know that in my entire lifetime, I've only ever seen you in an outfit without a button-up shirt two hundred and seventy-four times?" You asked.

"Okay, well, I happen to like all my button-up shirts," Spencer mused, looking down at his pajamas. "But I was not aware it was that little, no."

"Open your present." He took another bite of cake.

You reached forward and picked up your present. You opened it softly and carefully, in an attempt to not tear the pretty wrapping paper Spencer used.

Once you finally saw what it was a soft smile graced your face.

A Lego set related to your current favorite subject, with over a thousand pieces.

He'd also handwritten you a loving card.

You stood up and walked over to your dad and tightly hugged him from behind. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetheart." He turned around to hug you back.

After you finished eating your cake, Spencer suggested watching that other movie a thirty-third time and you readily agreed.

You paused the movie twenty-nine minutes and twenty-four seconds in and looked over at your dad, getting unnecessarily close to him. "Do you want to go make hot chocolate?" you whispered.

He rested his forehead against yours and whispered, "Yes."

You followed him to the kitchen and sat on the kitchen counter, going on a random tangent about a topic very vaguely mentioned in the movie you were watching.

Spencer added mini candy canes and marshmallows as well as whipped cream to your drinks.

You cozily continued your movie and rested your head on Spencer's shoulder.

"You make Christmas fun," you mumbled.

"Thank you," Spencer said genuinely, pulling you into a hug. "You make Christmas even more fun."

[voikiraz]

— ꒰ ∗ ִ ⍺lways ᧉven ᥒow ⠀ ꒱ [ k.dh ]

Lovers . donghyun x fem!reader ⠀𝑤. angst, breaking up w donghyun should be the biggest warning, hurt no comfort lolsies step ? #843 M.recordings [ lol, merry Christmas pookies ( for those who celebrate )]

syn. maybe it was just a story that was meant to end one way or another.

His heart squeezed tightly as he stared at the only light source in his dark room, his phone displaying a few words he didn't want to make sense of, he took a few seconds of heavy breathing until his fingers slid across the screen.

He can't run from this forever.

“Can you please call me when you have the time? We can't keep pushing this talk back donghyun”

A few taps on his phone and the ringing tone was making it’s way into his ears, making those few seconds take a much longer toll on him.

“Hey,” he heard your voice call out and his breath hitched.

He can't lie and say this was fully unexpected, he knew something was up. 

The way he was starting to forget the warmth of your touch, your gleaming smile that was only reserved for him, your soft voice that lulled him to places and feelings he could only ever dream of. 

It wasn't the same anymore and he knew that, your touch still lingers against his skin, but empty of any warmth that once used to soften his heart, your smile is pettyfull, reminiscing what could've been, your voice is firm and full of what ifs that were failing to leave your lips.

“Hi” his voice cracked, and you barely even heard him.

“Listen, i know you were expecting this and i know its so wrong of me, this isnt easy for me to say, i need you to know that you mean so much to me hannie and ill always care about you and ill love you no matter what, but you can feel it too leehan-” you sucked in a breath, trying not to let your emotions get the best of you. “We're moving in different directions and growing apart, and its not your fault, i'm not trying to play the blame game here you know that, but i think we both deserve to be with someone moving along with us, and growing with us and its eating me alive that i can't be that person for you anymore.”

He leaned against the table, feeling like if he kept pacing around the room his knees wouldn't hold up, your words echoing one by one through his mind and piercing through the air like sharp knives.

“I hope you know I'm doing this because you and I both know that it's what's right for us, maybe we won't understand that now but it's true.” You sounded composed but the soft sobs that were falling from your lips didn't fall on deaf ears, and leehan shut his eyes as tight as he could, thinking maybe it'll be over quicker that way. Maybe

Deep down he knew that it wasn't really anyone's fault, it was just life, but he never heard you sound this hopeless before, broken, and he just wanted to hold you, caress your hair and tell you that it's okay, he's there for you and nothing will ever make him leave your side. 

“I love you, i dont think I'll stop loving you any time soon, but for now, we can't be together donghyun.” You inhaled deeply, silence stretching for a few seconds before you hung up, you knew he wouldn't say anything, you could practically feel everything he wanted to say radiating to you from the end of the line.

You gripped your phone tightly as you just stared at the wall, too exhausted to move, blaming life for destroying what you could call a perfect life, you cried, and cried and you couldn't do anything but look down and let your mind wander.

Until you drifted off to a place where everything felt less heavy.

11:48 pm.

You got a message from ‘my hyunnie’ 

“you have no idea how much i love you and how much i care about you, i would do anything for you y/n, i've been trying to find the right words for hours, but i don't think any words can capture my feelings for you.

I dont want to let you go, i cant, i dont even know how to do that, i keep telling myself that it'll be okay but i cant help feeling like I'm losing a part of myself with you, maybe its selfish but you're my everything y/n and i’ll never let go of what we had even if it kills me, i keep wishing we would've found a way to make it work but i don't think this is our story anymore.

But i want you to know that even though things are changing, my love for you will never change, you were my whole world for so long, and i'll always remember that, i understand that we're moving apart and even though that's so hard to accept, i want you to be happy even if it means you won't be by my side, just know that i'll always carry you with me wherever i go, always.

Take care of yourself my love, i'll never stop loving you”

Kim donghyun

© voikiraz 2O24