#all I remember is crying over these after christmas

[hannahssimblr]

I am helping Gitte in the kitchen. The extractor fan roars, and everywhere there are spills, a toppled bag of sugar, a sticky puddle of redcurrant jelly, bay leaves, onion skins and needles of rosemary litter the floor underfoot. I open the oven to a billowing waft of steam. “I think the thing is ready.”

“The potatoes or the pork?”

“The pork thing. What’s it called again?”

“We can call it roast pork for you.”

“Yes, but what’s the proper name?”

Gitte chuckles and pulls an oven glove over her hand. “We say Flæskesteg, but you don’t need to.”

“Flæskesteg,” I murmur it, and Astrid’s sisters laugh. They can’t contain themselves each time I attempt something in Danish. “Oh, it’s wrong!” they’ll cry, delighted by my ineptitude. “Not like that,” and they’ll make me repeat a word, four, fives times until it is right. It feels like blind luck. My ear cannot pick up on the tiny discrepancies, and I won’t remember the right way in ten seconds, but I enjoy entertaining them. The Christmas-eve-dinner clown. 

“Now say ‘rødgrød med fløde’,” says Mia, the middle sister, taking a knife to the red cabbage, and behind her comes an exasperated groan from Astrid. “God, stop bringing that up. He cannot say it. How long will it be funny to you?”

“It’s alright,” I interject swiftly. “It’s good for me to learn. If I want to really know who Astrid is, then I should know her in her native language, so… every little helps.”

“How romantic,” says Pernille, the eldest, distracted as she pries her eight-month-old’s fist from her earring. “And what have you learned so far?”

I grin, self-indulgent. “Vi snakkes ved.”

Everyone applauds, and I bow. 

“That’s just something he’s heard me say on the phone,” says Astrid in this apologetic voice, as though personally responsible for my total incapacity for languages. “I’ve been teaching him more, but many of the sounds are difficult.”

“Like teaching a baby, then,” Mia says. “You go through the alphabet sound by sound.” 

I smile at the infant behind her, drool all over his chin while Pernille bounces him on her hip. “We’re in this together, you and me. Right, Felix?”

He gurgles. 

“Ah, my phone,” Pernille says, reaching for her pocket. The baby squirms. “Hold him, won’t you, Astrid?”

My girlfriend pales. “Oh, well–”

“Just for a moment. Take him.”

Astrid holds him at arm’s length. Her chubby, giggling nephew kicks the feet buttoned inside his bodysuit. She grimaces. “Hey.”

Mia calls after Pernille. “It’s Jacob?”

“Ha! No,” she shoulders through the door and into the hallway.

Gitte purses her lips. “Hold him correctly, Astrid. With his head supported.”

“I don’t know how,” she whines. “I’m not good with babies. They don’t like me.”

“Nonsense.”

“They don’t,” Mia snipes. “They are born with an instinct about her.” 

“Oh, give him to me,” Gitte abandons her saucepan and marches to retrieve the baby. “Look, like this,” she says, holding him against her chest. “Really, Astrid, it is not difficult.”

She shrugs. “Okay, sorry. I just don’t know.” She joins me in the kitchen, muttering to herself as she washes her hands in the sink. Her movements are short and jerky, yanking open the drawer, pots and pans clanging as she pulls one free. Whack onto the stove, ignitor clicking, blue flame roaring to life, but I am happy watching her. She’s more real here, in Denmark, than she has ever seemed before. Astrid, with that pouty face, talking back to her mother. The tone of voice she uses — she never uses that around me. In Berlin, she is so cool and indifferent, keeps the world at an arm’s length, impassive, unphased, but here she is something else completely. 

Yesterday, when we arrived, I zeroed in immediately on a childhood photo hung in the hallway. Little Astrid with a shock of white hair, sitting in a paddling pool in a pink swimming costume. “Oh my God, look!” I said. “Proof you used to be a child. I’ve rumbled you, Larsen. You thought you had me fooled.”

“Oh, stop,” she said. “I hate that picture. I’ll go through the house and take them all down if you can’t contain your excitement.”

I found more later anyway, in the study, among the books on shelves in the living room. Casual ones, candids of her finger painting at the kitchen table, or scowling in a photography studio at eleven, maybe twelve, that awkward age where a child becomes conscious of themselves, gap toothed with braces, shrinking away from the lens. I wanted to take a photo on my phone just to prove it was real. 

“I hope you aren’t missing your family too much today,” Pernille says, at dinner, now, the table flanked on three sides by windows so coated in condensation from our cooking that they have obscured the expansive view of the fjord. At four, the sun is mostly gone, and we sit in candlelight. 

“No, I’m delighted to be here, actually.” I scoop potatoes onto my plate. “Christmas at home is always the same thing, and I get fairly tired of it. It’s pretty cool to learn about other traditions.”

“Well, your family will miss you, I’m sure,” says Gitte, and I nod. “Yes, I’m sure they will.”

At the head of the table, in his high chair, Felix gurgles with delight. His pureed food smeared on his face, on his bib and on the tray. He decides to eat it off without his hands, and Pernille tuts, “Oh, Felix,” she says, and soothes him with gentle Danish as she attacks him with a wet wipe. Gitte watches on with adoration.

“Your first Christmas with a baby in the house for quite a while,” I comment. 

“Ah!” she says. “Yes. I love babies. They are wonderful to have around.”

“Lucky for us, you stopped at three,” Mia says. “This house hardly fit us as it was.”

“It fit the babies, but maybe not quite the personalities.”

I’ve got Felix’s attention now, pulling stupid faces at him. My peekaboo skills excite him so much he is bouncing around in his seat, hands waving about like he wants to applaud me but doesn’t know how yet. I add in some sound effects to up the ante, all sorts of “yoop!” noises to accompany the visual comedy. He laughs with sheer glee. Joyful little shrieks. 

“See?” Astrid says, throwing an exasperated hand. “I do that for him, and he doesn’t like it. He just looks away from me, completely bored.”

“He knows you don’t mean it. And by the way, you don’t do that.” Mia circles the tines of her fork in my direction. “Definitely not so energetically.” 

“Well, I’ve made faces for him. I’ve tried.”

“You’ve never made a face so expressive in your whole life. Maybe you’ve gone so far as to grant him a weak smile with your mouth closed, but that is all.”

“I have certainly smiled, Mia. I know how to smile.”

“Well, I am sure you are used to it being enough to get a man’s attention, but you might have to actually try with an infant.”

Gitte shuts her eyes and clutches her forehead as though wrestling a migraine. “Please don’t argue. Not today.”

I roll a potato around the centre of my plate. “If it makes you feel better, it’s kind of something you learn. If you haven’t been around babies that much, then I can imagine it’s hard to know what to do. To be honest, I kind of know babies, so.”

Pernille, then. “You have babies in your family?”

“No, not right now, but my sister is quite a lot younger, so I’m used to the whole baby thing. Actually, sometimes I still kind of forget she’s not a baby, like, I used to be giving her bottles and spooning pureed food into her mouth and now she’s, like, painting her nails and going to the cinema without parental supervision.”

“And what age?”

“She turned eleven in September, so there’s nine years between us.”

“She was a surprise baby?” says Mia, and I huff out a laugh. “Well, no. I was the surprise. She was the plan.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine. I’m not, like, upset about being accidental. It’s just the facts.”

“So, are your parents married?”

Astrid interrupts before I can reply. “It’s not polite to ask personal questions. Jude doesn’t want to talk about that.”

I hesitate, awkward about being spoken for, but shrug at Mia as the conversation moves swiftly on. This has become a pattern for Astrid and I, skirting around personal things, but never delving in deeply for fear of, I don’t know what. Vulnerability? Becoming too emotional about it all? I know the same level of detail about her life as she knows about mine. I know why her father isn’t here, about the acrimonious divorce, the other marriage, and the other child. There was the nameless stepfather, too, “our wicked stepfather,” come and gone within three years, leaving nothing much behind but a contempt in the sisters for American canned-laughter comedy shows and motorcycle enthusiasts. I don’t know how Astrid feels about that. Not really, but assume she doesn’t care. There are reasons, naturally, for her mutual contempt for Mia. But they are mysterious, sisterly reasons, too tedious to share. Astrid doesn’t bother to explain herself. Doesn’t need me on her side, when she already knows she’s right. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

I want to thank the amazing @sirianasims for her help during this entire arc. I knew hardly anything about Denmark, and knew I had written myself into a corner when I decided to making Astrid Danish in Lucky Girl just for the hell of it - I never predicted a visit to her home. For teaching me about Christmas traditions and recipes, common baby names, tidbits of language, and helping me to understand what it feels like to be in Denmark, this arc would not be remotely accurate without Siri's guidance <3

[fallininlust]

( IV ) DECEMBER EIGHTH

♱ — BIRDS OF A FEATHER ( WE SHOULD STICK TOGETHER ) !

pair. sturn triplets x gn!reader genre. pure fluff, found family trope

word count : [ 2.3k ]

description : genuine support / the art of finding your people / very expressive love and affection for friends / christmas trees / isles of ornaments / wrapping paper crinkling / littered gift bows / tape galore / santa hats / layered warmth / cuddle piles / affectionate hugs / and pure platonic love

Gently, gently make room for happiness at last.

Albert Camus, Notebooks 1951-1959 !

The key felt heavy in your hand.

You knew they’d told you to use it whenever you needed, to go into their home whenever you wanted because you were basically family, but you still felt like you were intruding. It was not your home, you constantly felt like you didn’t belong within their trio. But that was just your overthinking. They always told you they loved you like you were another one of their siblings. They adored you endlessly, hence why you had a key to their home in Los Angeles anyway.

Still, you were coming to terms with the fact that Nick had even given you a key in the first place. You remembered that day so well.

The three of them had sat you down, them across from you in their living room — the situation had resembled an intervention. And it was. Sort of. They’d told you again and again to make yourself at home, and you did! … After a few hours of being there. And when you’d return another day, the process started over again. So, with hopes that you’d finally catch on, they sat you down.

Nick had held his hand out, the shiny silver startling you. “This is f’you.”

You’d blinked rapidly. “Huh?” It was all you could manage to breathe out.

“It’s a key to this place, kid.” Matt had given you the slightest bit of context, but you were still so confused and your face said it all.

Despite himself, Chris had let out a chuckle, rolling his lips into his mouth when everyone’s gaze shot to him. “I didn’t mean to laugh, I’m sorry, but look—” he nodded toward your expression with another snicker. “—can’t help it.”

Your gaze had turned back to the more serious of the two triplets, breathing in slowly as you attempted to process what they were doing. “You guys,” you started to echo what they’d told you, “are giving me a key to your place?”

“Hey,” Chris started to feel bad when he’d noticed your genuine disbelief, “you’re here more than you’re at your own apartment, kid. Why shouldn’t we give you a key?”

“Exactly!” Matt had nodded, reaching over Nick to pat his younger brother’s shoulder. “Besides, even when we do go back to Mass’, you’re the one who house sits for us. It makes sense for you to have your own way in now.”

Nick had scoffed in agreement, looking incredibly nonchalant — he felt it was something insignificant, the complete opposite of what you were feeling. “It’s been long overdue.”

“I just—” your eyes started to sting, water building in the corners. You sniffled, quickly wiping the stray tear.

“Woah, hey.” Chris had almost cooed, feeling his own waterline start to flood, and standing up to sit next to you. “Don’t cry, ‘cause I’ll cry, dude.”

“Sorry, it’s …” you’d shaken your head slowly, feeling silly for tearing up over a measly key. But it meant so much more to you than that. You reached out to take the key Nick had for you, holding it so tentatively like it was going disappear and you wanted to cherish it for the time being. You felt an arm wrap around you, pulling your head onto his shoulder. Chris was holding you close against him, understanding your train of thought but being unable to verbalize comfort for you — he’d never been good with words. “I’m sorry.” You choked out through your tears.

Immediately, all three triplets had begun to shush you, each of them having some sort of hold on you as they comforted you through your vulnerable moment, and that only made you clutch the key so much tighter.

When your cries had turned to sniffles, they knew they could pull away. They’d looked at you with a new sense of softness, and the fondness that’d always been there seemed to triple in size.

They adored you to bits.

And you felt the exact same about them.

But still, the key seemed to weigh down the carabiner on your hip.

So, you knocked the three times you normally did. You heard the footsteps inside, but you also heard them halt right in front of the door.

“Nuh-uh.” You heard Nick say, maybe to his brothers? — yes, to his brothers. “We gave them a key for a reason.”

Chris seemed to be in agreement. “He’s right.” Then he projected his voice louder, so you could hear him clearer. “If you wanna’ come in, ya’ gonna’ have to use the key, kid.”

“Fuck you.” You replied without any heat, tentatively unhooking your carabiner to single out the key to their home. The key they’d decorated for you after a month or two of you having it, hoping to entice you into using it.

You heard his cackle through the door, rolling your eyes. You clenched your jaw slightly, still feeling like an intruder when you put the key in and twisted. You glared at them, albeit playfully, when they cheered as you opened the door slowly — pulling the key back with your arm.

Matt’s tired eyes greeted you with a smile to match them. “Can we go shoppin’ now?”

You deadpanned. “Y’all couldn’t have stepped out in the first place?”

“Hey!” Matt immediately went defensive. “I tried to get ‘em out the door the second we heard the fuckin’ knocks, but they refused. Don’t—”

“Alright, enough!” Nick snapped and pushed past both of his brothers to lock arms with you, pulling you ahead to walk with him. “God, they’re so fuckin’ annoying.”

Chris jogged forward, wrapping his arm around your neck, pulling you closer toward him in a headlock, and shaking you playfully in greeting.

Immediately you shoved your elbow into his rib cage, smiling when he groaned in pain and pulled away from you to rub at his sore side. A loud chuckle escaped you when he glared at you for what you had done.

Matt followed behind the three of you sluggishly, still half asleep.

Your eyes cast over to him with a bit of concern. “Matt, d’you want me to drive?”

“Nah, I can—” he was cut off by his own yawn. He pursed his lips sheepishly when you arched an eyebrow at him expectantly. “If … if you want to, I guess.”

You wordlessly lifted a hand, silently asking for him to toss you the keys. You would’ve offered your car, but it was smaller than their SUV, and you didn’t know how much was going to be bought. Their car had more storage for the potential mess of items they were going to inevitably spend their money on.

When you started the engine, you turned your head to face the passenger. “Where we headed to first?”

Before Matt could answer, Nick interrupted with his clapping hands. “I’m so excited to decorate together!” He went as far as reaching forward to repeatedly tap your shoulder.

“Me, too, Nick.” A breathless laugh escaped your lips at his evident joy.

“You have a Costco membership, right, kid?” Matt was quick to spit out the question before anyone could interrupt him again.

An impulsively startled bark of laughter left you, contagious enough for Chris to cackle along with you. “Random ass fuckin’ question, dude.” You saw the way he deadpanned from the corner of your eye, so you stifled your grin. “Yeah, I do. The fuck d’you wanna’ know that for?”

He shrugged lightly. “They got good Christmas trees.”

You looked into the rearview mirror, finding the other two triplets’ gazes. The three of you shared over dramatically disbelieving looks before you quickly focused back on the road.

Even the parking lot of the warehouse store was overwhelming, which meant the inside was so much worse. Nick and Chris flourished in the chaos, chatting among themselves as they walked ahead of the cart you were pushing. You and Matt looked around warily, sticking together with tense shoulders at the loud noises and constant flow of people surrounding every inch of the store.

Once Matt got a little bit more comfortable with some encouragement from his younger brother, he relaxed into his normal self. He jokingly picked up random items, making lewd comments amount the bulked sizes that Chris would chortle about. You could only roll your eyes at their antics, hiding your own amusement by biting your lip. Breathless laughs left your lips when Nick would reprimand them for it, looking around dramatically with wide eyes.

“You’re gonna’ get us kicked out, you idiots!” Nick hissed at them, tone sharp. There was no real heat behind his words though, just enough warning to make the younger two quiet down.

After many items picked up and placed in the cart as well as slapped wrists and items returned to their rightful places, the four of you had managed to find the Christmas trees.

The tall, perfect pines stood tall among the vast of packaged furniture for sale.

Chris’ eyes widened with childish wonder as he stared up at the trees, a similar glint shining in them. “Which one do we buy?”

“What color decorations do y’all plan on buyin’?” You countered. “If ya’ goin’ red, green, and gold, I’d say get the green tree. But if ya’ feelin’ blue and silver, the white tree’s better.”

Nick hummed, nodding in complete agreement.

Matt narrowed his eyes in contemplation as he stared at the trees intensely. “I feel like we all prefer silver. And it’s not like any of our actual furniture at home’s got gold at all. Maybe we should go blue and silver?”

“I dunno’,” Nick voiced his disagreement to the idea, “I feel like we should go traditional wit’ red, green, gold since it’s our first Christmas decorating our own place.”

“We see traditional decorations back in Mass’ though, Nick. We could switch it up and go silver here.” Chris agreed with Matt’s idea.

Suddenly, Matt turned to look at you. “I think you should decide, kid.”

“It’s not my house?” Your eyebrows furrowed at the abrupt attention.

The three of them stared at you blankly. Two years of friendship, one year of which you were at their house more often than not, six months of having a key to their place, and you still hadn’t gotten the message. Their house was your house.

You pursed your lips sheepishly at their stares. “… I think you should do blue and silver. It complements the interior better.”

Nick clapped proudly. “Thank you!”

Getting the big box in the van was a hassle, but you’d done it. Somehow it fit, so getting to the second location for actual decorations and ornaments was your next mission.

They’d suggested Target, but they were quickly shot down by you and your distaste for the company. Ultimately, the four of you had settled on Michael’s. They had amazing decor, and you were hoping to find some art supplies as well as wrapping paper for gifts.

Again, pushing the cart had been your job, so you told them you were going to find the things you needed while they chose out their decorations — all simple tasks, right?

Wrong.

By the time you’d found them again, they were arguing about ornaments.

You blinked at them a few times, sighing when they didn’t notice you.

“Boys!” You snapped, effectively shutting them up. They looked at you sheepishly when you glared at them for all the noise they’d been making. “Move.” You huffed and pushed them out of the way, looking through the decorations.

Much like the tree and the color combination for the house, you’d chosen the ornaments, the garlands, the tree topper, the house decor, the wreath, and the wrapping paper.

The four of you walked in silence to the register, the triplets blushing profusely in embarrassment when you apologized to the cashier for their loud noise as the employee rang up the items.

On the walk to the car, Nick’s eyes lit up before they dulled slightly — a lightbulb turning on then off. “We should’ve filmed this.”

You immediately shot him a startled look at the idea. “I woulda’ kept my ass home.”

“You’re no fun.” He huffed.

With a full car, and happy hearts, you drove back to their place with a content smile.

♱

Actually decorating the place had been a slight hassle simply because no one could agree. You tried your best to stay out of the arguments, obliging to their decisions because, again, you felt it wasn’t your place to decide. But when they’d turn to look at you expectantly, three sets of eyes narrowing when you’d hesitate, you figured it was only right to give your input.

It also took a lot longer than expected to finish the task. The sun had set hours ago, the darkness of night glaring through the open windows.

With a steadying sigh, you placed the silver star at the top of the white tree before you pulled away to admire your handiwork. When you backed away from the tree, a body barreled into you at full speed from behind. Your body jolted slightly, but quickly relaxed when you realized who it was.

Chris.

His arms wrapped around your shoulders, his body practically vibrating with excitement as he stared at the fully decorated home before him. You reached an hand up to grasp at his forearm, keeping him there.

Before you knew it, Nick was on your other side. He slowly melted against you, leaning his head on your shoulder that was covered by Chris’ elbow. You tentatively leant your head against Nick’s.

The last to join the makeshift hug was Matt. He stood on the other side of his younger brother, standing similarly to his older brother on your side. Silently, you both reached out to each other, intertwining your hands for more comfort.

The four of you stood before a house turned home — a lived in, cozy, and welcoming home.

Your smile turned shaky, quivering with the realization that dawned upon you.

All you’d ever wished for on Christmas Eve nights was a home. And here you’d found it with three boys whose hearts were made of gold.

icarus inquires . . .

i’m ngl, i didn’t ever think i’d finish these lmao. finals got to me and i wanted to kms, so i fully gave up. but i’m back and determined. enjoy <3

tags . . .

@mattsfavoritestar / @peiivnao / @joopsworlx

[pekodayz]

i forgot to share these😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅. from last year (yes i am a genius). first one is a comm from jean and second was an art trade with ghost

[in-death-we-fall]

Do I find footage of my uncle from before I hated him to see how similar he actually looked to Roundest Face Joey or do I just sit here and let it bug me

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

chicken scratches ☆

synopsis : katsuki tries to surprise you...but he's taking too damn long !!

an. merry christmas(if you celebrate) n happy holidays yall !! i love my boyfriend as usual,,btw have yall seen that new hori art ??? dreamy sigh my man so stupid..

cw. itty bitty manga spoilers, but otherwise nun !!

when katsuki manages to hold a pencil again and write with his right hand, it looks absolutely horrendous.

switching from writing with their left hand then back to the right one would've been disorienting for most, and it probably was for him, but he didn't show it much aside from the occasional grumble and scoff at his trembling grip. nothing ever holds him back after all.

you sigh "can i—"

"no. don't look yet." katsuki has his back turned to you, sending you a sharp glare. hunched over his little piece of paper like how he'd hide his page from kaminari's peeking eyes during an exam, always so dramatic. he turns around with a huff and you snort with a roll of your eyes.

you had come over to his room after he’d told you to, mumbling out a quick “come over.” over the phone and hanging up before you could say a word.

and so here you were. waiting.

“katsukiiiiiiii—”

“shut up,” your boyfriend grunts, his scribbling sounds harsher, in a bit more of a rush. “so damn impatient..”

“but i wanna see what you wrote !” you kick your legs up in the air, pouting at his back sitting in his office chair. “i’ve been waiting for decades to see you write with that arm again.”

katsuki scoffs out a snarky laugh “yeah, well how do you think i feel ?” you groan, whining at his dark joke, he laughs again. “just stay put. ‘m..almost done.” he trails off, focusing back on his surprisingly long task.

you do know that despite being able to use his arm again, it had gone slow—surely, but really slowly. then again, he originally wouldn’t have been able to use that arm at all, so you’ll honestly take anything.

but the excitement is getting to you, and you really wanna see what he wrote ! so slowly, surely, you quietly try to sneak the short distance to his desk to peek behind his shoulder. however, your boyfriend has some crazy spider senses.

he sighs “if i turn around and you’re not sittin’ your ass on the bed i’ll—HEY !”

busted. katsuki catches you mid creep, so close to seeing his paper until he swiftly turns in his chair. he reaches out with his left hand, reflexively, and grabs a hold of your arm.

“you can’t ever just—do what you’re fuckin’ told ! knew you were being too damn quiet ! ” he complains between gritted teeth, trying to wrestle you away from him.

“i just—wanna see !” you shriek. when he suddenly remembers he can use his right hand again, and it almost feels nostalgic the way he jams it in your side to tickle you, dropping his pencil in the process. you think you hear it rolling on the floor, but your own noises of surprise overpowered the sound. he’d really gotten better at using that arm again, you could cry if your boyfriend wasn’t actively trying to shove his entire hand inside your ribs and push you away.

during the light scuffle, his hurried movements magically make the paper fly away with a harsh whip of his arm and a gust of wind, you thank every god when you notice it, just a second before he does. you’re half sure the world slowed down as you slide down to the floor and clutch the piece of paper in your grasp like the fate of the world depended on it.

the little piece of paper makes your heart jump, with its crumpled up edges and wonky writing and all.

I love you

both the o’s are too long, his u trails off towards the end and the e looks like he'd written it with the pencil in his mouth. it looks nothing like his usual handwriting.

but it was him, unmistakably, undeniably him and all of him and all of his efforts. all his efforts coming down to this. being able to write i love you and to show you.

your heart does more than jump, it restarts in your chest.

harshly, your flipped over by katsuki. he’s red all the way down to his neck and his eyebrows twitch angrily. but his hands, both his hands are gripping your cheeks hard and pulling at them and you can’t help but laugh.

“little shit. can never jus’ lemme be romantic..” he pouts, pouts like the adorable tryharding asshat he is, and you’re so so happy. your cheeks hurt cus he's tugging at them but his right thumb is digging into your cheek. you can feel the little callous on his middle finger because he holds his pencil with too much pressure on it.

“you’re so adorable.” it tumbles out between a watery laugh before you can stop it, katsuki’s jaw ticks and he gets even redder if that was even possible—he uses his right hand to squish your nose shut mid breath so your ears pop.

“shut it, shut up. ya ruined everything.” ducking down, his teeth make contact with your cheek and your chin knocks against his when you jump with a little scream. "i literally just finished. was just about to hand it to you, but noooo—everythin' has to go your way.." he angrily mumbles into your neck.

you press a kiss to his nape and he stiffens "i'm sorry for ruining your perfect surprise." he scoffs, biting at your shoulder. "i'm really happy though, it was unfortunately very worth it."

"you're a fuckin' fiend." he spits out, and you really can't help but laugh "love you too." you snort out, and his hands, both of them squeeze your sides hard, your cheeks hurt and you can't help but laugh.

[punkshort]

A Christmas Miracle

Thank you anon for this prompt!

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Years of tension after a failed hook-up attempt with Joel boil over at your office Christmas party, but not in the way you expect.

Warnings: language, alcohol consumption, enemies to lovers, smut (18+ MDNI), hate sex that turns soft in the end because it's shortie writing this, fingering, unprotected piv sex, semi-public sex

WC: 4.6K

"Goddamnit, why did he show up? He hates shit like this," you grumbled to your friend, Tina, when the elevators slid open to reveal the latest batch of co-workers trickling inside the hotel ballroom your company rented out for their annual Christmas party.

Tina glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowd of well dressed men and women before her eyes landed on the one in question.

"Who, Joel?" she smirked, turning back to you.

"Yes, Joel," you seethed. You bellied up to the bar to flag down the cute bartender for another martini. If you had to listen to Joel share horrible stories about his latest conquests, sales or otherwise, then you had to make sure you had a decent amount of alcohol in your system first.

"Oh, come off it. Why don't you just fuck him already and get it over with?" Tina joked. You gasped in disgust and covered your mouth.

"Do not even joke about that. Who knows what kind of diseases that sleaze-bag is carrying around."

Tina tossed her head back and laughed, the sound dancing in the air like music. She was one of the prettiest women in your office, but much to everyone's chagrin, she was recently married and officially off the market. But that didn't stop the men in your office from harmlessly flirting with her now and again for the ego boost.

"Nah, he's all talk," Tina said with a wave of her hand.

"Not true - Lainey in the mailroom slept with him two years ago, remember that fiasco?" you shot back instantly before taking a grateful sip from your glass. Tina raised a suspicious eyebrow at you and propped one hand on her hip.

"You're keeping track?"

"No," you replied defensively. You rolled a shoulder and shifted your weight before taking another sip. "I just remember her crying over it every chance she got. Couldn't eat lunch in peace for weeks."

"Uh huh, sure," Tina said, rolling her eyes. She scanned the room again, hips lightly swaying to the music while you sat next to her, determined to have a miserable night. "Didn't you guys kiss once, though?"

You groaned and squeezed your eyes shut. "Don't remind me. Worst mistake of my life. Thank god I didn't fall for his shit and go home with him."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because believe it or not, I had standards," you clipped. "I didn't want to sleep with him after a sloppy office happy hour. I wasn't dumb enough to put out the first time we kissed."

"Alright, so if you were into him enough to kiss him and potentially see him again, what the hell happened?" Tina pressed. You sighed and let your chin rest in your propped up hand. Tina hadn't worked at your company as long as you and sometimes it was easy to forget she didn't know the full history.

"He took someone else home from the office that night, instead," you muttered under your breath. Tina whistled and shook her head.

"Damn. Alright, dick move, you win."

"Told you. Ever since then, I can't stand being in the same room with him. He's such a smug douchebag, always trying to push my buttons and piss me off just for the fun of it. Like the whole thing was a game to him."

"But it wasn't a game to you," Tina said, slowly connecting the dots. You nodded sadly and took a long sip from your glass.

"Nope."

Tina's expression softened when she saw the look on your face. "I'm sorry. I had no idea-"

"It's fine," you said, cutting her off. "I'm better off. It didn't mean anything, anyway. It was just one kiss," you chuckled, trying to play off the hurt you still harbored somewhere deep down.

"But still-"

"Evenin', ladies," a familiar drawl came from somewhere behind Tina. You didn't need to look. You knew who it was.

"Oh," Tina said when she swiveled around and saw Joel standing against the bar. "Hey, Joel."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and adjusted his tacky red tie.

"Apologies. My reputation seems to have preceded me," he said, glancing once in your direction before giving her a dazzling smile and stretching out his hand. "What's your name, gorgeous?"

"Tina, and give it a rest, I'm married," she said, holding up her left hand with her massive diamond while shaking his hand with her right.

"That's a damn shame," Joel said with a flirty smile. You rolled your eyes and tossed back the rest of your drink but it didn't matter. You were essentially invisible. "He must be one lucky fella. He treatin' you right?"

"Fantastic," Tina replied, pulling her hand out from his grip before turning to you. "I need to use the restroom," she murmured. You stood to follow her but Joel stopped you.

"How 'bout you? You seein' anyone special?"

You huffed and shook your head. "Kiss my ass."

Joel howled with laughter before sliding onto the stool Tina vacated.

"If I recall, few years back I was willin' to do that and more, but you shot me down."

"Yeah, thank Christ for that moment of clarity," you grumbled. You swept your eyes around the room, pretending to lose interest in the man sitting beside you, but unfortunately you couldn't bring yourself to get up and just fucking leave.

Joel held up two fingers, signaling for the bartender in a frustratingly effortless way that set your teeth on edge and had your thighs pressing together.

"Whiskey, neat. And-"

Joel turned to you, waiting for your drink order, but you shook your head.

"I'm good."

"Shot of tequila," Joel told the bartender with an award winning smile.

You glared at Joel as the bartender walked away.

"Tequila? Really?"

Joel chuckled and swiveled in his stool to face you. "You thought I forgot what loosened you up that night?"

"You're a pig," you snapped, and you should have grabbed your purse and left, but your feet refused to move. "You're a pompous asshole who doesn't give a damn about anybody's feelings so long as you're getting your dick wet. I can't fucking stand hearing you walk around the office gloating like you're hot shit. Tell me, Joel," you said, leaning forward now that you were on a roll. "When you go home to your empty apartment at night, who listens to your bullshit? Hm? The fucking plants?"

Joel didn't say a word but you could tell by the look on his face that he was taken aback. For once you had the upper hand, and you weren't going to let it go.

"Enjoy this schtick while it lasts because one day you're gonna wake up and it'll be a thing of the past. One day, they'll hire a new Joel. Someone younger and hotter and probably nicer than you and suddenly you'll be all alone wondering where the fucking time went."

"You got a real mouth on you, huh?" he shot back. "Think you know a goddamn thing 'bout me? You got no fuckin' clue, sweetheart. But maybe if you gave me half a chance all them years ago, you'd know a thing or two."

You laughed, voice dripping with sarcasm as the bartender placed his whiskey and tequila in front of him.

"What are you saying? Do you even hear yourself?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. He scowled and took a long sip from his whiskey. "How the hell would I ever have known anything about you, Joel? Can't learn much about a person after a few drunken hours and a half-assed attempt at foreplay because let's face it - that's all you're willing to offer anyone."

As a last second attempt at a power move, you grabbed the tequila and tossed it back with a wince before slamming the glass onto the wooden bar top and grabbing your purse.

"Thanks for the drink. It's been lovely catching up," you sneered, then finally forced yourself to leave his orbit before you lost yourself completely.

You slid through the crowds of people mingling and laughing in the ballroom, eyes darting this way and that as you tried to either find Tina or the nearest exit. When you eyes began to blur with unshed tears and you were about to resign yourself to crying in the middle of your fucking office Christmas party, you felt a strong hand wrap around your bicep.

"C'mon, this way," Joel's deep voice murmured before hauling you in a completely opposite direction.

For some unknown reason, you let him lead you from the packed ballroom towards the stairs. It was quieter, the sound from the Christmas music dulled against the walls, the only people around to hear it were you.

"We need to set some shit straight, once and for all," Joel said when he pulled you into an empty hallway. From the looks of it, it was an area meant for the hotel staff. One door was labeled laundry and the other maintenance. The elevator bank was right there. You could have easily tapped the button and left, but instead you crossed your arms and defiantly scowled up at him.

"Yeah? This should be good," you told him. He growled under his breath and you had to stifle the primal reaction the sound caused between your legs.

"That night... the happy hour. When we... y'know..." he trailed off and you sighed dramatically.

"Yes, Joel. Unfortunately I remember."

"I didn't go home with anyone else," he said. You blinked, unsure if it was the alcohol or if you were truly losing your mind. Did he really just say what you thought he said?

"What?" you whispered.

Joel shrugged. "I didn't. I might've spread that rumor 'cause my feelin's were hurt but I didn't go home with anyone else. I only wanted you."

"Me?" you sputtered.

"Yeah, you," Joel repeated, annoyance lacing his voice. "You'd been drivin' me crazy for fuckin' months. Couldn't stop thinkin' 'bout you. Ask Harris, he'd tell you. I talked 'bout you non-fuckin'-stop. Then that night, I got 'nough liquid courage in me to make a move and, well..."

He trailed off and ran his fingers through his hair.

"You shot me down. Ruined all the confidence I had 'n left me heartbroken."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," you said. "I didn't want to sleep with you that night and you took that to mean I wasn't interested in you? At all? Did it ever occur to you some women don't sleep with men the very first night they're shown a little attention?"

"Did it ever occur to you I wasn't tryin' to sleep with you that night?" he shot back.

"Oh, please!" you exclaimed with a dry laugh. "'Lemme walk you home, baby,' and, 'my place ain't too far from here'." You snorted and shook your head in disbelief. "Don't try to rewrite history. I was tipsy but I fucking remember."

"I was worried 'bout you!" he practically shouted in despair. "You'd been drinkin' and I wanted to make sure you were safe! Goddamnit, I didn't expect you to freak out 'n fuckin' shove me in front of the whole damn bar!"

The more Joel talked, the more the pieces began to slide into place. Maybe you did misread his intentions that night.

"W-well... y-you still continued to sleep around with the entire office," you stammered, gathering yourself again and shaking off his bombshell. "You had sex with Lainey from the mailroom and god knows who else! You might not have gone home with someone that night, but who cares? It's obvious you were just looking for a quick fuck."

"There's that fuckin' mouth again," he grumbled angrily. "Yeah, alright. Fine! I slept with a few women but Jesus fuckin' Christ, what'd you expect me to do? You clearly had zero goddamn interest in me. I couldn't sit 'round and be miserable forever."

"I never said I had zero interest in you!" you exclaimed before you had a chance to catch yourself. But your admission was out there. It was too late, and Joel's eyes darted up to yours in surprise.

"What's that mean? You... liked me?"

"What is this, high school?" you scoffed, crossing your arms. When he just continued to stare at you, anxiously waiting for you to answer, you sighed and dropped your arms to your sides in defeat. "Yeah, fine. I like you."

"Wait, wait, wait," Joel said excitedly. "Like or liked?"

"Oh, my god!" you cried out before turning on your heel to storm back down the stairs towards the party. "I'm not doing this with you! I'm fucking not-"

In the blink of an eye, Joel snatched your arm and twisted you back around to crash against his chest. You gasped right before his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you in for a deep kiss.

For one blissful moment, you let yourself forget it all. You forgot all the anguish you felt when you heard about Joel's latest conquests. You forgot about the way it felt watching him breeze around the office without a care in the world, completely oblivious to the way he hurt you. And you definitely forgot about the way you turned down a perfectly good date just two weeks prior because he wasn't what you were searching for and you fucking knew why.

"I'm not some cheap, quick fuck," you panted when you pulled away for air. Joel had managed to turn you so your back bumped up against the wall. Your eyes slid shut and a soft moan escaped from your lips when he began to drag his mouth down the column of your throat.

"We can go fast or slow, whatever you want," he mumbled into your skin. Your hand connected blindly with his shoulder and gave him a forceful shove, making him chuckle. "I know what you meant. I don't want that, either," he said before straightening up so he could look at you. "I don't want this to be a one time thing. Never did. That's what I've been tryin' to say."

Your mouth opened and closed as you tried to come up with a response. The way things had changed so quickly left you scrambling to keep up, and although you couldn't deny the reaction your body was having to Joel crowding you aggressively against the wall, your mind couldn't give in as easily.

"I can't stand you," you growled before pulling him back down to your level. Your mouth crashed hungrily against his, chasing the taste of peppermint and whiskey on his tongue. You were so lost in the feeling of his surprisingly soft lips pressed against yours that you hardly noticed when his hand skated down your side. With a muffled yelp, he yanked you off your feet, using his broad body to pin you against the wall while his hand began to travel up the skirt of your dress. You quickly wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him with your legs curled around his waist so you didn't fall.

"Fuck," Joel groaned when his fingers brushed against where your underwear should have been had you not chosen to forgo them for the evening. You smirked against his mouth and grabbed roughly at his hair.

"Didn't want panty lines," you breathlessly explained.

"Yeah, can't have that," he murmured right before plunging his tongue back inside your mouth. At the same, his thumb grazed over the slit of your cunt, pulling a moan from you both.

"You like yellin' at me, huh? That why you're already this wet, baby?" he purred, nipping at your earlobe while his middle finger teasingly probed at your entrance. You dropped your head back against the wall with a thud, hips chasing his hand, eager for more.

"Shut up," you whispered, then gasped when he finally slid one long, thick finger inside you. Joel chuckled against your neck, curling his finger inside your tight heat every time he dove back in. Your chin was tilted towards the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape as he slid a second finger inside with ease. You were vaguely aware of your compromising position, knowing full well anybody could turn the corner or exit one of the rooms at any moment, but neither of you cared.

"Ohmygod, fuck! Keep going," you begged, rolling your hips as best you could with your legs wrapped around his waist. The palm of his hand began to slap steadily against your clit each time he thrusted his fingers into you, driving you to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

"How 'bout you talk a little sweeter to me if you want it so bad?" Joel countered, yet his hand never stopped between your legs. He pulled away from your neck to watch your face contort with pleasure, and when you opened your eyes to look at him, you saw the flush in his cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. You smirked amidst your gasps for air and rolled your hips faster.

"Why? I think you like it when I'm mean to you."

His eyes darkened a shade and his hand began to move faster, fingers curling and brushing against a spot inside you that stole your breath. His free hand was pressed against the wall next to your head for leverage, but his fingertips curled with the desire to grab you fucking anywhere.

"Least lemme hear you say my name when you come," he said through clenched teeth. And that defiant streak inside of you really didn't want to give him the satisfaction, but his skilled fingers were making short work of your resolve.

Joel got what he wanted. A few quick snaps of his hand had you loudly coming undone with his name on your lips. He laughed before shushing you and pressing his mouth tenderly against your own to keep you quiet while slowing the rhythm of his hand between your legs.

For a few minutes, you each forgot where you were and all the bullshit you were arguing about moments before. Joel kissed you so softly through your high that it had you melting against him. Your fingers were no longer tugging at his hair. Instead, you found yourself gently raking them through his dark brown curls almost affectionately while your tongues slowly danced together.

You gasped when he carefully pulled out his hand, breaking the kiss. With glassy eyes and swollen lips, you stared at one another while trying to catch your breath. It was almost too soft, especially with the way his eyes searched your face, desperately trying to figure out where things stood after what you just did. He was so fucking hard that his stomach hurt, but he couldn't tell if you wanted to take things further or if you were having regrets.

"So that's all it takes to shut you up?" he finally teased when the silence had gone on too long for his liking. You huffed and rolled your eyes before tightening your legs around his waist, tugging him closer. Joel smirked when his hips collided with yours and you felt the massive erection he had been fighting with for the past fifteen minutes.

"Hmm, no I don't think so," you breathed while allowing a hand to fall between your bodies. Your fingers brushed against the outline of his cock straining against his black dress pants and you grinned. "But maybe this will."

"Thank fuck," he groaned in relief. His breath instantly grew more shallow at the mere prospect of feeling you wrapped around his cock, but when you nimbly undid his pants and pulled out his throbbing length, his chest was practically heaving with anticipation.

"Easy," you murmured when he leaned forward, sinking his teeth into a sensitive spot on your neck. You relished in the way you managed to make him so weak with just a few strokes of his cock. His entire body had pushed forward, chasing your hand. You felt short of breath from the pressure of his body pinning you against the wall but you didn't make him move. You liked the feeling of his broad frame caging you in far too much to make him stop.

You lined him up with your entrance and pulled your hand away, but just as he began to press forward, a squeaky door opening and closing around the corner from your hallway made you both freeze.

"Shit," you whispered. Joel locked eyes with you and quickly shook his head, signaling for you to be quiet. Both your shoulders were rising and falling fast but your mouths remained clamped shut so your heavy breathing couldn't be heard by whoever was walking down the tile floor with high heels. You squeezed your eyes shut and turned your face when the footsteps sounded moments away from turning the corner, then by some miracle they stopped in their tracks.

"Oh dear, I forgot my phone," a woman's voice said softly to herself. You both began to relax when the footsteps turned in the opposite direction and finally disappeared all together.

"Jesus Christ," Joel laughed shakily. You smirked and wiggled your hips, impaling yourself further on his cock.

"Better hurry up," you told him with an arched brow after his eyes locked with yours in surprise. Then a slow smile stretched across his face, positively gleeful that almost getting caught didn't change your mind. With one swift thrust, he sunk inside you the rest of the way, pleased with the way your jaw silently fell open and your head tipped back against the wall.

"You told me to hurry," he reminded you as he began to move his hips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you hung on for dear life.

"Fuck... you..." you whispered with your eyes closed and brows knit together. Joel chuckled and nipped your chin.

"Yeah, baby, that's the idea," he grunted, snapping his hips faster. "Fuck, wish we had more time. Feel so fucking good."

"I thought you'd be used to - shit - thought you'd be used to quickies by now."

Joel grabbed your chin and stilled his hips, forcing your eyes open in surprise.

"Knock it off. Told you I don't want that. Not with you."

You were surprised to hear the seriousness to his voice. You fumbled for a moment with how to react before saying, "Guess we'll see about that, won't we?"

"Yeah, you will," Joel replied. He released your chin and began to move again before he added, "I'm a lot of things, a liar ain't one of 'em."

He sounded truthful, but it was difficult to reconcile what he was saying to what you'd been hearing over the past few years. But since time was of the essence, you chose to let it go. After all, how long could it possibly take for someone to grab their phone?

"What? Got nothin' else to say?" Joel chided. You could see the flush creeping up his neck and even a little sweat beading just above his collar. The urge to drag your tongue across his tanned skin was growing impossible to ignore, so instead of answering his question, you decided to lunge forward and do just that. He groaned and began to grind into you, the coarse hairs at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit fucking perfectly.

You whimpered and buried your face against his neck, doing your best to stifle your sounds as the heat in your belly grew once again.

"Just like that," you gasped into his skin, hands grappling at the back of his neck, trying to draw him closer. "Oh, god, Joel... I'm close," you whined. It was building up too fast after your last orgasm. Your eyes began to water the harder he ground his hips and you bit down harshly on your lower lip to keep yourself from crying out.

"That's it, just let go," he whispered in your ear. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down your spine. "Lemme have it. Say my name again, baby, please... I-I need it," he added, voice strained.

You lifted your chin so your lips could find the shell of his ear, moaning his name without your voice being muffled. What felt like just a second or two later, with your orgasm still rolling through you, Joel stilled and groaned softly into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he came.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he rasped as he pumped the last of his release deep into your cunt.

Panting for air, you slid your eyes shut and pressed your forehead against his. You felt his nose nudge against yours and you smiled before searching for his mouth and brushing your lips tenderly over his own.

"Look at you," Joel whispered against your mouth. "All soft 'n sweet now that you finally got fucked right."

"Do you ever stop talking?" you asked, trying to sound irritated, but the smile tugging at your mouth gave you away.

"You fuckin' love it," Joel said right before his tongue slipped past your lips with a groan.

The door around the corner opened and once again the familiar tap of high heels echoed down the hall. You sprung apart and hissed under your breath after Joel pulled out of you too fast.

"Sorry," he whispered while he tucked himself back into his pants and you adjusted the skirt of your dress.

You had just enough time to run your fingers through your hair and swipe a finger under your lip to catch any smeared lipstick when a woman neither of you recognized turned the corner.

"Oh! Good evening," she said after she slid to a halt. Joel cleared his throat and adjusted his tie before reaching for your hand.

"Evenin'... Dolly," he replied, squinting at her nametag. "My girlfriend's lookin' for the bathroom, could you point us in the right direction?"

"Of course! Sorry to say you've gotten yourself quite turned around. If you just go through those double doors there, you'll find the restrooms up the stairs and to the left."

"Thank you," you called out over your shoulder when Joel tugged you back in the direction of the ballroom. Once you were out of earshot, you dissolved into a fit of giggles, the sound making Joel grin ear to ear.

"Didn't take you for bein' such a naughty thing," he teased before holding the door open for you to step through.

"Yeah, me either," you replied with a little shake of your head. "You must be a bad influence on me."

"Care to join this bad influence for dinner tomorrow night?" he asked when he found his place back at your side. The ballroom was just on the other side of the wall. You could hear clearly now the drunken voices of your co-workers singing Christmas carols off-key.

"What, like a date?"

"Yeah," Joel said, grabbing your arm and spinning you around before you entered the room. "Like a date."

His dark eyes were sparkling as he gazed down at you. You noticed some of your lipstick had transferred under his ear and you grinned before using the pad of your thumb to swipe it away.

"Yeah. Okay. Let's do it."

Joel couldn't resist ducking down to your level for one more kiss, but it wasn't quick enough. To your left you heard a sharp gasp and you pulled apart to find Tina and two other co-workers staring at you like they just saw a ghost.

The tension was thick for a moment. Nobody knew what to say or do until finally Tina whooped and cheered before shouting, "It's a fucking Christmas miracle!"

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

[nanaminxs]

look doggy style is great n all, but i raise you cowgirl (im looking at you, tason jodd n gick drayson) i strongly believe at heart as top as these men are there is a part of them that is so down when u ride bcs they want you to work for it

Thoughts?

Jason very much would’ve cum just from seeing how your body reacted when you slid him in. The stretch burning so good it brought tears to your eyes. But this is all about you.

He had complete control over himself as he watched you. He thought he did anyway.

Your palms smush against his chest as you grind against him—his cock dragging slowly, painfully against your velvety walls.

You have him wrapped around your finger.

Jason left fingerprints on the skin of your hip from how tight he dug into you, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly parted—he’s whipped.

“Mhm, there you go..make a mess all on my dick, show me how good I make you feel.”

He’ll let you use him as your personal toy for hours, orgasm after orgasm until you’ve had your fill.

Now..Mr. Grayson however is sooo fucking cocky when you ask to ride him.

“Use me to your heart’s content.”

“You sure? Wouldn’t want those pretty legs to give out so quickly and ruin the fun!”

Now he’s complaining, whining, crying. Overall annoying in bed. But fuck..He thinks you look so good above him, milking his cock over and over.

“C’mon baby—right there, lemme feel you- hah! Gonna cum please lemme cum! Gonna cum with me too right?”

His eyes are glossed over, a stray tear itching to fall down his face. His hips are uncontrollably snapping up to meet you half way, desperate for release.

Shove a few fingers in his mouth and he’ll somewhat shut up.

You don’t even remember how many times you’ve cum after stuffing yourself full of his seed.

A/N: Been sick AND busy with christmas coming up, I apologize.

[papiliotao]

HOME SWEET HOME — neuvillette x reader

content: 13.3k words, lovers to exes to hopefully lovers again, reader goes to jail, mixed feelings (i hope i wrote them decently), murder, poison, lots of investigation

summary: a singular trial is all it takes to tear your world apart. after being framed for an atrocious crime, you're sent to the fortress of meropide by the decree of your own lover. however, as new evidence emerges years down the line, you're offered freedom at last — the only catch being that you must confront the real culprit (and your complicated feelings for the man who broke your heart).

a/n: merry (late?) christmas @https-sourlimes!! i'm your secret santa. i am SO sorry about the wordcount; i got carried away while writing. i really hope you enjoy! <3

Happiness is a fragile ephemerality.

One word is all it takes to set your world ablaze in a frenzy of roaring flames, once-comforting hues of warmth roaring in a final performance of oceanic havoc. A numb horror manifests in subtle shivers that wrack your body, piercing your very soul with its glacial frostbite. Echoes reverberate within your mind.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale, [name] is guilty.

Neuvillette’s words seem to ring in the air, long overstaying their welcome as they persist in a buzz of illusory ostinatos over a backdrop of stunned silence. No one stirs as the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers unfolds before them. Instead, they watch with bated breath, never once daring to intervene, allowing every act of fate’s cruel masterpiece to play out in flawless tandem.

Nothing feels real until the moment the guards slip a pair of handcuffs around your wrists. Gradually, a sense of panic envelops your senses, prompting you to desperately turn to where Neuvillette had been standing. Fear begins to well up in the pit of your stomach.

You need his help.

But when your eyes land on the spot where your lover had once been, you find that he is all but gone.

Emptiness is all that remains as you’re escorted down to the depths of Meropide.

“Wriothesley,” you greet the man in front of you politely as you step into his office.

It’s only six in the morning, but you were unceremoniously dragged out of your bed earlier when you were informed that Wriothesley had sent for you. A few years ago, you would have complained about how rude it is to rouse someone from slumber without warning. However, after spending thousands of days in prison, you’ve grown to understand that societal norms have no place within the lifeless metallic walls of Meropide.

Everything runs on incentive alone. Coupons are all that matter within the underground prison, and as such, most inmates spare less than a thought towards moral obligations and frivolous sentiments. It’s a home for some of Fontaine’s most infamous criminals, for crying out loud! Only a fool would expect pleasantries to have any place in this bleak world.

Your train of thought is interrupted as Wriothesley gestures towards a chair in front of his desk.

“Take a seat, [name],” he says, his voice gruff yet comforting.

He’s been your only companion throughout your time in prison, as the other inmates have been a little too uncouth for your taste. Although Wriothesley tries to pretend he simply wants to be your friend, you know he has ulterior motives. You know the reason why he’s always checking up on you so often — why he’s been suspiciously interested in your day-to-day life.

Someone you’d rather not think about put him up to this.

Someone you used to love.

(You still remember the crystal raindrops that kissed your skin mere moments before you were taken underground. You wouldn’t put it past him to watch you from afar.)

“Is something up, Wriothesley?” you inquire.

The more he talks the better, you decide. Right now, anything is better than silence because silence is a harbinger of spiraling thoughts and unpleasant recollections. At the moment, you want nothing more than to drown the mantras gnawing at the edge of your conscience in a sea of cascading words.

“Brace yourself,” Wriothesley warns, “This is gonna be a tough one to stomach.”

You nod hesitantly. Wriothesley usually keeps your conversations lighthearted and casual, so you’re absolutely certain that he’s serious this time. His foreboding preface sends a slight shiver down your spine, but you steel your nerves and meet his gaze. Irises beaming with fading moonlight scan your eyes for any traces of hesitation, scrutinizing every sentiment that graces the windows to your soul.

“I’m ready,” you reassure him.

Although Wriothesley raises an eyebrow when he hears the tremble that unsteadily articulates your growing anxiety, he continues on. One thing about Wriothesley you’ve grown to appreciate is the fact that he never pries into your affairs (at least not openly).

“Alright,” he sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tension becomes tangible as momentary silence fills the atmosphere; it’s almost deceptively peaceful. Every transient second feels more akin to an eon spent in stagnation as suspense gnaws at your conscience. As much as you hope for the hush to dissipate with every fibre of your being, you also dread the moment your false utopia will shatter.

“Is it really that bad?” you make the mistake of asking Wriothesley.

The grimace that adorns his weary features tells you all you need to know. Before your mind can run through all the possibilities in a frenzied delirium of panicked theories, Wriothesley finally speaks up.

“It’s about him,” he clarifies.

You immediately know who he’s talking about.

It’s funny. A few years ago, you used to speak his name in a hushed tone, filled with admiration and brimming with ardor. Every whisper used to feel adoring, almost reverent, and as such, you had mistakenly believed your love was akin to an all-enduring everblaze, a crimson flame of passion that would burn bright and persevere through all.

The irony is nearly laughable. Dying embers and hollow sentiments are all that remain now. His name has become a taboo, a word that feels all-too-foreign as you attempt to fill in the silence.

“Neuvillette,” you whisper shakily.

An unpleasant ringing seems to manifest in your ears as all the memories you’ve been trying to repress ebb and flow in a wave of aquamarine recollections. You’re aware he’s always been an overwhelming presence, yet it becomes all the more obvious as thoughts of him invade and overload your mind.

Wriothesley confirms your suspicions in the form of a solemn nod. To your surprise, his steely grey eyes soften for what feels like the first time since you’ve met him, a gentle warmth stirring beneath layers of permafrost.

Great, so your situation is so abysmal that even Wriothesley is starting to feel sympathetic.

“What does he want?” you manage to breathe out.

A part of you doesn’t want to face your ex-lover ever again in this lifetime. And yet despite it all, your heart screams for closure, resolving to remain unrelenting in its desires until every loose thread of your tragedy has been tied up neatly. You don’t know what to hope for at this point.

“You remember the poisoning case from a few years ago?” Wriothesley questions you.

It takes all your willpower to resist the urge to scoff.

“Who would forget the murder that changed their life forever?” Your voice comes out wry, bitterness intricately working its way into each inflection. Despite your attempts to exercise restraint, you find that your emotions are beginning to overtake rationality.

“Alright,” Wriothesley says hesitantly, “then I guess there’s no better time to break the news.” The suffering in his drawn-out sigh is palpable. “Suspicious new evidence related to the case has emerged recently. The Marechaussee Phantom is beginning to suspect that there’s more to it than what they initially found,” Wriothesley starts. Before he can continue, you interrupt him.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Right.” With an exasperated click of his tongue, Wriothesley moves on. “That’s where you come in. Since you’re so closely-linked with the events that occurred that day, the Iudex has specifically requested your help in the investigation. I take it the possibility of freedom is incentive enough?”

You huff. “Seriously? He has the audacity to ask for my help after all this time without so much as a word? Not even freedom could convince me to work with that absolute — !”

The stern look that manifests within Wriothesley’s sterling irises is enough to prompt you to pause. Although he doesn’t vocalize his concerns, the diamond-esque glimmers of worry that manifest in his eyes speak volumes. Don’t say something you might regret.

So instead of continuing on, you allow yourself a single sigh — an attempt to alleviate all your frustration in a single exhale.

“What I meant was, I’m not sure I could work with the Iudex in any official capacity,” you say, gritting your teeth lest any unsavory words find a way to slip out of your mouth, “given our… complicated history.”

Wriothesley shakes his head, a subtle showing of his displeasure at being caught up in a lover’s quarrel. You can’t really blame him. Any bystander would feel beyond vexed if they were tasked with piecing together the fading ruby fragments of a once-blissful relationship.

“I thought you might say that,” he responds, raising a hand to massage his temples. At the moment, the bags under his eyes appear more prominent than ever, and you begin to wonder how much grief your personal issues with Neuvillette will cause poor Wriothesley. “That’s why you have a week to decide.”

You narrow your eyes to meet a gaze woven from the essence of dimming moonbeams. Wriothesley stares you back, unflinching in his poise.

“Good luck getting me to change my mind,” you scoff. “I’m not facing him ever again.”

A pause.

Silence threatens to consume all under its weight, and you’re left wondering how nothingness can feel so heavy. Wriothesley’s nonchalance seems to disperse, vanishing in the midst of the tense ambience. Now you’re absolutely sure you’re in for a heartfelt conversation — an anomaly amongst the casual paradigm the two of you have been defining over the past few years.

“I’m not great with all this sentimental stuff,” Wriothesley starts, “I mean, I’m hardly experienced with romantic relationships myself despite my age.” He chuckles, and suddenly you feel as though the mood has lightened ever-so-slightly. “But trust me when I say Monsieur Neuvillette still cares deeply about you.”

Does he? Why would anyone stand by helplessly while the person they supposedly love more than life itself is taken from them forever?

Despite the protests that practically fly to the tip of your tongue, you continue listening attentively. Although you keep telling yourself you no longer care about your former lover, perhaps there’s still a small spark of incandescent hope lying somewhere within your heart — an ember of love awaiting a day where it will burst into brilliant flame once more.

“Think about it,” Wriothesley hums, his casual tone slipping effortlessly back into place as if he never broke character. “It’s been years since your case has been closed, and all the loose ends were supposedly tied up when you were sentenced, which means…” He trails off, waiting for you to piece together fragmented bits of logic within the recesses of your mind.

The muddled pieces of knowledge confound you, yet as you consider the implications of Wriothesley’s statement more carefully, a flicker of ingenuity comes to life in a sporadic burst of aureate sparks.

“Which means he never stopped investigating,” you conclude. “He believed it wasn’t me all along.”

The realization dawns on you in shades of phantasmagoric navy. It’s chilling, akin to the unwelcome touch of icy waters. Likewise, it overwhelms you. Its implications are far too profound to be ignored or pushed aside, and you begin to understand that you won’t be able to run away from the man you once loved for eternity.

“And?” Wriothesley adds.

“And he’s been trying to prove my innocence,” you breathe out, feeling disconnected from the moment.

Everything feels surreal, and the last few seconds feel no less oneiric than the ludicrous dreams you’re pulled into every night. It’s as if your world is twisting and turning upside down. You’ve spent all this time trying to incinerate every ounce of affection held within your heart for Neuvillette, bitterly blocking every memory of him from your mind all while he’s been tirelessly working to reunite with you.

Guilt pierces your entire being, enveloping you in a venomous sort of discomfort. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize how unfairly you’ve been treating the man you were once hopelessly-devoted to. Even back then in your emotional state, you should have known he would never betray you, much less in such a profound manner. Yet a part of you is still bitter that it took him this long to do anything. You can’t find it in your heart to forgive him entirely.

Remorse is a complex sentiment. While it pushes individuals to grow and defy past ordainments, it also drives them to make decisions that become ironically more regrettable later on. You feel as though your situation will fit in the latter category as a desire to reconvene with your past lover blazes to life. You’re still beyond enraged when you think about him, but a small flourish of love still remains in your heart. There’s so much you want to know, so without a further thought, you relay your hasty choice to Wriothesley before you can stop yourself.

“Fine, take me up to the surface. I need to speak to Neuvillette.”

The moment you resurface for the first time in years, an epiphany overcomes your senses. You realize how much you missed all the sights and sounds of the outside world — how much you had taken everything for granted back when you were still free.

Every caress of an aquatic zephyr feels like a gentle luxury, and the sensation of golden sunbeams enveloping you in threads of luminous comfort is something entirely otherworldly. You savour the ephemeral peace and serenity that surrounds you, losing yourself in the salty spray of azure waves and the vast beauty of the divine skies above.

As someone who’s allowed above ground routinely for official business, Wriothesley either doesn’t notice your wonder as he escorts you to your destination, or he chooses not to comment on it. Perhaps the beauty of the overworld has become nothing more than a mundanity to him.

The Palais Mermonia is every bit as grand as you remember. It towers over Fontaine, as if watching over the city and all its affairs. The smooth stone walls and opulent detailings adorning the building serve as a welcome reminder of how magnificent Fontaine’s architecture can be — a nice change of pace after spending countless days locked away within the monochromatic metal walls of the Fortress of Meropide.

As Wriothesley leads you through the intricate doors of the Palais Mermonia, you feel a sense of anticipation swell within your heart. Polychromatic butterflies desperately flutter their wings in the pit of your stomach, manifesting in a swarm of discombobulating chaos. With every step you take towards Neuvillette’s office, you feel your feet grow heavier. By the time you’re standing before the entrance, you feel as if you’re practically glued to the ground. The only things that keep you going are Wriothesley’s watchful stare and careful guidance.

The dark-haired man beside you pushes the door open and motions for you to enter first. As much as you’d rather hide behind Wriothesley, you decide to swallow your nerves and step into the office before him.

Unfortunately for you, the first sight that greets you upon entering the office is the face of a man you’ve been trying to avoid for years now, whether in the waking world or slumber. Against your own will, you note that he appears just as breathtaking as the day you lost him. Every detail of his suit is as pristine as ever, not a single wrinkle in sight, no matter how hard you scrutinize. His hair looks as soft and voluminous as usual, each strand of cerulean a sharp contrast to silken starlight. Simply put it, nothing has changed, and as you look into his eyes, you realize just how accurate your inference is.

Molten tanzanite fills eyes akin to galaxies occupied by subtle glimmers of emotion. Even now, you find that you can read him perfectly. Although he appears serious on the surface, a single examination of Neuvillette’s gaze is all it takes for you to spot the luminous adoration that gleams beneath layers of carefully-crafted defenses.

Damn it. Don’t look at me like that.

It’s a look you’d recognize anywhere — a look you had once loved with all your heart, yet now it feels detestable more than anything. The ironic juxtaposition between your feelings in past and present nearly makes you laugh. It’s a bleak reminder of how greatly circumstances have shifted — how everything is wrong now.

Not a word is spoken as you sit down in a chair across from Neuvillette. Although you had assumed Wriothesley would join you, he stands off to the side before you can even protest. Any attempt to call him back over would definitely make it obvious that you didn’t want to have what was essentially a one-on-one conversation with your ex.

“[Name],” Neuvillette greets you formally, his tone steady and practiced. It feels unnatural after all you’ve been through; in the past, endearment would lace his tone each time he spoke to you, conveying the true depth of his feelings with a single whisper. This stiff rendition of the fantasia that used to be your name falling from his lips is nothing like the soft melody you’d become accustomed to so long ago.

“Neuvillette,” you shoot back, trying your best to keep your voice from reverting to its affectionate default. Although you’re unsure about acting cold towards the man, you’re certain neither of you would be fine with immediately going back to the way you were before the entire disaster unfolded in a matter of mere seconds.

(And besides that, you’re still somewhat angry it took him literal years to find a way to get you out of Meropide.)

“I hope you’ve been well,” Neuvillette says, his tone softening ever-so-subtly. Vulnerability works its way into a slight waver of his voice, a nearly-unnoticeable detail that any average person would miss. However, you are not an average person. You’ve acquainted yourself with every intricacy of Neuevillette’s personality over the years, and even now, every detail is preserved perfectly within the archives of your memory.

“I was as well as I could be in prison, I guess,” you mumble.

Even you’re not quite sure if your passing comment is an attempt at humour or a jab at your previous lover. Fortunately for you, Neuvillette doesn’t attempt to laugh. Instead, he simply nods.

“I see…” he trails off, staring at you intently. Eyes filled with hues of softened lilac and faint periwinkle blue bear into your soul, inspecting you with a gaze woven from twilight. Stardust suspicion seems to glint in Neuvillette’s irises, but he doesn’t pry. “What have you be—”

“Enough small talk. Can we get to the point?” you force out. You’re still not quite sure how you feel about the fact that Neuvillette still cares about you, so you push aside your emotions for the moment to focus on the main issue. As much as you want to ask what your relationship has become, everything feels far too overwhelming now that he’s in front of you again for the first time in years. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”

Neuvillette pauses for a second, mulling over his next words. He doesn’t try to push the previous topic. Instead, he complies with your request.

“Work alongside me,” he says. “I’m aware that you may not find this to be the ideal arrangement, but ever since your sentencing, your reputation has become…” Neuvillette can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, so you interject.

“Awful? Dismal? Lower than low?” you chuckle bitterly. “I know. I didn’t expect any more when I agreed to come back up to the surface.”

For a second, pity sparkles in Neuvillette’s eyes, a look reminiscent of fragments of sunlight reflecting off sapphire ocean waves. You promptly decide that you hate it.

“Yes. Although I would not put it in such — brazen terms. If you would like an opportunity to clear your name, I would suggest putting serious consideration towards aiding in the second round of investigation. Please do let me know your verdict as soon as possible.”

“Why are you asking me as if I have a choice? It’s either help you or return to prison. Obviously one option is better than the other,” you sigh as a shiver runs down your spine. You know you’ll be in for an awkward few weeks. Spending every second by Neuvillette’s side is a harrowing nightmare come to life, but there’s no better way out of your dilemma. “I’ll join your stupid investigation.”

“Very well then,” Neuvillette responds. “I will show you to your accommodations in due time. Guards will be stationed outside your door around the clock in everyone’s best interest.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Even with contradictory evidence, you’re still going to be treated like a criminal until you’re proven definitively innocent.

“Please note that you will begin assisting me tomorrow.”

With that, Neuvillette turns to Wriothesley, acknowledging him for the first time since the two of you entered the room. “Mr. Wriothesley, thank you for escorting [name] to my office. You may now take your leave.”

A part of you wants to beg Wriothelsey not to leave you alone with Neuvillette, but for once, you decide that you have to start being brave. So with bated breath and a heavy heart, you watch as your sole companion in recent times turns away, heading back to an unreachable world below the surface.

You’re on your own now in a place that has become entirely foreign to you.

The silken covers of the bed you’re provided are surprisingly comfortable. Wrapping each seafoam-coloured blanket around your body feels like being enveloped in a cloud, and sinking into a soft mattress is a luxury you have long forgotten after becoming accustomed to your dorm in the Fortress of Meropide. Needless to say, you find your slumber shockingly restful despite all the turbulent feelings arising within the pit of your stomach, threatening to overtake your rationality and fill you with a cold, chilling panic.

No, the panic only sets in when you’re escorted back to Neuvillette’s office the next morning by the two guards sent to oversee your activities. It’s akin to being plunged into the depths of freezing lapis waters, losing your grip beneath waves forged from midnight essence. A whole day alone together with Neuvillette is going to be a challenge, and unfortunately, your nerves get the better of you.

You hear his voice as cool perspiration forms on the back of your neck, slight shivers running down your spine.

“Good morning,” Neuvillette greets you, as composed and regal as ever.

You envy his ability to behave as though he’s tranquility personified, even in such an awkward situation. His composure is a virtue.

“You let me sleep in,” you note. The sunbeams that filter through Neuvillette’s window in a flurry of faded daffodil shades look nothing like the gilded threads of light that grace Fontaine at sunrise. Besides that, you can already hear a fair amount of chatter outside the office, and you even recall spotting a few passer-bys scurrying about as you were accompanied to the Palais Mermonia.

“Indeed I did,” Neuvillette confirms your suspicions.

You glare at him. “I thought you wanted me up bright and early to help you investigate.”

The man before you sighs. “Based on your behaviour yesterday, I inferred that the past few days have been rather taxing on you emotionally. I wanted to give you ample time to recuperate to ensure that you would be able to think optimally today.”

Neuvillette’s eyes soften, a rare sort of gentleness manifesting in dulled lavender, a hue pulled straight from an evening afterglow.

You recall a passing thought from a time you had watched nightfall overtake the heavens with Neuvillette a few years back. At the time, he had looked at you with the same soft gaze, examining you with an expression that conveyed unspoken understanding and affection. You remember noting the way his irises seemed to reflect the muted iridescent shades above. Back then, everything had been so tranquil, euphoric. A part of you can’t help but desperately wish to go back in time.

“Thank you,” you relent, finally acknowledging Neuvillette’s kindness.

Neuvillette shakes his head. “There is no need to thank me,” he states. “This is beneficial to both of us. After all, I don’t expect you to work effectively with a tired mind.”

Without another word, Neuvillette pulls out a pile of official documents, their worn ivory pages a stark contrast to a second untainted milky white stack he sets on his desk.

“As you may be able to tell, these are the case files from the initial investigation,” Neuvillette points to the first collection of papers, “and these are documents containing new developments.” He points at the pristine new records.

“Can you summarize what exactly made you revisit the case?” you ask Neuvillette. Personally, you don’t feel like spending a full day poring over documents instead of investigating. That’s just inefficiency at its finest. Why do that when you have someone who seems to revel in records to explain everything to you?

Neuvillette allows a light chuckle to slip past his lips, the sound a nostalgic fantasia as it reaches your ears. “I see that you haven’t stopped finding the easiest way to complete your tasks,” he jests, “but very well. This will save us a considerable amount of time.”

You sit with bated breath, suspense filling the atmosphere as you patiently wait to learn the exact evidence that may have altered your fate entirely.

“Firstly, to reiterate, the murder was a poisoning,” Neuvillette starts. “A member of the Marechaussee Phantom was found dead at a banquet with a drink in hand. Its contents were found to be normal for the most part, but when investigated more thoroughly, trace amounts of a toxic substance were found.”

You nod with fervour, every intricate puzzle piece of the case that had dictated your destiny all those years ago still fresh in your mind.

“You were the one who poured the drink.” Perhaps your mind is playing tricks on you because for the first time in your life, you hear Neuvillette’s voice tremble slightly, like a resplendent leaf as it drifts on an autumnal breeze. “There was no way to prove your innocence at the time, and no matter how hard we tried to trace the origins of the poison, all we could discern was that it was fast-acting, which thankfully meant that there were no other casualties. Unfortunately, we were unable to find any compelling leads…” Neuvillette pauses, “until now.”

“Recently, a worker from a drink factory has approached us with reports of suspicious activities within the facility. Although most employees are kept in the front of the building to manage the machines and ensure that the quality of each bottle sufficiently meets company standards, there are a select few allowed in the back to oversee the entire operation.”

“What does this have to do with the case?” you interject. You can feel your interest waning as Neuvillette’s words become tangent-adjacent.

“Not everything is as it seems,” he assures you. “Around a week ago, the worker ventured into the back, desperately searching for one of their superiors. The higher-up in question had assigned them a task, and afterwards, they proceeded to disappear for weeks on end. When looking for their manager, the worker discovered the truth of the facility.”

Your breath hitches in anticipation.

“Put simply, the entire drink production operation is a deception. The company’s real purpose is to produce a rare variety of poison. Fortunately, we managed to procure a sample of it, and when tested, it was found to be identical to the very substance used to assassinate the victim of your case.”

Although you want to correct Neuvillette, you hold your tongue. There’s no point in getting off-track.

“So you want me to help you find out who put the poison in the bottle?” you ask.

Neuvillette nods. “We could have simply paid a visit to the Fortress of Meropide and interrogated you from there, but I thought you would appreciate a little freedom and control over your own destiny. Besides that, I know you’re competent, and the rest of the investigation could greatly benefit from your assistance.”

“Is that really all there is to it? I’m sure lots of people out here were against the idea of letting me roam free for fear of their own safety, so it must have been quite a challenge to get me out in the first place,” you scoff. “If my comfort was the only factor in play, then you would have simply taken the easy way out and questioned me in prison to appease everyone.”

For a moment, Neuvillette hesitates. Transitory silence fills the air before being fragmented into crystalline shards of dissonant revelation that cause goosebumps to grace the surface of your skin.

“Your intuition is as sharp as ever,” he sighs. Suddenly, he looks all too exhausted, and you begin to realize how hard he fought to earn you your temporary freedom. “All the citizens of Fontaine believe that the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale is perfect, flawless in its very nature. However, after your sentencing, doubt started to circulate, and I found myself among those who questioned the outcome of the case. It felt as though the full truth had not been revealed to us yet, and your punishment was ordained solely by a hasty collection of shaky facts gathered through a rushed investigation. It was entirely… unjust… the opposite of what Fontaine stands for.”

“There it is. You’re doing this all in the name of what’s right, as usual.”

You’re not sure what you were expecting Neuvillette to say. Perhaps you wanted him to tell you that he would never lose faith in you, his once dearly-beloved. Or maybe you were wishing with every fibre of your being that he would simply say he still cared and wanted you back.

But no, he’s Neuvillette.

Above all, he is fair.

He is justice.

The gazes of everyone in the interrogation room seem to burn with the light of a thousand stars, their pressuring radiance serving as an instrument of truth — a way to seek sincere answers to any questions that are posed. You shrink under their phosphorescence, feeling insignificant as the demands of all the officials in the room coalesce.

Before you stands Neuvillette, a few guards, and a couple members of the Marechaussee Phantom. You recognize the latter two as personal friends of the victim — people with personal stakes in the case.

“Do you remember who gave you the bottle?” a melusine inquires.

You force yourself to take a deep breath in, oxygen feeling like the sweetest ambrosia as you try to calm yourself. It’s funny. The small creature is at most half your size, potentially even less, yet you’re the one who feels intimidation well up in the pit of your stomach like the ebb and flow of an evening tide.

“A man named Gabriel, I think? He handed me the bottle while I was walking around and asked me to pass it around for him because he was busy running other supplies around the party.”

“That seems to line up with the records from the trial,” Neuvillette muses, flipping through his documents, “but when we investigated, we found no trace of such an individual, which leads us to believe that they utilized an alias and a disguise to conceal their true identity.”

You have enough restraint to hold back a groan. Here we go again with all the complexities.

“The bottle was screwed shut and completely full before you poured the victim a glass of juice, correct?” The melusine continues their questioning, meeting your eyes with a gaze composed of molten tourmaline.

“Yes,” you confirm. “Doesn’t that just make me look more guilty though? Clearly the poison couldn’t have been in the drink because the bottle hadn’t been unsealed yet, so the court deemed that the only logical conclusion was that I slipped something into the victim’s drink in the split second where nobody was looking.”

The melusine sighs. “With the emerging evidence, we’ve come up with a new theory. If the person responsible for the murder truly wasn’t you, then perhaps the actual perpetrator had a different means of mixing the toxic substance with the beverage. Keep in mind, the poison manufacturer is also a drink manufacturer.”

You pause for a moment, a frown etching itself into your features. You’re starting to see where this is going, but you don’t quite understand the big picture yet. “Elaborate, please.”

Neuvillette takes over. “If our new running theory is correct, then this is how the timeline of events occurred. The suspect was likely an authority figure at the aforementioned drink company, or at the very least, they were relatively close with someone who had power there. In order to throw off the investigation, they managed to spike the beverage before it was sealed in the factory. By doing this, they falsely led us to believe that the poison was poured into the cup instead of into the bottle, thereby alleviating the manufacturer of any suspicion.”

Oh. Suddenly everything is beginning to make a lot more sense. As each string of evidence begins to fall into place, a tapestry of truth is woven. At long last, an alternate story is starting to replace the false narrative that had been in circulation at the time of the case’s unraveling.

“It worked,” you breathe out. “Nobody even bothered to check the contents of the bottle because they were so focused on who was close enough to sneak something into the victim’s cup in the brief moment between the pouring of the drink and the first sip.”

“And for that I must apologize,” Neuvillette sighs, a thousand unspoken regrets lacing his tone. “Our investigation was not thorough enough, and this time, I do not intend to allow any more injustices to befall you.”

As you peer into Neuvillette’s eyes, you catch sight of sincerity manifesting in their depths, each glint of violaceous luminosity conveying a silent promise to protect you. At that moment, you’re sure that Neuvillette believes you were nothing more than an innocent bystander entangled in a web of schemes. Even if the rest of the world is still against you, at least you have him.

“Thank you. I’ll try my best to help you as much as I can.” You finally relent and decide that perhaps it’s time to adopt a policy of compliance; now that you’re sure your intentions all align, you feel ready to work with Neuvillette without reservations.

“Permission to share what we found out about the bottle?” the melusine from before interrupts your moment with Neuvillette, your transient flash of bliss disappearing within a blink. You can’t blame them, as your main priority right now is getting to the bottom of things.

Neuvillette nods, wordlessly indicating his approval.

“As you may know, we took in all items related to the investigation that day. The bottle of beverage was among them. We recently tested the liquid inside, and as expected, there were traces of poison mixed with the drink. It’s worth noting that the drink itself is the same one produced by the suspicious facility we received a report about recently.”

“So I’ve almost been proven entirely innocent?” You can’t resist the urge to ask, the idea of being pardoned after being assumed guilty for so long a saccharine respite.

“Yes, as long as we can apprehend the real criminals and get them to confess to their crimes, you’ll be free,” the melusine confirms. “Fortunately, the worker and the contents of the bottle have led us to the perfect place to start our second inspection — the factory.”

Not even a day later, you rise bright and early to look into the manufacturer with Neuvillette. As the suspect framed in a murder linked to the factory’s poison, your reappearance above ground is bound to set off some red flags in the minds of those who helped orchestrate the entire ordeal. Consequently, you don an uncomfortable disguise while Neuvillette simply plans on masquerading around the place as himself.

It’s ironic. Neuvillette, the renowned Iudex of Fontaine, can roam without fear of interference as his genuine self. Meanwhile, you, a mere nobody, are forced to adorn yourself with layers of obscurities, masking every aspect of your identity.

The contrast between your situations is almost amusing, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh. Even as silken strands of opulent golden sunlight grace your skin, sending a rush of warmth through your body, you can’t help but tremble. The stakes are high, and the possibility of being discovered is distressing to an extreme.

“Shall I go over the narrative one last time?” Neuvillette asks you as your destination seems to grow larger and larger. The grey stone that the building is forged of is reminiscent of the colour of storm clouds — ominous and foreboding.

“Wouldn’t hurt to,” you mumble, willing yourself to stop shivering immediately. You’ll draw even more attention to yourself if you continue to shake like ultramarine ripples on the surface of a turbulent lake.

“Fontaine’s food and drink products have been suffering a decline in quality lately,” Neuvillette states, “and we are here today to perform a health inspection. Although the Iudex is typically not involved with investigating such trivial matters, the issue has become profound. The lives of several Fontainians have already been jeopardized, so in an attempt to prevent any further tragedies, I have decided to personally step in alongside my assistant.”

You hum absentmindedly, still distracted by your nerves. It feels as though permafrost has infused itself with your soul, as you continue to quiver despite all your attempt to ground yourself. “Compelling,” you manage to force out.

You’re drawn back to reality by Neuvillette’s next actions. To your horror, his familiarity with your emotions due to your shared history is your detriment. Before you can process what’s happening, he takes your hand in his. His gentle grip is soothing, and it serves as a much-needed reminder that you’re in this together.

“No matter what happens, I will be by your side,” he reassures you.

For a second, it feels like you’re back in the past. Everything is fine between you and Neuvillette, and you can still trust him unconditionally. Although your relationship has deteriorated now, you find that his presence still brings you a sense of comfort.

Perhaps some sentiments are simply meant to endure forevermore.

There’s nothing remarkable about the inside of the factory at first glance. As expected, typical assembly lines are present within the vicinity to ensure that every bottle is assembled and packaged in an efficient manner. On the surface, nothing seems out-of-the-ordinary.

Your tour guide is friendly and welcoming, not intimidated in the slightest by Neuvillette’s regal presence. Although his appearance garners a few curious glances from the employees you pass by, no one is outright alarmed.

“So as you can see, our humble facility does indeed live up to all the health and safety regulations mandated by Fontainian law,” your guide concludes as your mundane tour draws to a close.

In all honesty, you’ve learned nothing even remotely useful. However, you refuse to leave empty-handed. As such, you decide to make an impulsive decision — a choice that will perhaps cast suspicion upon you, but if everything goes well, you could obtain crucial evidence pertaining to the case.

“We haven’t seen the back of the factory yet,” you muse. “Is there something you’re trying to hide from us? Mold, perhaps?” you pause for dramatic effect, trying your best to play it up. All you can do is desperately pray that your acting skills are enough to convince the tour guide you’re being genuine. “Or maybe an insect infestation.”

A laugh slips past the tour guide’s lips, piercing the awkward atmosphere with a timbre and articulation far too forced to indicate any sort of amusement. No, the guide is nervous, which means something is definitely off. You just need to gather concrete evidence of the misdemeanours being conducted behind the scenes of a grand diversion — something that means more than a simple vial of poison hailing from an unknown origin brought to you by a worker.

“Oh, my superiors typically prefer privacy,” the guide continues to chuckle, a slight hint of anxiety permeating his tone. “There are lots of important meetings held in the back, and they’re not the most fond of disturbances.”

One scrutinizing glance from Neuvillette is all it takes to send the guard reeling. Eyes swimming with delicate lilac narrow, any hint of gentleness fading like the brilliance of wilting petals.

“But I’m sure they can make an exception for our most honoured guests.” Swiftly, the guide makes his way over to the door leading to the back, pulling it open and gesturing for both you and Neuvillette to pass through.

Yet again, you find that you’re met with a sight that’s mediocre at finest. There’s nothing extremely telling about the meeting rooms you’re led through. However, as you wander through the winding corridors and desolate hallways of the surprisingly large area, you spot it — a sizable wardrobe sitting within what feels like the hundredth meeting room you’ve passed through.

Like everything else in this strange place, there’s nothing off about the furnishing upon initial inspection, but after a few moments of careful consideration, you note that it’s far too sumptuous to be in a place like this. It’s horribly out-of-place, a polished oak eyesore amongst the cool-toned decorations within the room.

As you share a look with Neuvillette, you can see that he’s having similar thoughts. At some point in time, someone moved the wardrobe into the room, likely to conceal something. Taking a closer look is essential, but first you need to find a way to distract the guide.

“Excuse me,” you interrupt the guide’s tangent. “Is there a bathroom anywhere nearby?”

Within a matter of minutes, both you and  Neuvillette are escorted over to the nearest bathroom. You enter the room and lock the door. Although you haven’t had an opportunity to discuss a plan with Neuvillette due to the prying ears stationed right next to the two of you, you know what he’ll do next. You’re sure he understands you well enough to know that what you need at the moment is a diversion.

Sure enough, your silent pleas are answered as Neuvillette walks a few steps away from the bathroom door, his footsteps thrumming against the frigid ground as a percussive background to the eerie soundtrack that seems to flood the entire factory.

“Is that an insect?” he inquires.

You hear a rush of frenzied steps, ones that you can distinctly differentiate from Neuvillette’s. That must be the guide.

“Where?” the guide’s voice rings out.

You hear the soft rustle of clothing as the guide supposedly leans over in order to take a closer look. Then, a loud bang shatters the quietude into jagged shards of chaos. You take it as your sign to open the bathroom door and sneak off quietly.

“Ah, forgive me. I was mistaken,” you hear Neuvillette’s voice fade into the distance.

The labyrinth of passages is difficult to navigate, but thankfully your memory is sufficient enough to guide you back along the route from whence you came. In a matter of minutes, you’re back at the wardrobe, scrambling to unveil every enigmatic secret hiding behind its prosaically plain exterior.

Common sense tells you to simply open it first, and sure enough, you find that the back of the furnishing has been hollowed out in order to form a passageway leading to an unknown location. Although you’re nervous, moving forwards is the only way you’re going to make any progress.

You force yourself to confront the mysterious tunnel, heading into its depths in order to collect the next piece of information you need to fully unravel the identity of the true killer.

This is for justice, you tell yourself. Begrudgingly, you also find thoughts of it’s what Neuvillette would do invading your mind.

When you finally step into a mundane office space, you feel as though you can breathe again. The daze slowly begins to subside, and in its wake, you find rationality once more.

Time is of the essence, so you decide to head over to the singular desk stationed in the room. On its surface is a collection of scattered papers, some frayed and others in mint condition. Immediately, you make a dash for the yellowed pages, scanning each one quickly before setting it down.

The documents seem to detail transactions between the company and those buying from their hidden business in the back. Each one is stamped with a date and a signature from the buyer stating that they will not (under any circumstance) reveal where the product they purchased came from. Perfect — all you have to do is find a file that seems to align with the relative time period where your crime took place.

Fortunately for you, the once-daunting plethora of papers is actually a far more meager pile than you had initially thought. Perhaps not many people know about the nefarious schemes that lie behind the factory’s fabricated façade, or maybe humans are simply sensible enough to avoid purchasing poison.

You search urgently, constantly looking over your shoulder and hoping, praying, to any archon listening to keep your deeds obscured and unwritten. However, through it all, you’re hindered by the fact that you have to actively try not to move things around too much. If someone returns to see that objects have shifted on their own, they’ll surely be on high alert.

After what feels like eons of blindly flipping through anything you could get your hands on, your eyes settle on a splotch of achromatic ink bleeding into canary. It’s a familiar date — around a week before your entire life fell apart. You grab the paper, and with one last scan of the other files, you’re nearly certain that it details the transaction of the very poison that broke down fate’s last defences, landing you in a prison you were never supposed to step foot in.

With haste, you stuff the document into your pocket and set off back to Neuvillette.

“We used to frequent that restaurant often,” Neuvillette muses as you wander the streets together.

Your tour had concluded around half an hour ago, and now you’re on your way back to the Palais Mermonia. Although you assured Neuvillette that you had obtained some useful evidence earlier through words whispered in the secrecy of a hushed voice, you know that you can’t discuss anything openly for fear of nosey bystanders — or worse, the criminals themselves — hearing.

You had taken a long time to find what you needed, so consequently it had been difficult to throw off any lingering doubt harboured by your guide. However, thanks to Neuvillette’s quick thinking, you were able to come up with an alibi.

The whole “bathroom” ruse had simply been a test — a plan to conduct your thorough inspection of the facility in an area typically skipped over, even on the most comprehensive tours. You had chimed in and said that the company passed with flying colours, and at that the guide simply beamed and continued leading you through meeting rooms.

Your reminiscence is interrupted as Neuvillette speaks again.

“Perhaps we should take a detour and visit,” he offers. “You must be famished after a day of hard work.”

You freeze, and your body tenses against your will. Isn’t it more important at the moment that you safely transport your evidence back to Neuvillette’s office? You tilt your head at Neuvillette curiously, as if to pose a question. Why are we wasting time?

“Trust me,” he leans in to whisper. You can feel his breath tickling your ear, yet you don’t flinch. It’s a feeling you had grown accustomed to years ago, and even now, having him close to you feels detestably right. “It will seem more like a casual outing if we make a leisurely stop along the way back. If we’re seen rushing back to the Palais Mermonia with a sense of urgency in our stride, then those around us will surely conclude that something is wrong.”

Neuvillette’s reasoning is sound, so despite your aching feet and your desire to simply get away from the cacophony of symphonic noise surrounding you, you allow him to pull you towards the restaurant. As you walk in, you find that all your senses are enveloped by the familiarity of deja vu. The pleasant lighting and floral arrangements begin to pop up in your memory, and the ornate furnishings that adorn the place are the same as ever.

A part of you finds that you missed this. You missed your simple traditions with Neuvillette.

The two of you are seated the moment you step foot in the restaurant. You can’t seem to recall if the staff had ever been this efficient before, but something tells you this is a special circumstance.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” a waiter greets the Iudex as you both take your seats. You find that you recognize him. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here with company, much less someone other than [name].”

Right. No one recognizes you because you’re still clad in your stupid disguise.

“Ah, good evening, Pierre,” Neuvillette responds. “My companion here is a newly-hired assistant. They have been working tirelessly all day, so I decided to treat them to a meal. Although they are not [name], I hope you will be able to treat them with the same hospitality.”

A frenzy of nods follows Neuvillette’s words.

“What can I get for you today?” Pierre frantically asks you. As usual, people are eager to please Neuvillette, his position of power ever-pertinent within the recesses of their minds.

You scan the menu, and a rush of nostalgia overwhelms you for what feels like the millionth time in the past few days. There are a variety of dishes listed in neat loopy handwriting, each cursive word causing recollections to ebb and flow within your memory. However, your eyes settle on one menu item in particular — a former personal favourite of yours. Feeling satisfied, you decide to place your order. As you speak, you notice shock dance across the waiter’s visage.

“Is something wrong?” you question Pierre, scrutinizing his dumbfounded expression. If you could, you would dissect the meaning behind every line etched into his features — examine the anatomy of his curious stare.

Pierre shakes his head with fervour. “Nothing’s wrong, per se…” He trails off, the aquamarine lakes that comprise his irises fogging up with a shine unique to someone who’s reminiscing. “It’s just… that dish is one of our least popular, but [name] used to order it all the time. Nowadays, the only person who really consumes it regularly is Monsieur Neuvillette himself.”

Tension begins to materialize within the previously-lighthearted air of the restaurant. Suddenly, the atmosphere feels heavy as the implications of Pierre’s statement sink in. Once upon a time, you had offered Neuvillette a bite of your food when dining here, and although he didn’t mean to insult it, he did say that he understood why it was unpopular. In other words, he indirectly insinuated that he didn’t like the taste of the dish.

Perhaps you’re overly-optimistic, but a part of you begins to speculate that Neuvillette only willingly ordered the menu item regularly because of the memories associated with it. It’s a shockingly sweet revelation. Despite your distance over the years, he’s still tried his best to keep you in his heart.

Bittersweet affection gnaws at your heart, chipping off pieces of garnet in a cataclysmic heartbreak. As if you don’t already feel bad enough about your attempted erasure of his existence from your memory during your time in prison.

You zone out as Neuvillette places his order. All you manage to catch is the fact that he doesn’t ask for a serving of your favourite meal this time around.

So it really was all for you.

As Pierre walks away, you turn to study Neuvillette, your gaze sharp.

“What was that all about?”

For a second, Neuvillette stills, collecting his thoughts. Then, he makes eye contact, a stare composed of crepuscular shades of amethyst.

“I must admit, my heart longed for you throughout the years we spent apart,” Neuvillette confesses.

Darn it. Why can’t he be normal for once?

Your heartbeat, once a steady rhythm, begins to become erratic. It pounds in your ears with an unmatched urgency, as if its ultimate goal is simply to leap out of your chest and retreat back into your ex-lover’s gentle grasp.

“I see,” you mumble, beginning to feel awkward.

Silence envelopes your own personal world with Neuvillette as you wait for the waiter to come back with your food. Neither of you can bring yourselves to keep the conversation going. Any small talk would seem disingenuous at this point, and the mere idea of pressing on with the previous topic is enough to make you shudder.

Thankfully, Pierre is surprisingly quick (although that may have something to do with the fact that you’re dining with the Iudex himself), and you find that you’re able to dig into your meal to distract yourself in no time.

It tastes the same as you remember. In fact, nothing has really changed, even with the passage of time. Out of everything in the entire restaurant, you find that you and Neuvillette have undergone the most profound transformations, your once-loving relationship eroding into a confusing mess of broken trust, dubious betrayals, and yearning.

(At the end of the night, you find that a miniscule ember of love remains alive in your heart — a weak crimson glow beginning to ignite once more.)

The journey back to the Palais Mermonia is tranquil, the night air soothing the anxious thoughts plaguing your mind. Stars beam down at you from above, shedding brilliant silvery light over the entirety of the nation. Likewise, the moon guides your path back to the grand building where you wrap up your investigation for the day.

Upon entering Neuvillette’s office, you immediately beeline for his desk, pulling the document that took you a painstaking amount of effort to obtain out and setting it on the polished wooden surface. Curiously, eyes the shade of dulled anemone petals scan the contents of the page.

Neuvillette reads quickly, taking in all the information contained within the file in no time. After a lifetime of poring over records, he’s become accustomed to processing critical points of knowledge efficiently. However, he freezes as his gaze settles on the signature at the bottom of the page.

“What’s up?” you ask him.

You’ve never seen Neuvillette quite so shaken up, his composure torn away from him momentarily. In the moment, all that matters to you is ensuring that he’s okay. Before you realize it, you find yourself reaching out to him, an evanescent flash back to the past in a present that feels so far-removed. A few days ago, you never would have dreamed of comforting him, much less allowing him to make any sort of contact with you. Now, however, you’re beginning to unwind all the hasty misconceptions you had harboured for years on end.

You’ve come to understand that despite being worlds apart, you were still at the forefront of all Neuvillette’s sentiments throughout the past few years. He’s cared about you from afar beyond simply spying on your life through Wriothesley for all this time. It’s time you finally start treating him right.

To your relief, he doesn’t refuse your hand. Instead, he intertwines your fingers as he continues to gape at midnight upon ivory, reading the buyer’s name over and over. Finally, the calm returns to Neuvillette, his vulnerability dissipating after what feels like eons (in actuality, it’s no more than ten seconds).

“Apologies,” Neuvillette says, his voice as steady as ever. “Seeing the signature of the buyer… confirmed a suspicion of mine. However, this revelation is not necessarily a thrilling one. In fact, I would say that it is rather… disappointing and tragic.”

You tilt your head slightly, wonder swirling through your thoughts in spirals of erratic questions. “Why’s that?”

The sigh that Neuvillette heaves out is perhaps the most dramatically-depressing noise that’s ever left his lips. Creases line his forehead, marring porcelain skin with lines that convey concern and dismay.

“This is the name of one of our current Marechaussee Phantom members,” Neuvillette breathes out. “As a matter of fact, he was the one who assumed the position of the victim after their death. In addition to this, he was the only member who was intentionally not informed of the dealings of the deceptive factory. I withheld information from him because I had my own suspicions. I fear that my judgement was correct. If I had informed him that we were looking into the facility, these records would have been destroyed long before we stepped foot inside the building.”

“Wait a second! That sounds way too suspicious,” you say, your voice coming out slightly more aggressive than you want it to. You flinch as your tone reaches your ears. “Why didn���t anyone look into them or at least suspect them?”

“He was the deceased’s lover.” Your breath hitches as Neuvillette continues his explanation. “His grief after learning of the death was immense, so much so that no one could dare to consider the possibility that…”

“That he was the culprit,” you finish. “No one wanted to believe the lovers could betray each other.” You nearly scoff as you realize the irony of you saying this to your very own ex.

Neuvillette nods as you exhale tiredly. Everything is finally coming together after years. At long last, you’ve found another candidate for the possible murderer — the real deal this time.

“I had my doubts about him,” Neuvillette mumbles. “Although tears serve as an effective distractor, insincerity shines brighter than even the most dramatic of theatrics. I have never revealed this to anyone, but besides his qualifications and honouring the memory of our fallen comrade, one of the reasons I assigned him to his current position was to maintain a close watch over him at all times. Despite the precautions I took… I had hoped with all my heart that I would not be proven right.”

“And yet you were, so what now,” you inquire. “Do we just apprehend him and call it a day?”

“I would be pleased if it were that easy,” Neuvillette smiles wryly, “but there are many who would still be unwilling to trust our claims without further evidence. Think about it — would you really want to believe that a trusted member of the Marechaussee Phantom is a cold-blooded murderer? The very notion is inappropriately ironic.”

As Neuvillette’s reasoning sinks in, you nod along. What he’s saying makes sense, but you’re unsure of how you should proceed from here. To your relief, Neuvillette has a solution, as always.

“Considering the fact that the perpetrator has insider information, he’s already aware that we are currently revisiting the case,” Neuvillette reiterates. “As such, his main priority at the moment is to cement your status as the real culprit behind the crime. All he needs is an ample opportunity.”

This is getting far too complicated for your liking.

“In order to catch him in the act, we’ll organize another banquet. It will be the perfect opportunity for him to frame you for another poisoning.”

Neuvillette’s logic is hard to follow, and as you pause to think about it, every thread of reasoning becomes lost in a jumble of nonsensical speculation.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you mutter. “He’s not stupid enough to assume that I’d poison someone right after obtaining freedom. That would look too hasty, so foul play would be suspected immediately.”

“And that’s why I think he’ll target you with his poison,” Neuvillette interjects.

Your frown deepens as his claims become more and more bizarre.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Let me explain everything,” Neuvillette starts. “In order to connect the two cases to each other, the perpetrator will likely use the same weapon again. However, this time his target will be you. As you pointed out, if he harms anyone else, it will instantaneously appear as though someone is eager to falsely accuse you of committing crimes. By non-fatally poisoning you, he can claim that you willingly drank your own weapon in an attempt to throw off suspicion. He can point to the similarities in the compositions of the substances used in both cases to frame you as the one true mastermind behind everything.”

The pieces finally begin to coalesce in your mind, forming a shaky plan that hinges on oceans of luck and protection from Celestia above. It’s risky, but it may be your only chance to set things straight.

“Your great plan is just based on endangering me in order to collect a sample of whatever that person is going to give me?”

“I understand that it may be difficult for you to trust me entirely after everything,” Neuvillette sighs, “but if you agree to my proposition, then I promise I will personally ensure that no harm will come to you.”

After the events of the past two days, you know where your heart wants to stand. In spite of this, your mind screams at you to reject Neuvillette’s idea. You’re scared — terrified. The thought of being let down by Neuvillette again induces a fear in you like no other. Despite it all, you understand that you’ll never truly heal if you don’t at least try to give him another chance, so ultimately, you decide to comply.

“Alright, let’s start party planning.”

Weeks of preparation lead up to the big evening, every passing day a countdown to a finale to end all finales. On top of gathering supplies, arranging catering, and decorating, you’re also drilled on how to act when the moment of danger eventually arrives. You train relentlessly to ensure that Neuvillette’s scheme will go off without a hitch.

All your tireless practices pay off. As you walk into the banquet venue, hand-in-hand with Neuvillette, you find that you’re far less nervous than you had been when the idea was initially proposed. The kaleidoscopic butterflies that once fluttered around in the pit of your stomach have stilled, and you’re utterly calm — exactly what you need to pull this off.

Despite assisting in the planning of the party, you still find yourself awed by the extravagance of it all. You’re not quite sure if Neuvillette has come up with an occasion for celebration yet, as he had initially stated that it was a surprise on the invitations he had sent out. However, you’re sure that no matter its grandeur, the sheer opulence of everything around you is more than sufficient.

Aureate accents adorn nearly every item in the room, and the crystal chandeliers above gleam as though they’re catching moonlight from the midnight sky. The music that envelopes you is warm, each melodious note ringing out in a sweet droning of strings. It’s a perfect backtrack for an elegant waltz.

Most noteworthy of all, however, are the guests that surround you. Not a single person is dressed less than exceptionally. Sparkles, gems, and sequins are commonplace here despite being everyday rarities. Shades of seafoam, cobalt, turquoise, and periwinkle surround you as if the fabric of every guest’s clothing is a component of a lavish ocean of luxury.

Everyone around you dons elaborate masks that obscure only a portion of their faces. It’s a masquerade — a way for you to conceal your true identity from innocent civilians without appearing odd.

You’re quickly dragged out of your thoughts as Neuvillette leads you into the crowd. Everyone is swirling around in a series of intricate steps, twirling to the song that’s resonating within the idyllic air of the room. If not for Neuvillette’s tight grasp on your wrist, you fear you would have been swept away by a tide of partygoers.

“Do you recall how to waltz?” he asks, leaning in closer to ensure that you’re able to hear him over the unpleasant discordance surrounding you from all sides.

“Why does it matter?” you shoot back. Although you’ve opened up more and more to Neuvillette with each passing day, you’re not quite sure you want to dance with him just yet. “It’s not like this is necessary.”

“If we simply sit on the sidelines and observe everything, our suspect is bound to notice,” Neuvillette explains, his voice hushed. “Their eyes will be on you all night.”

The words send a shiver down your spine.

“So do your best to enjoy the moment and act as though you’re simply here to rejuvenate yourself.” Neuvillette pulls you closer, yet he leaves enough room to ensure that you’re not outright uneasy. “Is this arrangement sufficiently comfortable?”

You nod shakily as words seem to stick to the sides of your throat. It’s as though saccharine honey is sugar coating everything, its viscous properties slowing both your lips and your mind.

With your consent, Neuvillette guides you through the steps of a graceful dance. Although he moves with tact, practiced sophistication, you’re the absolute antithesis. Throughout your years underground, you never saw the opportunity to waltz, and as such, you’ve forgotten every intricacy of the choreographies you used to run through with Neuvillette. Thankfully, he keeps you in line, correcting every misstep you make with gentle guidance.

You find that the tenderness with which he handles you is something you’ve missed. Even now with contrasting feelings warring in the depths of your conflicted mind, Neuvillette’s arms are comfort manifested in a physical form. At the end of the day, he’s still home to you, and maybe he always will be. No one else will ever be capable of calming you down right before a criminal attempts to poison you.

For once, you decide to take Neuvillette’s advice. You forget all the duress of the current moment, and instead, you allow yourself to savour the warmth of Neuvillette’s embrace. So much for not being sure about dancing with him.

Time becomes an anomaly. Although each moment seems to slow, drawing out in a montage of careful movements, the dance is over before you know it.

Neuvillette leads you over to your table, and you take a seat atop the rose-coloured cushions of a plush chair, allowing a cream tablecloth to drape over your legs. As you sit down, you feel him tap your shoulder. He’s pointing to a man clad in a striped grey suit, his mask adorned with midnight blue stitching and matching feathers.

It’s your culprit, Francis, as you’ve learned. You don’t intend on allowing him to get away this time.

Patiently, you wait for him to approach you and Neuvillette. You already know he’ll walk up to you with the intention of ensnaring you within his trap. However, you’re two steps ahead in this twisted game of chess.

Sure enough, a grating voice rings out behind you before long.

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Predictably, you’re met with the face of your prime suspect as you whip your head around. “And [name].” Right. He knows exactly who you are. Perhaps your imagination is weaving deceptions from preconceived notions, but you swear that you can hear a hint of a sneer in Francis’ words.

He spends some time chatting with Neuvillette, his dialogue consisting of flattery and exaggerated compliments. You’re not sure what your suspect believes he’s accomplishing, but a frown dances across your features as you continue listening in on the conversation. Any average person would be able to detect the deceit in his sickly-sweet tone, so the fact that he’s trying to utilize such a tactic on Neuvillette of all people astounds you.

You can’t help but wince as he makes blunder after blunder, your frustration welling with every sentence that comes out of his mouth. Finally, when it all becomes too much for you, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

“Neuvillette, I’m parched,” you complain. “Wanna go get something to drink?” Your own voice makes you cringe. Note to self: learn how to act in a compelling manner if you manage to make it out of this absolute disaster.

“It would be my pleasure to accompany you, but unfortunately I must remain here. Although tonight is a night of leisure, I still have matters to discuss with certain individuals, and they are expecting me here.” You find it fortunate that Neuvillette’s performance is more convincing than your own, his mannerisms and timbre completely natural.

“Oh, don’t worry about them, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Francis says. “Tell you what. I can bring them over to the drinks table for you and give them a few recommendations. I can promise you that I am an expert when it comes to this kind of stuff. My brother owns a drink company.”

This time you’re sure your mind isn’t distorting reality. The smile that he flashes at you is downright devious, assuring you that Neuvillette had been right about his schemes all along.

You take a deep breath before eagerly accepting his offer.

“Sure. Thank you so much for joining me.”

The walk over is silent, Francis’ bright persona dimming the moment you step away from Neuvillette. Instead, fractals of glacial tension seem to settle over the atmosphere, frosting everything over with a hostile air.

When you reach the beverages, you immediately reach for a cup. However, Francis waves you down.

“Allow me. I insist.” He picks up a cup for you, placing it down in front of the selection of drinks. Before you even have the opportunity to voice your preferences, Francis picks up a bottle, inspecting it thoroughly before unscrewing the lid. “This delightful beverage was produced by my brother. You simply must have a taste.”

For a brief second, Francis obscures your vision of the cup with his back. His hand traces a path to the front pocket of his suit. You know what he’s doing, so you don’t bother attempting to sneak a glance. It’s futile.

As he hands you the drink, you thank him politely. You’re careful not to spill a single drop of the liquid as you make your way back to your seat. When you finally sit down next to Neuvillette again, you continue bantering, each second ticking down and burning away into oblivion. The more time you waste the closer you draw to your goal. People are on their way to test the contents of the spiked beverage at this very moment.

Despite your attempts to simply wait it out, a problem arises when Francis begins to pester you.

“Go ahead,” he urges you. “Try the drink and let me know your opinion. I’m eager to take notes for my brother!”

In response, you shake your head with fervour. Sampling poison is just about the last item on your bucket list. As you continuously refuse, Francis begins to become irritated, his words beginning to crescendo in volume.

Neuvillette’s crystalline lilac gaze begins to grow concerned. Subtle moonbeams glint within his irises, reflecting his worry for your wellbeing. However, his eyes continue to hold an unuttered promise — an oath to ensure that no harm befalls you whatsoever.

That’s what comforts you the most when Francis finally snaps, lunging at you as he jabs a finger into your face. As he begins to speak, his tone is accusatory more than anything.

“You set me up, didn’t you?” he snarls. “The two of you,” Francis glances back at Neuvillette, who’s silently watching the entire exchange. “You’re not drinking the beverage because you knew I’d poisoned it all along.”

“Mister Francis, I would advise you to remain silent,” Neuvillette speaks, his tone authoritative. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in court of law.”

Unfortunately for Francis, he doesn’t take Neuvillette’s advice seriously. Instead, he’s hellbent on exacting his revenge. You begin to realize his philosophy is one that entails dragging others down with him when he pulls out an enchantingly-gorgeous translucent vial from his pocket.

It’s deceptively beautiful, its design making it seem as though it should contain nothing less than the finest divine nectar. However, you know how deadly the contents of the glass tube really are, and as such, a sense of panic begins to overtake your senses, overwhelming your head with countless scenarios where everything goes horrendously wrong.

Every diverging path vanishes into nothingness the moment Neuvillette steps in. A swift burst of aquatic energy fills your vision, and a cascade of pristine dewy droplets of water splatters your face as you close your eyes. When it’s over at long last, you glance around to find that Francis is on the ground, drenched and shivering as Neuvillette bends down to collect the vial he had been carrying.

“This will make for good evidence,” he notes, setting it down on the table alongside the drink.

It doesn’t take long for your backup to arrive after Neuvillette knocks Francis out. In fact, the timing of the poison-testers is a little too serendipitous to be organic. You’re starting to think that Neuvillette had planned to provoke Francis all along, but you don’t find an opportunity to ask before the team confiscates the drink and the vial to run experiments.

A crowd of onlookers has already begun to congregate, amalgamating in a curious frenzy. Everyone thinks they’re slick, but you can clearly see the way their eyes wander over to Francis’ unmoving form on the ground every so often.

“Follow me,” Neuvillette tells you as he takes off after the forensic team. Someone carries the samples of liquid that have yet to be tested, and a few others grab Francis and haul him off with you. You lose yourself in the winding hallways of the venue, each twist and turn serving only to further discombobulate your frazzled mind.

It feels like forever before you finally reach your destination. It’s quite ordinary in comparison to the sumptuous party occurring outside its doors — each wall a stark and blinding snow white and the lighting sterile and plain.

Francis is set down, and the forensic team promptly begins their investigation. As they labour, you turn to Neuvillette.

“Was it really necessary for you to use so much force when stopping him?” you reprimand him. “I’m grateful, I really am, but I think we attracted a little more attention than we needed.”

Upon hearing your words, Neuvillette chuckles. The sound of his laughter is a sonorous tune that you’ve missed hearing, no matter how much you want to deny it. Your heart races involuntarily.

“I was not intent on leaving your fate up to chance,” he says, sincerity weaving itself into every syllable he speaks. “Although keeping our operation a secret would have been ideal, I wasn’t planning to compromise anyone’s safety in exchange — especially not yours.”

Sometimes you resent Neuvillette for saying the most romantic things without realizing it. Every single rose-tinted word is like a shot to the heart, ensnaring your feelings in crimson threads of love. It’s as if you fall deeper and deeper into oceanic clutches, drowning — suffocating — as the weight of emotions hailing from both the past and present overwhelm you.

“We’re finished,” a member of the team chirps.

You feel the tension in your shoulders alleviate as both you and Neuvillette rush over to take in the results of the investigation.

“The two poison samples match the exact substance that was used all those years ago,” the analyst confirms, presenting you with the conclusions drafted on a sheet of paper. “With all the eyewitness evidence and the fact that he personally confessed to having connections to the very factory that prompted this investigation in the first place, it’s safe to say he won’t be seeing the light of day for a while.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief that you’ve been holding in for weeks. Your name has finally been cleared, and the real threat has been eliminated.

Above all else, justice has prevailed once more.

To your surprise, Neuvillette leads you to the grand stage at the forefront of all the festivities the moment you re-enter the main hall. Despite the pandemonium that had become the most prominent spectacle of the banquet earlier, people have resumed their lighthearted conversations and elegant dancing, swaying to and fro as if the alarming exchange between the Chief Justice and Francis had never occurred in the first place.

As people begin to notice the diminuendo in music and Neuvillette’s presence at the anterior of the room, the chatter gradually begins to die down, diminishing in a steady waning of volume. Eventually, silence consumes all, and you’re reminded of the sheer gravity of the Iudex’s aura alone.

“Greetings, esteemed guests.” The hall amplifies Neuvillette’s voice, each booming word reverberating and echoing off the opulent walls. “I stand before you today to announce a joyous cause for commemoration as well as to clarify the cause behind the commotion that some of you may have witnessed earlier.”

Whispers permeate the crowd as gossip and speculation begin to circulate. However, Neuvillette shuts everything down as he continues.

“The person here by my side today is [name],” gasps ring out in the silence, fragmenting every semblance of false tranquility that exists in the moment. “Yes, the very same [name] that was sentenced to life in the Fortress of Meropide due to suspected misdemeanours that resulted in an egregious death.”

Protests spread like wildfire through the rambunctious group of people gathered in front of you. Flames of disapproval threaten to engulf your entire being, stinging you with a rutilant aggression as you try to tune out everything.

“Silence,” Neuvillette commands. Thankfully, it’s enough to get everyone to settle down. “I apologize. For the past few weeks, I have concealed the true nature of the situation from you all. A while ago, I personally received a report detailing the suspicious activities of a company producing drinks as a front. Their more sinister schemes laid behind the scenes, as they produced toxins and other deadly substances away from the watchful eyes of the authorities. The composition of the poison they created was identical to that of the weapon used in [name]’s case. With this new evidence, we decided to reopen the investigation.”

Yet again, a shocked reaction is elicited from the crowd, and you begin to wonder how many times they’ll collectively gasp before the end of Neuvillette’s speech.

“When we looked into things more thoroughly, we discovered that the true culprit was Francis, a member of our very own Marechaussee Phantom. At the moment, he has been detained and is currently awaiting trial.”

Relief propagates amongst the crowd, blossoming in a pure flourish of unadulterated solace. A few people look at you with pity, each starlit glint of their eyes conveying their woe on your behalf.

Neuvillette waits this time, allowing the partygoers to mutter amongst themselves. When they begin to settle, he moves on to more positive news.

“I would like to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to listen to my rather mundane explanations,” Neuvillette says. “Now for something more lighthearted.”

He gestures for you to take centre stage, and you reluctantly comply, gazing out at the ocean of people surrounding you.

“[Name] has finally been proven innocent, and as such, they will no longer be required to return to the Fortress of Meropide. This feast has been organized in their honour as a celebration of their return as well as an apology for years spent in isolation.”

Chants of your name begin to flood your ears along with cheers and apologies alike. At long last, you’ve been absolved of the burden wrongfully weighing on your shoulders.

“Welcome back,” Neuvillette whispers to you as he intertwines your fingers to help you off stage. “You’re finally home.”

You hum.

“Thank you.”

No one has the ability to predict the future, and fate’s ordainments are always an enigma to even the most omniscient entities that traverse Teyvat. You have no way of knowing how your relationship with Neuvillette will develop with the passage of time — whether it will mend or fade away as the last spotlight upon the very murder case that brought you back together fizzles out. However, you think you’ll take a chance and revel in his proximity for the time being. He’s proven that he still cares immensely over and over again.

Perhaps with enough patience, your seed of hope will bloom and fill the abyss that had once overtaken your heart, transforming it into a garden of romance reborn.

The weight of Neuvillette’s words begins to settle as you realize that yes, you really are home.

Even after a desolate rain of bitterness and sorrow, the feeling of your hand in his is still home — home sweet home.

thank you so much for reading!! sorry for the long wait riko!

[no-144444]

winners and losers- o.piastri

summary: your first season as an f1 driver doesn't start the best, and you quickly realise McLaren doesn't like women very much. On top of that, your race engineer is as smug as the rest of them, and you have to deal with him all the time.

pairing: race engineer! oscar piastri x f1driver! fem! reader

warnings: lots of misogyny, lando is an asshole in this, illusions to ed behaviour, reader is not in a good head space, all of mclaren is super sexist, mentions of crashes and injuries.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight

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As you stepped out of the car, you were Champion of the World. The first woman to do so. The only woman to do so. You were a legend. You were going to be remembered, whether people liked it or not. 

You ran straight over to Oscar, knowing he was the only one you’d ever want to celebrate with. He caught you as you ran over and practically jumped on him. He caught you, holding you against him as he beamed with pride. 

He rested his hands on either side of your face, the both of you being covered in champagne by the rest of the team. “You did it,” he cheered. 

“We did it,” you reminded him, then pulled him into a tight hug. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You weren’t a party animal, so you’d decided you wanted to go to a movie, and as you stood outside Oscar’s room, you really wondered what the fuck you were doing. You wanted to ask him to come with you, but as your hand finally met the wood, your heart dropped. You realised how a movie sounded, and well, you already felt conflicted enough from rejecting him. 

He opened the door immediately, a comfy hoodie and sweats on, his hair a bit messy, and his eyes half closed. You felt a little overdressed in your jeans. 

“Y/n?” he smiled when he registered that it was in fact, you. 

“Hi,” you smiled. 

“Hi,” he smiled back, leaning against the doorway. “W-What are you doing here?” 

“I was going to go see a movie, if you wanted to come with me. There’s a cinema down the street,” you explained. “Obviously, if you’re exhausted or just not into movies, that’s fine. I was just wondering.”

Was Oscar Piastri into movies? No, not really. He probably couldn’t even name 3 Christmas movies, and everyone knows Christmas movies. Was Oscar Piastri exhausted after a tense weekend? Absolutely. But was Oscar Piastri going to give up the chance to sit right beside you for 2 (perhaps 3) interrupted hours and enjoy the silent pleasure of your company?

Fuck no. 

So you were both at the cinema in under 5 minutes. You’d insisted on paying for the food, which he insisted on paying for the tickets (ever the gentleman), and you both quickly got to your seats. Neither of you really knew what the film was about, you’d just wanted to turn your brain off for a few hours, and he planned on staring at you the whole time. But not in a creepy way. 

Quickly, the film started, and you were hooked, your eyes darting all around the screen, following the characters. Oscar’s eyes stayed on you. More specifically, the way your hand was holding his. He froze when it happened, unsure what to do, but after a few minutes his body un-tensed and his brain started working again, and he started gently smoothing his thumb over your skin. You were soft, as soft as he remembered you to be when you two had danced together. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You hadn’t planned on crying when the mother in the film died, but it hit you like a bag of bricks and you genuinely left the theatre crying. Oscar, ever the gentleman, noticed immediately and pulled you into one of his perfect, Oscar hugs. The ones that make everything feel like it’s ok. You quickly started rushing out apology after apology, but he was quicker to shut you down, citing random studies saying people who cry at movies are more emotionally intelligent and strong. You didn’t feel very strong holding onto him so hard you thought you might break one of his ribs, but he didn’t seem to mind. 

The walk back to the hotel room was once again, filled with the silence you both loved dearly, but holding his hand. When he walked you up to your hotel room, he stood at the door, watching you open it with your key card. 

“Night,” he smiled, ready to collapse into his bed. 

You stared at him for a moment, clearly in quiet contemplation. He just looked right back at you, enjoying the view. Your teary eyes and irritated nose were pretty adorable in his opinion, and even in the low light of the hotel corridor, your eyes still sparkled just like usual. 

You took a step closer and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, making him almost gasp out loud. 

“Night,” you smiled and rushed inside, jumping into bed and overthinking the tiny cheek kiss you’d given him. 

Sleep also evaded him that night, too wired to think about anything other than your lips on his skin and how he could make it happen again. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Halfway through the second triple header, in Qatar, you found yourself… regretful of that night in Baku, and feeling increasingly good about that night in Vegas. Oscar was no different than before, still the constant pillar of strength keeping you afloat in your mad world. You found yourself wondering about his feelings, wondering if you had them too and just didn’t realise. You liked his unruly hair. You liked his stupid jokes. You liked how much he went on about cricket. You liked his family. You liked his dorky knowledge on things. You liked the way he didn’t realise how beautiful he really was. You liked him. A lot more than you’d ever liked anyone else before. You hadn’t realised when it happened, but Osccar was one of the reasons you woke up. Oscar was who you got in the car for. Oscar was your person.

Fuck. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Oscar jumped out of the car, rushing to get to the paddock in time. He had woken up late (again), and he just had to get your morning coffee, so he was already running a little bit late. As much as he tried to hide it, it did kind of hurt to be rejected by you. I mean, what was he thinking? An F1 driver being into him? It was a silly pipe dream he wished Lando never exposed. 

He quickly rounded a corner, and finally, you were in his sights. You sat at a table, wearing a white dress and white shoes, talking with someone on the phone. He thought you looked beautiful. That white dress. Was it silly that he was thinking about weddings? 

“Morning,” you called out, a soft smile on your face. The shadows cast from the sunlight made your eyes shine even more, if that were possible. 

“Morning,” he breathed out, sitting across from you and pushing the cup over. You took it with a grateful nod and continued listening to the person on the other side. He took a sip of his own drink and just let himself stare. He saw the way a strand of hair fell over your forehead, he saw the freckles on your face, the way you scrunch your nose up, the way you… the way you were you. And he loved it all. All the sarcastic jokes, all the batshit screaming on the radio, all of the insane and deeply romantic things you’d done together. 

You put your phone down. “Hi.”

He smiled. “Hi.”

“How are you?” you asked, gently messing with the lid of your cup. 

“I’m good, thanks. How are you?” he asked, feeling as though you were hiding something. 

“I’m good,” you nodded. “I got you a gift,” you blurted out, and he raised an eyebrow. 

“You did? What for?”

“Christmas,” you said like it was obvious.

“It’s November-”

“We’ll have no time in Abu Dhabi,” you explained. “And I really wanted to give this to you myself.”

“Ok,” he shrugged, his heart swelling as those words. You wanted to give it to him yourself. 

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” you instructed and he did so without hesitation. Something was placed in his hand. A small, rectangular box, he assumed. “Open them.”

He opened his eyes and was met with a gold bracelet with a tiny walkie-talkie charm on it. It was beautiful and heartfelt, and somewhat of an inside joke between the two of you. He let himself giggle slightly, looking back up at your mischievous smile. “I love it,” he answered truthfully. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” you smiled. “You’ve really been my rock this year, and I really appreciate it. Thank you Osc. No one asked you to step up and be my friend, but you did, and I really appreciate all of the support.”

He smiled, taking your hand. “I’d do it again anytime. You’re incredible, and you deserve to know that.”

You smiled bashfully. “So are you.”

He couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. And he couldn’t help but hope it meant more.  

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Up to fifth gear, down to third. 

It was methodical. You were world champion, you’d won it back in Las Vegas, but you still had to fight for the Constructors, and Ferrari were not going down without a fight. You finished Qatar with a podium, but not enough to secure the championship, so onward to Abu Dhabi it went. 

“That was a good race today. Y/n up in P3, just behind the Ferrari’s and Lando in P5. We picked up some good points, but we’ll really need to push in Abu Dhabi, alright guys?” Zak smiled, and everyone groaned in agreement. 2 triple headers after one-another was truly torture, but whatever, you’d be at home in Monaco in 2 weeks time. No racing, no people, just you and your evergrowing reading list. 

Oscar nudged you. “What’s your plans for Christmas?” he asked. 

“Nothing, really,” you shrugged, trying to keep your voice down as Zak continued his pep talk. 

Oscar frowned. “Alone?”

You nodded, completely happy with your answer. His frown deepened. “Come to Australia,” he offered. 

You shook your head. “I will not impose on your family Christmas-”

“My entire family loves you Y/n, please. It’d be as much for them as it is for me.”

You smiled. “You really want me there?” 

He nodded, a bright smile on his face. “I do. I really do-”

“Those your wedding vows?” Lando spoke up. 

You just rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Ask your parents if it’s alright first, yeah?”

He beamed. “Will do.”

Australia for Christmas, that would be new. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

To say that Oscar didn't have his own agenda when asking you to come to Australia would definitely be a fat lie. After the night in Baku and the night in Vegas, he was becoming increasingly sure that you did like him back, and he thought that getting you to relax in Australia would let you feel comfortable enough to confess to him. Sounds slightly sinister, he knew, but he also knew his mother would murder him the second his feet touched Australian ground if she found out he was leaving you alone at Christmas. 

He had time now. He just needed you.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

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[parfaitblogs]

the christmas waltz ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your toddler is finally old enough to partake in christmas too, and spencer is determined for it to be perfect. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: girl dad!spencer. gentle parenting... she throws a tantrum. or two. authors own christmas traditions forced upon this unsuspecting reid!family. not sorry. word count: 1.2k a/n: happy girl dad!spencer to all that freaking celebrate... tweaked the baby reid idea only a little!! first christmas she remembers?

❄︎ advent calendar masterlist

It was feet pattering swiftly against the wood outside your bedroom door that tore you away from your husband. Spencer's hand dropping from your hip as he rolls onto his back, head turning to face the door just as the knob twisted, and in bounded an incredibly excited two-year-old (two and three quarters, as she so incessantly reminds you). 

"Daddy! Mommy!" your ecstatic daughter exclaims, and Spencer's quick to hoist her up onto the bed, allowing her to settle into the space now between the two of you on her knees. Or, more accurately, the space she forced you to create. "Come on, come on!"

You share a look with Spencer, eyebrows raised, and he huffs a small laugh, before deciding to play into the tease you no doubt were planning out in your head. 

"Where are we going, Darce?"

The two-year-old's lips frown, and she jerks her gaze rapidly between you and Spencer, eyes wide. "What? It's Christmas!" Except, consonants still weren't her best friend, and Christmas sounded closer to Cwimas than anything.  

"Christmas?" Spencer turns his head back to you. 

"It's Christmas?" you ask him.

"No. That doesn't make sense. We had Christmas last year."

"Yeah. Darcy, are you sure it's Christmas?" you return your gaze to your daughter, who's lower lip is beginning to wobble, for she can't really decipher if you're joking or not. 

"But—but last night," she sniffles, eyes wide, and you instantly feel awful, your heart shattering in your chest at the sight. 

"We're kidding, Bambi," Spencer replies, clearly feeling as bad as you were, looping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his lap. "Merry Christmas."

Too easy to please, her face lights back up, and she starts wiggling her hips excitedly in his lap, speaking far too quickly for either of you to decipher properly. The verbal stumbling over 'stockings' and 'presents' were all you truly had to determine what she was asking, and Spencer was happily complying. 

She took off the second Spencer set her back down on the ground upon entering the living room, clambering onto the couch and almost vibrating with excitement as you take a seat next to her. 

"Do you want to go first?" you ask her. 

Though, it's a stupid question, for she was taking that as her confirmation to go right ahead, and you didn't have the heart to take her excitement away twice in less than ten minutes that Christmas morning. 

You had two key traditions Christmas morning — stockings from Santa before breakfast, family presents after. Spencer had ran through the Christmas morning rules with your toddler when he was tucking her into bed the night before, at an hour that was far too late for her. Getting a near three-year-old to sleep the night before Christmas had proved to be an impossible mission.

It didn't stop the tantrum she threw when she was told to put down the big box shaped present adorning not her name, but your own. 

You were barely five minutes into preparing breakfast when you heard the crying begin from the living room, and your head lifted from the croissants you were cutting open.

Spencer was crouched down to Darcy's level, his hands resting gently on her hips, as she splutters in front of him, head whipping from side to side to avoid eye contact with him. 

"Hey, Darcy, honey," he says, thumbs rubbing circles into her hips. "Why're you crying?" She doesn't reply, and the sight hurts your heart. "Bambi, I need you to tell me what's wrong."

She stammers out something you can't really hear, only picking up the words, 'mommy', 'present' and 'want', but it seems she's speaking a language Spencer understands perfectly, because he translates it back to her. 

"You're upset because you want to give mommy her present?" 

Darcy nods her head, and despite the miserable atmosphere, your heart warms and your lips tug into a smile. 

"We will," he promises. "We've just gotta eat some breakfast first, okay? Gotta get this tummy nice and full so you can have all the energy to watch mommy open it." One of his hands pats her stomach, and you watch as she squirms and lets a giggle out past her otherwise pouty lips. "Was that a giggle?"

At the call-out, she immediately goes back to pouting, "No."

"No?" he parrots. "That's too bad. Only happy girls get to give presents on Christmas Day. Are you not happy?"

You have to watch in awe every time Spencer coaxes your daughter through her meltdowns, because he is just so gentle and so perfect with her, it's almost Earth shattering. 

The promise of you opening your present from Darcy (and Spencer) first, and an extra chocolatey hot chocolate with breakfast was enough to calm the two-year-old down enough to eat, and soon enough she was sliding the box with your name on it across the floor to you in the living room once more. 

She stumbles behind it, before she climbs onto the couch again, watching you with wide eyes and keen interest. 

"Do you like it? Do you like it? Do you like it?" she repeats over and over again before you had even finished tearing the wrapping paper off. 

And like it you did. 

A scrapbook, complete with the neat signing of Spencer's name on the front, and the scrawl of Darcy's beneath it, a few dozen pictures, and drawings as detailed as a two-year-old could make them on the pages. 

"Did you make this?" you turn to her, your eyes (and heart) filled with so much love and warmth you think you might explode. 

She nods, excitedly. "At daycare! Daddy helped me keep it a secret."

"Thank you. I love it," you scoop her up into your arms the second she wriggles closer. "I love you, beautiful girl. You're so talented."

Gift exchange was the most exciting part of the morning, and an already overwhelmed toddler being told she couldn't play with her new toys because she needed to get ready to go see her grandparents was akin to taking the entire Christmas holiday away, apparently. 

Thus, another tantrum.

Exhausted from trying to keep the girl from collapsing in a fit of screaming and tears, you're finally dressing her, the sparkly red dress she had begged you for falling over her body.

"Did you call your mom?" you ask Spencer from your kneeling position on the floor in front of Darcy, slipping her shoes onto her feet. 

"Gran'ma?" Darcy asks, her voice still hoarse from crying.

"Yeah, honey."

"Not yet. I was going to do it tonight once we're home," Spencer replies to you. "So that Darcy can talk to her too."

You tap Darcy's legs once her shoes are on, and she jumps off the couch, bouncing over to Spencer by the front door. "Can I see Gran'ma?" she asks. 

"No, Bambi. We're just gonna talk to her on the phone," he shakes his head. "But we're seeing Nan."

"Mommy's mommy?"

You smile for the millionth time that morning. 

"Yes, mommy's mommy," he laughs, crouching down in front of her. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes!" she nods, enthusiastically. "Do you like my dress, daddy?"

"I do," he answers. "You look like a princess."

Darcy squeals when he picks her up at the end of his sentence, giggling, and flailing her arms around as he settles her on his hip. 

"Bambi princess," she corrects for him, and neither of you have the heart to tell her Bambi's a prince. 

Instead, Spencer nods, a serious look on his face as he ponders her words. "Yes. Bambi princess."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[hazzashouse]

Forgotten - Harry Styles one-shot

A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! This one is a bit sad but I hope you’ll like it!

Summary: After Harry forgets an important anniversary, tensions boil over into a heated argument that leaves both of you hurting. Harry is forced to confront his mistakes and the cracks forming in your relationship. Determined to make things right, he sets out to prove that his love for you is stronger than his faults.

Triggers: arguments/raised voices, miscommunication and emotional tension, feelings of neglect/loneliness in a relationship, brief mention of crying and hurt feelings

Pairing: Harry Styles x female reader

Harry stepped into the house, running a hand through his hair as he closed the door behind him. It had been a long day, back-to-back meetings and calls about the tour, and all he could think about was collapsing into bed.

But when he looked up, you were standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed tightly, your expression a mix of anger and something sharper—disappointment.

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Your gaze flicked toward the dining table, and his stomach dropped. The candles, the neatly set plates, the untouched food—it all clicked too late.

“It’s our anniversary,” you said quietly, your voice trembling with restrained anger.

“Shit.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. He ran a hand through his hair again, cursing himself. “I—fuck, I forgot. I didn’t mean to, I just—”

“Got busy?” you snapped, cutting him off. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it, Harry?”

“It’s not an excuse,” he shot back, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “You know how crazy things have been. I’m trying to keep everything together—”

“Everything except us,” you interrupted, your voice rising. “Do you even care anymore? Or am I just supposed to sit here, waiting for you to remember I exist?”

His jaw clenched. “That’s not fair. You know I love you. I’m doing all of this for us—for you.”

“For me?” You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Don’t put this on me. I didn’t ask for your schedule to swallow you whole. I didn’t ask to be forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” he repeated, his frustration bubbling over. “I’m out there working my ass off, trying to balance everything, and you think I’ve just forgotten about you? That’s not how this works!”

“It’s exactly how it feels!”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to explain, to make you understand how much he hated being away, how much he hated this argument. But the words got stuck in his throat, tangled up in his exhaustion.

You shook your head, tears shining in your eyes. “I can’t do this right now.”

Before he could stop you, you grabbed a blanket from the closet and headed for the couch.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with desperation. “Don’t do this.”

But you didn’t look back.

———————

The house was silent, the weight of your argument pressing heavily on Harry’s chest. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word you’d said. Forgotten. The word echoed in his mind, a sharp reminder of how badly he’d messed up.

Around 2 a.m., he gave up on sleep, his body restless and his guilt gnawing at him. Quietly, he slipped out of bed and padded down the stairs.

There you were, curled up on the couch, your face turned toward the backrest, your body stiff even in sleep. The blanket you’d brought was tangled around your legs, barely covering you.

Harry’s chest tightened at the sight. You looked so small, so vulnerable, and it killed him to think he was the reason you were here instead of beside him in bed.

Carefully, he grabbed another blanket from the chair and draped it over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. He crouched beside the couch for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

———————

When Harry woke up the next morning, you were already gone. A note on the counter simply said, At work. See you later.

The pang of guilt in his chest only deepened. He couldn’t leave things like this—not after last night.

When you came home that evening, the house smelled incredible—like garlic, herbs, and something warm and inviting.

You stepped into the kitchen, dropping your bag by the door, and froze. The dining table had been reset, fresh candles flickering softly, and a vase of flowers sat in the center. Harry was there, standing by the stove, wearing an apron that made you bite back a reluctant smile.

“Hey,” he said, turning to face you, his expression equal parts nervous and hopeful.

“What’s all this?” you asked cautiously.

He stepped closer, wiping his hands on the apron before pulling it off. “This is me trying to make it up to you. For last night. For forgetting. For everything.”

You stared at him, your emotions tangled. “Harry, I—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, his eyes searching yours. “Let me say this.”

You nodded, crossing your arms over your chest, waiting.

“I know I’ve been…distracted,” he admitted, his voice low. “And I know I’ve been terrible at showing it lately, but I love you. More than anything. I hate that I made you feel like you don’t matter, because you do. You’re my everything, and I never want you to doubt that.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, afraid he’d see the tears welling in your eyes.

“I’m not perfect,” he continued. “I’ll probably mess up again. But I want to do better. For you. For us. If you’ll let me.”

When you looked back at him, the vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. Slowly, you stepped closer, your walls crumbling. “You really hurt me, Harry.”

“I know,” he said softly, his voice thick with guilt. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if that’s what it takes.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding as you wrapped your arms around his waist. He pulled you close, his chin resting on top of your head as you finally let the tears fall.

For the first time in weeks, you felt like you had him back.

The two of you ate dinner together, talking and laughing like you used to. It wasn’t perfect—there were still things to work through—but it was a start.

And for now, that was enough.

[sunboki]

⎯ COUNTDOWN TO LOVE. a Christopher Bahng fiction

🎁 : Christopher Bahng x fem. reader

TROPE. countdown to christmas, best friends to lovers! au, pining, non-idol! au, comfort, worry of unrequited feelings, slight angst, fluff, cuteness overload

WORD COUNT. 6.5k ☆ 34 minute read

WARNINGS. swearing(??), mentions of a dick(?), insecurity, usage of terms of endearment, mentions of inferiority, mention of vomit, reader is said to wear makeup on an occasion

AUG'S NOTES. this was a very soft and sweet opposition to Christmas Blues last year which, notably, was remarkably “blue” in nature. in the midst of writing i found myself worried this new approach to lighter, best-friend-to-lovers feelings would be too plain—but i had to remind myself this isn’t enemies to lovers, nor is it nearly as angsty as Christmas Blues!! though i hope their feelings can be both established and understood well, so thank you for sticking with me this far :) i hope this fuzzy piece keeps your heart warm during this cold winter<3

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. It had always been natural between you and Chris. Knowing someone for almost ten years comes with that. And yet, when he confesses that he doesn’t want to keep up this cycle but pursue you one winter, you’re hesitant in thinking it will work out. Then again, you’ve never been one to deny him.

or alternatively :

Five days till Christmas, five dates to see if you feel the same.

December 20th.

“Move your arm.”

Sunday morning sunlight streams through barely cracked blinds, making your brows crinkle at the onslaught of brightness in distaste. That, along with occupying a mattress with none other than Chris Bahng.

A weekly occurrence at this rate, if not daily. And no, whatever earlier assumption about you two sharing a bed is wrong.

Totally.

Oh, he’s also pitiful to boot, evident with the loud whine heard in response as he rolls over—messy curls unruly upon just awakening. 

And.. somehow beautiful, with those big brown eyes and lips the color of burnt russet parting with a highly exaggerated yawn.

But pitiful most of all. 

“‘S warm—“ Chris groans out, inch-worming his way to wrap big arms around your form, beckoning you snuggled against his back with a content sigh.

“Too warm,” You scowl, squirming about in his grasp, disagreeable sorts of sounds leaving tight lips. Chris simply giggles.

“Say,” He begins, weighing his chin upon your shoulder, fingertips slipping beneath your shirt to feel your skin, tracing the lines of your abdomen, rising to rest on your belly. 

A surprising lover of skin-to-skin, he is.

“What if we became something more?”

When you know someone long enough, an established sense of normalcy alternative to everybody else appears, whether that’s the plentiful times you’d heard Chris squeal like a girl after walking in on him in his boxers, or the not-so pretty nights out where he’d hold back your hair while you threw up in the bathroom a bar whose name you can’t recall.

But then again, it’s always been just that.

Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t demand anything from you, didn't judge you. Listening with an attentive ear those days you would cry on the phone, and bring you a donut before morning classes after passing an exam.

The small things.

So it makes you wonder when you started seeing him differently. And if he felt that same way too.

A slow progression of love, like a river in its path of eroding canyons over thousands of years. Familiar, comforting. Done without a second thought like muscle memory. His fingers curling against yours in busied atmospheres, the look you both give each other when a certain song comes on.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

With your face peering over his monitor, wide eyes he adores peek at him from an upside down angle. 

Cute, he thinks, tapping your nose with a chilled index.

Chris always keeps it cold in his apartment, partially because he remembers you’d told him you sleep better that way, partially because he loves to hear you complain about it in the morning.

As for the big question popped earlier today, he chooses to wait patiently per your request (after staring at him like he’d grown an extra pair of eyes then proceeding to smack his arm before realizing he was serious).

So, yes, you’re thinking.

And it scares Chris more than he’d like to admit. 

He knows the risks, the “let’s try this” somehow turning into an ugly breakup and never speaking again.

And he can’t afford that when it comes to you, because you’ve become the most important person in his life without even noticing it.

Even if his love is one sided. Unrequited. 

He’d be okay as long as he has you.

Just the thought makes him anxious, makes the clicking of his mouse arranging the tempo to become erratic in pace, head-dizzying.

“Chris?”

Until your voice finds him, and the torrential waves of his ocean go back to their slow lapsing. Calming the waters as always, trademark to you.

“New track,” He offers, eyes flickering up to you with a meek smile emphasizing the charming dimples there.

Majoring in music comes with both perks and downfalls: hours spent studying and cramming terms down his throat whilst managing personal projects, and, of course, the fleeting satisfaction after passing an exam by a stroke of luck.

But he loves every moment of it, especially having you listen to some of his favorite productions. Some he’ll strum on a guitar amidst his arranged apartment shared with Changbin and Han—roommates you’d grown quite acquainted with—in the late evening, his heart likely beating out of his chest watching your sweet face nod along.

At the moment it’s him here alone, Han having already relocated back home for the holidays, Changbin at his part time job, working lighting and electrical work at a live-house.

“Can I listen?” 

Slow to nod, he beckons you closer with a wave of his hand, carefully placing headphones overtop your ears.

And yet, as your head bobs and face wrinkles up just like he does when hearing something catchy, he can’t help the grin on his face watching you.

You’re beautiful, and he’s too fond it might just be unhealthy.

It’s too easy to fall in love with you.

He has a feeling he’ll be thinking that a lot.

December 21st.

Enough. 

If there was an early New Year’s resolution, gaining a lack of hesitation would have to be on the top of the list.

Of course, that would ensue plenty of compromising situations if you did things impulsively considering the amount of times you’d wanted to kiss him, but, for the most part, it would work in a sensible manner.

“Five dates.” 

Last night you slept over (similar to most nights), clad in one of Chris’s old t-shirts and a pair of suspiciously clean basketball shorts for the gym-addicted man in question, Changbin, to offer you.

By the stove, Chris occupies himself with cooking eggs, lips puffed in a way downright dangerous to your “no hesitation” resolution and lack of t-shirt displaying a broad, muscled back adding to the list. 

Your tongue pokes against your cheek, arms crossed over your chest.

”Five dates.. mhm.. gotcha…” Each nod from the man assures you that, no, he doesn’t “gotcha”; his attention long since drawn to what lies in a sizzling pan and the low hum of “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz rumbling from the small radio on the corner of the kitchen island.

“Chris,” You grunt, brows lifting, resisting the urge to laugh when he glances over his shoulder with that sheepish expression, all-telling.

Or maybe that comes with the years. Unspoken gestures understood without fail.

”Sorry ‘bout that,” He murmurs, and you curse every aspect of your vision being a spectator to his trapezius rippling while dishing down two mugs from the cabinet. One that you bought him, the other purchased by Han.

The latter patterned with.. odd shaped bananas he’s sworn are not the shape of a dick.

But that’s a story for another time. 

Although, that’s the least of the oddities. Between the Danny Devito cheeto ornament(how they got their hands on it you couldn’t guess) added to their tiny Christmas tree and the rug in the bathroom with old stains no one talks about, you’ve decided to turn a blind eye for the sake of learning things you don’t want to remember. 

“What do you think if.. y’know, before we try something new,”

You pause, scorning the sly smile on his face when turning to face you, long fingers quelling the stove’s flame momentarily.

He thinks you’re the most darling thing he’s laid eyes on, and you think he’s going to laugh at you.

”We go on five dates. And after those five dates, I’ll make up my mind.”

”Is this a part of your “thinking”?”

Jerk. He’s lucky he’s handsome.

Gnawing at your bottom lip, your face pinches.

“Yes.” The words are quiet, too hushed for your liking.

Chris doesn’t make you quiet, he doesn’t make you shy. Yet, these days you find yourself falling back into a cycle of nervous, foreign feelings when speaking. As if he’s picking you apart piece for piece.

As if he hasn’t already read every page of the book named you over and over again.

But now the pages rewrite themselves, too many filled with the word “love” and “affection” and “more than friends” and—

“Can I kiss you after those dates?”

Jerk. For the second time.

”And if I say no?”

He lights a fire under your feet. Maybe it’s the heat causing blood to rush to your ears.

Chris lifts his mug. ”Indirect?”

You scoff, he giggles, squeaky in pitch just as it’s always been. Your cheeks warm.

Because in the midst of a once-normalcy, you can feel a storm brewing. It’s unclear if it’ll be a hurricane or a refreshing rain shower, and perhaps the unpredictably is supposed to be thrilling.

Or maybe it’s doomed, and the debris left after that hurricane will lay untouched, uncared for.

So it’s the feeling of his arms wrapping around you beckoning those thoughts out of reach, holding the doubt just high enough you don’t have to see.

Hear, listen, overthink. For now, all there is to fret about is Chris, and the warmth of his hug, pulling you infinitely close against heated skin.

Then does it register to you he’s always read your pages the same, and he would for as long as you’ll give him time to reread. If they change, they change together.

How foolish you forgot such a thing. As if he wasn’t your best friend first.

“Yes, you can.”

When those five dates are over, kiss me.

His nose buried into your shoulder, he murmurs a quiet “thank you”, a satisfied hum resounding from his chest, eyes crinkling up in the corners with a smile.

“Is that my shampoo?”

If anything, you feel as if you’ve been having dates over the years you’ve known Chris as he lists out ideas from a website on his phone. Except, yours weren’t touchy feel-y and certainly not regarded as “dates”, but simple things.

Dinners, falling asleep on his shoulder (something he remembers very well), baking together.

It’s a cold day, and after his hug that squeezed every fiber of sanity from your being, you now resorted to trying to figure out what that first date should consist of. 

The first of the five, pending.

“Ah,” Lips parting to exhale, you peer from the nearest window, watching hot breath fog up the glass whilst gazing out at vastly falling slow blanketing the ground a winter wonderland. A white abyss from your viewpoint.

“It’s snowing.” 

A chaste pause ensues.

“Might as well go out ‘n enjoy it, hm?” His voice, paired with a grin saturated in too much mischief for your liking resounds from over your shoulder.

Unable to react fast enough, Chris, sneaking up behind you without your knowledge, hoists you over his shoulder in seconds time—now (unfortunately) adorning a hoodie over his once bare torso.

Your shocked shriek rings about the apartment in reply.

“Out of the way! We’re goin’ outside!” Chris giggles victoriously, shouting to no one in particular as your fists beat at his back upon making for the door.

The faintest gust of frigid wind has goosebumps slithering up your skin—granting the man a cacophony of “No! Let me down!”’s he seems to soak up like praise.

Well, before relenting.

Because then again, who was he to deny you? To some degree it felt like every bone in his bone dragged him close to you, trailing after your footsteps like a lost puppy.

“One of these days,” Sighing heavily like that of an old man, a firm hand pats your thigh before you’re reluctantly flopped onto the couch, glaring up at him in a manner he deems too pretty to keep from smiling at. 

That same hand comes to hold your face, smushing up your cheeks and, in turn, earning plentiful laughter you simply huff towards. 

“Don’t pout—“ He whines, your heart rate spiking when another hand comes down towards your hair.

If there was any restraint of yours left, it would be relinquished instantly if he so much as touched your hair—

He flicks your forehead. And proceeds to slump down beside you.

“Oh you prick-“

His hand reaches to gently cover your mouth, bringing an index to rest on plush lips of his own. 

“No pouting, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Oh he’s going to get it. 

Playing you like a fiddle.

And damn does he do it well. 

.

.

.

Head tipping, your eyes flicker over his features—silently admiring such a side profile. With the perfect curve of his lips and hook of his nose, he could rival sculptures found in museums.

This was after trying to tackle him (to no avail, sadly) and curse his very existence (another fail). 

Then, the mediator came by in the form of a movie night and the small sheet of chocolate chip cookies warming in the oven, scent steaming the air with a mouthwatering aroma. 

Your first of five, initiated.

“Mm.. Don’t we have movie nights normally though?” The remark offered quietly, you shift closer to his body, pressing your right side to his, knees tucked beneath a blanket he’d arranged across either of your laps.

Love Actually plays on the screen ahead, but your focus couldn’t be deviating more.

Ever the attentive soul, Chris is equal in the shared admiration, honeyed irises fixed upon you in his peripheral prior to a careful finger lifting, looping a strand of hair behind your ear.

In turn, his gentle palm cups your jaw to tilt your head, sweeping an additionally stubborn hair from the other side of your face as well.

Your heart feels moments from bursting, and he looks at you as if you’re his whole world.

You are, but that was a matter unnoticed on your end.

It’s a quiet debate. Dangerous and fickle. Move too quickly and something might go wrong, hesitate and an opportunity may vanish to never be seen again. Do you kiss him? Is that how it works? Or is this a matter of “kissing on the first date”, treated like a taboo? 

More so, what happens next? After the kiss?

His eyes flicker upward to yours, lacking that boy-ish, charming smile he usually dons. Instead, he’s serious, calm. Then to your lips, like the melody of a slow song, flickering with the dips and pitches of the rhythm.

Leaning in, you can’t help but comply, and every thought within your mind numbs into nothingness—

Beeep!

A sharp, acrid stench makes your nose burn, face transforming into both realization and panic upon witnessing the tendrils of smoke curling from the oven.

“Shit!”

And after frantically racing to salvage what little remained of the cookies while Chris furiously fanned the smoke detector, your “date night” turned into a shared glance, laughter, and the both of you trudging to his bed for the night, leaving the remaining bit of Love Actually for another day.

So no, rest assured you didn’t kiss him on the first date.

Maybe tomorrow. 

December 22nd.

Y’know how Chris mentioned going out into the snow “one of these days?”.  

That day was today, apparently.  

“You don’t get it I’ll slip-“

“But you can hold onto me, yeah?” He laughs, squeaky still. Gloved hands find purchase on your hips, gently easing you forward where your back rests to his chest. His right hand shifts upward to rest against your spine, a feeling you have to swallow down wallowing in your stomach.

“Slow steps, I won’t let go.”

Don’t ever, you wish to say. Don’t ever let me go.

And not to keep me from slipping.

Maybe if you were ice skating or slow dancing this would be romantic, but the ugly, waddling manner you make down ice-coated stairs kills off any hope for swooning.

That is, until you do slip, and the man is a fraction too slow until you’re flat on your bum outside his apartment complex, heated from both annoyance and the knowledge far too many embarrassing pictures have been added to his camera roll just now.

In which.. a wonky, slightly-melting snowman comes to be not long afterward, neither of you willing to admit your creation is not “creative”, but horridly unsightly.

“I love it!”

Of course he does. Random pipes substituting as two arms and a carrot nose while Han’s fedora from 2016 awkwardly sits atop a head disproportionate from its body.

Your second date ideas offered a galaxy of possibilities, but after awakening late and coffee’s failure to open your eyes further than half-lidded, you figured today would mimic yesterday as a day spent at home.

He’d get some assignments done in the evening, and you’d probably turn on another Christmas movie while waiting to finish Love Actually in his company later on.

“We should come up with a name,” Nodding proudly at the aforementioned abomination, you cross your arms across your chest, your partner in crime brainstorming in a seriousness practically comical to the situation at hand.

“Hm.. something happy! I mean, look at his face, it’s happy, isn’t it?”

Mind you, cold, visibly dead extra coat-buttons are what stares back at you as its “eyes”, and you easily nod in feigned agreement as he takes ceaseless pictures of the thing with obvious delight, likely to send to friends and family alike.

The bottom snowball is melting, and a pipe has already fallen off what was supposed to be its arm, but Chris is beaming, and you'd rather slice off your own tongue than keep him from enjoying this moment.

Happy. 

You feel as if you’d do anything in the world to see him smile.

.

.

.

“Eh? Who’s that?”

5pm, and you’ll probably have to pummel the door open in the morning thanks to the blizzard-like conditions outside.

Among plenty of assignments he told himself he’d fret over in the evening, an unfinished paper sits in front of Chris while his thumbs twiddle along the keyboard of his phone, your chin hooked to his shoulder to glance down at the device—a habit of yours he finds himself unreasonably fond of.

Changbin came home early from the live-house, with most events cancelled from the cold and too little work to be done, there was no need to keep workers around. Dinner beckoned conversation and knowing glances from the roommate whenever you and Chris spoke, earning a scolding scowl while he simply grinned innocently in reply.

It seemed your love was obvious to everyone but you two. How tragic.

Though, amidst photos of both your earlier wipeout (a matter you don’t mention) and snapshots of the snowman he’s currently trying to send while seated at his desk, a certain name within the text catches your attention:

Mister Sunshine.

Chris chuckles sheepishly, your brows lifting in silent inquisition.

“It’s.. the snowman’s name. I named him.” He murmurs, the back of his neck doused pink. A facet of his embarrassment.

He named the snowman Mister Sunshine.

That smile of his making an additional appearance lies responsible for an internal scream to ring throughout your body, deafening your brain despite an external silence.

And in that moment, your feelings become harder to ignore than ever.

December 23rd. 

“You should get all pretty today.”

Your attention, once drawn to the different kinds of cookie-cutter molds, flickers up to him when he speaks. 

As it always does, hanging onto his every word as if fearful there’d be a day you couldn’t. 

Quizzically does your head tip in confusion, spurring the heat blooming by the back of his neck all the way up to flushed ears.

He waves quick hands, having been eyeing through the assortment of donuts Changbin brought home last night after his “buy one get one free sale” turned into buying a dozen at the shop by the live-house. 

“I mean, ‘s not like you aren’t pretty every day, but- y’know- like—“

It feels cruel letting him futilely try explaining, but gosh is he too cute.

And hearing him call you pretty feels too good to end abruptly. 

It also makes you wonder what happened to the smug-grin-wearing, playful person he could become at times. The one so confident and sure, now rosy.

An alter-ego sounded too far-fetched most days, but as for today… fairly accurate.

“What I meant is,” Turning, Chris extends the mug of coffee your way, heated glass warming your palms as you take it.

A part to your shared daily occurrences, routine. 

“I want to take you out tonight. We can go window shopping, see decorations, yeah?”

Perhaps the steam of your cup is what warms your cheeks, and very quickly do you come to recall you’re the one making him wait. 

He was willing to go all in from the start. And then you feel even crueler.

“Okay, tell me when to start getting ready.”

But you nod and pretend, because maybe you’re good at staving down things you know will come up anyway.

He’d always chided your procrastination.

.

Too long have you spent burning holes in your mirror with each scrutinizing glare, and the longer you stare, the worse what’s reflected becomes.

Chris had sent a small text proposing a forty minute window before heading out, in which ensued your frantic scouring around your room for both an outfit and coordinating accessories. 

Sure, you may have known the guy since your ugliest years, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t fun to spend some extra time on yourself, right?

Your third of five dates, and you should be bouncing up and down with cheerfulness, looking forward to “getting all pretty”, dolling up for an evening with your favorite person, your best friend. And, come recent days, your admitted love interest.

But you aren’t. You don’t feel cheerful, ecstatic.

And walking out to his awestruck form doesn’t feel revitalizing, and sure as hell far from a confidence boost.

“You look.. wow.” He gapes, drinking in every article of clothing, the way you’ve got the prettiest of ribbons in your hair a crimson red, your cute socks and warm sweater.

An angel, he wants to say. That, along with many things you’d slap him on the shoulder for speaking aloud.

Worst of all? He knows your tell-tale signs in and out. 

“Hey.”

His face seems to melt. Like crying, and it makes you want to cry. The sad, tiny crease of his brows, the puff of his bottom lip.

Worried.

“But, I mean,” Your voice chokes up, and you hate every bit of it, the emotions compiling to the surface—ones impossible to stave down.

You don’t feel nice. Putting on an outfit you both liked and thought you looked good in, fixing up your makeup, the little accessories to compliment certain colors, elements.

Yet, your heart still sunk when looking in the mirror, and now, looking at Chris, it feels like all that confidence is beginning to melt—salt sprinkled on the snow of the driveway.

Greater than that, it frustrates you. It isn’t his fault he’s attractive; beautiful, even, but every second by his side feels akin to a blazing inferiority, causing the already-chilled, flushed fingertips of yours to burn, your ears to grow unusually warm.

Like a child.

How irritating.

“Hey,”

His voice, like honey and pastries and all the bestest, warmest things when in need of comfort.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

The endearment isn’t teasing this time, not even in the slightest. It’s soft and delicate, an ornate vase constructed of glass, capable of breaking from a mere breath. 

Standing outside his apartment, snow dappling the sky in endless flurries, it’s only you two in the world.

Your lip wobbles, but Chris always catches you before you fall.

“I’m the man honored to walk around with you tonight, hm?” He starts, thumbing away bubbling tears from your cheeks.

“You look too pretty for these tears, ‘don’t want to mess up your makeup now do we?” He cracks a feeble smile, smoothing down your brows and adjusting your scarf with utmost care from his mitten-clad fingers.

“Ah,” His face lights up with recognition. “You added the glittery eyeshadow.”

You can’t help but crack a laugh. Pitifully croaked, but there no less.

First day of high school and you’d shown up with a downright awful amount of glittery eyeshadow, looking similar to a human-disco ball with the sheer amount alone.

Chris, ever the kind soul knowing you since birth, gave you a two thumbs up, a tight smile, and a “looks great!” that’s lived as one of your best inside jokes even now.

Luckily, this time around the amount is agreeable, just above your lashes and shimmering avidly beneath falling snow.

“I did,” You whisper softly, gaze fluttering down to your shoes before flickering back up to him. “And um.. is it true? That..”

Oh this is embarrassing.

“I look okay?”

Perhaps if he says it, tonight you can believe it’s true.

This time he breaks your heart, with such a heart-wrenching smile on his face.

“You always look beautiful, ‘doesn’t matter how much you think you’re not, you’ll never be able to change my mind. Now let me take you out, yeah? ‘Can grab some hot chocolate,” He ushers, winding your arm to link with his as you make forward, his black trench coat swaying with the click of dress shoes, chilly nose finding sanctuary in a ruby-red scarf wrapped around his shoulders.

Beneath the streetlights and dark skies, Chris could be a prince if he so wished.

That’s another thing you can believe is true tonight.

Curious eyes of awaiting children and scolding mothers litter the streets, tiny fingers pointing to toys through the glass, busied chatter and shared affection blooming within a once blue atmosphere, now dappled in ribbons of color.

The transition from monochrome, like shutters of an old camera capturing technicolor for the first time.

Or maybe Chris was the one responsible for each flourish of color, painting your world the prettiest of hues.

“Do you remember it?”

His voice, honeyed, accompanied by a plume of air in requite of a warm exhale evokes a skip to your step, catching your footing on the stone sidewalk with an awkward clearing to your throat.

“The things you used to want for Christmas?” He continues, and you chose to ignore the knowing smile on his face, gaze shifting upward in hopes of recollection, to no avail.

“Hm.. Do you?” Quietly offered, a change in attention grants you momentary escape from the spotlight.

Well, before it truly does become momentary.

He never has been embarrassed easily, you’d like to add. A matter speaking for itself in the way he automatically clings to your side in response, swaying back and forth whilst singing along to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” you didn’t realize was blaring through overhead speakers above passing until this moment.

Predictably, he earns the bemused grins of passerby and your face (as an individual who does in fact get embarrassed easily, to your own dismay) growing fifty shades of crimson.

“Yah! Quit!” Though your efforts are as futile as your voice and it’s involuntarily chortled-ness, you smack at his hand no less.

Of course, he persists.

Until the sharp turn to a small, annually appearing hot chocolate truck ceases your complaining and his singing in synonymous tandem.

An array of memories come washing across you with each gust of winter wind, and you can practically hear the manner of squeakiness his voice used to be, the foam from whipped-cream topped cocoa sitting atop his top lip like a mustache. You’d always laugh at that.

When you burnt your tongue one year after the beverage was too hot and he remained resilient in his belief you could and would taste Christmas dinner.

You did not, but it was worth a try. Also worth seeing his big, hopeful eyes peek up at you excitedly.

Back then he was always shorter than you, until that fateful day in High school he arrived with a far taller stature than the pipsqueak you knew of most days.

A lot has changed since then. In more ways than one.

Seems his memory remains as sharp as ever, evident in the gentle squeeze he gives your hand—his you hadn’t even noticed was held in your own up till now.

“Get some, hm? My treat.” He quickly urges, watching you pad forward like a child to admire the menu in adoration, waving to the old woman you’d known since a child, always manning her tiny miracle of a truck. 

He would keep the fact he’d looked up the hours the truck would be in town to himself. That, along with the tiny heart drawn on the side of the cardboard coffee sleeve you had yet to acknowledge, one he discovers is the old woman’s doing, her knowing smile matching his own when he looks up for silent clarification.

Encouragement. 

Go for it.

He feels his palms grow clammy, internally thankful you weren’t holding hands at the moment(which was enough of a heart-attack inducing experience in itself).

The trace of lipgloss on the rim of your cup, the batting of those precious eyes.

Worst is, you don’t even know what you do. The little things compiling into something downright torturous.

And when you look up at him for that split second, his breath catches. 

Ah. 

He wants to kiss you. 

From the scrunch of your nose when you begin to laugh to the snowflakes already dappling your lashes.

Because loving you is easy, and then it’s not. Over and over again. He’s afraid, but his mind is fuzzy and jumbled with feelings, and that small bit of melted marshmallow on your bottom lip he finds himself longing to taste. Lick up the sweetness and sink his teeth into the plush skin–

The tiniest drop of hot chocolate clings to your lips, and Chris wonders if you’d taste like it too.

December 24th.

“Hm?” His hum of confusion falls upon deaf ears, too preoccupied with a call from your mom to take note.

Something must’ve piqued his attention, though you’d have half the mind to guess what.

That is until hanging up, and curious brown eyes boring into your skull from afar transform into this itch you can’t ignore.

“Chris.”

Like an annoying older brother, he is sometimes.

Then there’s that sheepish sort of sound, the “i-got-caught” giggle testing your annoyed facade.

“Hey now,” He begins after a moment, pointing an incredulous finger your way like you’ve said something outrageous, looking like some perplexed old man whilst running a hand through his hair in an odd, cheap rendition of exasperation.

He looks more like he’s choking, but you give full points for effort. 

“You haven’t put up your tree or anything? What are you, the grinch?”

Oh, so that’s what this is about. 

For context, your conversation minutes prior with your mother consisted of the formalities: “How are you? Eating well? Sleeping well?” which turned into the personal portions: “Classes? Boyfriends?”

As for the last question, you’d keep her posted. 

But what seemed to grab his attention most was the additional part where you not-so-discreetly told her you likely wouldn’t bother putting up decorations in your own place this year.

Granted, you spent most days at Chris’s anyway, Christmas as well. Why not skip the hassle to freeload?

Also, you weren’t aware this was chastising season, Mr. Bahng.

“You’re serious?”

Nope. All a joke, every bit.

“…I usually just stay here anyway..?”

Which was true! He knows this!

“Nuh-uh, ‘s gotta change. What if one year I go overseas to visit family and you’re here alone?”

Horribly fast, your stomach sinks, and you’re hasty to scorn the sensation.

This fear, innate and uncontrollable. That on a certain season, you won’t have that certain someone to spend it with. 

I won’t, you want to say; treat the words like some totally unrealistic joke, treat his argument like a fable.

The clapping of his hands wards you from your incomprehensible nightmare.

“Alright! Let’s go! We’re decorating your place!”

This year at least, he’ll be by your side.

So you nod, as you do to most things concerning Christopher Bahng.

Love makes a person so.. strange, does it not?

Maybe that’s just you. Or him, or all of it. Who knows.

Crunching of white sheets beneath your feet keep your head from falling astray, as if dancing atop dove feathers amidst your trek to the car.

Too many thoughts, too many questions likely to be left unanswered.

The moon, in her full, glowing glory blinks down from above as a feeble solace.

Of the most beautiful of love stories. For when her lover, Sun, grows tired of arduous laboring in the day, she will arrive to establish her night so that Sun may rest for another day. A night of waiting for the one most beloved to her.

It reminds you quite a bit of yourself, oddly enough, as frosted fingertips shuffle beneath your legs to bask in the passenger seat’s seat heater as a source of warmth.

Each exhale fogs up the windows as the engine rumbles to life, and it’s a wonder you didn’t have to scrape off ice beforehand.

“Mm, in Australia it’d be so warm since ‘was summer, even on Christmas Eve. I remember one year ‘got the chance to get out there during the Holidays. Jisung sent me a text saying it was four degrees celsius in Korea and he was wearing three jackets. Meanwhile, I was outside in a tank top with Berry in twenty-seven.”

His eyes adorn the same sweet crinkle of happiness, ring-clad index tapping an inaudible beat where it rests on your knee, the other finding purchase on the steering wheel as you continue onward through late-December snowflakes.

He lights up your world without even trying. His smile, his excited talking. The way his words grow shorter and shorter the more excited he is to explain something.

Nerd. 

You love every second of it.

“And what I said about Australia earlier.” Chris begins quietly, sparing you a glimpse. His palm squeezes your knee gently, and you want to shout, jump, do something to alleviate the scream wishing to claw from your throat in reply.

Since when have you become so susceptible, so easy?

Simple. Since you fell in love.

Or, more like when you realized you were in love.

This was nothing new, after all.

“You wouldn’t be alone here over the holidays. I’d take you with me.” His eyes squeeze shut momentarily in thought, tone this quieted whisper you have to crane to discern.

“Back in October, during my birthday. Do you know what my wish was?”

A wordless look of wonder urges him on, thumb smoothing along your skin in a tender rhythm, never to break.

“One of these days, I’ll take you to Australia with me. Home with me.”

“So my first love can meet my last love.”

The second portion is barely intelligible, as if it were a mere whisper in the night. 

You wonder if it was a figment of your imagination.

Nevertheless, the less-than-inviting (compared to Chris’s), pale glow of your flat’s porch light eventually comes into view, and either of you clamber from car doors with evident struggle—abundant layers against the chill making for an awkward toddle to your snow-muddled doorstep.

Quick to retrieve the boxes from your attic, the both of you get to work. Chris frets over shoveling snow from your front porch, and you set to Christmas-ifying the interior.

It’s domestic, almost. His humming from the front door to songs playing on the speaker inside, the slow transition from your usual flat to a festive explosion. 

Then, of course, the tree.

In which you awkwardly shift your weight from foot to foot while awaiting his assistance, only for you to make eye contact and want to shrivel into a ball and never come out.

Again, shy. It’s bizarre. 

“Hm.. You wanna put up the star?”

After far too long trying to figure out the logistics, a makeshift (albeit lopsided) tree resides in your living space, a few ornaments here and there clothing the sad excuse for a normally grand view. 

But it’s yours, together.

You think with that knowledge alone it could’ve been a single sprout and would have been your world all the same.

His traces, everywhere. Both of your hands clutching onto each one you can grasp.

However, spontaneity comes back to haunt you. This time in the form of his hands curling around your hips, giving you a chaste countdown before you’re lifted up to place the star on the very top.

Good luck not having a heart attack, huh.

Miraculously, you don’t. Neither do you combust or squeal or any of the wild thoughts racing through murky depths of your brain.

Instead, you’re placed on the ground once more, his index and thumb taking the side of your top to gently adjust back down where it had ridden up.

Like a gentleman.

Shoot.

He makes it hard, doesn’t he?

Leaning to prop his chin on your shoulder while you admire the twinkling lights, you’d like to believe it was a hallucination that he pressed the most imperceptible, tiniest peck to the clothed junction of your neck and shoulder before pulling away.

“C’mere,” His words fall a near murmur, having to lightly tug at your wrist to truly garner your undivided attention without blood rushing to your face.

As for him, he simply had to pull you from the tree for the sake of his own wellbeing, the sight of warm lights reflecting in eyes he’d easily get lost in making each swallow harder to manage.

That, and there was.. a surprise of a sort. The sweep of a hand on the way out from his apartment, the fretful (clumsy) fastening of this so-called surprise under the guise he was clearing your porch.

Which he was, respectfully.

Just with a little something extra involved.

Nonetheless, oblivious to his plan, you follow along, anticipating some sad copy of Mister Sunshine to be made from fallen pine needles and buttons.

So when he points upwards, nothing short of a roller coaster occurs in your chest.

A spider, a roach, something scary—

A mistletoe.

Right above your head.

He’s got this giddy, nervous grin wobbling on plush lips, eyes searching yours like some little boy seeking a reaction. And you feel like you’re staring at elementary schooler Chris all over again.

At his cheery face knowing he’d be getting ice cream on the way home, when you lied about being able to taste Christmas dinner with a burnt tongue. 

A single lightbulb flickers orange, illuminating the mistletoe residing just beside.

Finally not-burnt cookies sit in their container back at his apartment, Love Actually long since completed. Your snowman, named Mister Sunshine, occupies the complex’s front walkway, and too many mugs of hot chocolate have been downed these past few days to count.

When your own place gets lonely, a tree you had put up together keeps you company, so that those nights alone this winter won’t be so cold. 

“Can I..?”

Chilled temperatures nip at your nose, and you feel like crying listening to the softened manner he asks, the tentativeness in the way his hand reaches to cup your cheek.

The sound is more like a plea, and you’d be beyond embarrassed if it was anyone but Chris.

“Please.”

And beneath that mentioned mistletoe, Chris kisses you for the first time, and December 25th makes its slow approach above the horizon.

When becoming more grows scary, Chris holds your hand to remind you there’s nothing he won’t step into with you. No matter the doubt, the fear.

It seems this winter you won’t be lonely. Because you won’t be spending this Christmas alone, nor many to come.

He’ll make sure of that.

One day till Christmas, four dates till you told him you felt the same.

You never got to five anyway. 

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @allaboutsan, @velvetmoonlght, @minij-one

[66stitches]

dating abby headcanons

Art by fjorgust on instagram

Daily click - Palestine masterpost - TLOU and israel

divider creds

꩜ She isn’t super big on pda, but does little stuff like grab your hand or give you occasional kisses on the forehead just to remind you of how she loves you (and to let everyone know you’re hers).

꩜ With that being said, she’s all over you once you’re home.

꩜ Absolutely loves lazy morning cuddles and kisses far more than she’d like to admit.

꩜ I just know she listens to dad music. Definitely a big fan of The Offspring.

꩜ Loves to spoil her girl, but even though she doesn’t admit it, she secretly loves being spoiled and coddled as well.

꩜ Has a pretty high pain tolerance, but would sometimes exaggerate her pain just so you’d coddle and baby her, especially when she’s on her period.

And you know she’s fibbing, but you knew that if you confronted her she would immediately deny it and get super defensive (which is how you know she’s lying).

But you love babying her, so you’re more than happy to play along.

꩜ She snores, but it’s pretty soft and light, so you don’t really mind at all. It’s actually pretty comforting.

꩜ Shares her coin collection with you. You don’t really get the fascination, but seeing her ramble on passionately about what new coins she found only makes you fall in love deeper.

꩜ Reads classics. A huge fan of Dostoevsky. But also she loves nonfictions.

꩜ Absolutely sucks at video games. If you play, she’ll ask if she can try, only to get your character killed like five seconds later then complain that “something’s up with your controller.”

꩜ Loves having her hair played with. She would have trouble sleeping sometimes, but once your fingers are on those golden strands of hers she’s out like a light, already softly snoring into the pillow.

꩜ Sleeps completely naked with you. Not for any sexual purpose, but just feeling her bare skin against yours as you’re sleeping makes her feel closer to you than ever. It’s an innocently intimate and loving moment she likes to share with you.

Honestly just imagine cuddling to sleep at night completely naked. Everything is quiet and you’re peppering sleepy kisses on each other’s face, neck, shoulders, and rubbing each other’s arms and back 'til you fall asleep oh god I’m SICK.

꩜ This woman is in love with sitcoms and I will not be elaborating any further.

꩜ Claims she doesn’t like cats, but once came home like an hour late because she got caught up playing with a stray cat. Refused to tell you the real reason why she was late.

꩜ Cracks the dumbest jokes you’ve ever heard that only put a smile on your face because of how stupid they are and how cute she is when she says them.

Remember that scene where she was trying to joke around with Lev but she’s just super bad at it and he didn’t even try to play along? “You know our dogs can play cards like that?” Yeah, she does that with you too.

꩜ Cries after arguments (canon) but can’t stand people seeing her cry. She’s a pretty emotional person methinks.

꩜ Loves festivities. Will go all out on christmas and halloween, decorating the entire place and buying gifts (pesters you with questions about what you got her).

꩜ Pesto. She loves it on everything.

꩜ Loves massages. Back, shoulders, feet, scalp. Loves them all and only wants them from you.

꩜ A caregiver. (If you’re on meds), she’ll always make sure you take them and take them at the right time. She ensures that you eat three meals a day and get enough sleep, and even doesn’t let you stay up for too long. She just wants her girl to stay healthy.

꩜ She’s a total book hoarder. She promises not to buy another book 'til she’s done reading the ones she has, only for you to find a paper bag with ten new books the next day.

꩜ Loves you endlessly and has your entire wedding planned out in her head. She knows exactly what songs she wants to play and how she wants your dresses to look.

[svt-luna]

𝜗℘ SANTA BABY

❛ 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭. 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. ❜

timeline: 2024

synopsis: On a Christmas Eve brimming with emotion, Luna and Jeonghan exchange gifts that bring tears, laughter, and a profound realization that in each other, they’ve already won the greatest gift of all.

warnings: short but sweet, cursing, slightly suggestive, crying, a concerning amount of fluff, fluff, fluff, fluffiness, tooth-rotting fluff, fluff, oh! and have i mentioned more fluff? if not, then… fluff, may make you feel single on Christmas, established relationship, simp!Jeonghan, what-are-you-willing-to-do!Jeonghan, what-are-you-willing-to-do!Luna, down bad!JeongNa, just over all good vibes

this is the one-shot of JeongNa’s Christmas Eve and the full story behind their recent instagram update: This Christmas, With Love which you can read before this or after, whenever you prefer!! Merry Christmas and happy holidays, my loves!!! 🎄🤍

╰ ౨ৎ ig update: this Christmas, with love

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ writings masterlist

Luna had always loved the holidays.

Ever since she could remember, the mere thought of winter filled her chest with an inexplicable warmth, despite the icy chill in the air. It wasn’t just the season’s weather— though she adored that, too. The cold was like a gentle bite against her skin, the kind that turned her cheeks rosy and made her breath visible in small clouds.

She loved bundling up in scarves and coats, the feeling of knit gloves on her hands as she clutched warm drinks in the bitter cold. There was something magical about stepping outside into a world transformed, the frost painting delicate patterns on windows, the snow crunching softly beneath her boots, and the sharp, invigorating air filling her lungs.

And then there was the snow itself.

Oh, how she loved the snow.

It blanketed the world in pristine white, silencing the chaos of everyday life and making everything feel softer, purer.

As a child, she would press her tiny hands against frosted windows and watch with wide-eyed wonder as snowflakes danced and twirled their way to the ground. Each flake was unique, her parents had told her, just like people, and she used to imagine the stories each one carried before landing to become part of the earth.

Even now, as an adult, snow still held the same allure.

It wasn’t just precipitation— it was possibility, the kind that made her heart flutter with childish delight.

Luna is a child at heart despite her cold exterior.

But what she loved most about winter wasn’t the cold or the snow. It was the way the world seemed to transform with it, the festivities that erupted in its wake. Streets adorned with twinkling lights, their golden and multicolored hues casting a glow that could rival the stars. Storefronts dressed in wreaths and garlands, windows painted with frost-like designs. Homes turned into miniature wonderlands, with trees laden with ornaments and stockings hanging by fireplaces.

The air carried the unmistakable scent of pine and cinnamon, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked cookies and roasted chestnuts. Every corner of the world seemed to hum with life, bursting with the kind of chaotic joy that only the holidays could bring.

As a child, Luna had thrived in that chaos.

She might have been an only child, but she never felt lonely during the holidays. Her family was large, sprawling with cousins of all ages, aunts and uncles who filled rooms with loud chatter and booming laughter.

The holidays were a cacophony of voices, a blur of brightly wrapped gifts, a feast that stretched across tables and seemed to last for hours. She loved every second of it— the giggles that echoed through the halls, the way wrapping paper was torn apart in a frenzy, revealing carefully chosen gifts that would elicit gasps of delight.

And oh, the food.

Plates upon plates of lovingly prepared dishes, the kind that could make anyone feel at home with just one bite.

For Luna, those gatherings were the essence of the holidays: love, warmth, and a little bit of chaos, all wrapped together in a bow.

Even now, as an adult, not much had changed.

Luna still carried that same love for the holidays in her heart. She’d grown older, of course, and her world had expanded beyond her childhood home. She had met people who changed her life, built friendships that felt more like family.

The members of her group had become just as much a part of her holidays as her own blood relatives.

Each year, no matter how busy their own schedules or how far apart they might be, they always made time for each other. Even if they spent the holidays with their own families, they exchanged gifts and heartfelt messages, sometimes sneaking moments to celebrate together.

A quiet dinner, a surprise visit, or even a late-night video call— those small gestures kept them connected.

Luna cherished it all.

To her, the holidays weren’t just about one’s own traditions but about sharing the joy with others, whether that meant her childhood family or the family she had found along the way.

The truth was, Luna loved everything about this season.

The lights, the snow, the chaos, and the spirit of giving. It reminded her of who she was— someone who poured herself wholeheartedly into the people she loved. And in return, the holidays gave her a kind of magic she carried with her long after the season had passed.

This year’s Christmas, their house glowed with warmth, its halls bedecked in festive splendor that seemed to reflect the happiness within its walls. Twinkling fairy lights hung across doorways, their soft golden glow matching the gentle flicker of candles on the dining table.

The Christmas tree stood in the corner, a towering figure dressed in silver and gold ornaments, its star perched proudly at the top. Beneath it, an array of carefully wrapped gifts spilled out in every direction, their ribbons tied with care. The air was filled with the mingling scents of pine, cinnamon, and the rich aroma of dinner wafting in from the kitchen.

It was, without a doubt, the perfect backdrop for a Christmas celebration, one that carried an extra layer of excitement this year.

For the first time in their five years of celebrating Christmas together, Jeonghan and Luna were doing so as an engaged couple.

Neither of them had spoken it aloud, but there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, something electric and unspoken that urged them both to make this year unforgettable.

It wasn’t about the grandeur of the decorations or the extravagance of the gifts; it was about the meaning behind it all— the deepening of their bond, the blending of their families, and the joy of creating memories they would carry with them forever.

Jeonghan’s parents and his younger sister had arrived first, greeted at the door by Luna, who immediately pulled them into warm hugs, her smile brighter than the Christmas lights around her. Her parents followed soon after, carrying platters of food they insisted on contributing despite Luna’s protests that everything was already taken care of.

It wasn’t long before the house was alive with chatter and laughter, the kind that only family could bring.

Dinner was a feast fit for royalty, with dishes spread across the table in a kaleidoscope of colors and aromas.

At the center was a steaming pot of galbi-jjim, tender braised short ribs simmered in a rich soy-based sauce, its sweetness heightened by chestnuts, jujubes, and carrots. Bowls of velvety tteokguk, the rice cake soup, plates of crispy jeon, golden pancakes made from savory ingredients like seafood and kimchi, were stacked high, inviting everyone to share. A platter of hobakjuk, creamy pumpkin porridge, added a touch of sweetness, balanced by the fiery kick of kimchi. For dessert, there were delicacies like yakgwa, honey-soaked cookies, and soft baesuk, steamed pears infused with cinnamon and pine nuts.

The feast, a harmonious blend of flavors, mirrored the joy and togetherness of the season, with every bite evoking the warmth of home. Luna sat beside Jeonghan, their hands occasionally brushing as they passed dishes or poured drinks, a small, private smile exchanged between them every time.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, stories weaving in and out as glasses clinked and plates were filled.

The laughter continued, each story sparking another until the room felt as though it might burst with joy.

Luna’s father shared a story about her childhood Christmas antics, like the year she tried to stay up all night to catch Santa in the act, only to fall asleep under the tree. Jeonghan’s mother chimed in with tales of his childhood mischief, and soon the table was a tapestry of memories, old and new, weaving their two families closer together.

When the meal finally wound down, it was time for the gifts. They gathered around the tree, the soft glow of the lights casting a warm hue over their faces. Each person took turns handing out their presents, the room filling with exclamations of gratitude and delight as wrapping paper was torn away.

Luna watched the exchange with her heart swelling, her gaze drifting to Jeonghan. In that moment, she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by gratitude— for him, for their families, for the life they were building together.

Finally, as the night grew late, it was time to say goodbye.

Jeonghan’s parents hugged Luna tightly, thanking her for hosting such a wonderful evening, and her parents did the same with Jeonghan. Promises to meet again soon were exchanged as coats were retrieved and farewells were made.

Soon, the house was quiet again, the echoes of laughter lingering in its walls as Jeonghan and Luna closed the door behind their families.

For the first time that evening, they were alone.

As the door clicked shut behind the last of their family, Luna instinctively turned toward the dining table, her hands already reaching for the nearest stack of plates.

The remnants of their joyous evening lay scattered across the table— half-empty wine glasses, crumpled napkins, and the last crumbs of their feast. The soft hum of holiday music played faintly in the background, blending seamlessly with the warmth still lingering in the air.

It was the kind of mess that didn’t bother her, really.

To Luna, it was evidence of a night well spent, but her natural instinct to tidy up took over before she even thought twice. She moved efficiently, stacking plates and gathering utensils, her steps light but purposeful.

Jeonghan, still leaning against the wall near the tree, watched her with an affectionate smile. He hadn’t moved yet, his arms folded loosely as he admired the way she seemed to glide through the room. There was something endlessly endearing about Luna when she was in her element, her focus so pure and unassuming.

But tonight, Jeonghan wasn’t about to let her get too far into her routine.

As she reached for another plate, she felt familiar arms slide around her waist from behind. The sudden warmth of his touch startled her for only a second before she leaned into him, already accustomed to his affectionate interruptions.

Jeonghan’s chin came to rest on her shoulder, his soft hair tickling the side of her face as he nuzzled her cheek.

“Leave it,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, punctuated with a kiss to the side of her head.

Luna let out a small laugh, but her hands continued their work, stacking another plate onto the growing pile in front of her. “We’ve been over this, Han. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

Jeonghan groaned dramatically, tightening his hold on her waist as if to physically stop her. “But why do we have to start at all right now? It’s Christmas,” he crooned, his tone lilting and playful, as though he were coaxing a stubborn child. “Can’t we just… enjoy the night? You know, us?”

Luna tried to twist her head to look at him, but he pressed another kiss to her temple, effectively stopping her. “I am enjoying the night,” she countered, her tone firm but softened by the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll enjoy it even more when our house isn’t a mess.”

Jeonghan laughed softly, the sound vibrating against her back. “You’re impossible,” he whispered, brushing his lips lightly against her ear. “But you love me, right?”

“I do,” Luna admitted without hesitation, her voice quieter now, though her hands still busied themselves with gathering utensils. “Which is why you should help me instead of distracting me.”

“I’ll help,” he promised, his voice taking on a sing-song quality as his hands shifted to her hips, gently swaying her from side to side. “Later.”

“Later?” she echoed, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably as a giggle escaped her lips.

“Yes, later,” he confirmed, his tone overly patient as though explaining something to a small child. “Right now, I’m more excited to give you your gift. And to see what you got me. Isn’t that more fun than cleaning, Nana-ya?”

Luna paused at that, finally setting the plates down with a sigh. She turned her head just enough to catch a glimpse of his face, his expression smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re so persistent,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him even as her resolve wavered.

“And you’re so stubborn,” Jeonghan countered, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Which is why we’re perfect for each other and which is why I love you. But come on, Jiyeonie. Just for tonight. Let’s not worry about the mess. I’ll clean every single plate tomorrow if it makes you feel better.”

Luna sighed again, this time louder, though she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “Fine,” she relented, her voice tinged with mock exasperation. “But if the house is still messy tomorrow, I’m holding you accountable.”

“Deal,” Jeonghan said instantly, his grin widening as he released her waist only to grab her hand instead. He began leading her away from the table, his excitement palpable. “Now come on. I’ve been waiting all night for this.”

As Luna allowed herself to be guided, she couldn’t help but reflect on how this had become their tradition.

Just as they had started spending the holidays with both their families after they began dating five years ago, this part of the night— just the two of them exchanging gifts— had become sacred.

Neither of them could quite pinpoint when or why it started.

Maybe it was the intimacy of it, the way it felt like a quiet pocket of time reserved solely for them amidst the chaos of the holidays. Or maybe it was just easier to be vulnerable when there were no prying eyes, no pressure to perform or impress.

Whatever the reason, they had come to cherish this moment, when it was just them, raw and unfiltered, sharing their hearts in a way they couldn’t with anyone else.

Luna glanced at Jeonghan as he guided her to the couch, his fingers laced with hers. There was a spark of boyish excitement in his eyes, and she couldn’t help but smile.

No matter how many years passed, no matter how much their lives changed, this moment— just the two of them— felt like home.

Jeonghan led Luna to the couch with a confident stride, his fingers still laced with hers. As they sat down, he shifted slightly to face her, leaning against the cushions with a teasing glint in his eyes.

It was a look Luna knew all too well— mischievous and self-assured, like he was holding onto a secret so tantalizing that he could barely contain himself.

She raised a brow at him, already sensing he was up to something, though she couldn’t quite figure out what. “What?” she asked, drawing the word out, her tone skeptical but laced with curiosity.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his grin growing wider. “Nothing,” he replied, his voice light and sing-song, which of course only made her more suspicious.

“You’re such a bad liar. Terrible actually,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes at him.

He chuckled, leaning closer until their faces were mere inches apart. “Okay, fine,” he said, lowering his voice to a mock whisper, as though he were letting her in on a great secret. “I just know something you don’t.”

Luna blinked at him, deadpan. “Oh, here we go.”

Jeonghan leaned back, feigning shock. “What? You don’t even know what I’m about to say!”

“I don’t have to. It’s you. You always think you know everything,” she teased, crossing her arms over her chest, though she couldn’t hide the small smile playing at her lips.

“That’s because I do know everything… especially about you,” he declared, puffing his chest out dramatically. He nudged her side gently with his elbow, his grin turning smug. “For example, I know that my gift for you is the best gift in the entire universe.”

Luna scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” Jeonghan affirmed, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. He leaned in again, his eyes locking onto hers. “I’m so confident, in fact, that I’ll bet my entire Christmas stocking you’re going to cry.”

“Cry?” Luna echoed, her brows lifting in disbelief.

“Cry,” he repeated firmly, his voice dropping into a soft, almost teasing coo. “Big, pouring, emotional tears. You’re going to cry so hard that you’ll need, like, three tissues. Minimum.”

Luna’s laugh bubbled up before she could stop it, and she shook her head at him. “Three tissues, huh?”

“Maybe four,” he added, shrugging nonchalantly. “You’re a crier. I know these things.”

“I am not a crier,” she protested, giving him a light shove, though she couldn’t keep the grin off her face.

“Oh, you are, my baby,” Jeonghan said, catching her hand before she could pull it back. He interlaced their fingers, his thumb grazing her knuckles in a way that was almost distracting. “Remember last month when we watched that random commercial about a dog? You cried for, like, twenty minutes.”

“That was different!” Luna argued, her voice rising slightly as she tried to defend herself. “The dog was lost and then found his way home. That’s emotional, Hannie.”

Jeonghan just laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Exactly my point. If a dog commercial can make you cry, my gift is going to ruin you.”

“Bold words,” Luna said, narrowing her eyes at him again, though her tone was light. “But you know what? If you’re so sure your gift is the best, I hope you’re ready to eat your words. Because I know my gift is going to make you cry.”

Jeonghan’s brows shot up, his expression one of exaggerated surprise. “Oh? You think so?”

“I don’t think so. I know so,” Luna replied, her voice turning smug as she tilted her chin up. “You’re going to cry harder than me. One hundred percent.”

Jeonghan let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he leaned closer again, his eyes sparkling. “You’re cute when you’re cocky, you know that, my pretty moon?”

“And you’re insufferable,” she shot back, but her tone was fond, her lips twitching into another smile.

“Mm, but you love me,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as he stared at her with that soft, adoring look that always left her feeling like her heart was a little too big for her chest.

“Unfortunately,” she said, pretending to sound exasperated, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her.

Jeonghan suddenly poked her side, making her jump and let out a small squeak. “Stop that!” she protested, swatting at his hand, but he only grinned wider, clearly delighted by her reaction.

“You’re too confident, Miss Luna,” he said, poking her again and laughing when she squirmed. “We can’t have that.”

“Yoon Jeonghan!” she whined, her voice a mix of annoyance and laughter. “If you keep that up, I swear—”

“What? You’ll cry before I even give you your gift?” he teased, poking her one last time before grabbing her hands to stop her from retaliating.

Luna huffed, glaring at him, but there was no real heat in her gaze. “You’re such a child.”

“And you love that about me,” he countered, his voice softening as his teasing grin shifted into a gentle smile. He brought her hands up to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. “Admit it.”

“Maybe a little,” she muttered, though the way her cheeks flushed gave her away.

Jeonghan’s eyes softened as he gazed at her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them charged with something quiet but undeniable. Luna looked away first, clearing her throat as she tried to regain her composure.

“Anyway,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, “I guess we’ll just have to see who cries first.”

“Oh, we will,” Jeonghan said, his tone full of certainty as he leaned back slightly, still holding her hands. “And when you do, I’ll be ready with the tissues. Four of them.”

Luna laughed again, shaking her head at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re perfect,” he replied, his voice so soft and genuine that it caught her off guard. She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, she felt like the rest of the world had melted away.

This was their Christmas tradition, and in moments like these, she couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Jeonghan leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms with a playful smirk. “Alright, Nana-ya,” he teased, his voice light and coaxing. “Why don’t we start with your gift for me? Not because I’m dying to see what you got me or anything— though I totally am— but because we need to save the best for last, which is obviously my gift for you.”

Luna rolled her eyes at his cockiness but couldn’t fight the soft smile tugging at her lips. She stared at him for a moment, her eyes softening as her gaze lingered on his face.

His smile was mischievous, his hair slightly tousled from leaning against the cushions, and his confidence was absolutely shining through. And yet, there was an undeniable tenderness in his features that made her heart skip a beat.

After a few seconds, Luna shook her head, giving in with a small laugh. “Fine,” she murmured. “We’ll start with mine.”

Jeonghan grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Knew you’d see things my way.”

Luna reached for her phone on the table, unlocking it swiftly and beginning to type with purpose. Her fingers flew over the screen, her brow furrowed in concentration as Jeonghan watched her with growing curiosity. His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

“Are you just ordering my gift right now?” he teased, his voice light but probing. “Don’t tell me you forgot to buy me something.”

Luna didn’t even look up as she smirked. “Nope. In fact, I’ve been working on your gift all year.”

That made Jeonghan pause. His brows shot up, and his lips parted as if he were about to say something, but before he could, the familiar chime of a notification sounded from his phone. He looked down at it, then back up at her, his expression skeptical yet intrigued.

“What’s this?” he asked, holding her gaze.

Luna only smiled as she locked her phone and placed it aside. “Go ahead,” she said, leaning back against the couch with an air of playful mystery. “Open it.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow at her, his lips twitching with a faint smirk. “Did you wire me your entire bank account? Because that will actually make me cry, baby.”

Luna let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Just check your phone, Hannie.”

Still watching her closely, Jeonghan picked up his phone and unlocked it. His thumb hovered over the screen before he noticed the Instagram notification at the top.

It was a post from Luna.

His curiosity peaked, and he clicked on it, his brows knitting together in confusion before they shot up in surprise.

It was a new post on Luna’s feed— a picture of her… it was an album cover and the track list which he has not seen before and her caption immediately caught his attention. His eyes darted across the text as he read it under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper:

“‘Not all gifts come wrapped; some are sung… here’s my gift wrapped in melodies! A little something for the holidays. Five songs for someone who makes my world brighter. Maybe they’ll make yours a little warmer too! For the one who inspired it and for all of you… Santa’s biggest secret this year? Is that I made this about you, thinking of you, inspired by you, just for you, @/jeonghaniyoo_n, because Santa doesn’t know you like I do, my angel boy…. this Christmas, with love… out now!!’”

Jeonghan’s voice faltered at the end, and he fell silent, staring at the screen as the weight of her words sunk in.

Luna watched him closely, her soft smile widening as she took in his reaction.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak— he was utterly frozen, his thumb still hovering over the caption.

“You wanna listen to it, my love?” she asked softly, her voice warm and teasing.

Jeonghan didn’t respond at first.

He inhaled deeply, blinking as if trying to process everything, before letting out a shaky breath. “Give me a second,” he murmured, his voice unusually firm. He looked up at her then, his face blank, but the deadpan humor in his tone was unmistakable. “I just need to wrap my head around the fact that you’re this obsessed with me.”

Luna burst into laughter, doubling over as her shoulders shook with mirth. “Obsessed with you?” she echoed, grinning at him. “You think I wrote an entire album because I’m obsessed with you?”

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze sharp yet amused. “Did you not? Five songs, Nana-ya. Five. All about me. That screams obsession, babe.”

“And here I thought you’d be flattered,” she teased, sitting up straighter and shrugging nonchalantly. “Guess I’ll just take it back.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Jeonghan shot back, his grin returning as he leaned closer to her. “You’re not taking anything back. In fact, I’m going to make you admit it.”

“Admit what?” she asked, her eyes twinkling as she matched his energy.

“That you’re absolutely head over heels for me,” he said, his tone both smug and playful. “I mean, I already knew that, but now the whole world does too.”

Luna laughed again, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re in love with me,” Jeonghan countered, his voice dropping into a softer, more teasing tone as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Deeply, madly, irrevocably.”

“Maybe,” Luna admitted with a small shrug, her smile turning coy. “But you’re not much better, Hannie. I bet you’re going to cry when you listen to those songs.”

Jeonghan groaned dramatically, throwing his head back against the couch. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” he said, his voice full of mock exasperation. “First, you ruin me with that caption, and now this? I swear, Bae Jiyeon, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Luna couldn’t stop smiling as she leaned closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. “But what a way to go, huh?” she teased softly, her voice warm and full of love.

Jeonghan let out a low laugh, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. “Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “What a way to go.”

They sat like that for a few moments longer, Jeonghan’s eyes still fixed on his phone screen, until Luna nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “Come on,” she coaxed, her voice soft and encouraging. “Let’s listen to it together.”

His gaze shifted from his phone to her, his lips curving into a faint smile. “You’re really not going to let me mentally prepare for this, are you?”

Luna leaned in, her eyes bright with mischief. “Nope. I’ve been waiting for this moment all year, Hannie. Indulge me, please.”

Jeonghan let out a mock sigh, his fingers moving to unlock his phone. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but the way his smile deepened betrayed the fondness behind his words.

“And you love it,” Luna teased, inching closer to him on the couch as he navigated to her album.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, his voice dripping with fake exasperation. He pulled up the album, the tracklist appearing on his screen. “Alright, your majesty, let’s see what all this fuss is about.”

Before Jeonghan could press play, Luna crawled closer to him, her movements unhurried and natural, until she ended up seated snugly on his lap. Jeonghan didn’t even flinch— his arms automatically moved to encircle her, caging her in as he adjusted the phone in front of them so they could both see the screen. Luna leaned her head against his chest, her cheek pressing against his sweater, the scent of his cologne familiar and comforting.

“Comfortable?” Jeonghan asked, his voice low and teasing, but his fingers rested lightly against her back, tracing small, lazy patterns.

“Mmhm,” Luna mumbled, her eyes already fluttering shut. She was exhausted from the day, but there was nowhere else she’d rather be than here, wrapped up in his arms.

Jeonghan chuckled softly. “Alright, let’s do this,” he murmured, pressing play on the first track.

The first song began to play, and the room was filled with Luna’s voice, sweet and melodic, carrying lyrics that spoke of warmth, love, and quiet devotion.

Jeonghan was quiet as he listened, his focus entirely on the music. Luna, on the other hand, let herself sink deeper into her position, the memories of writing each song flooding her mind. She remembered the late nights spent scribbling down lyrics, the moments of inspiration when Jeonghan would unknowingly say or do something that would spark a melody in her head.

As the second, third, and fourth songs played, Luna remained still, her head nestled against Jeonghan’s chest. He hadn’t said a word, but she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her cheek. Every now and then, his hand would tighten slightly on her back, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes.

It wasn’t until the fifth and final song ended that Luna heard it— a soft sniffle. Her eyes snapped open, and she tilted her head up to look at Jeonghan.

“Hannie?” she asked softly, her brow furrowing when she saw the glassy sheen in his eyes.

Jeonghan immediately looked away, tilting his head to the side as if that would somehow hide the tears threatening to fall. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice slightly strained.

Luna blinked, her lips parting in surprise. “Oh my gosh, are you really crying?” she asked, her tone somewhere between teasing and genuine concern.

“No,” Jeonghan said quickly, his voice unconvincing as he brought a hand up to rub at his eye.

Luna sat up straighter, turning fully to straddle his lap as she cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. “You’re actually crying,” she said, her voice softer now as she took in the sight of him.

Jeonghan rarely cried— she could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him like this— and it made her chest tighten in both amusement and tenderness.

“I’m not crying,” Jeonghan insisted, though his voice wavered, betraying him.

Luna bit her lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Hannie,” she said, her thumbs brushing gently across his cheeks. “Are you really crying because of my songs?”

Jeonghan exhaled a shaky breath, his lips twitching upward in a weak smile. “What can I say? You’ve turned me into a sap,” he said, his tone light but his eyes betraying the depth of his emotions. “Also, correction, songs about me, Jiyeonie. Who does that? You’re literally obsessed with me.”

Luna couldn’t hold back her laughter this time. “I thought we already established that,” she teased, leaning in closer.

Jeonghan groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. “You’re not helping,” he said, his voice muffled. “You’re trying to kill me, I swear.”

Luna giggled, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I mean, if this is how you’re going to react, maybe I should write five more songs next year.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jeonghan said, lifting his head to glare at her, though the corners of his mouth were still curved upward.

They both dissolved into laughter, the tension in the room melting away. As Luna’s giggles subsided, she leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Thank you for letting me embarrass you,” she said softly, her voice full of affection.

Jeonghan wrapped his arms more securely around her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. “Thank you for loving me enough to embarrass myself,” he murmured, his tone earnest now.

Luna smiled, her hands cupping his face once more as she wiped away the remnants of his tears. “You’re welcome, my love,” she whispered.

Jeonghan leaned back slightly, his mischievous grin returning. “You know,” he began, his voice teasing, “if you ever decide to make a second album about me, at least title it something dramatic. Like ‘The Yoon Jeonghan Effect.’”

Luna groaned, dropping her head to his shoulder as laughter bubbled out of her. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, her voice muffled against his sweater.

“And you love it,” he shot back, his arms tightening around her.

“Unfortunately,” she replied, echoing his earlier words.

Jeonghan's fingers trailed softly over the curve of Luna's back, his touch featherlight yet deliberate, sending a shiver down her spine. His hand lingered for a moment at the small of her back before gliding upward, his movements unhurried. When his hand reached the nape of her neck, he gently cupped it, his thumb brushing tenderly against her skin. With a gentle tug, he coaxed her to tilt her head up, making her meet his gaze.

Luna's lashes fluttered as her eyes rose to meet his, her lips parting slightly at the intensity of his expression.

Jeonghan was looking down at her like she was the only person in the world, his eyes drinking in every detail of her face as though committing it to memory. His soft smile carried a reverence that made Luna's heart stumble in her chest.

Without breaking eye contact, Jeonghan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back just enough to whisper, "I love you."

Luna's lips curved into a small, content smile, her eyes falling shut as Jeonghan moved to place a kiss on the tip of her nose.

"I love you," he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper, the tenderness in it making her chest ache in the best way.

The next kiss landed on her right eyelid, prompting her to close her eyes

instinctively. "I love you," he said softly, the words falling like a prayer.

Then, he kissed her left eyelid, his thumb brushing along her jaw. "I love you."

Luna felt her cheeks grow warm under the gentle onslaught of his affection, a soft giggle escaping her lips as he kissed her right cheek next.

"I love you," he murmured, his smile growing wider at the sound of her laughter.

He kissed her left cheek next, lingering for a heartbeat longer. "I love you."

Luna's giggle turned into a soft hum as she kept her eyes closed, her smile unbroken.

She felt entirely at his mercy, her body melting into his touch as though he was the sun and she was a flower basking in his warmth.

When Jeonghan finally stopped, his hands cradled her face, his thumbs gently brushing against her cheeks. He studied her face for a moment, his gaze sweeping over every feature as though searching for something he hadn't yet memorized.

"Open your eyes," he murmured, his voice so soft it felt like a secret meant only for her.

Luna slowly opened her eyes, her gaze locking with his. The air between them grew heavy with unspoken emotion as they stared at each other, their faces mere inches apart.

"I love you," Jeonghan whispered again, his voice cracking just slightly, his sincerity cutting through the air like a blade.

“I love you,” Luna's breath hitched as his eyes flickered to her lips. He licked his own, almost subconsciously, and she caught the faintest movement of his throat as he swallowed.

Then, with painstaking slowness, he leaned in.

His lips met hers softly at first, like the brush of a butterfly's wings. Luna's breath caught as her senses were overwhelmed by him-the taste of wine lingering faintly on his lips, the gentle pressure, the warmth of his hands framing her face. Jeonghan moved with deliberate care, his lips molding against hers in a way that felt both tender and possessive.

As the kiss deepened, he tilted his head slightly, his movements unhurried but assured. His lips parted just enough for his tongue to trace the seam of hers, coaxing a soft sigh from her. Luna responded instinctively, her hands curling into the fabric of his sweater as she leaned into him.

The kiss lasted for what felt like an eternity and a single moment all at once.

When Jeonghan finally pulled away, it was only by a fraction of an inch. Luna's lips chased after his on instinct, a soft whine escaping her as her eyes remained closed.

"Impatient, aren't we?" Jeonghan teased, his voice low and laced with amusement.

Luna huffed, her cheeks flushed as she opened her eyes to glare at him half-heartedly. "You stopped, Han," she mumbled, her lips curving into a pout.

Jeonghan chuckled, his hands still cradling her face. "I just needed a second to remind myself how lucky I am," he murmured before leaning in again.

This time, the kiss was hungrier, more urgent. His lips moved against hers with a confidence that made Luna's heart race, his hands sliding down to rest on her waist as he pulled her closer. Luna's arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair as she tilted her head to deepen the kiss further.

Jeonghan groaned softly against her lips, the sound sending a thrill down her spine.

Their movements were synchronized, a perfect give and take, their kisses growing slower but no less intense as they savored each other.

When Luna finally pulled away, her chest was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her forehead rested against Jeonghan's, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, "I love you too, so much."

Jeonghan's eyes fluttered open, his gaze searching hers. "You're going to be the death of me," he repeated, though his smile betrayed the lack of real complaint in his words.

"Good," Luna teased, her fingers playing with the strands of his hair as she leaned in to peck his lips lightly.

Jeonghan chuckled, his hands sliding up to rest on her back. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Love me forever," she replied, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeonghan's smile softened, his arms tightening around her as he pulled her into a hug. "That's the plan," he murmured into her hair, his voice filled with quiet conviction.

Luna smiled against his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of his neck. "You're stuck with me, you know."

"Good," Jeonghan said, echoing her earlier words. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes filled with a love so profound it made Luna's heart ache.

Jeonghan’s fingers gently combed through Luna’s hair, his touch soft and soothing. “Do you want to see your gift, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice low and warm as he looked down at her.

Luna hummed, her cheek pressed against his chest, her arms still loosely draped around his neck. “I completely forgot about that,” she admitted, her voice muffled by his sweater.

Jeonghan chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You shouldn’t. My gift for you is just as unforgettable as your gift to me.” His lips curved into a teasing smile, his tone lighthearted but with a hint of excitement.

He gently shifted her off his lap, moving to stand. The moment his warmth left her, Luna whined softly, her arms reaching out as if to pull him back. “Don’t go,” she pouted, her lips tugging downward as her eyes followed him.

Jeonghan bent down, his hands cupping her cheeks as he cooed, “Baby, I’ll be quick. I promise.”

Luna’s brows furrowed, her lower lip jutting out in defiance. “You just got me all comfy, and now you’re leaving?”

His laugh was soft, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “I’m not leaving, my moon. Just going to get your gift.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, his voice a soothing murmur. “Stay right here, okay? I’ll be back in no time.”

Luna huffed, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the couch. “Fine. But you better not take forever.”

“I won’t,” he assured her, his tone laced with amusement. Jeonghan straightened up and started toward the hallway but stopped midway, glancing back with a mischievous smile. “And don’t even think about snooping. That’s off-limits.”

Luna raised a brow, feigning innocence. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Jeonghan gave her a knowing look before disappearing down the hallway to the guest bedroom.

Left alone, Luna sighed, letting her head fall back against the couch. Her gaze flickered to the ceiling as her curiosity began to bubble up. What could he have been keeping in the guest room all this time? Jeonghan had been oddly secretive about it since this morning, even telling her earlier that day not to peek inside.

Her mind wandered as she traced idle patterns on the armrest of the couch. Despite her momentary impatience, she couldn’t suppress the warm feeling that spread through her at the thought of Jeonghan planning something special just for her.

Minutes felt like hours as she waited, her ears straining to pick up any sound from the other room. “What’s taking him so long?” she muttered under her breath, her curiosity mounting with each passing second.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the faint creak of the guest bedroom door, followed by the sound of Jeonghan’s footsteps approaching. Luna sat up straighter, her eyes fixed on the hallway with a mixture of anticipation and excitement.

“Finally,” she said as he appeared, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I thought you were never coming back.”

Jeonghan chuckled, his hands behind his back. “Patience, Nana-ya. Good things take time.”

Luna narrowed her eyes playfully but couldn’t hide the growing smile on her lips. Whatever was hidden behind him, she could tell by the look on his face that it meant a lot to him.

And that made her heart flutter.

Jeonghan walked into the living room, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, his hands tucked behind his back to keep the gift hidden from view. Luna, sitting cross-legged on the couch, eyed him suspiciously. Her curiosity had been bubbling since he’d disappeared down the hallway.

Jeonghan took a seat next to her, still holding the gift behind him, and leaned back casually as if he weren’t keeping her in suspense. “Hmm,” he mused aloud, glancing at her sideways with a mischievous smirk. “You know… maybe it’s too early to give you this gift. It’s still Christmas Eve, after all. Maybe we should wait until Christmas morning.”

Luna immediately narrowed her eyes. “Yoon Jeonghan,” she said warningly, her tone dripping with suspicion. “Don’t even think about it.”

Feigning innocence, Jeonghan rose from the couch, making a show of stepping backward as if he were about to leave. “What? I’m just saying, it might be more meaningful tomorrow. You can wait, right, baby?”

“Try walking backwards all the way back there. I dare you,” Luna challenged, crossing her arms as a smirk tugged at her lips.

Jeonghan couldn’t help but laugh, his shoulders shaking. “You’re persuasive,” he said, moving to sit back down beside her. “Fine, fine. You win. But…” He turned to face her fully, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You have to close your eyes for me first, alright?. No peeking.”

Luna tilted her head, eyeing him suspiciously for a moment before sighing. “Fine,” she relented. She was, after all, a good girl— his good girl. Obediently, she closed her eyes, folding her hands neatly in her lap as she waited.

Jeonghan, still grinning like a mischievous child, leaned forward and placed a quick, soft kiss on her lips. “There you go,” he said teasingly. “That’s your gift. Merry Christmas!”

Luna’s eyes snapped open, and she glared at him, unimpressed. “Yoon Jeonghan,” she said, her voice a mix of disbelief and mock annoyance. “If the kiss is the gift, at least make sure it’s a proper one and not something you’d give back in kindergarten with your crush.”

Jeonghan’s grin widened, a playful glint in his eyes. “A kindergarten kiss?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Are you sure? Do you want to talk about our kiss earlier? That was definitely not childish. And trust me, you don’t want to challenge me on this.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a flirtatious murmur. “If I show you what a real kiss looks like again, we might end up with another gift in nine months.”

Luna’s eyes widened, her cheeks turning bright red as his words sank in. “Ya!” she exclaimed, smacking his chest in embarrassment.

Jeonghan groaned dramatically, removing one hand from his back and placing a hand over his chest where she’d hit him, though his lips curled into an annoying smirk. “What?” he said, laughing. “I’m just saying the truth.”

“Yoon Jeonghan!” Luna said again, her voice high-pitched with exasperation. “Just give me my gift already!”

Jeonghan chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Okay, okay,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “But you have to close your eyes again. For real this time.”

Luna shot him a pointed glare but reluctantly complied, her eyes fluttering shut as she huffed in irritation. “If this is another trick, I’m going to—”

“It’s not,” Jeonghan interrupted, his voice soft with reassurance. “I promise.”

Luna took a deep breath, waiting patiently, her hands resting on her knees. She couldn’t see Jeonghan’s face, but if she could, she’d know he was grinning ear to ear as he stared at her.

Her trust in him, the way she immediately complied with his request, made his heart swell.

A few seconds passed before she felt it— a soft weight settling in her lap.

Confusion flickered across her features as her hands instinctively moved to touch it. Her fingers brushed against something warm, something soft. Then, it shifted slightly, its small, fluffy body wriggling under her touch.

Her breath caught as her fingers trailed upward, feeling long, velvety ears that flopped over in her hands. Luna froze, her mind piecing it together even before she opened her eyes.

“Hannie…” she whispered, her voice shaky with surprise. But she kept her eyes shut, savoring the moment.

She didn’t need to see to know what— or rather, who— was now sitting on her lap.

The soft, warm sniff of a tiny nose brushed against Luna’s fingers, and her entire body tensed as if holding back a flood of emotion.

Without opening her eyes, her head dropped forward, her hair falling like a curtain around her face. Her shoulders began to shake, silent tremors overtaking her before a quiet sob escaped her lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks, unchecked and unstoppable, as she broke down completely.

Jeonghan, still seated beside her, watched her with a soft smile, his chest tightening at her overwhelmed reaction but also brimming with quiet amusement. “Open your eyes, angel,” he coaxed gently, his voice laced with a low chuckle.

Luna obeyed without hesitation, lifting her head and blinking her watery eyes open.

The world came into focus, and there it was— a small tan bunny, its tiny paws resting on her lap, its soft fur a shade of warm beige that seemed to glow in the Christmas lights. Its long, floppy ears trailed down as it gazed up at her with curious, shiny eyes.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and the tears that had already been falling came down in an even heavier torrent. She covered her face with both hands, her whine muffled but still audible. “No, no, no,” she whimpered, shaking her head. “Han… no… are you fucking kidding me right now?!”

Jeonghan’s chuckle grew into a laugh, low and affectionate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cry harder over a bunny,” he teased, leaning closer to her and brushing his fingers gently across her trembling shoulder. “Hey, hey, breathe, Jiyeon-ah. Come on, pretty girl. It’s okay.”

Luna peeked at him from between her fingers, her cheeks wet and her lips quivering. The bunny remained in her lap, still and sweet, its nose twitching as if trying to figure out its new owner.

From as long as Luna could remember, she’d been obsessed with animals. Dogs, cats, birds— she loved them all. But bunnies had always held a special place in her heart. Maybe it was their soft, round bodies that felt like clouds come to life. Or the way their long ears drooped behind them as they moved. Or perhaps it was their fluffy tails, little pom-poms that bounced with every hop. Whatever it was, bunnies had enchanted her from the time she was a child.

When her fans started calling her a bunny, it only cemented her affection for the creatures. She remembered how her heart had swelled with joy the first time she saw the nickname trending online.

It felt like a perfect reflection of her— small, sweet, and sometimes a little shy.

But despite her deep love for them, she’d never had one of her own. Her mother had been allergic to fur, and that had meant no pets— no dogs, no cats, and definitely no bunnies. As a child, she’d begged and pleaded, but it was never possible and she understood that.

When she grew older and moved to Seoul to be an idol and finally moved into her own space, the thought of getting a bunny crossed her mind immediately. She’d even researched breeds and names, imagining what it would be like to finally hold one. But her busy idol life had always interfered. There was no time to properly care for a pet, and eventually, the dream of owning one slipped into the background.

It became something she daydreamed about but never acted on.

And now, Jeonghan had brought that dream to life.

“You didn’t…” Luna choked out, her voice breaking as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. She looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, her hands trembling as they hovered over the bunny’s soft fur.

Jeonghan reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb gently wiping away her tears. “I did,” he murmured, his voice so soft it felt like a lullaby. “And you’re going to cry yourself into dehydration if you don’t stop, angel. Breathe for me, okay? Deep breaths.”

Luna tried, hiccupping as she inhaled shakily. But the sight of the bunny in her lap sent another wave of emotion crashing over her. Jeonghan chuckled again, pulling her closer.

Carefully, he shifted her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her securely. Luna let herself collapse against him, her face buried in his chest as the bunny hopped across her lap to nestle against her stomach. She reached down, her hands finally finding the courage to scoop the bunny up. Its fur was softer than she’d imagined, its tiny body warm and alive against her palms.

“Is it really mine?” she whispered, her voice barely audible through her sobs. Her wide eyes searched Jeonghan’s face, her lips pouting like a child seeking reassurance.

Jeonghan smiled, his hand stroking her hair. “It’s yours,” he said firmly, his voice dripping with tenderness. “All yours. Merry Christmas, pretty girl.”

Luna’s grip on the bunny tightened as she hugged it to her chest, her tears soaking into its fur. “I can’t believe this,” she murmured, shaking her head. “When did you— how did you even— Yoon Jeonghan!”

Jeonghan laughed at her flustered state, his eyes sparkling with adoration. “One question at a time, angel,” he said, placing a kiss on her temple. “I’ve been planning this for a while. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

She sniffled, her eyes still wet as she looked up at him. “How long?”

“Almost the entire year,” he admitted, smiling. “I started looking at the beginning of the year. Found this little one through a breeder who specializes in raising calm, sweet rabbits. I wanted one that would fit you perfectly.”

Luna hiccupped again, her hands trembling as she stroked the bunny’s floppy ears. “And you kept it a secret this whole time?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone teasing. “What kind of surprise would it be if I didn’t?”

Her bottom lip wobbled as she stared at him, and he leaned forward to press a kiss to her nose. “No more crying,” he whispered. “Enjoy your bunny, okay? He’s all yours now. Just like I am.”

Luna couldn’t hold back a watery giggle, burying her face in the bunny’s soft fur. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much, Hannie.”

Jeonghan tightened his hold on her, his smile softening. “Anything for you, angel,” he murmured. “Anything.”

Luna’s fingers trembled slightly as she cradled the bunny close to her chest, her tears slowing as awe overtook her features. She tilted her head down, her full attention shifting to the soft, warm creature in her hands.

Gently, she let it rest against her lap before lifting it higher, gazing at it as though it were the most precious thing she’d ever held. Her voice dropped into a soft, cooing tone, her words as tender as the way her fingers brushed over the bunny’s floppy ears.

“Hi, little one,” she whispered, her lips trembling into a smile as the bunny’s nose twitched at her voice. “Oh my gosh, look at you. You’re so tiny… and soft. Are you real? Huh? Are you really mine?” She nuzzled her nose against the bunny’s fur, her giggles muffled by the soft fluff. “You’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Aren’t you? Yes, you are. What’s your name, hmm? Or do you not have one yet?”

Jeonghan leaned in silently, a soft chuckle escaping him as he kissed the damp streaks of tears from her cheeks. His fingers worked gently, brushing away the strands of hair that had stuck to her skin. He smoothed her hair back as if fussing over her was second nature, his touch lingering like a feather against her temple.

Luna didn’t look up, too engrossed in her new pet, but Jeonghan couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“I can’t believe this,” he said suddenly, his voice filled with disbelief but tinged with amusement.

Luna finally lifted her gaze to him, her brows furrowing slightly. “Can’t believe what?” she asked, her voice still soft, almost absentminded as she stroked the bunny’s fur.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “I can’t believe this made you cry harder than when I proposed to you,” he said, his tone mock serious but teasing enough to make her pause.

Her eyes widened before she burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up so unexpectedly that the bunny gave a small wiggle in her hands. She quickly steadied it, cradling it closer as she giggled uncontrollably. “That is not true!” she managed between her laughs. “You are so dramatic. I literally almost blacked out when you proposed to me!”

Jeonghan shrugged, feigning nonchalance as he brushed an invisible speck of dust from his knee. “I don’t know, Jiyeonie. You were crying pretty hard over this bunny.” He gestured to the small creature in her hands, his smirk widening. “I’m just now realizing that not only do I have to share your attention with twelve other members, but now I have to compete with… him.” He nodded toward the bunny as if it were a rival.

Luna snorted, her laughter subsiding into soft giggles as she pressed a kiss to the bunny’s head. “Him?” she repeated, her tone curious. “It’s a boy?”

Jeonghan nodded, his smirk softening into a grin. “Yeah. He’s a boy. What are you gonna name him?”

Luna tilted her head, her gaze drifting back to the bunny. She studied him intently, her lips pursing in thought as she stroked his long ears. A few seconds passed before her face lit up with a mischievous grin. “Bugs,” she declared.

“Bugs?” Jeonghan repeated, arching a brow.

“Bugs Bunny, duh,” she said with a playful roll of her eyes, as though the name were the most obvious choice in the world.

Jeonghan groaned, leaning back slightly as he placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “I think I’m starting to regret getting this bunny now,” he joked, though the laughter in his voice betrayed him.

“Oh, you are not!” Luna shot back, kissing the bunny again as if to prove a point. “You love him already. Admit it.”

Jeonghan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched her dote on the bunny. His smirk returned, sly and teasing. “I’ll admit I love him under one condition,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

Luna raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. “What condition?”

Jeonghan tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Every kiss Bugs gets has to be doubled and given to me.”

Luna gaped at him, her jaw dropping slightly before she burst into laughter again. “You are so ridiculous!” she said, shaking her head as she hugged the bunny closer. “I’m not keeping track of how many kisses I give him.”

Jeonghan leaned even closer, his face mere inches from hers now. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his tone dripping with playful charm. “I’ll keep track for you.”

Luna rolled her eyes, but the flush that spread across her cheeks didn’t go unnoticed. She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, her smile never fading. “You’re impossible, Yoon Jeonghan.”

“And you love me for it, Bae Jiyeon,” he shot back, his grin softening as he reached out to brush his fingers over her cheek one last time.

Luna looked back down at Bugs, her heart full to the brim. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I do.”

Jeonghan leaned back on the couch, the smirk on his lips smug as he observed Luna holding Bugs protectively against her chest.

“I guess I won,” he said, his voice laced with playful arrogance, his eyes twinkling as he glanced down at the faint tear tracks still glistening on her cheeks.

Luna’s lips parted in disbelief before forming into a pout, her brows furrowing as she turned to face him. “Won?” she huffed, tightening her hold on Bugs, who twitched his nose curiously. “Need I remind you that you cried too? That means I was right. So technically…” She tilted her head with a cheeky grin. “We’re even.”

Jeonghan chuckled softly, his gaze softening as it lingered on her face. His eyes traced every detail— the way her lashes clumped together from tears, the slight swell in her lips from nibbling on them earlier, and the way her cheeks flushed as she cradled Bugs. His attention then shifted to the bunny, whose small movements brought uncontainable joy to Luna’s face.

And just like that, he felt it, a feeling that only Luna managed to make him feel— a rush of something so deep it made his chest ache in the best way.

“We both won,” he murmured, the realization striking him with an unexpected clarity.

Luna blinked, her teasing expression melting into something softer as she looked at him. “We did,” she said, her voice quiet but warm. Her lips curved into a smile that made Jeonghan’s heart stutter, and she leaned forward slowly, Bugs still nestled in her hands.

Jeonghan caught the intent in her eyes and leaned back, his smirk deepening as he allowed her to take the lead. She didn’t hesitate, closing the small gap between them to press her lips to his in a kiss so soft it felt like a whisper. Jeonghan’s hands instinctively moved, one resting lightly on her waist while the other gently cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing over her skin as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. It was slow and unhurried, a quiet exchange that spoke volumes, filled with tenderness and gratitude.

When Luna finally pulled away, her forehead resting against his for a brief moment, she opened her eyes and whispered, “Thank you, Hannie. For everything. For Bugs, for always knowing what I need before I even do.”

Jeonghan smiled, his eyes searching hers as he leaned forward to press a fleeting kiss to her temple. “You don’t have to thank me, angel. I just love you. That’s all.”

Luna bit her lip, her voice soft as she replied, “I love you too. So much.”

Jeonghan brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face, his touch lingering. “I know. Everyone in this planet might be listening to you sing your little heart out about me right now,” he teased, his grin making her roll her eyes before she kissed him on the cheek.

As they sat there, the moment of quiet intimacy wrapping around them, they both seemed to come to the same realization. Their earlier predictions about their gifts making each other cry had proven true, but as Jeonghan looked at Luna’s glowing smile and Bugs wiggling his way comfortably into her lap, another thought struck him.

It wasn’t just the gifts. It was the life they’d built together. The love that filled every crack and corner of their hearts. The way their worlds felt brighter simply because the other was in it.

“Looks like we were both right,” Luna murmured, her fingers absentmindedly stroking Bugs’ soft fur as she glanced at Jeonghan. “But it’s more than just that, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan nodded, his eyes soft and full of emotion as he gazed at her. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s everything. We both won life, Jiyeonie. You’re my win.”

Luna’s breath hitched slightly, her smile growing wider as her free hand reached for his. Their fingers intertwined effortlessly, their connection as natural as breathing. “And you’re mine,” she whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder as Bugs nestled closer to her chest. “You’ve always been mine.”

And in that moment, with the soft glow of Christmas lights illuminating the room and a warm, shared laughter lingering in the air, they both knew— there was nothing more they could ever ask for.

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[cashmoneyyysstuff]

Crying bc that could never be me bc I never really had close guy friends when I was young please write a one shot or something of childhood friends y/n and Katsuki of Katsuki being immune to cooties and bringing these tendencies to UA together 😭

eeeee i was secretly hoping someone would ask me to talk about this more tehhehehe here you go ! I didn’t rlly get what you meant with him carrying the cootie thing to high school so i wrote this around your ask a lil, hope you don't mind ! i tried honoring your request as best i can, hope you enjoy !

fem reader, polar opposite’s trope except not POLAR opposite’s cus yn is a little shit on the low, mitsuki favoritism lol, mitsuki and katsuki arguing n bein sassy, katsuki gets embarrassed, mitsuki is mischievous, katsuki calling his mother old, yn calls mitsuki ‘miss’, pure fluff honestly, say it with me CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS TROPE WOHOOOO, mentions of making out n kissing, established relationship, cooties lol, lemme know if i missed sum else <3 !!

katsuki wants to do one of three things right now : dissapear, sink into the floor or die—and the more he hears his old hag babbling on and on to you with a familiar photo album in her lap, the more he's starting to find the all three options tempting.

" oh look, this was at you guys' kindergarten graduation ! you were both soooo small, do you remember that ?! "

he hears his mom gush from the other bigger living room couch she's sitting on with you. it's been 15 minutes since you had come over to his house and the plan was for you guys to hang out, watch a movie and get a make out session in before you leave or preferably have you sleep over.

that was the plan, until his old hag came and fucked it up.

15 minutes since she'd dragged you over to the couch and talked your ear off about whatever the fuck moms talk about and you, being the sweetheart that you are, listened patiently the whole time, chatting and giggling out jokes easily. katsuki really, really doesn't know how you do it but he sure as hell respects you for it.

you'd always insisted on being polite with his mom, something about staying in her good graces after you guys had started dating. katsuki thinks that's extremely stupid because his mom has loved you since that day in elementary school when he'd dragged you over to her, his little hand gripping yours tightly and proudly exclaiming you were the one he was gonna marry. you were sweeter and calmer than he was by far and she was immediatly enamoured with you. katsuki's damn near sure she loves you more than she loves him. that in itself isn't the problem. the problem was that she's been hogging you ever since you walked in the door.

usually, katsuki's fast enough to drag you up to his room before she can get her claws in you, but he wasn't fast enough today and that's how he ended up in his current predicament.

" and this one when you came over for christmas—oh, katsuki begged me to let you stay over, you know ? you cannot believe how loud he can get when he doesn't get his way, started rolling around on the floor n' everything ! "

katsuki feels his ears redden the more he listens to this conversation and he wishes so bad for you guys to just fucking go. he could go to his room and avoid this entire conversation in theory, but he'd rather avoid his mom telling you some other embarrassing stories that you absolutely do not need to know about, so he concedes and tries his best to drown the conversation out, scrolling on his phone.

"ou, i have an adorable picture of katsuki in the bath let me find—"

" DON'T FUCKIN’ SHOW HER THAT, HAG ?! " katsuki shrieks, startling you, his mom looks surprised for no more than a milisecond before shooting him a nasty glare unphased by her son's outburst. "what's got you pipin' up now, brat ?" she asks unimpressed.

katsuki practically zooms over and snatches the album away from his mother's grip, shooting her a glare identical to her own. " i'm gonna burn this in your sleep one of these days, i swear. " he grumbles, trudging off to put the album back on one of the shelves of his living room and ignoring his mom wishing him good luck with that. katsuki feels like he's lost a battle when he hears you giggle quietly when he turns away, no doubt his mother had said something about how he was embarrassed to have you see his baby pictures. he vows to get revenge and thinks the best way to start is by throwing this cursed collection of pictures on an open fire. he decides to just put it back on the shelf for now.

“ what a spoilsport, am i right ?” mitsuki nudges you with her shoulder and you giggle at what katsuki personally finds a horrible joke. to each their own though, or whatever.

katsuki scoffs to himself. he makes his way back to the couch and stands in front of you both, arms crossed.

“you done hoggin’ my girlfriend now or are you gonna keep yappin’ some more ?” mitsuki scoffs at her son’s words, wrapping her arms around your frame and pulling you against her tightly when she sees katsuki’s hand creeping towards you, assuming he'd try to pull you away.

“ i’m sure you can be patient for a little longer, as hard as i know it is for you.” you hear katsuki scoff out an insult under his breath, mitsuki pays it no mind. “besides, yn has been enjoyin’ our conversation so far, haven’t ya sweetie ?” she asks. you, again, being the sweet thing that you are, happily nod with a smile. mitsuki looks up at her son with a smug look, her expression screams “see ?”.

“ she’s only agreein’ cus yer fuckin’ holdin’ her hostage.” katsuki grumbles. he feels his patience dwindling at a pace that should definitely be alarming. he looks at you and feels his heart flutter when you offer him an apologetic smile. his patience returns the slightest bit.

“hostage ? don’t be ridiculous katsuki—” then it’s as if a lightbulb goes off, katsuki can practically see it gleaming above her head and he really doesn’t like it.

“he’s always been like that y’know ? all clingy—you remember that right ?!”the excitement in her voice becomes more prominent when she sees you nod enthusiastically. katsuki has a strange, foreboding feeling about this.

“ i remember he’d constantly want you around holdin’ his hand everywhere. one time—" she pauses as she bursts into giggles that, to katsuki, sound more like witch cackles than anything.

“one time you refused to hold his hand because you got scared he’d get cooties” she chuckles. katsuki feels his stomach drop.

“but he said that wouldn’t happen because he was too strong to get them !”

fuck patience.

katsuki grabs you and stalks off so fast you feel like you’re floating a little bit. he quickly yells out a “we’re goin’ to my room, don’t fuckin’ bother us !” then he’s quickly running up the stairs with you in tow. it’s only when you get to the hallway that leads to his bedroom that he looks back at you. he rolls his eyes when he sees you clearly fighting back a laugh.

“be quiet.”

“i didn’t even say anything yet !” you defend, giggling at the same time. katsuki fights back a smile at the sound.

“yeah, but you were going to and i don’t wanna hear it.” he bites. he squeezes your hand afterwards, telling you it was a joke in his own way. in actuality, katsuki could listen to you talk for hours and hours, days on end without getting bored. you’re being a brat right now though, so he won’t tell you that.

you smile at his back as katsuki drags you along muttering to himself about how he “never should’ve left you with that old witch for so long.”

“i remember that, y’know ? the cootie thing.” you admit jokingly. walking up a little faster you catch up to him and walk side by side. he glances at you from the corner of his eye then looks away and scoffs “of course you do.” he groans.

“ you’re mom didn’t mean to embarrass you, i’m sure.” you try to console him despite still snickering at the memory of his face going beet red after his mom had ‘exposed’ him. “and it was nice to see those pictures. it felt all...nostalgic.” you reminisce about the summer days you’d spent over the years with your katsuki with a smile. remembering the days of adventures and melting ice cream. of waterparks and bandaged covered knees.

katsuki doesn’t make a sound next to you and you think he’s just ignoring you until he speaks again, the scowl on his face threatens to melt away. “that old bat had it out for me the entire time. she’s fuckin’ evil incarnate, just doesn’t show it to you.” he feels prideful when he hears you laugh “that’s mean !” you scold through giggles, but his smirk says he’s seen through you. he comes to a stop and backs you up until your back is against the wall.

“yer laughin’ though. not as much of an angel as you’re pretending to be, are ya ?” he teases, leaning in closer to you until your noses brush. you try to fight back the smile that pulls at your mouth but it doesn’t work and after a moment you’re giggling again. katsuki swears every time you laugh an angel gets its wings. he steals a sloppy kiss to hear the sound again.

your hands play with the hem of his plain black shirt. he’s handsome, too handsome. his outfit consisted of a plain black t-shirt and some sweatpants yet he still looks like a model and it makes you want to kiss him silly, call it revenge for looking so good.

“ i’m not pretending to be anything, definitely not an angel.” you chuckle “unlike you, i’m just being nice.” you stick your tongue at him and he chuckles. rolling his eyes, he scoffs. his warm hands reflexively start running up and down your waist.

“yeah well, that’s cus unlike me your ass gets to go home. you’d be less nice if you were stuck in here like i am.” you playfully roll your eyes at his dramatics

“i doubt that. besides, miss mitsuki likes me !”

“she’ll get mad at you for callin’ her miss again.” you gasp, quickly clasping your hand over your mouth as if his mom would hear you from here. katsuki’s snort makes you snort as well.

“c’mon” he urges after a minute, grabbing at your hand and tugging at it “we’re goin’ to my room.” he mumbles out a “fuckin’ finally” and you laugh.

then you get an idea.

you suddenly rip your hand from his and katsuki immediately stops dead in his tracks to stare back at you like you had just insulted him. you let out a tiny snort at his expression.

“the hell are you doin’ ?”

you clasp your hands behind your back and sigh, even looking down at the floor sadly for extra dramatic effect “we can’t risk it, suki.”

“hah ?” katsuki fully turns to you, slowly starting to grow worried at your sudden shift in attitude. “what’re you talking about ?”

“i mean..if we hold hands..” you slowly look up at him, revealing your shit eating grin “you might get cooties..”

katsuki looks at you for about 15 seconds with an incredulous look on his face and you burst out laughing. he’s definitely one of the most expressive people you’d ever met, so seeing what kind of faces he’ll makes next is always fun.

he walks over, grabs your hand and squeezes hard, as punishment you assume. you yelp through giggles.

you hear him let out a disappointment sigh when he turns his back to you and drags you to his room again. you happily follow along behind him like you’d done for years now.

"i really shouldn't have left you with that old hag for so long." he mutters bitterly. you let out a snort and smile to yourself, content that your plan to mess with your boyfriend ended up being succesful. you perk up when he suddenly huffs out a laugh.

" and anyways, i won't be gettin' any cooties. m'too cool for 'em." you laugh out loud and the way he grips your hand a little tighter tells you you don't need to see his face to know he's proud of that.

"what if i have them ?" you challenge in between snickers.

katsuki scoffs dissaprovingly, you can basically see him rolling his eyes despite his back being to you.

"you don't. only losers get cooties. and as far as i know, you're not a loser." he's a little embarrassed because this is reminding him too much of when you were kids and it makes him cringe. when he'd come up with excuses like him being 'too strong' or 'too cool' to get cooties because he just couldn't admit he simply wanted you close. "yer anythin' but." you hear him mumble.

you walk up next to him with a somewhat shy smile "i'm flattered you think of me that way." you confess.

"don't let it get to your head." katsuki quips. you respond by sticking your tongue at him again. he tries to ignore the loud thumping of his heart but it's not going too smoothly for him. his cheeks slowly redden and he looks away from you again, not before shooting you an eyeroll.

"hope you know you owe me extra cuddle time for wastin' it talkin' to my ma." katsuki adds, changing the subject. you smile up at him in response and offer him a sweet 'mhm !'

his mom may have embarrassed the shit out of him, but he figures it wasn't all bad. he's still deadset on destroying that photo album before she ends up showing you that picture of him in the bath, though. he'll think about a plan later but right now he plans to enjoy his cuddle time with you, cootie free.

[dontbesoweirdkira]

Platonic Yandere Jason w/ Batsis darling

A/N: This is supposed to be post death and all that.. Like he's just trying to integrate back into his family and society but it's been hell. His batsis is the one thing that is actually helping him through it thus becoming over attached. He's obsessed with being normal again..for you. (Any Jason Todd)

Warnings: Rather soft yandere actually. but i guess obsession and possessive tendencies.

Requests: always open. please read pinned post which is the masterlist

Masterlist

Yandere Jason Todd who finds an immeasurable amount of comfort and stability in his Batsis. He doesn't particularly understands or even knows why he does but he does.

He still feels awkward and out of place with the rest of batfam. He feels anxious, judged and annoyed around them. It overwhelms him and stresses him to the point of mental breaks. But you ground him. You don't make sudden movements or loud sounds. You don't ask invasive questions or bring up past memories. You're gentle and mindful of him.

The others try bonding but they never fail to eventually overstep boundaries and cause more wounds. He's appreciative of you.

Yandere Jason who cannot help but get possessive over you. He hates when his other siblings command your attention over his. It boils him. I like to think he's constantly comparing himself to them. How normal and fun they are in contrast. He wants to be just like them and do fun things again...but he just cant...not yet. He especially despises Dick and just how pretty and perfect his older brother is. This often causes fights between the two. You and him have tons of inside jokes, secret handshakes and hangouts often. Jay wants that too.

Jason is fearful of going in public with you. He's been craving that local diner spot and love to treat you as a thank you but he doesn't want the stares. He's riddled with scars and looms over everything. He really don’t want his sis to be ridiculed and questioned on his behalf.

Jay tries his best to keep you locked in the house with him. He tries pulling you away from them as much as possible but he feels guilty. This is a miserable life and he doesn't want that was misery on you too, but he just cannot bear you being with them instead. Sometimes he'll offer to sneak out late at night and hang on rooftops with you, but he knows it's nothing compared to the arcades and parties you're missing out on.

He does try very hard to come out of his shell on your birthdays or times like Christmas ect.. He wants to be a good brother and give back how kind you've been towards him. Whatever will make you happy, he'll power through it.

Yandere Redhood who goes after the people that make you cry or feel unsafe. He knows what he promised Bruce but it's to keep is sibling safe. Bruce would understand if he went through even half of the traumatic experiences he did. You have to cut off potential threats at the roots. That's how you prevent lunatics like the joker and to keep souls like you pure.

Yandere Jason Todd who is adorably obsessed with your room. He hasn't done much decorating to his. It's boring and bland, he doesn't remember much of what he liked as a kid before everything happened. But yours is covered in personality. Books, figures, plushies and tons of posters...it's cute. He likes it a lot. Sometimes he just sits in there, even when you're not home because it makes him feel nostalgic? In a good way, it gives him a warm glimpse into what his life could've been as a teen/young adult. Plus it's filled with all the things you love which by default he loves it too. I like to think he steals trinkets from your room that you love the most when he's anxious.

Like you've come home before to him in the corner of his room with one of your big plushies in his arms during an episode. It smells like you it grounds him back into reality. Whatever he's seeing in his head isn't real, but you are. You signify safety.

Yandere Jason who mimics anything you do to learn how to act normal. He doesn't mean to but he spends so much time either with you or lurking near by. Your food options are a major thing is copies. He's often overwhelmed by the many choices in store so when he's hungry, he'll just pick up anything he's remembered you eating. Even if he didn’t like it much.

He doesn't realizes these habits are a bit strange. enviably, one of the other siblings poke fun at him for how his face scrunches up at the taste of your favorite snack. They laughed how he should just get things he likes instead of trying to copy you all the time. They weren't trying to be cruel, just playing like siblings do but it made his world crumble. Was that really strange? Jason didn't mean to make you feel weird. Did you feel weirded out by it, have you been telling the other siblings how bothered you were by his antics?

"Jason, its okay. It's seriously not a big deal, it's slightly odd but i don't mind." You tried reassuring him but it just confirmed his thoughts.

You did think it was weird. That he was weird. You laugh about him behind his back all the time, don’t you?

He knows he's a bit off the drum. He knows he's an embarrassment but a deluded part of him thought maybe the difference wasn't as big as he made it out to be. It was just paranoia. guess..not. He's shattered. His one safe space wasn't real. He wasn’t good enough like the others….yet.

Yandere Jason has to become like a normal brother for you. He needs to be like Dick and Tim. He needs you to think he's cool and fun to be around. He needs to be a good brother...one you're not weirded out by.