#This is just me trying out dramatic lighting...

[callikari]

I LIKE ME BETTER ⭑ WHEN I'M WITH YOU

。 to be young and in love is to cherish the moments. (like when sunghoon gets jealous for your affection)

박성훈 x fem!reader 、 fluff · 🪷 893 wc ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) caution ! established relationship light jealousy skinship kissing

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

it started with something small.

you were just joking around with riki during practice break — ruffling his hair after he nailed a difficult move, tossing him a bottle of water with a proud grin. riki beamed at you, laughing when you ruffled his hair again and called him “good job, baby riki!”

completely harmless. sweet, even.

but from across the room, sunghoon saw the whole thing.

and he did not look happy.

he watched with narrowed eyes, arms folded tightly over his chest, jaw slightly clenched. he didn’t say anything — just turned dramatically away like a prince betrayed, grabbing his phone and pretending not to care.

you noticed immediately.

after practice, when the others were packing up, you made your way over to him, smiling softly.

“hoon,” you called gently, tapping his shoulder.

he barely glanced at you. “what.”

your heart squeezed at how grumpy he looked — brows furrowed, lips set into a thin line.

“are you mad?” you asked, amused but careful.

“no,” he said quickly. too quickly.

you crouched down in front of where he was sitting, reaching out to brush his bangs out of his eyes. he flinched, like he wanted to lean in but was too stubborn.

“you’re mad,” you said, laughing a little.

“i’m not mad,” he repeated, but now he was pouting. full-on, shameless pouting. “just… go baby riki. he seems to need you more.”

you gaped at him, realization dawning. “you’re jealous?”

he shrugged, looking absolutely miserable. “you were giving him head pats. and compliments. and calling him ‘baby.’”

you couldn’t help but laugh — not at him, never at him, but at how ridiculously cute he was when he got like this.

“sunghoon,” you cooed, crawling into his lap without warning. he tensed for a second in surprise, then immediately melted when you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“you’re my only baby,” you whispered against his ear.

he shivered slightly, arms coming up to hold you tight.

“promise?” he mumbled, voice small.

“promise,” you said, kissing the tip of his nose. “now come home with me, and i’ll prove it properly.”

sunghoon was even clingier than usual.

he dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and immediately followed you around like a lost puppy — trailing behind you to the kitchen, to the couch, to the bathroom door while you washed your hands.

every time you turned around, he was right there, looking at you with big, sad eyes.

finally, you grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the couch.

“c’mere, hoonie,” you said softly, settling down and opening your arms wide.

he didn’t need to be told twice — he flopped onto you with a heavy, dramatic sigh, his entire body curling into yours like he was trying to merge with you.

you laughed, running your fingers through his hair immediately, knowing that’s what he needed.

he buried his face in your neck, mumbling, “baby me.”

“already on it,” you said, smiling.

you cradled him in your lap, one hand stroking his hair in slow, soothing motions, the other tracing gentle shapes along his back. he sighed contently, the tension finally starting to leave his body.

“you’re my one and only,” you whispered, pressing soft kisses along his hairline. “my favorite. my sunghoon.”

he hummed, still hiding his face, but you could feel the way his body relaxed even more.

you kissed the crown of his head. “my handsome boy.”

kissed his temple. “my talented boy.”

kissed the corner of his forehead. “my baby.”

sunghoon finally tilted his head up to look at you, cheeks flushed pink, eyes glassy with sleepiness and love.

“more,” he demanded quietly.

you smiled, cupping his face in both hands and squishing his cheeks. “more?”

“yeah,” he whispered, sounding almost shy. “please.”

you leaned down and kissed him properly this time — soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world. his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was barely any space between you.

when you pulled back, you peppered more kisses across his face — his nose, his cheeks, his jawline — making him giggle in that rare, breathless way you loved so much.

“hoonie,” you murmured against his skin, “you’re everything to me.”

he blinked up at you, lips trembling slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

so you just held him tighter, giving him all the love he needed without asking for anything in return.

he deserved this. he deserved to be loved so fiercely, so obviously, that he never had to doubt it again.

you shifted slightly so that he was lying fully stretched out along the couch, his head resting in your lap, your fingers threading gently through his hair.

he sighed again — a long, content sound — and looked up at you through heavy lashes.

“can we stay like this forever?” he asked, voice soft and sleepy.

“forever,” you promised, pressing another kiss to his forehead. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you stayed like that for a long time — cuddling, kissing, stroking his hair — until eventually, sunghoon dozed off completely, his arms still wrapped tightly around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

you leaned down and whispered against his hairline, “i love you, baby.”

and even in his sleep, he smiled.

enhypen taglist :: @nocturnebite @cheruphic @chrrific @jungwonbropls @ijustreallylike2read @ijustwannareadstuff20

© callikari — all rights reserved

[marvelstoriesepic]

Look at Me Like That Again

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Waitress!Reader

Summary: Bucky desperately needs your attention while you’re on shift in his bar.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: so much longing; Bucky is a man in love; mild alcohol use; bar setting; Bucky being a dramatic kicked puppy

Author’s Note: Oh I enjoyed writing this so much. Thank you for the idea, my lovely!! I hope you like what I made of your cute little prompt ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

It’s the fifteenth time you've passed him.

Fifteen.

And Bucky Barnes is counting.

Because you don’t look at him when you pass.

And it’s been over an hour since you walked in wearing that stupid little apron that hugs your waist and the shirt he hates because it’s too tight and too low and everyone looks at you too long when you wear it. Everyone except him, of course.

Bucky doesn’t look.

He watches.

There’s a difference, you see.

You breeze through the bar as though you’ve got the whole damn place in your pocket, and maybe you do. These guys love you. They light up when you laugh, when you lean in to hear them over the music, when you call them hon in that voice soft enough to sew people back together.

You’re the only brightness in this place and you don’t even know it.

Your hair is already starting to come loose. You are balancing three empty glasses in one hand and a notepad in the other, reciting someone’s order from memory while still smiling, still glowing.

Bucky is leaned up against the bar like a damn decoration. He’s been standing here, useless, for at least twenty minutes. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes strained on your every step. You haven’t spared him so much as a glance since the jukebox changed songs, now crooning some worn-out rock ballad from two decades ago. Since the light shifted and the golden hour crawled in through the windows as if it was chasing you.

God, you look good in gold.

He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He’s cleaned the same spot three times. Cleaned the same glass four times before he realized he wasn’t even holding it anymore. He doesn’t even drink soda but the can of Coke next to him has been sweating beside his hand for half an hour. Warm now. Forgotten.

Just like him apparently.

You walk by. Don’t see him. Or maybe you do - but you don’t stop. Don’t smile just for him.

He can’t have that.

Not when you just smiled for that asshole in booth seven who licked his lips when you placed his beer.

He doesn’t know what his expression might look to others but he doesn’t care. He is sincerely displeased.

Sixteenth time. You float past, apron flaring, pen poised, eyes stitched to your tray or the screen or the sticky table by the window, but it’s never him.

He doesn’t like that. At all. He needs your attention, and he needs it now.

So when you swerve past again, too busy balancing an order for the back booth where one of his patrons is dramatically retelling some story to the others like he isn’t loud enough for the whole bar to hear, Bucky does what any reasonable man would do.

He pokes you. Right in the side.

You jolt mid-step, the drinks on your tray tilting before you balance them out. “Bucky.”

But he doesn’t hear the warning edge in your tone. Because your eyes meet his and suddenly everything inside him goes very, very quiet.

“I've been standin’ here,” he says, calm as ever, trying to sound like someone who isn’t folding from the inside out. “Watching you walk past me like I’m invisible. That’s cruel, sweetheart. Cold-blooded.”

You roll your eyes, though there is amusement tugging at your mouth. “You’re not invisible.”

“Oh, good,” he drawls, leaning forward, eyes shining beneath dark lashes. “Then I don’t have to haunt the place. Thought maybe I died and no one told me.”

You sigh. “You’re a child.”

“You’re the one ignoring me in my own damn bar.”

“I’m working, Barnes,” you emphasize.

He shrugs, a slow, unapologetic shift of his shoulders. “And I’m just standin’ here. Bein’ patient. Watching you ignore me in new and creative ways.”

You step back, turn, face him fully this time. He meets your gaze like he’s been waiting for it all night. Maybe all week. Maybe always.

You stare at him as though he’s something between a hurricane warning and a kicked puppy at your feet.

“You poked me,” you deadpan.

“Did,” he says, grinning. Not even a little sorry. “Would’ve waved, but my hand’s all tired from waiting.”

You huff. But it’s not annoyance. It’s the laugh you’re trying not to give him. The soft kind. The one that lives behind your teeth when he says dumb things with that mouth that should know better.

His chest warms. Truly warms. As though someone struck a match behind his ribs and the light spills into his bloodstream.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you, Bucky. But I do have work to do, alright? So you’ll have to excuse me.” You don’t look that apologetic either when you turn around again and trek down the bar to the booth where people are waiting for you.

But he’s waiting for you too. Tragically so. He doesn’t take his eyes off you when you place the drinks, when the guys thank you, when you smile that smile back, when you turn and walk away, when you are about to pass him again.

Poke.

You sigh as if you expected it.

He leans in slightly, as if he could soak in your heat and keep it. But your smell already makes him dizzy. “I’m not gonna stop poking you until you give me some attention, doll.”

You stare at him as if you want to throw a napkin at his face. Or kiss him. He prefers the latter. Although the former surely would be a privilege since it’s you throwing it.

“I do give you attention, Barnes. I’m literally talking to you right now,” you counter, slightly exasperated, but there is that fond smile forming, you just don’t let it out fully.

But it still does things to him. Hits his heart first, then spreads - to his cheeks, his fingertips, down his spine. That smile is a gift, a spark. It makes him foolish. Hopeful. It makes him dream in full color.

Bucky taps the counter, shaking his head. “You know you’ve walked by eighteen times now?”

“Eighteen?”

“Eighteen. I counted. Steve’s my witness.”

You glance behind the bar. Steve’s got two glasses in his hands and is pretending not to watch. Is pretending not to smirk.

There’s a pause. You’re still close enough to touch. The fabric of your shirt brushes his arm when you move. You smell like citrus and cinnamon gum and whatever soap you use that’s probably way too fancy for a dive like this.

But you don’t belong in places that are easy.

“You’ve been runnin’ around like you’re holding the ceiling up,” he says quietly, not even meaning to. “Just wanted to remind you I’m still here.”

And for a breath - a half-second crack in the wall you’re keeping up - you look at him. Really at him. He might even believe you see the thing he’s too afraid to name, but you don’t run from it.

“I know, Buck,” you say, smiling sweetly. Like a secret sunrise just for him.

And his body shuts down. Doesn’t even let him take in some air. Who needs that anyway when he’s got you?

Your eyes catch and hold. The noise of the bar slips sideways. Everything tilts.

Then someone calls out your name - loud, without the care he uses when saying your name, just another order. You turn with a smile already forming on your lips, moving back into your orbit, back into theirs.

But before you go, you look at him over your shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to ruin him for the rest of the night.

He watches you walk seven steps to the bar's edge.

He grins. Leans back. Taps his boot against the counter.

That’s alright, baby.

He’ll be here waiting.

Poking.

Always.

[p0orbaby]

Hello! If you’re still doing the short blurbs may I request a short one with R taking alexia ice skating? R’s really good and alexia’s really bad. So bad she needs to hold the kids penguin support thing type bad. But she’s a bit stubborn and doesn’t want help. She’s constantly holding on to the rail, falls on her bum and one kid even laughs at her. But after a few falls she finally gives in and lets R guide/help her, and even lets go of the side ☺️

No worries if it’s not your thing!

-

At first, she’s suspicious.

You’ve never seen Alexia side-eye a leisure centre before, but here we are. A converted warehouse in some unholy corner of South London with strip lighting, a vending machine from the ’90s, and the distinct smell of wet sock. She’s clinging to your sleeve like it’s diplomatic protocol.

“People do this… for fun?” she asks, brow arched, eyes darting around like she’s assessing the risk of frostbite.

“They do,” you say, handing her a pair of skates and watching her stare at them like they’ve personally wronged her. “It’s charming. Festive. Builds character.”

“You’re trying to kill me,” she decides.

You do not deny it.

She lasts twenty-three seconds on the ice before the first fall. It’s not even dramatic—more of a slow, deliberate sit-down, like her thighs have made an executive decision.

“I am not built for this,” she hisses, as a six-year-old glides past her effortlessly and then circles back to laugh. Loudly.

You try not to laugh with the child.

She glares at you from the ground. “I have two Ballon d’Ors.”

“And now you have mild bruising,” you reply, extending a hand.

She swats it away and scrambles upright via the wall like a very determined crab. “I don’t need help.”

“You just got shown up by a child in a Peppa Pig bobble hat.”

“She’s probably training for the Olympics.”

The next fall is less dignified. She tries to push off from the rail, gets maybe three inches of momentum, panics mid-glide, and immediately pancakes. A nearby steward offers her a little plastic penguin—the kind toddlers use to learn. She accepts it. With bitterness in her eyes and pride in shreds.

“This is humiliating,” she mutters, inching forward while clutching the penguin’s ears. “I play football for a living.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Footballers aren’t known for their balance.”

“I do Pilates.”

“That makes this even worse.”

She gives you a look that says I love you but I could end you right here on the ice and make it look like an accident.

You’re already pretty good. Comfortable. Confident, even. You circle around her once—purely to show off, obviously—then coast backwards in front of her like some smug, ice-dancing forest nymph.

“Stop that,” she snaps. “You look like that Disney ice queen, Elisa or whoever.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?”

“It’s rage,” she says, but her mouth twitches at the corners.

Three more falls and a minor tantrum later, she gives in.

You’re holding out a hand before she even asks. She takes it.

“I’m only doing this because I’m freezing and tired,” she says, like you’ve dragged her to a hostile terrain under false pretences.

You smile. “Of course.”

“Not because I need you.”

“Obviously not.”

And then—slowly, awkwardly, but determined—she lets go of the wall.

One of her hands is in yours. The other is still on the penguin’s plastic face, but it’s progress. Her feet slide forward, cautious but brave. You guide her gently, fingers tight around hers, keeping pace. Every now and then she wobbles, curses softly in Spanish, and shoots you a dirty look—as if the ice itself is under your command.

“You’re laughing,” she accuses.

“I’m delighted.”

“I’m never doing this again.”

“You’re doing so well.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

A pause. A sigh.

“Yes. But I hate you also.”

And you can’t help it—you beam. The rink lights are too bright, the air smells like someone’s gym bag, and your girlfriend is hanging on to a fibreglass penguin for dear life, but it might be the best date you’ve ever been on.

Even if she spends the rest of it muttering darkly about broken ankles and national embarrassment.

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 23

<<<Previous Next>>>

Chai Latte Cookie, ever loyal despite your hubris, patted your back gently. “That’s what happens when you eat three bowls of ice cream before lunch.”

“Two and a half,” Hazelnut Biscotti muttered, still bitter about the theft. You lifted your head weakly and turned to Chai Latte with the desperate look of someone nearing the brink. “Is there magic for this?” She blinked. “Magic for what?”

“For this.” You gestured helplessly to your very existence. “An enchantment, a charm, I don’t know instantaneous relief from the consequences of my own poor decisions.”

 Chai Latte bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “You want me to look up a spell for… pineapple overindulgence?”

“Yes,” you said with all the solemnity of a scholar pleading for divine intervention. “Please. I am perishing. If the Academy can’t help me now, what is it even for?”

“Wow,” Hazelnut said. “We’ve reached the dramatic arc of the tragedy.”

Earl Grey, as ever, lifted his teacup with impeccable timing. “We’re in the climax, I believe. The fall comes next.” 

You reached for Chai’s sleeve and tugged at it like a child desperate for a potion. “You’re the most powerful Cookie I know. Please. Save me.” 

Chai Latte Cookie looked over at Shadow Milk Cookie, who was still seated beside you, observing the chaos with that familiar, unreadable calm. “Should I try something?” she asked him with a grin, clearly enjoying herself. “I do have a restorative charm somewhere in my notes.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you, his eyes gleaming just faintly with that quiet mirth he only ever revealed around you. “If they believe it will work,” he said softly, “then perhaps it will.” 

You turned to Chai with renewed hope. “You heard him. That was approval from the Sage of Truth…er, Fount of Knowledge himself. Please. Cast the magic.” 

Chai Latte Cookie giggled and placed both hands gently over your forehead like she was about to grant you a blessing. “By the powers of steamed milk and logic-defying loyalty,” she whispered dramatically, “I call upon the ancient art of Get-It-Together-Already.”

 A light breeze brushed over you as she summoned a small charm from her bag just a little rune-carved stone that pulsed faintly with warmth. She pressed it to your temple for a beat, then let it go.

“…Do you feel better?” she asked. 

You blinked. Sat up. Paused. “…Maybe,” you said. “Or maybe I just love you too much to admit it didn’t work.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned in just enough for only you to hear, his voice a low thread of amusement. “Placebo,” he murmured, “is still magic, if you believe in it.” 

You looked at him, hand still lightly pressing your stomach, and gave a weak smile. “Then I’ll believe in it,” you whispered back. “Because right now, I need something.” 

You stared at Chai Latte Cookie, deadpan. “That was it?” She tried really tried not to laugh. “Hey, you said you wanted magic. I gave you magic.”

“That was barely magic,” you groaned, dramatically slumping against the table again. “You waved a pebble at me and whispered some steamed-milk nonsense. I feel exactly the same.”

“It was rune-etched!” she protested, holding up the little charm. 

“Yeah, well, the runes must’ve spelled out ‘suffer.’” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted into his tea. 

Earl Grey Cookie didn’t even bother to hide his smile. “You should’ve expected this outcome.” 

You turned slowly with purpose to Shadow Milk Cookie, who was seated beside you, quietly watching the entire display like a scholar observing the collapse of an experiment. “Please,” you said, lifting your head from your arms with the desperate gravity of a knight pleading for mercy. “You. You’re my last hope. Do you have real magic for this?” 

His brows lifted, just slightly, as if amused by your escalation. “Real magic?”

“Yes,” you said, dramatically clutching your stomach. “You’ve seen me conquer theorems and diagram nightmares and live through Professor Almond Custard’s lectures without falling asleep. Don’t let this be what takes me down.” 

He blinked slowly. “Pineapple ice cream?”

“Too much pineapple ice cream,” you corrected. “A tragic downfall. I flew too close to the sun, and the sun was delicious.” 

Chai Latte Cookie covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

“Focus!” you waved your hand vaguely in the air. “Please. I know you’re the Fount of Knowledge or whatever now, but surely you have something. A spell, a charm, a profound truth that can reset my digestive equilibrium.” 

He regarded you for a beat, expression unreadable… and then he moved, gently setting his teacup aside with all the elegance of someone far too calm in the face of your suffering. “I suppose,” he murmured, “there may be one method.” 

Your eyes widened. “Yes. Yes, I’m listening.” He leaned in just slightly, so no one else at the table could hear and said with maddening serenity, “Drink water.” 

You gawked. “That’s it?” 

He gave you the softest smile, like the gentlest stab to your pride. “I find that it aids most ailments caused by overindulgence. Especially when one consumes three bowls of pineapple ice cream before lunch.”

“I earned those bowls,” you whispered, scandalized. “Clearly,” he said, tone dry as parchment. 

“I can’t believe this,” you muttered, turning to Chai. “This is betrayal. I came to both of you for help and got tea leaf nonsense and hydration tips.” 

Chai Latte Cookie reached over to pat your shoulder. “We love you. But we also love the comedy.”

“You’re all monsters,” you grumbled, grabbing your cup and downing your water like it was a potion of immortality. 

Shadow Milk Cookie’s hand gently brushed yours as you set the cup down, his gaze softer now. “However,” he said quietly, “you keep coming back to us.” 

You blinked. “…Yeah,” you murmured, lips tugging upward despite everything. “I really do.” You quickly got up and beelined for Earl Grey your final hope…you’d said that twice now.

Earl Grey Cookie had barely lifted his cup before you were on him not menacing, but certainly dramatic, arms sliding loosely around his shoulders from behind like a student collapsing into academic despair. 

He stiffened ever so slightly, not from discomfort, but from surprise. “Earl,” you pleaded, forehead resting against his back. “You’re the smartest friend I have. You read things for fun. You cite philosophers in casual conversation. If there is anyone on this cursed campus who can undo a pineapple-related catastrophe it’s you.”

His teacup paused midair. “You’re being overly generous.”

“You know I’m not.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted beside him. “You’re lucky Earl’s too classy to throw you off his back.” Chai Latte Cookie was full-on cackling now, hands over her mouth. “You’re going to suffocate him with flattery.”

“I need to suffocate him with flattery,” you wailed. “My stomach is a war zone. I need genius magic. Not hydration. Not milk-based rituals. I need Earl Grey brilliance.” Earl Grey, still impossibly composed beneath your desperate draping, finally set his cup down with a sigh regal, like a prince preparing to descend into the chaos of commonfolk. 

He reached back, patting your hand once, lightly. “I am not a healer,” he said calmly. “I do not deal in spells or charms.” 

You made a wounded sound. “But you deal in solutions.”

“Yes,” he said, “typically of the academic variety.” 

You peeked over his shoulder, eyes wide. “This is academic. The body is a system. A flawed, pineapple-gluttonous system. I just need you to fix one input/output equation.”

“I will throw you,” he said, but the edges of his voice curled with amusement.

“You’d never,” you whispered sweetly. “You love me too much.”

“I like you just enough not to let you perish from hubris and sugar.”

You gasped. “That’s practically affection!” 

Earl Grey Cookie turned just enough to glance at you sidelong. “If you want true affection, I suggest asking your mysterious scholar sitting just there.” 

You blinked, glancing over. Shadow Milk Cookie had not moved, but the weight of his gaze was unmistakable. Calm. Neutral. And yet his eyes flicked toward where your arms were still loosely wrapped around Earl Grey’s shoulders.

You immediately let go, stepping back like you’d just remembered gravity existed. “Right. Well. That’s enough academic integrity for today.” 

Chai Latte Cookie tried to stifle another laugh. “Ten out of ten. Beautiful spiral.”

“I don’t regret it,” you said, straightening dramatically. “And I’ll have you all know suffering builds character.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised his cup. “To character.” And Earl Grey Cookie, without missing a beat, lifted his as well. “To pineapple-fueled desperation.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie, at last, smiled faintly behind his own cup. You sulked back to your seat, groaning softly. “I’m going to haunt the kitchens. As a ghost. Who warns students never to follow their frozen desires.”

“Make sure they write that on your statue,” Chai Latte said, already nudging her dessert your way. “The martyr of indulgence.”

And you? You leaned back, stomach aching, heart full, pride thoroughly bruised and still, somehow, the happiest you’d been all day. Shadow Milk Cookie was being impossibly composed. Too composed. You narrowed your eyes at him across the table, ignoring the snickers from your friends, the lingering ache in your overstuffed stomach, and the very real danger of becoming a cautionary tale in the Academy's culinary archives. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” you said, pointing your spoon at him like it were some divine instrument of justice. “That’s suspicious.”

“I find silence to be restorative,” he replied mildly, sipping from his tea. “Especially in the presence of melodrama.”

“Oh, so now I’m melodramatic?” 

Chai Latte Cookie leaned in, stage-whispering, “He’s deflecting. That’s what this is.”

“I see that,” you said, twisting in your seat to face him more directly. “You’re trying to outlast me. But I’m nothing if not persistent.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie murmured, “This is going to be good,” as he leaned back in his chair.

“I ate too much pineapple ice cream,” you declared, placing your hand dramatically over your heart. “And I may never recover. Surely, as the Fount of Knowledge, there’s a spell, a charm, a gesture, something you can do to relieve the immense tragedy occurring in my gut right now.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head. “You do realize I am not a healer.”

“You’re everything else,” you countered. “Are you telling me you can open portals to forgotten dimensions, solve logic puzzles that would make entire councils weep but you can’t help me digest ice cream?”

“I believe you’re capable of digesting your consequences,” he said, entirely too calm. 

You blinked, then narrowed your eyes again, scooting just slightly closer. Earl Grey Cookie looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I will not be deterred,” you told him. “I’ll list reasons. I’ll get scientific. I’ll plead poetically. I might faint for dramatic effect.”

“I do not think you have it in you to faint quietly,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched. A near-smile. Victory. 

“I can be quiet,” you insisted. “In fact, I’ll prove it. If and only if you help me.” He considered you for a moment, eyes glimmering with restrained amusement. “Is this what your scholarly determination looks like when pointed inward?”

“Absolutely. This is me harnessing the full strength of my academic resolve.”

“On indigestion.”

“Deadly indigestion.”

A long pause passed between you. Then, with a soft exhale that almost sounded like defeat or amusement, or both? he set down his cup and extended one hand toward you, palm up. You stared at it. “…Is this the spell?”

“Would you like to find out?”

You hesitated for half a second, then placed your hand in his. It was warm. Steady. You felt the familiar tingle of magic thread lightly through your skin gentle, careful, like rain weaving through silk.

“There,” he said simply. “A subtle charm to ease your discomfort.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” The ache did feel like it had dulled. Maybe it was his magic. Maybe it was the placebo of affection. Maybe it was just the effect he had on you. “…I was going to keep going,” you muttered, looking down at your linked hands. “I had a whole speech prepared about the tragic fall of the pineapple princess.”

“I’m certain it was devastating.” 

You sighed. “I wanted you to cave.”

“I did.”

“…Oh.” Your voice softened. The table had gone quiet. Your friends were watching you, amused, but they said nothing. Beneath the table, Shadow Milk’s fingers curled just slightly around yours. “Next time,” he murmured, “perhaps eat less pineapple.”

“Next time,” you whispered back, “just help me sooner.” He huffed, a quiet laugh barely audible over the clink of dessert spoons. Your fingers slowly slipped from Shadow Milk Cookie’s hand beneath the table, a reluctant parting, soft and unspoken. 

You gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before releasing it, letting the connection drift like smoke. Your gaze wandered drawn not by romance this time, but by the absurd. There it was. Glorious. Beckoning.

The pineapple ice cream. Even under the magically stabilized chill of the dessert station, it glistened like a forbidden artifact, golden and triumphant. And though you were still recovering from the last time you’d piled too much into your bowl, your stomach stirred with the memory of its tangy sweetness, as if contemplating rebellion.

You squinted. “Hey…” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie stopped mid-sip of his drink. “Oh no.”

“Do you think,” you continued slowly, as if testing the idea aloud would make it real, “it would be possible to craft a spell that lets you eat anything… like, literally anything… without ever feeling sick?” 

Chai Latte Cookie blinked, then leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “You mean, like… magical digestion?” Earl Grey Cookie didn’t look up from his tea. “We are not enchanting your stomach lining.”

“But think about it!” you insisted, gesturing animatedly between them all. “Endless pineapple. No consequences. Just pure culinary bliss.”

“I think that’s called a curse waiting to happen,” Hazelnut muttered. “You’d eat your weight in sugar before you remembered you were mortal.”

“I am mortal,” you sighed dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. “And that mortality is what stands between me and my third bowl of ice cream.” 

Chai snorted. “You don’t need magic, you need moderation.”

“That’s boring.”

“You say that like you didn’t almost collapse from dairy-induced regret twenty minutes ago,” Earl Grey said dryly.

You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, gaze pleading. “You’re smart. Ancient. Wise. Couldn’t you make that kind of spell?” 

He looked at you with something like bemusement. “I could,” he said, tone unreadable. “But I won’t.” Your mouth dropped open. “Why not?”

“Because I have read of civilizations fall to less hubris than what you are proposing.” You groaned and dropped your head onto the table with a dramatic thud. “One of you has to believe in me.” 

Chai Latte Cookie reached over and gently patted your head like a tragic child in mourning. “We believe in you. Just not your stomach.” Laughter bubbled up around you again, light and easy, and though your hand no longer rested in Shadow Milk’s, his presence beside you still felt like a quiet tether. The ice cream could wait. But then your eyes landed on it again.  

Golden. Glossy. Glorious.

The pineapple ice cream sat like a radiant crown jewel in the buffet lineup, lit by soft morning enchantments that made it gleam like the answer to every question you never asked. You inhaled, reverent. 

“There it is.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie followed your gaze, already skeptical. “Oh no.”

Chai Latte Cookie leaned over, squinting. “You’re not seriously about to go down this road again.” You didn’t hear them. Not really. Your hand slowly raised, index finger pointing toward the dessert like you were about to deliver a prophecy.

“Listen,” you said, solemn. “If the universe offered me the stars, the moon, a thousand-year library pass, or one more bite of that pineapple ice cream while my stomach could still handle it…” You placed your palm flat over your heart. “…I would not hesitate.” 

“Because that ice cream? That’s more than dairy. It’s divinity in frozen form. It’s sunshine you can eat.” 

Chai smiled at you gently. “Are you composing poetry about it again?”

“You say poetry like it’s not deserved.” You straightened, voice rising with full dramatic flair. “It is tart! It is sweet! It is citrusy grace! It is a dessert that dares to love boldly!” 

Earl Grey, without looking up from his teacup, said, “It’s literally just pineapple.” 

You gasped. “You take that back.” Shadow Milk Cookie let out the quietest hum beside you, and you glanced at him. He hadn’t looked at the dessert not even once but his eyes flicked toward you now, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“So,” he said calmly, “nothing could top it?”

“Nothing,” you declared, pressing both palms to the table. “Not jewels. Not glory. Not the unraveling of ancient magical secrets.”

“And… not people?” he asked, so lightly it almost didn’t sound like a challenge.

You opened your mouth then paused. Your face slowly flushed. “Okay, maybe some people.” 

Chai grinned like a cat. “Some?” 

Hazelnut leaned in. “Some?” 

Earl Grey didn’t even bother hiding his smirk now. “What an unfortunate omission.” You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. “I walked into that. I absolutely walked into that.” Chai was already laughing. “You sprinted, love.”

“But they were so passionate,” Hazelnut said between wheezes. “I think you scared the kitchen staff. You made it sound like a romance epic.”

“It is a romance epic,” you mumbled into your palms. “With consequences. And mild lactose intolerance.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned slightly toward you, voice low, just for you to hear. “Then I suppose I should feel honored to even come second.” 

You peeked out between your fingers. “You didn’t take me seriously did you?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, almost amused. “How could I not? You speak of pineapple as though it were the key to immortality.” 

You sat up straighter, pointing your spoon at him. “Don’t tempt me. I will ask you to research that.” Laughter erupted again around the table, warm and bright. And even as you leaned back with a sigh and a smile, you cast one last longing glance toward the buffet. One day soon, when no one else was around, that ice cream would be yours again. And this time?

This time you’d savor every spoonful like it was love itself. Eventually, the teasing died down though not before Chai Latte Cookie promised to write a tragic ballad about you and the pineapple ice cream’s doomed love affair. Earl Grey and Hazelnut Biscotti were the first to stand, carrying off their trays with the kind of practiced elegance that only came after a semester of routine.

Chai lingered for a moment longer, giving you a subtle smile and a pointed look before she finally followed after them, muttering something about enchanted spoons and overdue readings. And just like that, it was quiet again.

Just the two of you. Shadow Milk Cookie hadn’t moved much, only turned his head slightly once the others were gone. He studied you for a long moment, expression calm too calm. Your eyes were already drifting toward the buffet station. More specifically, toward the golden glow of the pineapple ice cream under its frosted dome. He exhaled through his nose. “You’re thinking about doing it again.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you replied, already scooting an inch closer to the edge of your seat. 

His voice dropped into that low, patient cadence that meant trouble. “If you do what I think you’re about to do, I won’t help you a second time.” You blinked, affronted. “You wound me.”

“I mean it.” He folded his hands neatly on the table. “I’ll let you suffer.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “Not even if I got on my knees and begged for mercy to be placed upon me once more?” 

He tilted his head ever so slightly, golden gaze sharpening. “Not even if you composed a sonnet. In interpretive dance.” You gasped. “That’s cold, Shadow Milk. That’s cold.”

“It is justice,” he replied, too dignified for the gleam of amusement dancing in his eyes. You pressed a dramatic hand to your chest. “You’re really going to watch me walk into dairy-induced doom and do nothing?”

“I will document it,” he said, unbothered. “For academic purposes.”

“Monster.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You stared at the buffet. The ice cream sparkled with all the magic of temptation and regret. You glanced at him. He arched a brow. Your legs bounced once under the table.

“…What if I only get, like, half a bowl?”

“I’ll consider that self-restraint.”

You grinned slowly. “So you are rooting for me.”

“I am observing you,” he said evenly. But when you stood, your tray in hand and heart full of ridiculous purpose, you could still feel his gaze on you quiet, watchful, and betraying the smallest curve of a smile. Not indulgent. Not approving. Just… fond. And, fine, maybe a little resigned.  

You returned with your bowl a modest scoop this time, if only because Shadow Milk Cookie was still watching you like one observes an unwise experiment in progress. You sat down with ceremony, digging in with all the gravitas of a scholar about to unlock a forbidden text. He didn’t say a word. Just arched one finely shaped brow. You took a slow, exaggerated bite. Chewed with care. 

Then let out the softest, most content sigh imaginable. Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. “Are you genuinely trying to convince me?” 

You swallowed, pointing your spoon at him like a wand. “I am telling you no, testifying this is divine. Ambrosia. Art. History rewritten in frozen form.” 

He looked vaguely unimpressed. “It is fruit and cream.”

“It is transcendence, Shadow Milk.”

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being stubborn,” you shot back, jabbing your spoon at his side of the table. “You should try it.” 

He regarded you as if you had asked him to renounce the stars. “I’ve survived this long without succumbing to dessert peer pressure.” 

You leaned forward, eyes bright. “But have you lived?” That made him pause. Not because he was convinced. But because, for a second, you could see the thought flicker across his face some quiet calculation behind those golden eyes. And something else, too. Something softer. Fonder.

 “…A single spoon,” he said at last, and your entire face lit up. Victory. Sweet, pineapple-infused victory. 

You were already scooping a bite for him, offering it like a peace treaty forged in ice and sugar. He accepted it with a quiet sigh, the spoon lingering a breath too long before he took it from you.

He tasted it. And blinked. You watched him, anticipation on your face like sunlight. “…Well?” you prompted.

“…I suppose,” he said slowly, “there is… merit.” You gasped. “That’s practically a love letter!” 

He rolled his eyes. “Do not get used to it.” You beamed, triumphant. “Too late.” And beside you, though he made no move to take another bite, Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze lingered just a little longer on your bowl, and then on you like perhaps, he was starting to understand the magic in simple, mortal indulgences.

Even if he’d never admit it out loud. Shadow Milk Cookie dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin precise, composed, almost ceremonious and set it down as though that single act marked the official end of the meal.

You glanced up from your mostly-empty bowl of ice cream, your spoon still lazily swirling through what remained of your pineapple conquest. Something in his expression shifted lighter at the edges, but lined with that familiar gravity that usually accompanied announcements you didn’t like. 

He turned slightly toward you. “Tutoring,” he said gently, “will be postponed today.” 

Your spoon clattered softly against your bowl. “Postponed?” His head tilted, golden eyes watching your expression closely. 

“There’s a meeting this afternoon. The council would like to review the speech I’ll be delivering for the end-of-semester ceremony.” You blinked, mildly stunned. “Like… in front of the entire Academy?”

He gave a slow, resigned nod. “Yes.” You stared. “You need to rehearse a speech? You could probably wing the entire thing, quote a few dream-scholars, stare at the stars once or twice and people would call it transcendent.” 

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “And yet, the council prefers the speech to be ‘accessible.’” You made a face. “You? Accessible? Blasphemous.”

“I said nothing about agreeing with them,” he said, tone perfectly deadpan. You slumped dramatically over your bowl. “So no session? Not even a short one? What if I promise to understand a concept on the first try?” 

He arched a brow. “Do you intend to keep that promise?” You hesitated. “…Maybe?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s smile softened, just slightly. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. For now, I need to endure the endless revisions of others who fear I might use the phrase astral epistemology in a public address.” 

You gasped. “Would you?”

“I was going to,” he muttered, under his breath. You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you leaned back in your chair. “Fine, go. Be grand and inspiring and all-knowing. I’ll stay behind and try not to conjure an ice-cream-related curse on myself.”

“You won’t succeed.”

“I never do.”

He stood, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves with elegant precision. “You could review your notes while I’m away.” You blinked up at him with mock betrayal. “That was so unromantic.”

“And yet, practical.” You reached for your spoon, sighing. “Alright, fine. Go be ceremonial.” He lingered for a moment longer, gaze soft, and said quietly, “Thank you for understanding.” You didn’t say anything, just smiled, watching him disappear into the light-dappled corridor, the weight of his new title chasing quietly at his heels. As the door to the dining hall swung closed behind him, you sighed, turning your attention back to your bowl.

“…I’m definitely going to enchant this.”

You were alone in the dining hall again, the clinking of silverware and conversation from earlier now just an echo in your memory. Morning classes had ended. Lunch hadn’t officially begun. And your friends had scattered like petals on the wind off to labs, meetings, and quiet study corners. Shadow Milk Cookie was in the Scholar’s Wing, reviewing his speech draft with the High Scholars. You’d offered to help…kind of, and he’d smiled that patient smile the one that meant this is something I must do alone, but I appreciate the offer. So here you were. Alone.

With pineapple ice cream. Again. The cursed jewel of the buffet table. It glistened like morning sun through a prism, golden and cold and full of promise. You sat down slowly, notebook in lap, spoon in hand. The spell circled in your mind, straight from your History of Food lecture: “An Analysis of Courtly Banquets and Magical Moderation.”

Professor Brambleberry, who you finally learned that was their name… had made a passing comment that royal chefs often used Appetitum Temperare a mild enchantment to allow nobles to taste exotic dishes without fear of indigestion. It had been used in feasts with sixteen courses.

You had one bowl of ice cream. This would work. You flipped open your notes, finger tracing the old script you’d scribbled during lecture next to a drawing of a pineapple wearing a crown. Very serious scholarship. You sat cross-legged, centered your breathing, and placed your hand lightly over your stomach. “Appetitum temperare… leniter descendat…” 

You tapped your spoon once to your temple ritual focus, as the lecture described then dipped it into the bowl. The ice cream shimmered, just slightly.

You thought you imagined it, until a faint, citrus-scented breeze swirled past your face. A sign, surely. First bite: heaven. Crisp, cool, the perfect balance of tang and sweetness. Second bite: you smiled, triumphant. Third bite: you leaned back with all the pride of someone who had truly earned their dessert. You whispered under your breath, “I am a genius. An academic pioneer.”

And then the tingling began. It was subtle at first. A warmth in your stomach. Then a slight bubbling. Then a fizzing, not unlike the time you mixed three different potions together during lab and tried to convince Chai Latte Cookie it was an “elixir of insight.”

“...Oh,” you said. You glanced down at your stomach, as if you could reason with it. “We’ve done this before. We’ve learned. We’ve grown.” 

Your stomach gurgled like an ancient crypt being disturbed. “Okay…okay, this is salvageable.” You closed your eyes. Willed the magic to settle. Maybe it just needed time. Maybe it was adjusting. Or maybe…Maybe the spell was meant for rich meats and sauces, as the lecture mentioned. Not cold desserts.

You grimaced. “I should’ve read the footnote.” Because there it was, scribbled in the margin: ‘Ineffective on chilled or dairy-based meals unless modified with a cooling rune.’ You knew that. You’d just… skimmed. You looked down at the spoon again, now mournfully dripping pineapple nectar back into the bowl.

“…Still worth it.” You lay your head on the table with a dramatic sigh, one hand clutching your notes as if they could save you now. “Shadow Milk is going to lecture me for days.” And yet… you still reached for one last bite.

Because if you were going to suffer, you might as well suffer sweetly. Your spoon hovered in midair, betrayal melting gently down its silver curve. Your stomach was beginning to gurgle again like it was warming up for a performance and, in a moment of belated responsibility, you cracked open your notebook. There, in the margins of your History of Food notes, beneath a page titled “Appetitum Temperare – Court Enchantments of the Second Era”, was a line you’d definitely skimmed. You narrowed your eyes.

Note: Not compatible with chilled or frozen foods. Spell may result in stomach heat surges, bloating, unpredictable magical feedback, or temporary hallucinations of dessert-themed familiars.

“…Excuse me?” you whispered, already clutching your stomach.

You flipped the page. There were more warnings.

Risk of temporary sugar-induced euphoria is high. Spontaneous dairy intolerance reported in 12% of trials. May cause fruit-based dreams for up to 36 hours. DO NOT COMBINE WITH ENCHANTED GELATO. Underlined three times.

You stared at the words, the faint shimmer of spell residue still tickling at your skin like citrus static. “Why is this more detailed than the textbook,” you muttered, flipping another page only to be greeted by your own doodle of a pineapple-headed sorcerer wielding a wand like an ice cream cone. You blinked. “I am not a serious scholar.” Your stomach made a whoomp sound that did not sound natural. 

You sat straighter. “Okay. Okay. Breathe.” You set the spoon down with reverence, as if that small act would appease whatever ancient dairy god you had offended. Then you pointed to your notes dramatically.

“I get it. Lesson learned. No magic digestion spells on frozen desserts.” Another gurgle answered. “Never again,” you whispered, placing a hand over your heart. “Unless someone else tries it first and survives.” 

You slumped forward, head hitting your notebook. Across the dining hall, a few early lunch-goers trickled in but none came close enough to witness your noble downfall. Thank the stars. Still, as you lay there, stomach in gentle revolt, your eyes drifted toward the untouched half of the pineapple ice cream…Maybe just one more bite? 

No.

Yes?

…Maybe.

You sat in silence, shoulders hunched over your tray like a scholar guarding forbidden knowledge. The side effects had arrived not all at once, but in small, increasingly regrettable waves. Your stomach still swirled with enchanted heat, a low and persistent churn that made your breathing shallow and your posture suspiciously stiff. There was a faint tingling at your temples, and though you prayed it was your imagination you were pretty sure the shimmer around the pineapple ice cream had grown brighter. 

You did not want anyone to know what you’d done. Not Shadow Milk Cookie, who would probably sigh and say “I warned you.” 

Not Chai Latte Cookie, who would look heartbroken and say “After all that support?” 

And definitely not Earl Grey Cookie, who would never, ever let you live it down. You could already hear the snarky commentary forming behind his perfectly composed facade. You sank lower in your seat, shielding your notes with your arms like they might absorb your shame. “I’m fine,” you muttered to no one, as if saying it aloud would make it true. The enchantment’s heat pulsed again, low and slow like a kettle just starting to boil. “I’m fine.” You forced your hands to stop trembling and carefully turned the page in your notes, pretending to study the diagrams of court banquets like you hadn’t just cast a semi-forbidden food spell on yourself in broad daylight.

“I’m so fine it’s suspicious,” you muttered, adjusting your posture to look more… academic. Normal. Innocent. You dared a glance around the dining hall. No one had noticed. Yet. No pineapple-headed hallucinations. No glowing aura. No magical indigestion-induced levitation. Not yet, anyway. 

You exhaled, placing a hand carefully over your stomach like you were trying to pacify an ancient beast. “Just… go away. Quietly. Peacefully. Let this be a lesson only I have to learn.” The pineapple ice cream glistened beside you, cheerful and unrepentant. 

You refused to look at it again. From now on, you decided, if any magic was going to happen in your digestive tract, it was going to be supervised by multiple professors and possibly signed off by Shadow Milk himself. You weren’t sure how long you sat like that, silently bargaining with your insides, but eventually the heat dulled to a simmer. And still just to be safe you whispered to yourself, “No one ever has to know.”

Then you closed your notebook, tucked it into your bag like it hadn’t betrayed you, and stood up with the gait of someone who had absolutely not just cursed their own stomach out of greed. You tried. You really, truly tried.

But no amount of steady breathing or internal pep talks could muffle the growing crescendo in your gut the telltale signs of a spell gone awry. Heat flared again beneath your ribs, and a strange tickling sensation began climbing your spine like a warning bell. This was beyond what a quiet prayer to moderation could fix.

So, with your pride officially defeated and your insides staging a full revolt, you packed up your things and bolted from the dining hall. The halls of the Academy blurred around you. The ornate sconces, the polished floors, the gentle hum of distant enchantments they were all background noise to your very real, very urgent situation.

Avoid Shadow Milk. That was the first rule of your new survival strategy. You admired him. You may or may not have kissed him behind a hedge recently.

But you were not letting him witness your self-inflicted magical food disaster. You’d rather be swallowed whole by the Great Library’s overdue fee ghost. You veered into the Scholar’s Wing like a rogue gust of wind, clutching your notebook to your chest as if the right page might still hold salvation. 

Now came the hard part. Shadow Milk’s office was tucked deeper down the corridor, in a space reserved for the most revered minds of the Academy.

Which meant you were currently wandering the marble halls of the high scholars noble, elegant, terrifying Cookies who existed on levels of thought you barely understood on your best day. You never came here alone or at all just tutoring. But desperate times, and all that. Please don’t let him be in the hallway, you chanted inwardly, scanning each polished door and hoping to glimpse a familiar, non-Sage-of-Truth silhouette.

You turned a corner and nearly ran straight into a robed Cookie with a pile of books floating beside them. “Ah sorry!” you gasped, stepping back. The scholar or professor?...blinked at you. They looked vaguely familiar someone who’d guest-lectured for your Enchanted Systems class once.

Their robes were deep violet, embroidered with constellations, and their gaze was more curious than annoyed. How come their robes were different? “Can I help you?” they asked, voice calm. You swallowed. “Um. I…yes. Maybe. Do you, uh… know anything about ancient digestive enchantments…and pineapple ice cream…?” 

A beat passed. Their brows lifted just slightly. “You cast a banquet-era spell, didn’t you?” You winced. “…Hypothetically?”

They sighed through their nose in a way that felt entirely too knowing. “Come on. Let’s get you off the main floor before someone important sees you glowing.”

“I’m glowing?!”

“Not literally,” they said. “Yet.” You whimpered softly and followed them without question. Shadow Milk would never hear about this. You refused to let him know. Unless, of course, it got worse. Which given your luck it probably would. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the quiet of the study space seemed to press in like a soft blanket. Gentle magical lighting pooled across the stone floor, illuminating a desk stacked with annotated cookbooks and several enchanted kettles. The space felt lived-in but orderly, not intimidating like the main hall offices of the high scholars. You could breathe here. They gave you a long, assessing look, one brow raised, but not unkindly. “Alright,” they said, setting aside a cup of steeping tea. “You clearly did something.” You nodded, half-wincing. “I did something.” They gestured to the chair across from them. “Sit. Tell me everything. Preferably before the pineapple takes you out.”

You collapsed into the seat with a grateful sigh, clutching your notebook like a shield. “Okay. So. You know Professor Brambleberry’s History of Food Enchantments?” They hummed. “Infamous for their weekly pop quizzes and love of magically aged vinegar. Go on.”

“Well, we had this lecture a while ago about historical digestive spells used at royal feasts, and I remembered this one spell that helped nobles digest heavy meals during week-long banquets.” You flipped open your notes, pointing to a margin covered in half-baked sketches and enthusiastic, underlined phrases. “I thought…hey, what if I adapted it for pineapple ice cream?” They blinked. “...Pineapple ice cream?”

“It’s enchanted,” you said defensively. “Very enchanted. Possibly too enchanted. And I had too much of it earlier. Again. So I figured I’d try this.” You traced the spell’s incantation with your finger. “It didn’t seem complicated. I even remembered the gesture from the lecture! I thought I was being smart!”

“Until?”

You winced. “Until my stomach started… bubbling.” The professor leaned back in their chair with a sigh that was far too familiar. “Did you read the footnotes?”

“I skimmed them!”

“The ones that said it’s calibrated for hot foods only?”

“I saw the word broth! I thought that was optional context!”

They gave you a long look, then shook their head with a sigh that was more amused than annoyed. “You students and your shortcuts.” You flushed. “I just…Shadow Milk wasn’t around, and I didn’t want to get in trouble, and I really didn’t want to tell him what I did.” The mention of Shadow Milk made them freeze for a second but they didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m not a high scholar, if that helps,” the professor said lightly, reaching for a small wooden box labeled Digestive Corrections For the Stubborn and Curious. “Just a humble lecturer in enchantment history and magical culinary studies. Professor Kettlebranch, by the way.” Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. 

“That… does help, actually. Professor Kettlebranch. Thank you.” They handed you a softly glowing vial, the color of golden tea. “Sip slowly. This will neutralize most of the side effects. You might still feel a little warm. And next time?”

You nodded sheepishly. “No ice cream experimentation without supervision?” Kettlebranch smirked. “No enchantments without reading all the context. But yes also maybe wait until you’ve passed the class before recreating ancient food magic.” You laughed, just a little. “That’s fair.”

“Now go,” they said, already tidying their notes. “Drink water. Walk it off. And avoid dairy-based desserts for at least forty-eight hours.”

“Yes, Professor,” you said, gripping the vial like it might save your life. As you stepped out of the room sipping the potion,  your stomach already felt a little less rebellious. You’d made a mistake, sure but at least you weren’t alone in fixing it. And maybe you’d wait a little before going back for more pineapple ice cream. 

You jogged through the sun-drenched courtyards, potion still warm in your hand. Lunch hour had arrived without fanfare, and the usual hum of students filling the dining halls greeted you like an old song. Your stomach had settled barely. You felt mostly okay. Okay enough to sit, not eat. Okay enough to pretend none of this happened.

You slipped through the doors, scanning for the familiar. Sure enough, your friends were all seated at your usual table: Chai Latte Cookie sipping delicately from her cup, Earl Grey Cookie mid-annotation with a quill far too elegant for a lunch tray, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie balancing a roll on his nose while no one watched.

You slid into your usual seat at the dining table, setting down your tray which was empty save for a single cup of tea. With a sigh that could only be described as the sound of someone who had narrowly escaped death… by dessert. Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward immediately, eyes glinting. “Okay, spill.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised a brow. “You look like someone who just crawled out of a cursed bakery.”

“I told you it was the ice cream,” Chai said, nudging your arm. “What did you do?”

You dropped your head into your hands. “Okay. Fine. I admit it. I cast a digestive spell on the pineapple ice cream.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…A spell?..,” Earl Grey Cookie repeated. 

“Pineapple ice cream,” Chai echoed. 

Hazelnut Biscotti stared at you. “Why?” 

You lifted your head and gestured to them all like it was obvious. “Because I wanted more of it, okay? It was early, and the dining hall had already brought it out, and it was just sitting there in the buffet line like a gift from the stars. And I was still recovering from breakfast but I thought, you know, what if I made the ice cream not make me sick?”

“You cast a spell,” Earl Grey said slowly, “on your own digestive system.”

“It’s in my lecture notes!” you defended. “From Brambleberry’s class. Week four. Digestive enchantments used in royal banquets? I figured, hey, if it worked on dukes in golden feasting halls, surely it could handle a few scoops of pineapple ice cream.”

“And did it?” Chai asked, trying not to laugh.

“...No,” you muttered.

Hazelnut nearly fell out of his chair. “Oh what happened?” 

You looked off dramatically into the distance, like a war survivor reliving their battle. “There was bubbling. Gurgling. I thought my intestines were being pulled into another plane. It was like my entire stomach launched a formal protest.” 

Earl Grey raised a brow. “And this was ice cream?” 

You nodded solemnly. “Completely mundane. No enchantments. Just dairy. Cold. Betrayal in a bowl.” 

Chai clapped her hands over her mouth, snorting. “And let me guess… you didn’t read the footnotes.”

“I glanced at them!”

“You are so lucky Shadow Milk didn’t find out,” Hazelnut Biscotti  said, still wheezing. “He would’ve given a speech so intense your stomach would’ve fixed itself out of shame.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said quickly. “I avoided him entirely. I found Professor Kettlebranch. They’re in enchantment history and food magic. I gave them the full tragic tale, and they gave me this.” You held up the now-empty vial from earlier. “Said it would neutralize the spell. Also told me not to eat anything for a few hours. And to not cast anything until I pass the class.” 

Chai giggled, poking your arm. “So no more breakfast spellcasting for you.” 

You slumped. “I learned my lesson. I just… I wanted a little extra pineapple joy, okay?” Earl Grey sipped his tea. “Well, in fairness, few mortals can resist the siren song of yellow fruit.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m quoting you.”

Hazelnut grinned. “Well. At least you’re still alive.”

“Barely,” you muttered. Chai draped an arm over your shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll live. You just might never be allowed near the dessert counter unsupervised again.” 

You groaned and laid your head on the table. “Please don’t tell Shadow Milk.”

“Tell him what?” Earl Grey said innocently. “That you tried to bypass your mortal limits for pineapple?”

“I will cry.”

Hazelnut snickered. “We won’t say anything. But you owe us.”

“For life,” Chai added sweetly. You sighed, defeated but grateful. “Fine. First round of dessert is on me next time.”

“Not ice cream, though,” Earl Grey said flatly. 

You didn’t answer.You were already thinking about your next attempt. You leaned your chin on your hand, swirling your cup of tea idly as the teasing died down. Chai Latte Cookie had moved on to sketching dessert diagrams in her notebook for a spell she swore would revolutionize whipped cream texture, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie had gone strangely quiet likely trying to beat Earl Grey Cookie’s record time on a crossword in the campus paper. You cleared your throat lightly, the remnants of your pineapple-induced misadventure still tingling at the edge of your thoughts. 

“So,” you said casually, nudging your empty tray further down the table, “tutoring got postponed today.” Chai glanced up, eyes immediately curious. “Really? Why?” 

You raised your brows meaningfully. “Council meeting. They’re reviewing his end-of-semester speech.” 

Earl Grey gave a slow nod. “Ah, yes. The ceremonial address. Important enough to cancel tutoring for.” 

“I told him he could probably just quote some obscure dream-scholar, gaze dramatically at the stars, and everyone would call it transcendent.” Earl Grey sipped his tea, lips twitching. “Am I to assume he didn’t appreciate that suggestion?”

“He was insulted and amused,” you said, smiling. “Which, for him, is practically a love letter.” Chai tilted her head, doodling a tiny moon next to her whipped cream runes. 

“So, no studying today? Not even a little?” You leaned back in your chair, groaning. “He told me to review my notes. Which, I suppose, was his version of saying ‘I care.’” 

Earl Grey raised a brow. “And you immediately tried to enchant your insides for ice cream instead.” You buried your face in your hands. “I am the definition of a cautionary tale.” Hazelnut patted your shoulder. “At least you’re self-aware.” You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do not tell Shadow Milk.” Chai leaned closer. “He’d find out eventually.”

“I beg you.”

Earl Grey just smirked. “We’ll consider our silence… a gesture of friendship.” 

You exhaled dramatically, staring toward the ceiling like it held mercy. “I’ve never been more afraid of academic love.” And for now, your friends let the subject fade letting you rest in the quiet chaos of your own making, wrapped in laughter, affection, and pineapple regret. You weren’t eating just sipping your tea slowly, content with its warmth and the way it settled gently in your stomach. After the morning you’d had, even the idea of food felt ambitious. But you weren’t upset. Just a little tired. Still, your friends noticed. 

“Still avoiding food like it’s cursed?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie asked, grinning into his mug. You lifted a brow. “Technically, it was cursed. I cursed myself.”

Earl Grey Cookie hummed, swirling his tea. “You’re lucky you didn’t enchant the entire dessert table. We’d still be pulling students out of the infirmary.” 

You smiled faintly, eyes crinkling. “Noted. No more rogue culinary experiments.” A soft clink of ceramic broke the lull, and Chai Latte Cookie, seated beside you, tilted her head as she rested her cheek against her palm. She watched you with the kind of fondness that made you feel immediately seen but not in a scrutinizing way. More like she was just… curious.

“So,” she said casually, brushing a finger along the edge of her saucer. “Are you ever going to tell the world?” 

You blinked. “Tell the world what?” She gave you a look. “About you and our favorite philosopher-poet-star-walker.” You flushed just faintly not out of embarrassment, but the way one might when a secret was said aloud, and still, nothing bad happened.

“Oh,” you said. “That.” She smiled, soft and amused. “Mhm. That.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, not tense, not cagey just honest. “I like it how it is right now.”

“No judgment,” she said, lifting her hands. “I’m just nosy.” You chuckled into your tea. Hazelnut Biscotti leaned over from across the table. “So it’s really happening? You and the Sage of ‘Nothing Escapes My Insight’ Truth?”

“I’m not answering that,” you said, hiding your smile behind your mug.

“You didn’t deny it,” Earl Grey observed smoothly. You rolled your eyes, setting your cup down. “You’re all impossible.” 

Chai leaned closer, her voice quieter now. “I think it’s sweet, actually. You don’t seem like you’re hiding it out of fear. Just… choosing to keep it where it’s quiet.” You nodded, smiling at that. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. It’s nice, having something that’s just ours. Not for display. Not under scrutiny.”

Earl Grey nodded approvingly. “A private truth. Fitting.”

“Besides,” you added, stretching slightly, “I think the world would faint if they saw him laugh at one of my pineapple rants.” 

Hazelnut sarcastically spoke. “I’d pay to see that.” 

Chai gave your hand a quick squeeze. “Well, whenever you do want to tell the world, we’ll be right here cheering like fools.” You gave her a grin. “I’d expect nothing less.” And just like that, the topic faded into another round of tea, light chatter, and the steady, comforting rhythm of friendship. Nothing had changed.

Nothing needed to. For now, your secret stayed right where it belonged warm, tucked between the lines of shared glances and unspoken things. As the lunch crowd began to dwindle, trays clattered softly into return bins and laughter echoed through the arches of the dining hall. 

With no tutoring today thanks to a certain council speech review you found yourself with an unfamiliar stretch of free time. And though the pineapple ice cream fiasco had left you wary of food and magic alike, the quiet companionship of your friends made the weight of the morning feel distant. You glanced over at them Hazelnut slouching comfortably, Earl Grey polishing off the last of his notes from lunch, Chai already halfway through planning your entire evening for you in her head and felt that familiar tug in your chest.

“…Hey,” you said, setting your teacup down, “since I don’t have tutoring this afternoon, mind if I tag along to your lectures?” 

Chai’s eyes sparkled. “You? Voluntarily attending a class you’re not enrolled in?” Hazelnut Biscotti let out a low whistle. “Must be the pineapple. It’s rewired their brain.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I just thought it might be nice. You know. To go with you. That way we can all head to dinner together after.” Earl Grey looked up from his planner, raising a single brow. “You’re inviting yourself to our schedule in the name of companionship?”

You gave him your most dramatic, innocent look. “It’s not a crime to want to walk with my friends, is it?”

Chai was already scooting over to make room. “Never. Come sit with me. I’ll even take notes for you.” You blinked. “I can take my own notes.”

“I know,” she said cheerfully, “but mine will be cuter.” Hazelnut stood with a stretch. “Let’s not forget my class is first. You’ll be stuck listening to me try not to snore during Tactical Applications.” 

Earl Grey gave him a long-suffering look. “You’ll stay awake this time.”

“No promises.” You smiled softly, gathering your things. Maybe the afternoon wasn’t going to be so aimless after all. “No pineapple ice cream detours,” 

Earl Grey added as you all began to make your way out of the hall. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you lied. And just like that, the four of you melted back into the flow of students, shoulder to shoulder, step for step your afternoon stitched together with light conversation, shared glances, and the kind of easy presence that didn’t ask for anything but your company.

The afternoon slipped by in a haze of laughter and barely-contained chaos. You had almost gotten the group kicked out of lecture not because of anything malicious, of course, but because Chai had whispered something to you during a particularly dry part of the lesson and you couldn’t hold back your snort. 

Hazelnut had definitely made it worse with his perfectly-timed follow-up joke, and Earl Grey had tried so hard to stay composed he ended up coughing into his sleeve for five full minutes. The professor gave your row many looks.

You all gave your most innocent stares in return. Dinner came and went in a similar blur, full of shared bites, mild bickering over the last roll, and an impassioned debate about whether or not the new enchanted citrus glaze was actually better than the classic moonberry reduction. It wasn’t. You were right. Everyone else was wrong.

And before you knew it, you were back in Chai Latte Cookie’s dorm, sleepover in full swing. Soft music hummed quietly from the enchanted music box on her windowsill, casting lazy constellations across the rose-hued ceiling. Sleeping bags were sprawled across the quilted rug Hazelnut’s looked like it had been through one too many camping trips, and Earl Grey’s was precisely folded before he even lay down. You, however, climbed right into Chai’s bed with absolutely no hesitation. Hazelnut raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even gonna pretend to be humble about that?” 

You stretched luxuriously against her ridiculous collection of pillows, folding your arms behind your head. “It’s good for the brain. Something about sleep quality and, uh… bed softness.” Chai snorted as she pulled on a pair of starry slippers. “You’ve been using that excuse since first year.”

“And it’s still working.”

“Barely.”

Earl Grey glanced up from his journal. “One day we’ll actually get an explanation rooted in science.” 

You grinned, nestling further into the blankets. “Today is not that day.” Chai just laughed, shaking her head fondly as she dimmed the lights with a flick of her wand. The strands of fairy lights blinked overhead, casting a cozy glow across the room. 

You could hear Hazelnut already slipping into sleepy rambling, something about how he would definitely wake up early tomorrow, and Earl Grey muttering a polite “no, you won’t” in response.

And you, buried beneath Chai’s soft quilts with a pillow that smelled like rose milk and cardamom, let out a content sigh. Warm. Safe. Together. No pineapple incidents. No tutoring stress. Just you and your friends, drifting into night with nothing but laughter left to carry.

You didn’t remember falling asleep just the soft hum of Chai’s music box and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing beside you, the comfort of blankets too plush for a school dorm and the distant echo of someone snoring…Hazelnut Biscotti. Always Hazelnut. But suddenly, there was light creeping in through the gossamer curtains, painting soft gold across the ceiling, and-“Rise and shine,” Earl Grey Cookie said in a voice far too calm for this hour. 

You groaned, burying your face deeper into the nearest pillow. “Absolutely not.” Chai Latte Cookie made a muffled noise from beside you, arm flopping over your back. “Is he serious…?”

Earl Grey, unbothered by your collective protests, moved about the room with graceful precision. He was already ready, bag tucked neatly beneath one arm. He stepped over Hazelnut’s mess of a sleeping bag with all the dignity of a professor dodging chaos. “We’ll be late for breakfast,” he said, smoothing his sleeves. “And late for breakfast means we’ll miss the fresh melon pastries. Again.”

That got Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie to sit up abruptly, hair a mess, blinking blearily. “Wait. Pastries?” Chai groaned louder, curling more tightly into the blankets. “You’re evil. You know that?”

“You’ll thank me when you’re properly caffeinated,” Earl Grey replied smoothly. You peeked out from beneath the covers, hair probably sticking up in five different directions. “You didn’t even sleep in. Did you just… sit there like a brooding tea ghost all night?” 

Earl Grey didn’t dignify that with a response, simply adjusted his collar and held the door open like some gentleman from a storybook. “Five minutes.” Chai sat up with a dramatic sigh, rubbing her eyes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming. Let me brush my teeth and threaten Hazelnut first.”

Hazelnut, already halfway to pulling on his boots, yawned. “As long as there’s food, you can threaten me all you want.” You stretched, blinking toward the window. The light was still soft, just barely morning. You were tired, but not unhappy. The lingering warmth of the night still clung to your skin, made the grogginess feel worth it. And maybe you were looking forward to seeing who else might already be at breakfast. You swung your legs out of bed, still wrapped in Chai’s too-long cardigan she’d thrown over you sometime in the night. 

“Alright, tea ghost,” you said, brushing past Earl Grey with a sleepy grin. “Lead the way.” He arched a brow. “That’s Sir Tea Ghost to you.”

And just like that, your morning began with yawns, banter, and the quiet comfort of your friends leading you into the day. The morning air was crisp, tinged with dew and sunlight that filtered lazily through the Academy’s ivy-draped windows.

You were still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the group of you spilled out of Chai Latte Cookie’s dorm, bleary but unified in purpose. Earl Grey Cookie led the way, his uniform perfectly in place, not a single thing out of alignment. But then Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie said something about melons fresh from the celestial groves a blatant exaggeration and everything changed. “First one there gets the last flaky corner,” Chai declared suddenly with wild determination. 

It was all the spark needed. Earl Grey didn’t say anything. He just broke into a run. “Hey!” you shouted, laughing as you darted after him. “I saw them first!” Hazelnut hollered, charging past with his robes practically flapping behind him. Chai let out a battle cry, sprinting ahead with a hand outstretched like she was diving for a relic of ancient power. “No mercy today!”

You laughed so hard you nearly tripped, racing to keep up, breath puffing white in the chilly morning as the four of you tore across campus like kids who hadn’t a single responsibility in the world. 

For a brief, ridiculous moment, it felt like you were younger again before the weight of portfolios, tutoring, impossible lectures, and love you couldn’t quite name had sunk in. Just you and your best friends, running like misfits down the marble corridors in pursuit of pastries like it was the most important quest of your lives. 

And maybe, in some small way, it was. By the time you reached the dining hall, breathless and grinning, your hair tousled and your limbs sore from laughter, the trays were still warm.

A fresh batch of melon pastries lay waiting beneath a light enchantment to keep them soft. Earl Grey didn’t even pretend to act composed. He snatched a pastry with a gleam in his eye, his smile reckless. “I’ll have you know, I abandoned every principle I live by for this.”

“You leapt over a first-year,” you wheezed. “I saw it.”

“I was efficient,” he said with a smirk. Hazelnut, already halfway through his pastry, gave you a crumb-covered thumbs-up. “Totally worth it.” Chai was still catching her breath as she handed you one of the warm pastries she’d claimed for you. 

“We should be chaotic more often.” The moment you all sat at your usual table, everything settled. Like a spell had worn off. Earl Grey smoothes his robes down. Chai adjusted her hair. Hazelnut licked sugar off his thumb and leaned back in his chair. But the warmth lingered. Not just from the pastries. From that rare, untethered moment you’d all stolen together.

And for a little while longer, you just let yourselves eat and laugh and exist as if you weren’t all being pulled in different directions, as if everything could stay like this forever.

A/N Y'all I had the best nap ever. I dreamed I had a perfect life in a cottage with the love of my life on the mountainside of Montana overlooking the Lamar valley, amethyst mountain peeking over. Then I awoke knowing I need to get a 91/150 on my final...chat do we think we can get a 91?? LET ME GET A HELL YEAH!!!

Also I will be checking my inbox tomorrow did not get the time for it today unfortunately...and good news I recovered 2k words and only had to write 1k, I had the file open twice and one of them had some of the words I lost? I felt so lucky

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Remmick x reader, established relationship, NSFW(maybe some fluff?)

Imagine reader noticing that Remmick is frustrated when he returns home, perhaps a hunt wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped/imagined.

So reader decides to help him relax by making this night all about him. Settling him down and kneeling in front of him, no matter how much he wants to grab the reader (with some convincing) they make sure he’s taken care of first.

(Give this man head till he’s shooting blanks and whimpering fr) who said that- omg

Gender neutral pronouns and afab if that’s okay :)!

Have a great day/night!

Remmy||Remmick x GN!Reader with afab

Summary—after a frustrating hunt remmick comes home to be takes care of y/n.

Warnings— oral sex (male receiving) light teasing one singular use of y/n.

Low key one of my favorites I giggled when I saw you back in my inbox 🙂��↕️

You know that look. That frustration set to Remmick’s jaw, the way his shoulders roll like he’s trying to shake off a weight he can’t put down. He walks in the door still sharp with tension, his eyes a little too red, his fangs just barely peeking from under his lip. You don’t need to ask what happened, you can feel it in your bones. The hunt didn’t go as planned.

You meet him halfway, your touch gentle on his chest. “Rem,” you murmur, “come sit.”

“I’m fine,” he lies, voice rough, hands twitching like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you just yet. “Just… wasn’t enough. Didn’t hit right.”

You guide him to the edge of the bed anyway, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket. “Let me help.”

He hesitates. You don’t.

You ease him down, kneeling between his legs, hands warm on his thighs. He tenses immediately, a low growl building in his throat. “Sweetheart…” It’s half warning, half plea. “Don’t start something I can’t finish. You know I’ll lose it—I’ll want—”

“Shh,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the inside of his knee. “You don’t have to do anything. Let me take care of you tonight, Remmy.”

He exhales through clenched teeth, head falling back, hands gripping the sheets instead of your hair like you know he wants to. It takes coaxing. Whispered reassurances. Tender strokes along his thighs, careful kisses against his hip bones, slow enough to drive him mad.

When you finally free him, he’s already leaking, needy and flushed, and you swear his breath catches like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. You start slowly, savoring the way he twitches under your touch, how his thighs tremble the longer you drag your tongue over him. You use your mouth like worship hands keeping his hips steady, even when they jerk up instinctively.

“Fuck—baby,” he groans, voice rasping low, almost broken. “That mouth… shit, you’re gonna kill me.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Rem,” you hum, lips brushing the head of his cock. “You’ll be fine.”

But he’s not fine. He’s wrecked. Moaning and panting, hands fisting the sheets so he doesn’t grab you and flip you over. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, his eyes glowing with restraint.

“Please,” he breathes, thighs trembling, “please, I’m close—”

You don’t let up. You suck him deeper, throat flexing around him until he chokes on a moan and spills with a cry, hips bucking despite himself. But you’re not done, not even close.

You coax him through it. Keep him in your mouth, soft licks and messy strokes, dragging it out until he’s shaking. Until he’s whimpering yes, whimpering and trying to pull away, too sensitive but still twitching in your hand.

“Fuck, fuck, Y/n I—can’t—please, no more,” he gasps, eyes glassy and unfocused.

You finally pull off, lips swollen and spit-slick, and press gentle kisses along his stomach while his chest heaves. His hand finds your hair at last, trembling fingers smoothing it back from your face like he’s grounding himself.

“You’re gonna kill me permanently one day,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You grin against his skin. “Only if you’re lucky.”

Later, you crawl into his lap, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before cupping his cheek. He’s dazed, flushed, still panting a little as you kiss him slow and sweet.

He leans into you like a man starved soft now, pliant. Not from hunger or lust. Just love.

“You always know what I need,” he murmurs, arms wrapping tight around your waist.

You kiss his forehead. “That’s what I’m here for, Remmy.”

[monicfever]

could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3

frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff

FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.

frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.

watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”

frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.

he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.

he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.

has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”

“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.

he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.

he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.

keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.

does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”

like taking care of you is just part of his day.

he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.

gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.

keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.

won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.

he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.

when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.

still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.

he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.

he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.

he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.

he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.

you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.

reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.

refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.

doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.

he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.

major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.

makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.

when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.

when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.

frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.

whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.

he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.

good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.

he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”

he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.

he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.

he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.

he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.

he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.

he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.

he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.

he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.

he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.

he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”

he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.

he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.

he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.

he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.

he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.

he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.

he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”

always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.

he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.

he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.

he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”

has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.

he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.

he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.

he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.

he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.

never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.

knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.

weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”

he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.

so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.

puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?

he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.

he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.

calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.

he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”

he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.

he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.

he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.

double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.

sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.

he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”

wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.

refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.

he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.29.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[izzih22]

do one where paige and azzi are hanging out with drew and they keep teasing him about a crush he has at school

Family Business

Note: hope y’all like it

The Bueckers’ living room was a mess of old video game controllers, chip bags, and half-finished root beers.

The summer sun was still slanting low through the windows, casting a soft golden light over everything, making the whole scene feel even more easy and familiar.

Paige sat sprawled on the couch, socked feet up on the coffee table, controller in hand.

Azzi was curled against her side, legs tucked up, watching the screen with a lazy smile.

Across from them, Drew — Paige’s little brother — sat in an armchair, scowling at his screen like it had personally offended him.

He’d been quiet for a few minutes now. Too quiet.

Which, for Paige, was blood in the water.

“Hey, Drew,” she said casually, not looking away from the TV. “Who’s that girl you were talking about earlier?”

Drew stiffened immediately. “What girl?”

Azzi perked up, sensing danger — and opportunity. “Ohhh, wait, there’s a girl?” she said, smiling way too sweetly.

Drew glared at them both. “There’s no girl.”

Paige snorted. “Right, because you’re blushing like a tomato for no reason.”

“I’m not!” Drew protested, cheeks definitely turning redder.

Azzi set her controller down, turning fully to face him.

“Okay, okay,” she said, voice dripping with fake seriousness. “We’re just concerned. As your older sisters, it’s our duty to know these things.”

Paige reached over and mussed Drew’s hair roughly, ignoring his half-hearted attempts to dodge her.

“Yeah, bro. We gotta vet her. Make sure she deserves you.”

“And,” Azzi added solemnly, “we need to know if she’s prettier than us.”

Drew groaned, shoving his face into a pillow. “Stopppp.”

Paige grinned and turned to Azzi. “Remember when he had that crush on that girl in fifth grade who didn’t even know his name?”

Azzi laughed, bright and easy. “Oh my gosh, and he made us practice how he was gonna say ‘hi’ to her in the kitchen for like three hours.”

“You made me!” Drew protested from under the pillow.

“You begged us!” Paige and Azzi chorused at the same time, then dissolved into laughter.

Drew pulled the pillow away, giving them both his best death glare.

“You two are the worst,” he grumbled.

Azzi leaned over and bumped his knee affectionately.

“Nah, you love us.”

Drew grunted, but there was no real heat behind it.

He did love them. Had for as long as he could remember.

Azzi wasn’t just Paige’s girlfriend — she was family.

She’d been around for so many years now, it felt weird to even separate them in his mind. She was just… Azzi. His big sister, whether the world called it that or not.

Paige turned back to the TV with a smirk.

“So,” she said casually. “What’s her name?”

“Nope,” Drew said immediately.

Azzi tilted her head, giving him the big, soft brown eyes she knew were impossible to resist.

“Pleeease?”

Drew tried. He really tried. But it was a losing battle.

He sighed dramatically, dropping his controller onto the floor.

“Fine. Her name’s Riley. She’s in my math class.”

Paige elbowed Azzi triumphantly.

“Knew it. Knew there was someone.”

Azzi giggled. “Is she cute?”

Drew shrugged, all tough and cool — and about as convincing as a wet cat.

“I guess.”

Paige leaned in, voice low and teasing.

“Have you talked to her yet? Or are we still at the ‘staring awkwardly from across the room’ phase?”

“Shut up,” Drew muttered, cheeks flaming again.

Azzi softened a little, nudging Paige.

“Be nice,” she said, grinning. She turned back to Drew, voice kinder. “You’re gonna crush it, Drew. You’re way cooler than you think.”

“Way cooler,” Paige agreed easily. “Especially when you don’t try so hard.”

“And,” Azzi said, laughing, “you’ve got two amazing role models.”

Drew groaned again. “God help me.”

Paige ruffled his hair one more time for good measure.

“You’re welcome, little man.”

Azzi smiled at Drew — warm, real.

“We got your back, okay? Always.”

Drew glanced between the two of them — his big sister, and the girl who had been there through everything right beside her — and, despite himself, he smiled a little too.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low but sure. “I know.”

They turned back to their game after that, the moment slipping away into the familiar rhythm of trash talk and laughter and teasing.

Just a regular afternoon.

But underneath it all, something steady and unspoken thrummed between them:

Family wasn’t always about blood.

Sometimes it was about the people who stayed.

The ones who made you laugh, and made you feel like maybe the world wasn’t so scary after all.

And in that messy living room in Minnesota, Drew knew he had two of the best.

[lazysoulwriter]

who's that woman? - Pedro Pascal.

requested! thank you so much for sending, hope you like it. ♡

---

The after party buzzes with static energy — music, flashing lights, laughter bouncing off the walls. You feel it in your chest like a second heartbeat. Your heels are killing you, your curls are sticking to the back of your neck, and someone spilled something suspiciously sticky near the bar. But none of it matters.

Because you're dancing.

Dancing like no one’s watching — even though everyone kind of is. The DJ is deep into a 90s setlist, and you’re in your element. You know every lyric, every beat drop, every over-the-top bridge. And you don’t care how you look doing it. You’re having fun. Real, shameless, sweat-slicked fun. And the people around you? They’re feeding off your energy. Laughing when you point to them mid-verse, clapping along when you hit a dramatic air guitar solo.

You’ve always been the life of the party without even trying.

What you don’t know is that, from across the room, Pedro Pascal is watching you — completely mesmerized.

He’s leaning against a wall with a half-empty drink in hand, tired from small talk, already plotting his escape when he sees you. And it stops him cold.

Your smile, your joy, your wild abandon — it’s unlike anything he’s seen in a long time.

“Who is that woman?” he murmurs out loud, not meaning to be heard.

But someone beside him answers casually, like it’s obvious. “That’s Y/N. You don’t know her? She’s the indie singer of the moment. Absolutely magical.”

He repeats your name under his breath. Y/N. It sounds good already. His eyes never leave you — not even when the song ends and you finally step off the dance floor, cheeks flushed, skin glowing, laughter still lingering on your lips.

You head to the bar, needing water more than another drink. And he sees his chance.

He walks toward you — slowly, calmly — but just before he reaches you, someone else gets there first.

A man leans in close to your ear. Says something low. You throw your head back and laugh.

Pedro stops in his tracks.

Of course she has someone, he thinks. Why wouldn’t you? You’re radiant. Magnetic. Everyone wants to be near you. And he isn’t the kind of guy to flirt with someone who’s taken. Even if all he wants to do is hear your voice. Ask what song you were dancing to like it was saving your life.

He’s just about to turn away when the man — whoever he is — looks up and locks eyes with Pedro.

And then he smiles. Waves him over like they’re old friends.

Confused, Pedro approaches. “Took you long enough,” the guy says, easy and amused. “Pedro, right? I’m Luca — co-producer on the indie you’re shooting next month.”

Pedro laughs in recognition. “No way. I didn’t recognize you without five assistants and a clipboard.”

Then Luca turns to you and says, almost too casually: “This is my sister. Y/N.”

You smile at Pedro with that same effortless warmth that had everyone watching you dance. “I love your work,” you say, offering your hand. “Your voice? I’d listen to you read my grocery list.”

He laughs, starstruck and completely at ease. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And from there — the rest of the night falls into place like it was always meant to.

The party fades into background noise. You end up sitting close, knees brushing under a tiny table, talking like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

He’s funnier than you expected. A little shy at first, but playful, too. Sharp. Thoughtful. You tell him you write better lyrics after two drinks. He confesses he’s cried at every animated film he’s ever seen. You tease him for dancing too well for a man over 40. He tells you you’re like his childhood best friend — the one who dared him to do ridiculous things just to see if he’d say yes.

You feel it. That pull. That click.

And you can see he feels it too.

He looks at you like he’s remembering something. Like you remind him of a version of himself he thought he’d outgrown — but misses more than he realized. You’re loud where he’s quiet, fearless where he’s careful. But underneath? You’re made of the same stuff. Passion. Curiosity. Heart.

Six months later.

You’re sitting on the kitchen floor in mismatched pajamas, eating cold risotto straight from the container. He’s across from you, eyes soft, cheeks a little pink from the wine.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t have a speech. Just pulls a small box from his hoodie pocket and says your name like a question.

And you say yes before he even finishes.

Now, in a quiet interview for a glossy magazine, Pedro leans back in his chair, fiddling with the silver ring on his hand. The journalist asks about you — how you met, how it happened.

He smiles, slow and sure. “I never believed in love at first sight,” he says, voice warm. “Not until her.”

---

[jessiso]

"642 Days"

A criminal minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x Reader

A drunken Spencer Reid shows up at your door with a list of nerdy confessions—and a heart full of love he can’t hide anymore.

cw: intoxication, alcohol use, mentions of hangover, fluff and romantic confessions.

w/c 1,697

(As this was the most voted on my poll - here it is! I hope you all enjoy it 💚)

...

The bar lights were low and warm, casting soft golden halos around the heads of the laughing crowd.

At a corner table, the BAU team was mid-sprawl, empty glasses and discarded lime wedges cluttering the wood between them. The scent of whiskey and something fried clung to the air.

Spencer Reid slumped against the back of his chair, a lazy, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. His cheeks were flushed a warm pink, his tie loosened and askew. A half-finished glass of whiskey dangled precariously between his fingers.

"You good, pretty boy?" Morgan chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on Spencer’s shoulder, which made him sway slightly in his seat. "You’re lookin’ a little wrecked over there."

"I'm fine," Spencer said emphatically, drawing out the word. He blinked at Morgan like it took a second for his brain to catch up. "Actually, statistically speaking, I'm —" he paused, lifting his hand in an uncertain gesture, "— better than fine."

Across the table, JJ burst out laughing while Emily smirked over the rim of her beer.

"God, Reid," Emily teased. "You're drunk."

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted, affronted. "I'm not drunk, I'm..." he searched for the word, waving his hand like he could pluck it from the air. "Loosened."

Hotch, nursing his beer with an amused shake of his head, said dryly, "That's not a clinical term, Reid."

Spencer grinned brightly at him, then immediately checked his phone again, bringing it up so close to his face that Morgan barked a laugh.

"You seriously trying to read like that?" Morgan said. "Who you texting? That little lady of yours?"

Spencer’s flush deepened instantly, visible even in the dim lighting. He fumbled his phone, caught it against his chest, and mumbled, "M'not texting. I'm—I'm just making sure she didn't..." He trailed off into a mutter, too low for any of them to hear.

Penelope swooped in with a fresh round of shots, setting a bright red one in front of Spencer with a flourish. "For love!" she cried. "Or at least for courage!"

Spencer blinked at the glass, then back up at her, visibly debating it. He shook his head a little too dramatically.

"I gotta go," he said, dragging himself upright, coat swinging from his elbow. His legs wobbled for a second before he caught himself against the table. "’M already late."

"Oooh," Morgan hooted. "Someone’s got plans!"

Spencer pointed vaguely at him as he backed away. "I have intentions," he corrected, sounding far more serious than he probably intended.

The team’s laughter followed him all the way out the door, warm and full of affection. He barely noticed. His head was a little light, his steps a little uneven — but all he could think about was getting to you.

And how much he hoped you didn’t mind if he showed up a little... loosened.

You weren’t expecting the knock at your door at 11:42 p.m.

But when you opened it to find Spencer Reid swaying slightly in his cardigan and a very flushed face, holding a paper bag like it was a priceless artifact, you knew two things immediately:

1. He was drunk.

2. This was going to be interesting.

“Spence?” you asked, blinking. “What’s—did something happen?”

He beamed at you, bright and boyish. “Something very important happened,” he said, stumbling slightly over the word “important.”

“Derek made me drink whiskey. Which is fermented grains, by the way. Grains. Like in cereal.”

You bit back a smile. “You hate whiskey.”

“I do! That’s the thing! It tastes like regret and firewood,” he declared, stepping inside uninvited. “But I drank it because Morgan said I need to ‘loosen up,’ and I think he’s wrong. I think I’m perfectly un-loose. Wait. No. Loose enough. I’m loose enough.”

He paused, brows furrowing in deep thought. Then he looked up at you.

“You’re very pretty,” he said solemnly.

You blinked. “Okay. That’s new.”

“Not really,” he murmured, eyes wide and glassy. “I think that all the time. But usually I don’t say it because there are rules, and I like rules. I’m good at them. Except for the unspoken one where I’m not supposed to tell my best friend she’s the reason my hippocampus lights up like a Christmas tree every time she walks in the room.”

You just stared. “Your... hippocampus?”

He nodded, leaning against your wall with the grace of a wet noodle. “It’s the part of the brain that stores emotional memory and processes faces. Yours is my favorite. Face. Your face.”

A quiet laugh escaped you. “Spencer, are you trying to confess something to me right now? Because it sounds like a dissertation on how in love with me you are.”

He straightened, suddenly serious, like you’d just solved a puzzle. “Yes!” he whispered. “Yes, exactly. That’s the thing I’ve been trying not to say for, like, 642 days. You counted how long you’ve had a crush on someone before, right? That’s normal. Totally normal.”

You tried not to laugh too hard, but a giggle slipped out anyway. “Six hundred and forty-two days?”

“Since the coffee spill incident,” he said fondly. “You were wearing that sweater with the star on the sleeve, and you apologized twelve times even though it was my fault. That was the day I thought, ‘Huh. I could love her.’ And then I just... never stopped.”

Your heart did a very inconvenient somersault in your chest. “Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“You’re drunk.”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “So I’ve been told. But the truth serum is working and I’m not even mad about it.”

You took a step closer, touching his arm gently. “Okay, drunk genius. Let’s get you some water and into bed. My couch is yours tonight.”

He pouted. “Only if you promise you’ll still be here in the morning. I don’t want to forget saying all that, and then wake up and think it was a dream. Because I’ve definitely dreamed about this. At least twice. Once we were on a space station, though.”

You smiled so hard it hurt a little. “I’ll be here.”

“And you don’t hate me?”

You cupped his cheek. “Spencer. I think I might be in love with your hippocampus too.”

He blinked. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You laughed, leading him toward the couch, already knowing this would be a story to retell for years—but more importantly, that this was just the beginning of something you both had been waiting for.

You guided Spencer toward the couch, his long limbs gangly and uncoordinated as he nearly tripped over a rug you were sure he’d memorized the dimensions of during one of his thousand visits.

“Wait,” he murmured as you handed him a glass of water. “I have more confessions.”

“Oh?” you asked, amused, tucking a blanket around him.

He nodded seriously, though it looked more like a slow-motion bobblehead. “I have a list.”

“A list?”

“Yes. Top ten reasons I think you’re the most perfect person I’ve ever met.” He held up a finger. “One: You laugh at my jokes, even when they include Latin roots. That’s rare. Statistically, only twelve percent of people enjoy etymology-based humor.”

You sat on the arm of the couch, face warm. “That’s not a real stat.”

“It is in my heart,” he said gravely.

He opened his mouth to continue, but his eyes were already closing. “Two... You always smell like cinnamon and old books. Like a library during fall. That’s comforting. Oxytocin levels increase by seventeen percent when exposed to comforting scents, did you know that?”

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. “I didn’t. But I do now.”

He mumbled something else—something about synapses and serotonin and maybe a soft “I love you”—before he dozed off, fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.

You stayed a few minutes, watching the rise and fall of his chest, your own heart blooming with something deep and warm and undeniable.

Maybe it had always been him. Maybe it had just taken 642 days and a few too many whiskeys for either of you to realize it.

**The Next Morning**

The sun spilled gently through the blinds, warming the room with a sleepy golden glow.

You found Spencer exactly where you left him—sprawled on the couch, hair a soft halo of chaos, blanket tangled around him like he’d been in a light academic battle overnight.

He stirred slowly, scrunching his face in a wince.

“Oh no,” he croaked. “I think my neurons are staging a mutiny.”

You handed him a glass of water and two aspirin. “Good morning, Einstein.”

He opened one eye. “Technically, I feel more like Heisenberg right now. Very uncertain.”

You laughed softly as he sat up, groaning.

“There’s a non-zero chance I embarrassed myself last night,” he said, voice raspy but still with that uniquely Spence precision. “Did I happen to confess deep and unwavering romantic affection while comparing your face to the hippocampus?”

“You absolutely did.”

He looked mildly horrified. “Did I—did I mention the coffee incident from 642 days ago?”

“Yes.”

“And the oxytocin levels?”

“Yup.”

“And the list?”

You handed him the wrinkled scrap of paper he must’ve written part of it on at the bar. He squinted at it.

"#6: She knows my coffee order and spells my name right on to-go cups."

“That one was my favorite.”

He looked at you then, hair messy, eyes soft behind dark lashes. “I meant all of it, you know. I might’ve had a blood alcohol content high enough to dull my fine motor skills, but it didn’t touch how I feel about you.”

You smiled, sitting beside him. “Good. Because I meant it, too.”

He blinked. “Meant what?”

You leaned in, forehead resting against his. “That I love your hippocampus.”

A dopey, hungover grin stretched across his face. “Oh. That’s definitely going in the top ten.”

He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. And honestly? It was.

Nerdy or not, sober or slightly slurring, Spencer Reid had always been the smartest man in the room.

And somehow, he’d finally figured out what mattered most.

[psformybss]

Home for the Holiday

drew starkey x reader

based on this ask

warnings: soft domesticity, light teasing, childhood photo embarrassment, implied intimacy, holiday fluff, emotional warmth, minor chaos

═══════════════

The drive to Hickory isn’t long—barely two hours—but it feels like stepping deeper into a painting the farther you go. The mountains swell on either side, slopes brushed in goldenrod and copper, the winding road slicing through valleys that shimmer with late-autumn light. Trees bend toward the shoulder like they’re listening. The air sharpens, turns crisper with each mile, and when Drew cracks the window, the breeze slips in cool and earthy—laced with woodsmoke, pine, and something older still, like nostalgia.

“You sure you’re ready?” he asks, one hand draped lazily over the wheel, fingers tapping in an absent rhythm. He’s wearing that half-grin that makes your stomach flip, but his eyes flick your way like he’s actually asking. “Last chance to fake a tire blowout and drive straight to Florida.”

You glance over your coffee cup, raising a brow. “You want to spend Thanksgiving at a beach motel with vending machine food?”

“I mean… could be fun. No chaos. Just us. Low risk of being tackled by Logan.”

You snort. “Tempting. But I think I’ll take my chances with the Starkey family stampede.”

Drew’s grin widens—lazy, crooked, and so familiar now it feels like home. “You’ve met my siblings before. It won’t be that bad.”

“Right, but not in their natural habitat. Last time, Brooke wore heels and didn’t scream at anyone. I think she was trying to impress me.”

“She’s definitely over that phase.”

By the time you pull into the driveway, the Starkey house looks like something straight out of a Southern Living holiday issue. White columns frame the porch, and a few stubborn pumpkins cling to the steps, leftover from Halloween, now nestled among scattered oak leaves. The air smells like damp bark and someone’s been baking for hours. A car is already in the driveway, and from a cracked window, music spills out—Fleetwood Mac, you think—soft, scratchy, and just a little chaotic.

You barely get a chance to knock before the front door swings open.

“Took you long enough,” Brooke says, holding a glass of red wine with the confidence of someone born to host. Her hair’s in a high ponytail, and one perfectly arched eyebrow lifts as she smirks. “Mom’s been pacing like she’s expecting royalty.”

“Hi, Brooke,” you say sweetly, stepping in behind Drew.

“She even fluffed the couch pillows,” Mackayla calls from deeper inside the house. “That never happens.”

Drew shoulders his duffel bag with a grunt. “Did y’all coordinate this roast in the group chat, or—?”

Brooke sips her wine. “Oh, honey. This is just muscle memory.”

Mackayla’s next, sweeping into the entryway and pulling you into a hug that smells like cinnamon, hairspray, and some expensive perfume. “Glad you survived the drive. Asheville traffic this week is practically apocalyptic.”

“Logan still narrating the Macy’s Parade?” Drew mutters, kicking off his sneakers.

From the living room: “I can hear you, and I’m providing valuable commentary!”

You peek in and find Logan draped dramatically across the couch like a Roman emperor, a bowl of Chex Mix balanced precariously on his chest, eyes glued to the TV. “The Rockettes,” he announces, “remain undefeated.”

The house is warm in the way only lived-in homes are—firelight flickering in the hearth, a distant clatter of pans, the smell of roasted turkey and sage rolling in like a tide. The walls hum with activity. Someone yells for a potholder, Brooke’s playlist is at war with the TV, and laughter crackles from the kitchen.

Family photos line the hallway—graduations, toothless grins, beach trips. A penciled height chart runs along the laundry room doorframe. There are shoes by the stairs, dog-eared cookbooks in a basket, and a lone wine glass abandoned on a windowsill like it’s mid-conversation.

Jodi rounds the corner wiping her hands on a red-checkered dish towel, her face lighting up like a porch light when she sees you.

“There she is! Oh, honey, come here,” she says, pulling you into a hug that smells like cinnamon rolls and dryer sheets. “I’m Jodi. It’s so good to finally meet you in person.”

“You too,” you say warmly. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course. We’ve heard plenty about you.”

“Okay, and we’re done here,” Drew mutters behind you.

Todd appears a moment later with a cheerful, “Welcome, welcome,” and a firm handshake. “We’ve got a seat at the table with your name on it.”

“Dad,” Drew warns, tone sharp with dread.

“I’m just saying, your mother and I were starting to wonder if we needed to set you up again.”

“Again?” you ask, your eyebrows lifting in delight.

“Long story,” Todd says.

“Not long enough,” Mackayla quips, sailing past with a tray of deviled eggs. “You should’ve seen the girl from church. That was… a choice.”

Drew groans. “Can we not do this today?”

“No promises!” Brooke sing-songs from the kitchen.

Within minutes, you’ve got a cider in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, helping Jodi stir cranberry sauce while Mackayla debates garnish strategy like she’s on Top Chef. Brooke drifts between rooms with a Bluetooth speaker tucked under her arm, spinning like she’s in a musical.

“Logan!” she yells. “Stop changing the song—this is the good playlist!”

“Says who?” he shouts back.

Drew pops into the kitchen just long enough to swipe a cube of cheese, only to catch an elbow to the ribs from Jodi.

“Put her to work already?” he teases.

“She volunteered,” Jodi says, grinning. “Keeper behavior.”

You shoot Drew a look. “I just didn’t want to get benched for being the new girlfriend.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Brooke says, breezing in with a fresh glass of cider. “We’re judging you silently and putting you to work.”

Later, leaning against the counter as you stir gravy, you nudge him with your shoulder and murmur, “You weren’t kidding about the chaos.”

“Never do,” he says, brushing his hand gently over your hip in passing.

Dinner is everything—loud, barely manageable, and so perfectly alive it makes your chest ache a little. Everyone talks at once. Todd gives a theatrical toast that earns four synchronized groans from his kids. Logan drops his fork mid-meal and never retrieves it. Jodi refills your wine glass twice before you can say no. The stuffing disappears in seconds. Someone gets emotional over sweet potatoes.

After dessert—pecan pie so good it could start a cult—the cleanup turns into a full-contact sport. Dish towels fly. Brooke hums along to the Mariah Carey playing on the speaker. Logan somehow gets out of helping by claiming “decorative supervision.”

Drew kisses your temple as you collapse beside him on the living room floor, your backs against the couch while the rest of the family filters in around you.

The fire crackles low. Someone hits play on a cheesy Christmas movie—probably Brooke—and nobody objects.

Halfway through, Mackayla stretches like a cat and says innocently, “Has she seen your room yet?”

Drew stiffens. “She hasn’t?”

Brooke gasps, scandalized. “Drew. Show her your room. Immediately.”

“You act like I’ve got a dead body hidden in there.”

“No, but you do have that weird basketball trophy with your face on it,” Logan chimes from under a throw blanket. “And the Buzz Lightyear blanket.”

“That blanket was iconic,” Drew says, wounded.

You glance up at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Now I have to see it.”

Drew groans but stands, offering a hand. “Fine. Come on. Witness the shrine.”

The hallway creaks beneath your steps, lined with school photos and a penciled height chart just outside the laundry room. When his bedroom door opens with a familiar squeak, you’re hit with a wave of teenage nostalgia —posters on the walls, a crooked hoop on the back of the door, a Buzz Lightyear blanket folded neatly at the end of the bed.

You step inside slowly, taking it all in. “It’s cleaner than I expected.”

“My mom probably snuck in here with a can of Lysol the second we left for college.”

You trail your fingers over the comforter—soft from years of use, that distinct Carolina blue faded from washing—and sit on the edge of the bed, giving him a teasing smile. “This is kind of hot. All-American baller-boy vibes.”

He narrows his eyes. “Please never say ‘baller-boy’ again.”

“Make me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Two steps and he’s in front of you, hands cupping your face as his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is unhurried but deep, purposeful. Like he’s been holding back all day and finally let himself give in. You tug him down with you, falling back onto the bed as he settles over you, his body a perfect weight against yours.

Your hands slip under his hoodie, skimming warm skin, and his breath hitches when your nails lightly scratch down his spine. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, to the pulse beneath your ear, making you shiver. The room spins slightly, but in a good way—like everything else can wait as long as this lasts.

Eventually—slowly—you untangle yourselves. Clothes straightened. Hair smoothed. Heartbeats still a little too fast.

He helps you up, pressing a final kiss to your cheek before pulling the door open.

“You know if Logan heard us, I’m never living this down.”

“Then we better walk back out like nothing happened.”

“Think we can pull that off?”

You grin, smoothing your sweater. “Let’s find out.”

You return to the living room just in time for the second half of the Christmas movie. Mackayla gives you a look.

“Y’all took forever.”

“We were just talking,” Drew deadpans.

“Uh-huh.”

Jodi pats the spot beside her on the couch. “Come look at these. I pulled out the old albums.”

You sit beside her, and she flips to a page of plastic-covered memories. “That’s Drew in kindergarten,” she says proudly. “He used to call himself Captain Defense.”

“He wore elbow pads to school,” Mackayla adds, grinning.

Your eyes land on a photo of five-year-old Drew in a Buzz Lightyear costume that’s three sizes too big, face smeared with chocolate and pride. “Oh my god.”

“There’s more,” Jodi promises, turning the page. “This was his mullet phase.”

“Mom,” Drew groans.

You lean in. “Is that a rat tail?”

“A beautiful one,” Todd says solemnly from the recliner.

“I’m obsessed,” you laugh, as Drew drops his head onto your shoulder, groaning into your sweater.

The night winds down in soft layers—Brooke scrolling half-asleep, Logan snoring into a throw pillow, Jodi still humming beside the photo album. The fire burns low, shadows dancing across the ceiling.

Drew wraps an arm around your waist, voice low against your hair. “Thanks for coming.”

You melt into him, full and warm and happy.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

[chrepsi]

ˇ ⋆ ╱ nothing, absolutely - c. sturniolo

warnings ; pure cringe. somebody shoot me.

wc ; 1k+

the rain had started sometime in the early morning, a steady hush tapping against the windows like it had something to confess. you were half-asleep on the couch, wrapped in chris’s sweatshirt—your favorite one, the grey one that smelled like dior sauvage, laundry detergent and him. you’d barely spoken since waking up. and somehow, that felt like everything.

chris sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch where your legs were stretched out, and you rested one sock-covered foot gently against his shoulder like it was a lifeline. he’d occasionally squeeze your ankle absentmindedly as he scrolled on his phone, soft and grounding. the kind of touch that says, i know you’re here. i’m here, too.

there wasn’t music playing. there wasn’t a movie on. just the sound of the rain and the hum of a life shared in complete ease.

“whatcha thinking about?” you asked softly, voice cracking like it hadn’t been used in hours.

he tilted his head to look at you over his shoulder, curls a little messy, his hoodie bunched up under his arms. “mmm… nothing. absolutely nothing,” he murmured, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

you smiled. “sounds nice.”

he turned fully now, resting his chin on the cushion beside your thigh. “it is. i like when it’s quiet like this.” he reached up to trace lazy circles over your knee through the fabric. “feels like… i don’t have to try. i just get to exist with you.”

your chest tightened in that familiar way it always did when he said stuff like that—not big declarations, not dramatic speeches. just honest things. real things. things that nestled somewhere between your ribs and stayed there.

“yeah,” you whispered, sliding your fingers into his curls, “i get that. it’s like… i don’t need to fill the silence with anything. it already feels full.”

he hummed, eyes fluttering shut as you played with his hair. “exactly.”

the rain picked up a little, wind pressing gently against the windows like it wanted in on the moment. you imagined time slowing down for a second, like the world outside had decided it could wait.

chris sat up after a minute, grabbing the blanket from behind him and tossing it over your legs. “you cold?” he asked, already pulling the fabric up even before you could answer.

“not with you around,” you teased, but you still tucked the blanket around you with a grateful smile.

he rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his cheeks flushed just a little. “you’re such a sap.”

“and you love it,” you shot back.

“i do,” he said, without skipping a beat.

that made you pause. you looked at him then, really looked—how the soft light from the window caught on his cheekbones, the sleepy softness in his expression, the way he wasn’t trying to be anything but himself.

“i love you too,” you said, quiet and true.

he blinked, like he was still not used to hearing it. you’d said it before, but chris never treated love like a routine. he always received it like a gift. every time.

he leaned forward and kissed your knee through the blanket. “i don’t need anything else right now. just this.”

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you laughed, blinking hard.

“good tears?” he asked, eyes wide.

“the best kind.”

he stood up suddenly and climbed onto the couch beside you, careful not to knock your mug off the coffee table. you shifted to make room, but he shook his head and pulled you into his side, tucking you under his arm like you were the missing piece to his puzzle.

“this okay?” he mumbled against your temple.

you nodded, burying your face in his hoodie. “more than okay.”

and you stayed like that. for minutes. for hours. time stopped mattering.

at some point, your fingers found his, and you laced them together slowly, deliberately. he gave your hand a squeeze.

“sometimes i think about how lucky i am to just… know you,” he said softly, like it was a thought that had been sitting in his chest for a while.

you kissed the back of his hand. “you know me better than I know myself sometimes.”

chris smiled into your hair. “you tell me things without saying anything. i love that about you.”

“that’s how i feel about you, too,” you whispered. “like, i know when you’re tired, or when your brain’s being loud, or when you just need to be held. even if you don’t say it.”

he kissed your forehead. “you always know.”

maybe that was love. not the fireworks or the dramatic gestures or the words shouted from rooftops. maybe love was just this. two people wrapped up in one blanket, a rainy day and hands intertwined. knowing someone so deeply that silence could speak louder than anything else.

“i wanna do nothing with you forever,” he murmured.

you looked up at him, eyes soft. “good. because i’ve got a lifetime of nothing planned with you.”

<3 taglist ; @trevorsgodmother @pr3ttylittleslutt @v4lsturn @wildfluer @delilahsturniolo @courta13 @kisses4chris @chrispycremedonut @chrisspussygang @stvrniolotrxpl3ts @baebadoobee4ever @emely9274 @mvkyis @mattsbug @sturniqloo @mattsleftball @tits4matt @mothstvrnz @joanakaulitz @mialovesyouchris @belle-ee @owenstar @sturnsalcohol @joanakaulitz @cherryystemm @angeliolo @sturkneeohloww @bbgirlmatt @sunshine-sturniolo @anyaa2s

( reply here to be added )

[songbirdseung]

𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫  𝑵  𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫  /  𝑳𝑬𝑬  𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑼𝑵𝑮

𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞?

heeseung had this thing about him; this ridiculously unfair ability to make you feel like your stomach was doing loop-de-loops without even trying. it wasn’t fair, really. who needed rollercoasters when your boyfriend could make you dizzy in love with just a glance?

and today was no different.

"heeseung, stop spinning me, you idiot!" you whined, barely able to keep your balance as he twirled you around the living room.

"but you look so cute when you're all dizzy and helpless," he teased, grinning as he finally let go, only for you to stumble forward right into his chest.

you huffed, gripping his hoodie to steady yourself. "you're so annoying."

"and yet, you're still holding onto me," he pointed out, smugness dripping from his tone.

you rolled your eyes but didn't let go, pressing your face into his chest instead. "because i have no choice unless you want me to fall flat on my face."

"never," he said dramatically, wrapping his arms around you. "i'd catch you a thousand times over."

you peeked up at him, unable to hide your smile. "you're so corny."

"only for you, baby."

before you could roll your eyes again, heeseung suddenly dipped his head, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to the tip of your nose. then your cheek. then just below your ear. each one was light, playful, making you shiver despite the warmth of his embrace.

"heeseung," you warned, but your voice came out softer than you intended.

he hummed, feigning innocence, but the way his fingers trailed down your back, the way his lips hovered just above yours, told you otherwise.

"you’re dizzy, right?" he murmured, his voice dipping into something lower, something dangerously sweet.

you swallowed, gripping his hoodie a little tighter. "y-yeah…?"

"good," he smirked, brushing his lips over yours without fully kissing you. "because i’m not done making you feel that way yet."

and with that, he finally closed the distance, pulling you even closer as the world around you blurred into nothing but him.

his arms tightened around you, steadying you as your fingers gripped his hoodie for dear life. you felt like you were floating, like your entire world had tilted on its axis, and the only thing keeping you grounded was him.

he pulled away, just barely, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, "still dizzy, baby?"

you exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering open to meet his own; dark, hooded, and filled with something unmistakable. "shut up."

he chuckled, the deep, velvety sound vibrating against your skin. "so mean," he mused, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your lips. "but you love me, right?"

you scoffed, pretending to push him away, but he only pulled you back in, his lips ghosting over your jawline, sending shivers down your spine. "unfortunately."

"ouch." he clutched his chest dramatically, but his act didn’t last long. not when his hands slipped beneath your hoodie, fingers tracing light patterns against your waist. "say it properly, sweetheart."

"heeseung," you mumbled, breath hitching when he nipped at your ear.

"say it," he urged, his voice dipping into that dangerously soft tone that always sent your heart into overdrive.

you hesitated for a second, just to mess with him, but the way his lips moved against your skin; lazy, affectionate, teasing. it had you giving in almost immediately.

"i love you," you finally murmured, the words coming out a little breathless, a little more vulnerable than you intended.

heeseung stilled for a moment, then smiled in a genuine, soft, and so, so full of adoration way. "yeah?"

"yeah," you whispered.

his grip on you tightened, his forehead pressing against yours as he exhaled deeply, almost as if he was trying to commit this moment to memory. "good," he murmured, brushing his lips over yours once more. "because i’m so in love with you, it makes me feel dizzy, too."

[theseinfernalangels]

hiii can i request a blurb with #36 and Bodhi?

36: Starting with bunny kisses before moving on to soft kisses 

A/N: I had no idea what a bunny kiss was prior to this….All I can say is that it’s perfect for Bodhi 🥹

“Bodhi,” you groan, trying to squirm away from him by leaning forward in your chair. “Quit it, would you?”

The taller man behind you whines. He does not move from his spot behind you, but his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him. You feel his chin take its place on your shoulder as he complains. “No. I haven’t seen you in, like, four days, dammit. Let me love you!”

You let out an exasperated huff. It’s true that you hadn’t been around to see your boyfriend as of late — that’s what taking extra time for studying does to you — and Bodhi was, of course, a very touchy lover. You know that, and you know he knows you think that’s fine, but kissing your neck and then adding teeth when you were still going at the books wasn’t helping at all.

“I never said you couldn’t love me,” you reply, resting your head on his. “But making out with my neck when I’m trying to study won’t help me do better in physics.”

His hands squeeze your shoulders gently. “Then take a break,” he pleads. “Come on, mo leannan. You’ve been studying for almost the entire week, and I miss you. Take a break for…Let’s say twenty minutes, let your brain cool off, and then hop back on the study flight. Deal?”

You purse your lips. On one hand, you’ve been in the zone for hours now, and breaking off now would mean that you’d have to work even harder to get back into your study routine. On the other, though…You could use a break. A Bodhi-sized break, if you will. A Bodhi-sized break that includes kisses. 

Your muscles go lax against him before you sigh. “Fine. You get twenty minutes.”

The resounding whoop that follows sets a small smile on your lips, and you rise to your feet, wincing at how stiff your legs are after sitting for hours at a time. A strong pair of arms wraps around your waist and tugs you back until your back is pressed against Bodhi’s chest. A surprised squeak leaves you as you feel yourself falling backwards, your lover’s arms still around you as he pulls you on your bed on top of him.

Still gripping you, he maneuvers you gently to face him. “See?” His signature grin lights up his face. “Much better than the desk.” 

You roll your eyes. You had to agree, albeit reluctantly — laying on Bodhi’s warm chest was much better than slouching over your desk for another hour. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble. “Sure.”

His lips dip into a pout, but his eyes indicate the exact opposite as he tilts your face up with his thumb, nuzzling his your nose with his own gently. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he whispers. “You’ve been wanting to take a break for hours, but you’re too stubborn to actually get up and do it.”

His words, while blunt, are painfully true in contrast to his sweet motions. Despite wanting to retort sharply, you can’t prevent a smile from chipping at your stern features for a second.  You lean into the hand he has cupped around your cheek before you sink lower, catching his lips in the softest of kisses. 

Suddenly, you feel Bodhi go limp below you. Leaning up a little, you tilt your head in concern. “You okay?”

He blinks up at you with widened eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I just think that I’ve gone so long without kissing you that it feels like our first all over again.”

You choke on a laugh at his dramatics, dropping down to kiss him again. “Hush, you. It hasn’t even been that long.”

He  lets out an exaggerated groan, threading his hand through your hair as he continues to brush absentminded kisses against your lips. “Four days, leannan. Four days of no kissing, no touching, no you. I’ve been deprived, and I’d like compensation.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Compensation? Elaborate, please.”

He pulls away for a moment, all traces of his previous demeanor gone as he stares at you with a soft twinkle of adoration in his eyes; his hands drop to gently squeeze your hips. You feel him just watching, as if staring at you like this would give you every answer you could possibly be satisfied with. Honestly, maybe it could.

“What I mean,” he says, his hands travelling up to rest on your waist, “is that I’d like more than twenty minutes here, if that’s alright. I just want to love on you for a bit, before you bury yourself in another physics book.”

You could protest. You could pull away and tell him no. You could probably even kick him out, and Bodhi wouldn’t say a word. But you can’t. With that look on his face, with those words spilling from his lips like a pent up waterskin, you just can’t bring yourself to do it. The only thing you can really do is melt into him and meet his gaze for a few moments, mulling over his words mentally before you sigh quietly.

“Okay,” you agree. “But not for too long.”

His lips find yours again instantly, not even caring enough to reply.

You may wonder: What happens when those twenty minutes turn to thirty, and then forty-five, and then an hour, and then two? Well, let’s just say the textbook is left cold and abandoned on your desk, left neglected for hours that are replaced by gentle kisses, soft touches, and eventual dozing off. What can you say? The man who lays under you in your bed warms your sheets better than an actual flame.

[readerihardlyknowher]

In Every Universe | Pt. 7

Fanfic-ception?

Spencer Agnew x Reader Warnings: None WC: 2,116 Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6, Pt. 7

“Oh, hello all and welcome back to Smosh Pit Theater!” Angela announces as the narrator this time, “Now, we’re gonna be doing another one of our favorites – and your guys’ too – fanfictions, and let me tell you guys before we start, I heard the crew snickering while reading some of them over, so this should be good.”

She takes out the first script and holds it up to read. You try to glance over her shoulder to see who’s in the fic, but her hands are too shaky to see properly.

“Okay, first story! It’s called ‘Five Nights at Smosh’ by Smoshbadussy. I think I’ll have Chanse playing Tommy–”

“–Wow, Angela, making me play the only other gay one here.”

“Shut up! Courtney will play me, Shayne will play Amanda, and Y/n will play… Freddy Fazbear. Spencer, you and I can watch and narrate. Okay! Now let the scene begin!”

You take your script from Angela, briefly glancing over the first line to see who’s in the scene starting off, seeing that you (or well, Arasha) aren’t in the scene yet, so you step beside the curtain, not taking center stage and adjusting your black turtleneck which you haven’t worn since the last Smosh Pit Theater episode. It is late summer in LA after all, and you were thanking god for AC at this moment. As the scene begins, however, you watch as Chanse and Courtney stand next to each other, acting out the scene which you read.

“Man,” Courtney begins, “that was a great crying session! Glad we’ve got the crying bathroom here.”

“Totally!” Chanse’s voice replies. “I don’t even know how long we were in there for!”

Angela narrates the scene as Shayne (as Amanda) steps into the scene and gasps.

“There you two are!” Shayne does a terrible Amanda impression as he speaks. “I had to stay behind to try and find you! Everyone else left! We’re locked in!”

You and the rest of the cast do dramatic gasps. Deciding to read ahead, you see that Freddy doesn’t show up for a while, just doing sounds in the background for most of the beginning. You try to keep your eyes on the three of your castmates, but your eyes wander as they always do, and where do they land again? Spencer fucking Agnew. You don’t even notice that you’re staring until his eyes meet yours. Neither of you move, not looking away, not until he shoots you a cute wink and looking back at the performing cast. This causes you to look away as well, trying to remember that you’re on camera. Though, as the crew is very nice, they’ll likely just edit it so that you’re out of frame for that, which you already mostly are.

The time comes for you to enter in the scene, so you do as the script reads, sneaking up behind the three of them all huddled together. After about a beat, you jump up and “attack” Courtney before you get pushed off and stand to the side. You look down to see your line, only to stutter out a laugh as you read it.

“Roh roh roh roh roh.” The rest of the cast found the line just as amusing as you did, and you all take a moment for a confused laugh, before Shayne speaks as Amanda.

“Uh, guys, I think that’s Freddy Fuzzbear.”

“It’s not Fuzzbear, Amanda!” Chanse yells. All three pretend to run, and you pretend to chase, before you get to center stage and continue the stupidly dramatic scene. Eventually, it ends with you as Freddy killing Angela while the other two escape, which makes the real Angela upset, of course. The scene ends finally and you head back to the chairs you were at before, turning your head to smile over at Spencer.

“Did I do good?” Your still giggly voice asks. His lips part into that iconic smile of his.

“Absolutely perfect,” he replies. Your eyes are drawn to Shayne, who has now taken the next set of scripts and will be doing the casting. You watch from behind and to the side as his face lights up with shock.

“Okay. This one is called ‘April 2nd’ and it’s by Y/s/n-luvr.” You and Spencer shoot each other a familiar, yet not unpleasant expression. “Let’s have Y/n playing herself, and Spencer playing himself, Chanse will play Damien, Courtney as Amanda, and then Angela will play the priest in this story.”

You and Spencer now look confused. A priest? April 2nd? What could that mean? Your eyes narrow as you walk on stage, all of you standing in a half-circle, facing towards the camera. The scene is that you’re on Smosh Games playing together. Looking down at your script you read your line.

“Damn it, Spence, you’re wiping the floor with us! At least give me a chance to win!”

“Yeah,” Chanse says, making his voice deeper to mimic Damien. “Who knew you’d be this good at the game of life?” It’s silent as we wait for Shayne to read his next line.

“Spencer’s eyes darted around, purposefully avoiding Y/n’s.”

Spencer does as the script says, playing up the nervousness a little, before looking down at his script and reading.

“Guys, I told you I’m a gamer. Anyways, Y/n, it’s your turn.”

“Y/n’s hand reaches the spinner on the table, flicking it, moving her car forward, before pulling the card on top of the pile. Once she sees what it says, her face shrivels up in confusion.”

You perform the actions with a perfect amount of stage exaggeration, pretending to pull the card before reading your script.

“‘Will you marry me?’ I didn’t know that was a card in here.”

“Spencer steps out from behind the table, before kneeling down in front of it on one knee.”

“It isn’t, babe. I uh… I wanted to propose to you doing something we both love, playing games together.”

Your face heats up in embarrassment. Someone wrote a whole fanfic about Spencer proposing to you. And now he’s in front of you, acting it out, with all of your friends/coworkers watching with glee.

“So,” his voice cuts through your thoughts. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, Spence! I never thought you’d ask!”

“Y/n jumps into Spencer’s arms in a warm and firm embrace, Damien and Amanda cheering, especially Amanda.”

You look over at Spencer, wondering how you should approach the hug. You’re certainly not going to be jumping into his arms as the script says, even if his cutely red face makes you want to do so. So instead you go for the classic side hug, perfect for on-camera romance. You figure the scene must be over now, so become confused once Shayne calls for everyone to get in place for the next positions. Shayne’s booming voice announces that today’s the day of the wedding, and you two are holding it with the Smosh cast and crew.

You gulp down the excitement/anxiety in your throat and wait to the side as the script indicates that you’re not in the scene yet again. You watch from the side as Spencer stands, waiting for you, and Shayne reads out how he’s patiently watching as you begin to walk down the aisle. Rolling your eyes, you do as the script says, rolling yours up to pretend it’s a bouquet. You try to avoid Spencer’s eyes, but fail as you see him wiping a fake teat, which makes you let out a chuckle.

As you finish your walk down the “aisle”, you stand in front of Spencer, holding your hands out as he takes them in his warm, soft ones. You say, “this feels familiar” off-script, which gets a few laughs. A soft smile is present on his face, he waits for a moment, seeming to forget about the whole idea that you’re acting out a scene, before he scrambles to pull out his script.

“Y/n, ever since I first saw you in your interview here at Smosh, I knew you were the one for me. Your laugh brightens my day, your eyes light up every room you’re in. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife. I’m so happy to officially get to call you that. I can’t wait to play videogames and watch movies with you for the rest of my life.”

You place your hand on your heart as he reads, genuinely touched by 1. The fact that someone wrote something so sweet, and 2. The fact that Spencer’s reading it out loud to you so sweetly. The look he gives you shows that while those aren’t his original words, he does mean all the kind things he’s saying, and it only adds to the tightness you’ve been feeling in your chest. Pulling in a deep breath, you look at your part of the script.

“Spencer, you’re my best friend, the love of my life, and now my actual husband–” you see the next line so you turn to look at the camera with a serious expression on your face. “Guys, don’t clip this.” Turning back to the script, you take a deep breath, before pushing the words out far too seriously than you’ve ever said the words before. “And I love you.”

“Woo!”

You shoot a glare to Chanse, before resuming your line.

“And I’ll be happy to listen to you yap about old Nintendo games until the day I die.”

“Now,” Angela’s voice softens the blow after what you said, making you feel a little less awkward having read all that out loud. “Charles Spencer Agnew, do you take Y/n (M/n) L/n to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The silly, relaxed smile spreads even wider across his face, the sight making your own body relax.

“I do.”

“And Y/n (M/n) L/n, do you take Charles Spencer Agnew to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your own smile broadens as you don’t even need to glance down at your script.

“I do.”

“Then I hereby pronounce you as man and wife. You may now kiss.”

Shoot, you had forgotten about this, but one look at Spencer’s mischievous smile says all that you need. As the cast and crew around you clap at the scene, you both ever so slowly lean into one another, eyes closing, and just when you know people will wonder if you’ll actually do it, you pull back, pointing to the camera with a smile plastered on your face.

“Got your asses! No more ship material for you! You've had enough!”

Both Chanse and Courtney groan at the psych-out, before you all come back to the chairs and sit together for the recap of everyone’s thoughts. Shayne turns to Spencer to speak first.

“So Spencer, would you ever propose to someone on Smosh games?”

Spencer shakes his head, somehow looking all too calm at this moment. You’re certain the comments later will be noticing how you look a little too nervous from all that.

“I wouldn’t do half of the things in this story, especially not a public proposal. Keep that shit private.” Everyone, including him, chuckles at this statement, before he speaks again. “Also, I definitely wouldn’t invite you guys to our wedding.”

Our wedding.

No one seems to notice the phrasing as they all laugh, and you join in as well as to not stand out on camera. You decide to chime in a little so as to not seem too quiet.

“Also, we didn’t meet during my interview, we met officially like two weeks later. We were both a little nervous to talk to new people at first since it was such a new job and we didn’t want to screw it up.” Spencer nods and puts his finger up to make a point while looking over at you.

“While that is true, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t see you before that and fall absolutely head over heels at first glance, which is something I'd clearly do.”

You roll your eyes at his statement. You know he’s just trying to stir the pot some more and banter with you, but at this moment, you’re still a little overwhelmed with the whole getting married in character as just the two of you. But you’re glad to know that the next fanfiction is getting pulled up and neither you, nor you as a character, are in it, so you’re happy to just sit back and watch, seeing your friends do a silly little scene that someone wrote about you guys. Even if yours and Spencer’s eyes meet a few times throughout in a way which makes you strangely nervous, you feel happy, and even happier when the video finally ends.

Tag list: @lisiliely, aliceblxck, burrowedinnature77, 65percentleg

[pensthoughts]

Was wondering if you could write getting high with bsf teen van after school and there’s some tension 🙈 you can pick where that leads to!

smoke break | v.p

a/n: i've actually had very bad experiences these two times i got high and made awful decisions which made me never do it again. so writing this was like exposure therapy for me ❤️ maybe i'll try it again now, who knows! hope u enjoy 😊 pairing: van palmer x reader summary: when practice gets canceled, you and van slip into an easy night of movies, but the quiet tension between you finally tips over into something neither of you can ignore. word count: 2.3k

as soon as you found out practice was cancelled, you and van didn't even have to say it out loud. it was friday, your parents were out of town for one of those always-important work trips, and the house was too quiet not to be filled with van palmer's voice.

she showed up less than an hour after you got home, knocking twice before letting herself in, like she always did—arms full of snacks, a half-zipped backpack slung over one shoulder, and that crooked smile that made you feel like something was about to happen.

"hey," she said, her voice light as she kicked her sneakers off at the door. "what's the plan?"

you gave her a smile as she walked in, already heading for the basement steps. "move marathon, of course. but only if you promise you didn't bring that vampire movie again."

van raised an eyebrow as she tossed her backpack down onto the couch. "the lost boys? you've seen it a million times, and you still complain. you're just mad because you secretly like it."

"not true," you grinned, folding your arms. "it's all just leather jackets and bad haircuts. i don't get it."

she flopped down on the couch with a casual, exaggerated sigh. "it's a classic, alright? you need to learn to appreciate it."

you shook your head, trying not to laugh. "alright, whatever. as long as you brought cluless, i'll forgive you."

"that's better," van smirked, pulling a few vhs tapes out of her backpack. "i'm willing to compromise."

she popped in clueless, and you both settled in, the warmth of the room and the soft hum of the movie making everything feel a little more intimate. the basement smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry, the familiar scent of home. you sank into the couch as van tossed a bags of pretzels on the table, cracking open a coke.

there was a comfortable silence as you both dug into the snacks, but there was something else there, something quiet, like a spark in the air that neither of you had expected. maybe it was the way she was sitting a little too close, or how her knee kept brushing against yours. either way, it wasn't going unnoticed.

van stretched her arms above her head, yawning dramatically. "alright," she said, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. "i brought something fun."

you raised an eyebrow, already guessing what she meant. "i thought we were just watching movies?"

"we are," she said, pulling something small from her backpack and setting it on the coffee table. it was a small, familiar tin. "but movies are better with this."

you felt a little grin spread across your face. "you're a bad influence."

"i know," she smirked, taking out the contents and starting to roll, "that's why you keep me around."

you watched her work with practiced ease, your mind wandering as she did. the rhythmic sound of her movements felt oddly hypnotic—the way her fingers danced over the paper, the quick flick of her wrist as she sealed the roll. she didn't even look up at you, but you couldn't look away. her concentration was so casual, yet everything about her seemed to demand your attention.

"are you sure about this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, almost like you were suddenly unsure. you'd never done this with anyone else, but with van, it felt like things were always on the edge of something. you weren't sure what it was, but it made everything feel more intense.

van finally glanced up at you, catching your eye for a moment. her lips curled into a playful grin, but there was something else too—something a little softer. "what, you're scared?"

you shrugged, trying to play it cool. "not scared. just...making sure i don't end up unconscious on the floor or something."

van let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and familiar, but her eyes stayed locked on your a little longer than usual. she leaned back against the couch, her shoulder brushing yours as she passed you the rolled-up joint. "i'm pretty sure i'd notice if you were about to pass out, but no promises about the giggles."

your fingers brushed as you took it from her, and the touch lingered for just a second too long. you met her gaze, and the air around you both seemed to thicken with something unspoken. your pulse picked up, and you quickly looked away, focusing on lighting the end.

the smoke curled upward, the thick, warm haze swirling between you, but the quiet tension remained, humming low in the background. you exhaled slowly, watching the wisps float toward the ceiling, and passed it back to her. she took a slow drag, her lips parting just enough as she inhaled. you noticed the way she held the smoke in for a moment longer than necessary, eyes half-closed, like she was savoring the moment. when she released it, the soft sigh that followed made your stomach flutter.

van’s eyes flickered to you, her gaze dragging slowly over your face. “trust me,” she said, her voice a little softer than usual. “movies are definitely better with this.”

you chuckled, the sensation of the smoke filling your lungs sending a warm, buzzing feeling through you. it felt nice, almost too nice. there was something different in the air now, like the space between you was charged, but neither of you was acknowledging it directly.

you shifted on the couch, trying to brush it off, but the feeling didn’t go away. if anything, it only seemed to grow stronger.

van took another slow drag, her fingers wrapped around the joint delicately. without looking at you, she lifted it to your lips, her hand moving carefully toward your mouth.

for a split second, she hesitated, and you both froze — your eyes locking in the dim light of the basement. it was a soft, slow gesture, almost like a question. you weren’t sure if she was asking for permission or if she was simply offering, but you didn’t pull away.

you leaned in slightly, meeting her halfway, and she placed it against your lips with a gentle touch. the warmth of her hand lingered, and the air between you both seemed to hold its breath. when you exhaled, your lips brushed her fingers just barely, and you both lingered in the silence for a moment, both aware of how close you were.

van’s eyes flickered to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “didn’t think you’d let me get that close,” she said with a smirk, but her voice was breathless.

you swallowed hard, heart racing, but you matched her teasing tone. “i trust you.”

van’s grin softened, and she settled in closer, her shoulder brushing against yours once again. she passed the joint back to you and let her fingers graze over your wrist, her touch light but intentional. the simple contact sent a ripple through you, and for a moment, you forgot about the movie, the snacks, even the quiet hum of the basement. it was just you and her now, sitting too close for comfort, sharing something unspoken.

you took another drag, your fingers brushing hers again, and this time neither of you pulled away. the tension between you both grew thicker, and despite the comfortable warmth of the smoke, the air felt electric. the slightest shift in your bodies, the smallest movement, seemed amplified.

van leaned back slightly, her head tipping toward you just enough that her hair brushed against your cheek. you felt your breath catch, the proximity making everything feel too real. the moment stretched out, quiet but full of unspoken words, like you both knew something was on the verge of happening but neither of you wanted to be the first to cross that line.

van leaned back slightly, her head tipping toward you just enough that her hair brushed against your cheek. you felt your breath catch, the proximity making everything feel too real. the moment stretched out, quiet but full of unspoken words.

the movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really paying attention to it anymore. it was just you and her now, the space between you two shrinking with every second.

her hand, which had been resting by your wrist, slowly shifted closer, fingers grazing over your forearm. the touch was light, almost tentative, but it still sent a jolt of heat through you.

you glanced at her, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. “what are you doing?”

van’s eyes met yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything. she was so close now, her breath warm against your skin.

she smirked but it didn’t reach her eyes, not entirely. “just... seeing if you’re still freaked out.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep the tension from showing on your face. “i’m not freaked out,” you said, though you could feel the rapid thrum of your pulse, betraying your words.

van’s gaze flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you sure?” she asked, her voice quieter now. the air felt thick, like something was hanging in the balance.

you swallowed, your heart hammering in your chest. “i don’t know,” you said, barely above a whisper.

her fingers grazed your shoulder, her hand coming to rest on your neck. the touch was slow, cautious, like she was testing the waters. you felt her thumb lightly brush over the skin there, the softest of touches that sent a shiver down your spine.

you stayed still for a moment, unsure whether you should pull away or let this happen.

van’s voice broke the silence, low and teasing, but with something else underneath. “i won’t bite. promise.”

her lips were so close now, barely an inch away from yours, and all you could focus on was the heat radiating between you both. you could feel the nervousness in the way she lingered, like she was waiting for you to make the next move.

everything felt different now, like this was a line neither of you had crossed before, but it was right there, too tempting to ignore.

you didn’t say anything. instead, you leaned in just a little bit, the smallest movement, your lips brushing hers for the first time.

it was brief, just a whisper of contact, but it left you both frozen for a moment, like you were both still trying to figure out what this meant.

van’s hand was still on your neck, and when you didn’t pull away, she took a deep breath, her gaze softening. “is this... okay?” she asked, her voice quieter, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it.

you nodded, unable to trust yourself to speak.

then, before you could second-guess it, she leaned in and it felt like there was purpose behind it. her lips were gentle at first, like she was trying to figure out if you were both really ready for this.

the kiss deepened slowly, hesitantly, neither of you rushing it. it was soft, almost tentative, like you both needed to be sure this was real. van’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you in closer, and you let her, the space between you two vanishing completely.

it felt strange and new and exactly what you’d both been avoiding for so long. you could feel the warmth of her lips, the gentle pressure of her hand on your waist, and it made everything else feel distant, like this was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

van shivered at the touch, and her lips parted just enough for you to deepen the kiss. it was still slow, both of you tentative, exploring, but it didn’t take long for the tension to build.

van’s fingers dug into the side of your waist, pulling you flush against her, as if she couldn’t get close enough. you could feel the heat of her skin, the way her chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours.

you didn’t break the kiss, but the air between you was thick now, charged. your breaths were shaky, the only sound in the room the soft rush of your own heartbeats.

after a while you pulled away slowly, both of you out of breath, but neither of you seemed ready to break the moment entirely. the room felt warmer now and you couldn’t tell if it was from the kiss or the haze you were both in.

van’s forehead rested against yours, and she gave a soft laugh, breathless and a little unsure. “wow,” she murmured, her voice low and airy, like she was floating.

you nodded, still trying to make sense of everything. “yeah…” your hand rested lightly on her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart under your fingertips.

the weight of the silence between you felt different now, less tense and more… relaxed, as if everything had shifted in that one kiss. it was like a fog had settled over both of you, and the world outside the basement didn’t seem to matter anymore.

van pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours with a softness you hadn’t noticed before. “you’re not… freaked out, are you?” she asked, her voice a little more uncertain than usual.

you shook your head, smiling softly. “no,” you said, your voice low but steady. “i’m good. are you?”

van’s lips curved up into that familiar half-smile. “yeah… i think i’m good too.”

you both sat there for a while, just breathing, your bodies still close but not touching. the air was thick, and even though you weren’t saying much, it felt like something had shifted. the night stretched out ahead of you, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave it behind.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[callikari]

AND LOVE ⭑ WAS A MYSTERY

PRECIS 。 walking back home with the ur best friend ( and the boy you loved the most )

양정원 x fem!reader ◜ᯅ◝ excessive fluff mutual pining teasing O598 friends to lovers highschool au (ft. heesueng jake sunoo) this was made for jungwonbropls !!

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

the final bell rings, echoing faintly across the school courtyard. students spill out of classrooms in lazy waves, dragging their feet as they head toward the gates, the sky already slipping into gold. your bag feels heavier than usual, maybe from the day—or maybe from the fact that you’re hyper-aware of the boy walking just a few steps behind you.

jungwon catches up like he always does, slipping into step with you without a word.

“you’re late,” you tease, nudging his elbow.

he just shrugs, his eyes squinting against the sun. “heeseung-hyung wouldn’t stop talking about the math test. said he got a 99 but was still ‘devastated.’”

you laugh, easily picturing heeseung clutching his forehead like it’s a tragedy. “he probably missed the bonus point.”

“exactly,” jungwon sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “you’d think he just got rejected.”

from behind, you hear jake yelling something about ice cream, his voice cutting through the late afternoon stillness.

“hey, jungwon! y/n! we’re going to the convenience store, come with!”

sunoo waves enthusiastically, bouncing alongside him with a bright grin. riki and sunghoon trail behind, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else but too loyal to say no.

jungwon glances at you, eyes asking before his mouth does. “you wanna go?”

you shake your head gently. “maybe tomorrow. i kind of like the walk today.”

jungwon blinks, then nods slowly. “me too.”

you wave at the rest of them, and jay shoots you a dramatic wink before being dragged away by sunoo. the group disappears down the hill, their laughter fading like a song that’s just ended.

once it’s just the two of you, the silence feels comfortable again. your steps sync without trying, sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk in rhythm. the wind carries the scent of early spring—soft grass, warm asphalt, and sakura petals from the schoolyard trees.

“you know,” jungwon says after a beat, looking up at the sky, “we’ve been walking home together for a while now.”

you tilt your head, pretending to think. “since the leaves were still green. so, like… four months?”

“four months, two weeks, and three days,” he corrects quietly.

you turn to look at him, surprised. “you counted?”

he doesn’t meet your eyes. “just thought it was kind of nice. walking home with you.”

your heart does a funny little skip, but you keep your voice light. “even when i complain the whole way?”

“especially then,” he says, finally glancing at you with a small grin. “your rants are kind of cute.”

you blink. “…are you flirting with me right now, yang jungwon?”

he coughs, ears turning pink. “not—i mean—maybe.”

you stop at the corner, the place where your paths usually split. it’s bathed in golden light, the shadows long and soft, like everything’s paused in a painting. neither of you move to say goodbye yet.

“do you ever wish the walk was longer?” he asks quietly, fiddling with the strap of his bag.

you bite your lip. “sometimes.”

he shifts his weight. “maybe if it were longer, i could hold your hand without it being weird.”

your chest feels full—too full. you say, just as softly, “you could do it now, and it wouldn’t be weird.”

he looks at you like he’s not sure if you’re serious, but then he reaches out slowly, carefully, and laces his fingers through yours.

his hand is warm.

you both stand there, holding onto the moment and each other.

“guess i’ll walk the long way home tomorrow,” he murmurs.

you smile. “i’ll walk slow so you catch up.”

taglist :: @nocturnebite @cheruphic @chrrific @jungwonbropls @manaah02 @ijustreallylike2read @ijustwannareadstuff20

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