#day four: snowflakes

[malkaleh]

*

eta: I wasn’t going to share the actual comment but you know what, fuck it the ‘idealogical agenda’ comment fucking got me.

[safyresky]

Jacqueline kicking Jack's butt at Mario Kart?

WHEEZING

Scrimbly Jacqueline 51/52: Jack's off his GAME okay? It's been a VERY long night, this, this never happens, he swears—

He is a liar. Source: Jacqueline, who has not once lost double dash to Jack. She gets a lot of practise playing newer Mario Kart editions with the twins, who CREAM HER every goddamn time. But she gets her vengeance in smash >:)

Thanks for sending this one in @someheroescarryfloss! It was a fucking DELIGHT 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Mario Kart: Double Dash on GameCube is the one I played the most so it's the one I pictured lmao. Daisy's my fave character to use! So I bequeathed that to Jacqueline! Same with Toadette who is usually my second if Daisy gets yoinked (which does not happen often as my mom always plays as Toadette lol)

Dw tho! Jack will get his vengeance in the Double Dash Battle Bomb stage. He'll destroy Jacqueline! >:D!

(she lets it happen since she's kicked his ass so much during the main races >:). They've done the all cup tour like 4-5 times at this point lmao)

And a fun bonus for you:

hehehehehe >:3

[Hello tag crawlers! New to SafyreSky industries? Hi! Jacqueline's my OC. Jack's younger sister, next in line for his title. You can read all about her in Crystal Springs on ao3 and fanfiction dot net if your vibe is gen fic with heavy oc usage 😘😘]

[bueckets]

Prophecy | Finale

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two | Three (you're here)

Description: Following the viral video of Paige and Azzi, you spend the next three months redefining what perfect means. Each shot becomes a statement, each swish echoing with something colder than precision. Your teammates watch you stay late every night, turning heartbreak into headlines, until even UConn's dynasty seems breakable.

The game approaches like destiny. Harvard versus UConn in the Final Four, a collision course that ESPN calls "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For." Twenty thousand tickets sell out in minutes. The whole sport holds its breath.

You haven't spoken to Paige since that night in the snow. Haven't read her texts or opened her letter. Instead, you let your game speak - 47 against Princeton, 51 against Yale, perfect shooting in both. They call it The Revenge Tour, though you never bother correcting them.

Now Dallas looms like a storm on the horizon. One game to prove that some things break you, and some things make you unbreakable.

This is the story of which one you become.

WC: 11k

WEEK ONE

After that night in the gym, you don’t miss. Not once.

Every shot is a calculation, a release, a fury of physics and heartbreak. Each arc is perfect, each swish feels like vengeance. The ball obeys because it has to. Because it’s the only thing left that makes sense.

Paige’s texts come in like a storm. Desperate, raw, and relentless:

Monday (3:47 AM): please just let me explain.

Monday (4:15 AM): it wasn't what it looked like.

Monday (4:22 AM): i miss you.

Monday (4:45 AM): please answer.

You sit on your bed staring at the ceiling, the blue glow of your phone lighting the room like a taunt. Sierra grabs it from your hands and sets it face down on your desk. “Nope.”

By Tuesday, the messages get sharper, more frantic

Tuesday (2:13 AM): i know you’re mad. i’d be mad too.

Tuesday (3:01 AM): rocket, please. you mean everything to me.

Tuesday (3:45 AM): i never meant to hurt you. i’d do anything to take it back.

By Wednesday, she calls. Seventeen times. Sierra’s thumb hovers over the block button. Jasmine glances at you, but you just lace up your shoes and head for the gym.

Thursday, the texts shift to something softer, almost pleading:

"i know you're reading these."

"just tell me you're okay."

"god, i miss you."

"please just talk to me"

Sierra and Jasmine take turns deleting the messages before you can see them, but you know. You always know.

“She’s hurting,” Jasmine says carefully one night, her voice soft like she’s walking a tightrope.

"Good," you respond, and sink another three.

WEEK TWO

The texts get longer, more rambling.

"i know i screwed up. i don’t even know how to start fixing it. all i know is that i want to."

"i miss how you made me feel like the best version of myself. like i could do anything."

"i miss you solving equations while watching film. i miss your voice. i miss you."

"rocket, i love you. i don’t care if you don’t believe me right now, but it’s the truth. i love you."

"please just tell me to fuck off or something. anything is better than this silence."

You don’t read them, but Sierra does. She updates you with clipped summaries: “She’s still apologizing. Still desperate.” You just nod, focusing on your form. Release. Swish.

“She says she loves you,” Sierra says one day, her voice careful.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, grabbing another ball.

WEEK THREE

Thursday evening, it snows. Heavy, wet flakes that stick to the ground and blanket campus in white. You’re in the gym, as always, the only sound the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor, then the net.

Sierra bursts in, out of breath, snowflakes clinging to her jacket.

“She’s here,” she says, voice strained.

You pause mid-shot, the ball resting heavy in your hands. “What?”

“Paige,” Sierra says. “She’s outside. Just standing there. She’s not leaving until you talk to her.”

You blink, your pulse quickening. “In the snow?”

“Yes. In the snow,” Sierra snaps. “Want me to handle it?”

You glance at the door, at the faint glow of the snowstorm through the windows. Your chest feels tight.

“I’ll do it,” you say quietly.

Sierra looks surprised but doesn’t argue. “You sure?”

You nod, dropping the ball onto the rack. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

You push open the gym door, and the cold hits you like a slap. The snow is coming down hard now, heavy flakes swirling in the wind and catching in your hair, on your lashes, melting instantly on your skin. The air bites at your face, sharp and unforgiving, and you pull your sweatshirt tighter around you as you step into the storm.

Paige is there.

She’s standing under the dim glow of the parking lot light, a lone figure against the blanketed white. Her coat is too thin for this weather, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if that could keep the cold out. Snowflakes dust her hair, her shoulders, even her lashes, sticking there like delicate glass. Her nose and cheeks are red, raw from the wind, and her breath comes out in uneven clouds that catch the faint light before disappearing.

Your heart pounds as you take her in. It’s not fair, how seeing her still makes your chest tighten, how her very presence feels like it could knock you off balance. You feel your feet ache against the frozen pavement, the sting of cold air in your lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

She looks up as you approach, her eyes locking onto yours immediately. They’re red, glassy, the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears making them glisten. She uncrosses her arms, her hands trembling, and takes a single step forward.

“Rocket,” she says, and her voice cracks. Just that one word, and it’s enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.

You stop a few feet away, planting your sneakers firmly into the snow to keep steady. Your throat feels tight, your tongue heavy. For a moment, you can’t speak. You just stare at her, the silence between you as thick as the snow falling all around.

“What are you doing here?” you manage finally. Your voice is sharper than you intended, but the lump in your throat makes it hard to sound anything but cold.

She shifts, wiping her hands on her coat as if that’ll stop them from shaking. “I—I had to see you,” she stammers. “You weren’t answering, and I just—” Her voice breaks again, and she swallows hard, trying to steady herself. “I just needed to try.”

The words hang in the air, weighty and raw. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay grounded, to not let your emotions spiral. The wind picks up, whipping snowflakes against your face, and you blink hard against the sting.

“You’ve said enough,” you say, your voice flat.

“I know,” she says quickly, stepping forward again. Her boots crunch against the snow, and the sound feels deafening in the quiet. “I know I’ve said everything wrong. I don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. I just—” She takes a shaky breath, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “I need you to know how sorry I am. How I got into my head leading up to it. I was scared. I’m sorry. For everything. For ruining us.”

Your breath catches at that, and your chest tightens even more. Her words hit like a weight, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, you don’t trust yourself to respond. You feel the sting in your fingers, the way the cold air pinches your ears, the dull ache in your feet from standing still too long.

“It wasn’t just a mistake, Paige,” you say finally, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound steady. “It was trust. It was everything we had.”

She nods quickly, tears finally spilling over. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to hide it, but her hands are shaking too much. “I know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind. “I know I broke it. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for hurting you.”

The tears keep falling, streaking down her red cheeks, and she doesn’t bother wiping them anymore. Her shoulders shake, but she doesn’t look away from you. You want to turn away, to stop seeing her like this, but you can’t. Your eyes burn, your throat feels raw, and the weight in your chest only grows heavier.

“I loved you,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. Her breath catches audibly, and you see her shoulders slump further, like the words are knives she’s been bracing for.

“I love you,” she says, her voice breaking entirely. “I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

The snow falls harder now, coating everything in a thick, suffocating white. You feel it collect on your shoulders, your hair, melting down your neck. Paige shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, her breaths coming out in ragged clouds.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you as you stare at Paige. The snow falls heavier now, landing on her lashes and melting against her flushed cheeks. Her nose is red, her hands trembling as they clench at her sides. The cold bites at your skin, your ears pinching, your feet aching, but none of it feels as sharp as the weight in your chest.

“Go home,” you say, your voice cracking slightly despite your attempt to sound firm.

Paige doesn’t move. Her wide, red-rimmed eyes stay locked on yours, brimming with fresh tears. Her lips part, but no words come, just a soft, shaky breath. Then:

“Please,” she whispers, barely audible over the wind. Her voice is raw, broken, and it hits you like a punch. She takes a step closer, her boots crunching in the snow, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach for you but knows she can’t. “Please,” she says again, the word shaking with everything she’s trying to say but can’t.

You inhale sharply, your chest tightening as you force yourself to stand your ground. “Paige,” you say, softer now, almost pleading yourself. “Go home.”

She flinches, like the words physically hurt, but she doesn’t argue this time. She nods slowly, blinking hard against the tears streaming down her face. Her shoulders slump as she turns away, her steps hesitant, dragging in the snow like she’s leaving pieces of herself behind with every step.

You watch her walk toward the far end of the parking lot, her figure blurry through the curtain of falling snow. She stops once, just for a moment, her back to you. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, but the motion is weak, almost futile. Then she moves again, trudging toward the lone car parked under the faint glow of a streetlamp.

The driver’s side window rolls down as Paige approaches, and you see KK leaning out, her face a mix of concern and frustration. KK says something—low and sharp, the words lost in the wind—and Paige shakes her head, opening the passenger door and climbing in without another glance in your direction.

The car idles for a moment, exhaust puffing into the frozen air, and you catch a glimpse of KK glancing your way, her gaze hard but questioning, like she’s debating whether to come out and say something. But she doesn’t.

The brake lights flare as the car shifts into gear, and then they’re gone, disappearing down the snow-covered road.

You stay rooted to the spot, the cold seeping through your clothes, the sound of their departure fading into silence. You don’t move for a long time, staring at the empty space where they’d been, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

You stand there long after the car disappears into the swirling snow, the cold seeping into your bones. Your feet ache from standing still, your fingers sting from the frost, and your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. You force yourself to turn, your legs heavy as you walk back toward the gym, the door looming like a safe haven you don’t feel like you deserve.

The moment you push it open, the heat rushes out to meet you, thick and suffocating. It hits your face like a wall, and suddenly, you realize how cold you were—how raw your skin feels, how your ears throb with the warmth sinking in. You blink against the hot air, your vision blurring, and that’s when you feel it. The damp streaks on your cheeks, the burning in your eyes.

You were crying.

The thought stuns you for a moment, but there’s no time to process it. Your feet move automatically, carrying you deeper into the gym. The echo of your footsteps bounces off the empty court, the sound sharp and hollow in the stillness. You make your way to the locker room, the familiar scent of sweat and rubber hitting you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

Inside, Sierra and Jasmine are waiting. They’re sitting on one of the benches, their expressions tight and unsure, like they don’t know what to say—or if they should say anything at all.

Your eyes meet Sierra’s first, and the look she gives you is soft, pitying, like she’s trying to hold you together with just her gaze. Jasmine looks away quickly, her hands fiddling with the strings of her hoodie, her shoulders tense with unspoken guilt.

Neither of them says a word.

You don’t either. You don’t have the energy.

You walk past them, your legs threatening to give out, and sink onto the bench in front of your locker. The cold from outside is still in your body, lingering in your muscles, making everything ache. You press your hands to your knees, trying to ground yourself, but the weight in your chest is too much.

It breaks.

You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as the sobs finally come. They tear out of you, raw and uncontrollable, and you can’t stop them even if you wanted to. The locker room fills with the sound of your crying—ugly, unfiltered, and nothing like The Prophecy at all.

Sierra shifts behind you, and for a moment, you think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. Neither of them does. They just sit there, giving you space to break apart, their quiet presence the only thing holding you from completely falling apart.

Your tears soak into your palms, your breath coming in gasps, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel the full weight of it all. The cold, the betrayal, the way her voice cracked when she said, “I love you.” It crashes over you, relentless and unrelenting.

And you let it.

Because in this moment, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to calculate the pain away or turn it into fuel.

For now, you just let yourself break.

WEEK SIX

Her last attempt comes in the form of a letter. Handwritten. Twelve pages. Sierra finds it slipped under your door one gray morning, the paper just slightly bent, as though it had been clenched tightly before being left there.

“Want me to burn it?” Sierra asks, holding it up like it’s fragile, like even touching it too long might do damage.

You don’t answer at first, your eyes fixed on the envelope. Your name is written in Paige’s handwriting, unmistakably hers—soft, looping, careful. It looks like she spent a long time on just that one word. The ink is smudged in places, faint blotches where you know she must have paused, maybe wiped her eyes.

“Rocket?” Sierra asks again, her voice gentler this time.

You reach out, hesitating before your fingers brush the paper. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like it’s holding every unsaid word she couldn’t force into those desperate texts, every plea she couldn’t voice the last time she saw you.

“No,” you say quietly, your voice firm despite the knot in your chest. “Don’t burn it.”

Sierra doesn’t press. “What should I do with it?”

You swallow hard, still staring at the envelope like it might crack open on its own. “Keep it,” you murmur finally. “For after March.”

The corner of her mouth twitches in a faint, understanding nod. She tucks the letter carefully into her bag without another word.

Because that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? Every ignored call, every perfect shot, every breath you’ve taken since that night in the gym has been leading to one thing: March.

Two weeks later, the bracket drops.

Harvard vs. UConn. Sweet Sixteen.

You hear whispers everywhere—teammates speculating, reporters asking veiled questions about how you feel about the matchup. You stay quiet, dodging the noise with an unshakable focus that keeps the world at bay.

Paige doesn’t text. She doesn’t call. But one night, you see it.

It’s subtle, so subtle you almost miss it: a photo on her Instagram story.

She’s sitting on the floor of her dorm, the soft golden light of a bedside lamp pooling around her. Her knees are drawn to her chest, her head resting on her arms. There’s no caption, no obvious sign of you. But in the corner of the frame, hanging off the back of a chair, is your Harvard hoodie.

The air leaves your lungs.

It’s so small, so quiet, but it feels loud in your chest.

Sierra notices you staring at your phone and gives you a sharp look. “Don’t,” she warns.

“I’m not,” you reply, locking your phone and sliding it across the table.

And you aren’t.

Instead, you lace up your sneakers and head to the gym.

30 DAYS TO MARCH MADNESS

The bracket predictions start rolling in. Every analyst has the same storyline: Harvard and UConn are destined to meet in the championship.

ESPN calls it "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For."

You don’t watch their coverage. You don’t need to. You just shoot.

Paige’s last text comes at 2 AM:

“i still miss you.”

You delete it without reading. (Sierra tells you about it later anyway.)

25 DAYS

“Did you hear?” Jasmine says as she slides into the locker room after practice, her voice quieter than usual.

You don’t look up. “Hear what?”

“Paige was at some party last night. Someone saw her with... someone.”

You pause mid-lace, your fingers tightening. “And?”

“She’s... moving on. Or trying to.”

Later, Sierra shows you the photo: Paige with her arm around a tall blonde, both laughing like the world doesn’t hurt them.

You close your phone, drop it in your bag, and hit the gym for 200 straight shots. Each one lands, clean and precise, but your chest tightens with every swish.

At midnight, Sierra finds you still there. “She’s doing this on purpose,” she says softly.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make you feel what she’s feeling.”

You grab another ball, square your shoulders. “Bold of her to assume I still care.”

(You do. God, you do.)

20 DAYS

Your game is evolving. Whatever limits you thought existed don’t anymore. You’re not just making shots—you’re erasing boundaries.

Reporters ask Coach about it after Harvard crushes Penn by 30 points. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

She shakes her head, her voice filled with awe. “She’s playing like someone who has nothing left to lose.”

Because you don’t.

15 DAYS

Another photo surfaces: Paige dancing at a club, the same blonde close enough to blur the line between friendly and intimate. The image spreads through whispers, not headlines, but it’s enough to reach you.

The next morning, Jasmine deletes all your social media apps. “Focus on what matters,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

So you do:

47 points against Princeton.

51 against Yale.

Perfect shooting in both games.

The whispers around you grow louder. People call it The Revenge Tour, though you don’t bother correcting them.

You let your game speak for itself.

10 DAYS

Harvard enters March Madness ranked #1 for the first time in school history. UConn is #2.

The narrative writes itself:

Ice vs Fire.

You hear the buzz but tune it out. Paige posts a hype video for the tournament. There’s no sign of you in her clips, but you don’t need to be.

That night, you shoot until your arms shake. The sound of each swish reverberates through the gym, the echoes cutting through your chest like heartbreak.

5 DAYS

The tournament begins, and you burn through the first two rounds like wildfire:

45 points against Florida State.

52 against Tennessee.

You still haven’t missed.

UConn advances too. Paige plays like she’s on fire, dropping 38 against Duke and 41 against LSU. But she misses. She stumbles. She’s human. She’s flawed.

You tell yourself that’s why she couldn’t keep you. Because perfection is lonely.

2 DAYS

The Final Four is set: Harvard vs. UConn. The matchup everyone’s been waiting for.

Your teammates feel the weight of it, the buzz of history swirling around them, but you stay quiet. Focused.

“Are you ready?” Coach asks after practice.

You glance at her, your expression steady. “Always.”

1 DAY

The press conference is brutal. Every question is a thinly veiled attempt to dig into the drama. Paige. The rumors. 

You give them nothing.

“I’m here to play basketball,” you say flatly. “Nothing else matters.”

Later that night, alone in your hotel room, you stare at the letter Sierra saved weeks ago. It sits on the desk like it’s daring you to open it.

Your hands shake as you unfold the pages.

The first three lines hit harder than you expect:

"I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I broke something perfect. I know I lost the best thing that ever happened to me."

You stop reading. You don’t need to see the rest.

The paper burns easily in the sink, the edges curling in on themselves like the words are folding into ash.

Tomorrow isn’t about forgiveness.

It’s about proving that some things break you.

And some things make you unbreakable.

Time to show her which one you are.

THE FINAL FOUR: HARVARD VS UCONN

The arena in Dallas feels alive, like it has a pulse of its own. Twenty thousand fans pack the stands, and the roar of the crowd is more than sound—it’s energy, crackling in the air, vibrating through the floor. You can feel it in your chest, in the way your heart beats a little faster as you stand in the tunnel, waiting.

This is the game. The one people will talk about for decades.

“Harvard vs. UConn,” ESPN’s voices echo faintly from the screens overhead, carrying over the din “The Game Women’s Basketball Has Been Waiting For.”

“Harvard’s perfect season against UConn’s dynasty.”

“Two programs. Two stars. One unmissable collision course.”

You don’t look at the screens. Don’t let the noise creep in. You focus instead on the rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the ball in your hands, the perfect arcs playing out in your mind. Force vectors, trajectories, momentum. The physics of what’s about to happen.

Sierra steps up beside you, her face all business, her game face as sharp as you’ve ever seen it. “You good?”

You nod once. She doesn’t ask if you’re sure. She’s seen you these past weeks—seen the extra hours, the obsession, the way you’ve turned heartbreak into something almost unrecognizable. She’s seen you rewrite what’s possible when perfect turns to steel.

“They’re out there,” Jasmine says quietly, stepping up on your other side.

Your stomach tightens, but you don’t let it show. 

“You’re sure you’re good?” Sierra presses, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m perfect,” you say flatly, the word cold and sharp.

The crowd’s roar deepens, and you know UConn must be taking the court for warmups. You can picture it without looking: Paige leading them out, her stride confident, her expression poised. She feeds off this energy, always has, like she was built for these moments.

You think about everything—every ignored text, every late-night practice, every time Paige’s name appeared on your phone screen and you turned away. You think about the letter, folded and burned, its words turned to ash: "I know I broke something perfect."

“I’m ready,” you say, voice steady.

Coach nods. “Good.” She turns to the team. “Ladies, listen up. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to tonight. They’re bigger, they’re stronger, and they’ve got more banners in their gym than we’ll ever see. But we’ve got something they don’t.”

She looks at you, and there's something fierce in her eyes.

"We've got perfect."

The team huddles up, hands in. But before they can do their usual chant, you speak. It's the first time you've addressed them all day.

"When we take that court," your voice is quiet but carries weight, "you're going to hear a lot of noise. They're going to talk about everything except basketball. But that's not why we're here."

Your teammates lean in closer.

"We're here because I made you all a promise three years ago. That we'd make history. That we'd show the world what Harvard basketball really is. That we'd be perfect when it matters most."

You look each of them in the eye.

"Tonight, we keep that promise."

The tunnel erupts in fierce agreement. Your teammates are ready for war.

"One minute!" calls the official.

You close your eyes for a moment, center yourself. Think about all the shots that led here. All the nights in empty gyms. All the physics problems solved between free throws. All the moments that built The Prophecy.

And yes, you think about her. About early mornings in her dorm. Late nights watching film. The way she said your name like it was something precious. The way she looked at someone else the same way.

The anger rises, cold and precise. You use it, let it sharpen your focus until everything else falls away.

The tunnel lights flicker as the official signals. It’s time.

"Ready?" Sierra asks one last time.

You step toward the light of the arena, toward the noise, toward destiny.

"Perfect," you say.

And then you emerge into madness.

The sound hits you like a wave the second you step onto the court. It’s not just noise; it’s a force, a physical thing that presses against you, vibrating in your chest.

"THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY!"

The chant rolls through the arena like thunder, swelling as the crowd rises to their feet. Signs wave above the sea of faces:

"PERFECTION WEARS CRIMSON"

"847-2: THE PROPHECY SPEAKS"

Your entrance stops UConn's warmups cold. Every player freezes mid-drill, even the legendary Geno Auriemma turns to watch. You catch Paige's reaction in your peripheral vision—the way she stumbles slightly, ball slipping from her fingers. But you don't look at her. Won't give her that.

The Harvard section is delirious, but it's more than that. The neutral fans, the media, even some UConn supporters are on their feet. This is what happens when you spend three months turning heartbreak into headlines, when you take "perfect" and make it look easy.

Your teammates hit the court, their warmups sharper, fueled by the energy of the crowd. But your routine is different. Quieter. Singular.

You start at the three-point line, the ball resting in your hands. The noise fades as you focus, your heartbeat steadying. One shot.

Swish.

The explosion of noise is deafening. You don't react. Just catch, shoot, swish. Again. Again. Again.

On the other end, UConn's trying to maintain their composure, but you can feel their eyes on you. Feel the way their usual swagger has been replaced by something else. Something that looks like doubt.

Your teammates are feeding off the energy now. Sierra drills a corner three, the ball cutting through the net with a satisfying snap. Jasmine blocks one of Taylor’s layups in a mock defensive drill, both of them grinning fiercely.

"Focus on our game!" Geno barks, but even he keeps glancing your way.

The media's having a field day. Every camera in the building is trained on you, catching every perfect shot, every ice-cold expression. ESPN's commentary carries over the speakers:

"We're watching something unprecedented here, Rebecca. The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she's transcendent. Look at the way UConn's players are watching her. They're supposed to be the dynasty, the standard-bearers, but right now they look shook—"

And still, you don’t look at Paige.

The crowd's volume keeps building, impossibly louder with each perfect shot you make. NBA players sitting courtside are shaking their heads in disbelief. Olympic champions in the stands are filming on their phones. This isn't just a warmup anymore—it's a statement.

Finally, mercifully for UConn, the buzzer sounds to clear the court for final preparations. As the teams head to their benches, you allow yourself one glance at their side. Just one.

Paige is standing near the sideline, her hands resting on her hips, her gaze fixed on you. For a split second, your eyes meet. Her expression shifts—shock, pain, something that might be regret.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer, then turn away, your face unreadable.

You turn away, face impassive. But inside, the cold fire burns hotter.

Because this isn’t about her anymore.

This isn’t about heartbreak or revenge.

This is about showing the world what happens when perfect stops trying to be loved.

And starts trying to be legendary.

The starting lineups are about to be announced, and the arena hums with anticipation, the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. It’s not just loud—it’s electric, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Every cheer, every chant, every flash of a camera feels sharper, brighter, heavier. History is about to be made.

The announcer’s voice booms, reverberating through the cavernous space, calling out names that blur into the roar of the crowd. You barely hear them—don’t need to. You’re locked in. You can feel the ball’s weight in your hand even though you’re not holding it, the phantom rhythm of your dribble steadying your pulse.

The Prophecy is about to speak.

And everyone—Paige, UConn, the world—is about to listen.

Sierra wins the tip with authority, the ball snapping to Maria like it’s been rehearsed a thousand times. Harvard’s ball. The crowd leans forward collectively, the sound dropping to an expectant hum as you cross half court, their energy feeding into the moment.

UConn’s defense is already set. You see it as soon as you step over the timeline: box-and-one. Four players sagging into a tight zone, leaving Paige on you.

Of course they’d make her guard you. Of course.

She’s close, closer than you expected, the kind of tight defense that borders on personal. Her eyes flicker for a moment, uncertainty bleeding through her usual focus.

“Please…” she whispers, so quiet it almost gets lost in the noise. “Can we just—”

You don’t let her finish.

A crossover—quick, precise, lethal—cuts her off mid-sentence. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath, as Paige stumbles, her footing faltering for just a second. But a second is all you need.

You rise up from 25 feet, the motion as natural as breathing. Perfect form. Perfect rotation.

Swish.

The crowd detonates.

3-0 Harvard.

"THE PROPHECY STRIKES FIRST!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "ICE COLD FROM DEEP!"

UConn pushes the ball upcourt fast, their transition game as polished as ever. Paige has that look now—the one that used to make your chest tighten, the one that once made you believe she could do anything. Now, it’s just data to process, another variable in the equation you’ve already solved.

She drives hard to the right, her speed and body control flawless. She’s counting on you to back off, to avoid contact, to give her just enough room for the pull-up jumper she’s perfected.

But you don’t.

Your body stays with hers, every step mirrored, every shift anticipated. When she rises for the shot, your hand is already there, contesting at the perfect angle. The ball leaves her hands, spinning slightly off-axis.

Clank.

The sound of the ball hitting the rim feels louder than it should, the miss reverberating through the arena like a misstep in a symphony.

“REJECTION!” The crowd erupts again, their voices rising to a fever pitch. “THE PROPHECY WITH THE PERFECT DEFENSE ON THE PRINCE!”

Maria grabs the rebound and pushes the break. You trail deliberately, your movements fluid, waiting for the play to unfold. The ball swings to you on the wing. Another catch. Another perfect release.

Swish.

6-0 Harvard.

Geno Auriemma doesn’t hesitate. Timeout, 47 seconds in. His voice carries across the court, sharp and commanding as he pulls his players in, trying to steady a ship that’s already rocking.

The ESPN commentators are incredulous. “I’ve never seen anything like this! The Prophecy isn’t just scoring—she’s controlling the entire game. And having Paige Bueckers guard her it’s psychological warfare at its finest.”

In the huddle, Coach Matthews stays calm, her voice steady amidst the chaos. “Keep executing. They’re rattled.”

Your teammates nod, feeding off her composure. You don’t say anything, don’t need to. The look in your eyes says enough.

Back on the court, UConn shifts their defense. KK Arnold takes over guarding you, her physicality immediately apparent. Paige shifts to Jasmine, but you feel her eyes on you anyway, like a weight pressing against your back.

You make her pay for it.

A quick backdoor cut—sharp, timed to perfection—leaves her a step behind. Maria sees it instantly, the lob arcing perfectly into your hands. You lay it in cleanly, barely breaking stride.

8-0 Harvard.

The UConn section is restless now, the nervous energy rippling through their chants.

From the crowd you hear, “She's not that special! Lock her up!"

The next time down, you catch the ball at the top of the key, KK’s hand pressing into your hip. You rise anyway, unfazed. The ball barely brushes the net on its way through.

11-0 Harvard.

Geno is furious, calling out defensive adjustments. But there's something different about UConn's energy—they're not just trailing, they're shook.

Paige tries to take over, driving hard to the rim with an intensity that feels more desperate than controlled. Her first step is sharp, her movements calculated, but there’s something frantic in the way she moves—like she’s trying to match you shot for shot, trying to prove something to herself as much as to the crowd.

Her floater arcs high but catches the back iron and rolls out.

The crowd groans, the sound rippling through the UConn section like a wave of disbelief. Paige’s jaw tightens as she sprints back on defense, but you’ve already moved on, focused, untouchable.

On the next possession, she pulls up for a three. It’s a clean look, her form textbook, but the ball rims out again, drawing a gasp from the fans and a loud clank that echoes through the arena.

Then she drives again, barreling into the paint, trying to force her way through Sierra’s perfect positioning. The ball pops loose, Sierra’s quick hands stripping it clean, and the Harvard section explodes in cheers.

Meanwhile, you’re somewhere else entirely.

Athletes talk about it, but few ever get there: the space where time slows, where the game feels less like competition and more like art. The roar of the crowd fades into a low hum, the edges of the court softening as everything sharpens around the ball in your hands.

It’s not just instinct—it’s control, precision, the physics of perfection in every step. Each shot feels inevitable, each movement unfolding like an equation you’ve already solved.

On defense, you can feel the tension radiating from UConn, their movements tighter, their communication louder. When Emma finally scores off a put-back—muscling through a sea of Harvard defenders—the UConn section celebrates like it’s a game-winner.

11-2 Harvard.

You glance at the scoreboard, then at your teammates, your calm focus unshaken. They know what’s coming next.

You show UConn what victory really looks like.

KK Arnold presses into you as you bring the ball up the court, her hands swiping aggressively, trying to throw you off balance. You shift your weight left, plant your foot, and cross over so quickly it sends her stumbling, her arms flailing for balance as the crowd gasps.

You take one step back, rising effortlessly over Caroline’s outstretched arms as she contests, her fingertips barely brushing the air beneath the ball.

Swish.

16-2 Harvard.

The Harvard bench leaps to their feet, arms raised, while the UConn section sits frozen, unsure of how to react. Geno is pacing now, barking orders to his team, his sharp voice cutting through the tension.

"We're watching history," the announcer's voice trembles with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just winning—she's rewriting what's possible in this sport."

Paige is pressing harder, trying to shoulder the burden of momentum, but it’s slipping through her fingers. She forces another drive, this time straight into Sierra, who holds her ground like a wall. The whistle doesn’t blow, and Paige stumbles as the ball goes loose again, Maria scooping it up and feeding you on the wing.

The moment your hands touch the ball, you already know what’s going to happen.

Perfect rhythm. Perfect form. Perfect swish.

UConn tries everything: double teams, traps, full-court pressure. Nothing works. You split defenders like they're standing still, find teammates for open shots when they sell out to stop you, and when they give you any space at all.

The quarter ends with one final dagger. UConn tries to hold for the last shot, but you read Paige's eyes—you always could read her eyes—and jump the passing lane. The steal leads to a breakaway with three seconds left.

Most players would lay it in. Safe. Smart.

But The Prophecy isn't most players.

You take off from just inside the free-throw line, rising up as the buzzer sounds. The ball leaves your hands at the perfect angle, with the perfect spin, following the perfect arc.

Swish. As time expires.

29-10 Harvard.

The arena absolutely detonates. Your teammates mob you as you walk calmly to the bench. Even Coach Matthews cracks a smile.

In their huddle, you can see Geno gesturing frantically, see Paige's head hanging.

But none of that matters.

Because this isn't about them anymore.

This is about perfect.

And perfect is just getting started.

The second quarter opens with UConn desperate to change the momentum. Their energy is sharp, frantic, the kind that comes from a team not used to being punched first. Geno has abandoned the box-and-one, switching to a triangle-and-two defense. It’s designed to suffocate you—two defenders shadowing your every step, cutting off your air, daring the rest of your team to beat them.

You glance at Paige and KK as they close in, their feet shuffling in sync. Paige’s jaw is tight, her expression unreadable, but there’s tension in her shoulders, the kind you’ve seen in every film session this week. KK is louder, her movements brash, barking orders at the rest of the defense.

The first possession, you take the ball at the top of the key, waiting for the defense to swarm. KK gets there first, her hands low and active, trying to force you left. Paige closes in immediately after, her presence suffocating.

You don’t flinch. You shift just enough to pull both defenders with you, then flick a no-look pass to Sierra cutting baseline. The ball drops into her hands, and she lays it in cleanly, untouched.

31-10 Harvard.

"The Prophecy showing she can dominate without scoring!" ESPN's excitement builds. "This is basketball genius at its finest!"

Then it happens.

Four minutes into the quarter. Harvard up 37-15. You shake loose from the double team, slicing through the defense like a knife through fabric. Sierra's screen creating the perfect angle of separation (47 degrees, optimal for catch-and-shoot scenarios), your feet set precisely shoulder-width apart, knees bent at the textbook 110-degree angle.

The ball feels good leaving your hands—perfect, even. The rotation is clean, the arc flawless, the trajectory straight out of a physics textbook. It’s the kind of shot you’ve made thousands of times. The kind of shot you don’t even need to watch to know it’s good.

But sometimes, the universe has other plans.

The ball hits the back rim, bouncing straight up, a little too high, a little too slow. It hovers for an agonizing second.

The entire arena holds its breath. Twenty thousand people frozen, watching the impossible happen. The ball hangs there, defying gravity for one more precious second, before falling away.

You’ve missed.

The UConn bench explodes, their cheers wild and unfiltered, like they’ve just won the championship. Their fans echo the celebration, chants swelling and overlapping.

"SHE’S HUMAN! SHE’S HUMAN!”

Paige takes a step toward you, instinct guiding her more than logic. It’s the same look you’ve seen in practices, in dorm rooms, in quiet moments when her guard was down. She wants to reach out, to say something, to bridge the gap between who you were to each other and who you are now.

But she stops herself. Her foot hovers for half a second before she steps back, her hand falling limp at her side. She remembers where she is. Who she’s supposed to be to you now.

And still, everyone waits.

Your teammates glance at you nervously. They’ve seen what happens when you miss. They know the last time you broke. They know why.

But you're not the same person who broke in that dark gym.

Instead of shattering, you do something no one expects.

You smile.

It’s small, controlled, more ice than warmth, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the arena. The silence shifts into something sharper, heavier.

The message is clear: Missing doesn’t break me anymore.

Nothing does.

"Oh my," the ESPN announcer’s voice is barely above a whisper. "That might be the scariest smile I’ve ever seen in basketball."

Next possession.

You take the ball at half court, KK and Paige closing in again. Their energy is different now—more cautious, less certain. They’re waiting for you to pass, waiting for you to hesitate, waiting for the doubt to creep in.

But it doesn’t.

You glance at the defense sagging just slightly, expecting hesitation, and then you do the thing no one else would.

You rise from the logo, the shot pure and effortless, the ball spinning through the air like it was destined to fall.

Swish.

40-15 Harvard.

The arena erupts.

Your teammates are screaming, their hands raised in disbelief. Coach Matthews stands for the first time all game, clipboard forgotten, her face a rare mix of awe and pride.

"THAT'S HOW YOU RESPOND TO ADVERSITY!" ESPN's voice cracks with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she’s unstoppable!"

UConn calls timeout, but it's too late. They've lost whatever psychological edge they thought they'd gained. The rest of the quarter becomes a masterclass:

You hit threes over double teams.

Thread passes through impossible angles.

Turn their defense into a highlight reel of broken ankles and shattered hopes.

By halftime, the score is 52-27 Harvard. You've got 31 points, 8 assists, and a message that's louder than any perfect streak:

Some things break you.

Some things make you unbreakable.

And sometimes, becoming unbreakable is better than being perfect.

The teams head to their locker rooms, but the story of the second quarter isn't the score. It's the smile after the miss. The logo three that followed. The moment when The Prophecy proved that she's not just a perfect player.

HALFTIME

The locker room feels like it’s vibrating, the energy practically bouncing off the walls. Your teammates are loud, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of disbelief and celebration. Sierra’s pacing, too hyped to sit, while Jasmine reenacts your logo three for the tenth time, miming your shooting form with exaggerated flair.

"DID YOU SEE THEIR FACES?" Sierra's practically dancing. "When you smiled after that miss? I thought they were gonna pass out!"

"That logo three was DISGUSTING," Jasmine adds, mimicking your shooting form. "The disrespect!"

You let their voices wash over you, grounding yourself in the chaos without joining it. Sitting on the bench, you pull a water bottle to your lips, its coolness a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your skin.

But Coach Matthews raises her hand for quiet. "They're going to come out desperate. Geno's never been down this much in a Final Four. Expect everything."

You nod slightly, her words steadying you. She’s right. The storm is coming. You can feel it brewing beyond the walls, the hum of the arena like distant thunder.

Through the locker room door, the halftime show filters in faintly. ESPN’s voices carry over the noise of the crowd:

“Harvard leads UConn 52-27 in the most lopsided first half of a Final Four in recent history…”

“31 points, 8 assists, 12-of-13 shooting, 5 steals. These aren’t just numbers; they’re history in the making…”

“And it’s not just the stats. That smile after the miss? That was the moment The Prophecy stopped being perfect and became something more. Something immortal.”

Sierra catches you listening and grins, holding up her phone. “You’re trending worldwide. Again.”

You wave her off. You don’t care about that. You’ve never cared about that.

But then Jasmine nudges you, her expression shifting from playful to serious as she shows you another text. This one’s from KK.

Paige is crying in the bathroom. Whole team’s shook. 

Good.

THIRD QUARTER

The second you see UConn retake the court, you can tell they’ve changed. There’s a new energy to them—sharper, more desperate. Paige’s eyes are slightly red, a telltale glint betraying her earlier tears. But there’s also something dangerous in her expression, the kind of desperation that makes even the best players reckless.

Geno’s thrown everything at the wall. UConn opens with a full-court press, their defenders swarming like bees, aggressive and chaotic.

It’s laughable.

You slice through them on the first possession like they’re standing still. A quick pass to Maria in the corner. Perfect release.

55-27 Harvard.

Paige tries to respond immediately, driving hard to the basket with her head down. The play is pure determination, her shoulders hunched as she barrels into the lane, but you’re ready.

Sliding over, you plant yourself perfectly, your feet set, your body immovable. When she crashes into you, the impact reverberates through your chest, but you don’t budge.

The whistle blows. Offensive foul.

Paige hits the floor hard, her hands slapping against the hardwood. For a split second, instinct kicks in—the memory of a hundred practices where you’d help her up, offer her a hand, a joke, a smile.

But that was then.

Now, you simply turn and walk away, your expression colder than the ice under her feet.

“Ice. Cold,” the announcer breathes, the disbelief palpable.

On the next possession, Paige picks you up full court, her body language bristling with frustration. She presses in close, practically stepping on your toes, her voice low and cracking.

“Please,” she whispers. “Just look at me. Just once.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you hit her with a combination that feels less like basketball and more like poetry:

Crossover right.

Behind the back left.

Through the legs.

Step-back three.

The crowd doesn’t even wait for the ball to hit the net. The moment Paige stumbles backward, they’re on their feet, screaming.

The shot, of course, is perfect.

58-27 Harvard.

The UConn section is dead silent now. Even Geno has stopped pacing, his arms folded as he stares helplessly at the court. Paige glances toward their bench, her eyes briefly meeting Geno’s, but he has no answers either

Next possession, you wave off the screen, motioning for everyone to clear out. The court feels impossibly wide as Paige crouches in her defensive stance, her body coiled with tension. You can see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, the way her breathing hitches as she exhales.

Time slows.

Can see the tears threatening at the corners of Paige's eyes.

Can feel twenty thousand people holding their breath.

Perfect isn't about not missing anymore.

Perfect is about what you do next.

The move is pure poetry.

Crossover so quick the cameras barely catch it.

Through the legs at half speed, letting her think she's got you.

Then the acceleration – zero to legendary in a heartbeat.

Paige lunges, trying to stay in front.

The crowd rises as one.

But they don't matter.

Nothing matters except the physics of this moment.

You rise up from 30 feet, Paige's hand right in your face.

Time stops.

The ball arcs through the air like destiny.

Swish.

The arena detonates.

Your teammates mob you as you jog back, their faces alight with disbelief. Even the referees exchange glances, one shaking his head like he’s just witnessed the impossible.

61-33 Harvard.

Paige doesn’t move. She stays rooted to the spot where you left her, her head bowed, her hands on her knees. The weight of the game—of the moment—presses her into the hardwood.

The UConn bench looks like a graveyard.

Perfect breaks back.

The quarter ends with Harvard up 73-41. You've got 45 points on a shot chart that looks like abstract art. Each bucket more impossible than the last. Each move designed to teach them all the same lesson.

FOURTH QUARTER

Ten minutes left in the biggest game in women’s college basketball history. Harvard up 73-41. The crowd buzzes with anticipation, sensing the inevitable.

Paige opens the quarter like someone with nothing left to lose. Her movements are sharper now, more fluid, like she’s untethered from the weight of expectation. There’s desperation in her eyes, but also glimpses of what made her special.

What made her yours, once upon a time.

She hits a deep three. Then another. Her teammates respond, pressing full court, fighting for every inch, clawing for one last stand.

On the next possession, UConn doubles you at half court, but you see the opening before they do. A quick bounce pass threads the needle, hitting Sierra in stride for an uncontested layup.

75-44 Harvard.

The press comes hard again, but you stay poised, letting it collapse around you before sending a no-look pass over your shoulder to Maria in the corner. She drains the three, and the crowd explodes.

78-44 Harvard.

Paige tries to answer with a contested jumper at the other end, and it rattles in. She’s pressing now, forcing every play, trying to drag her team back into a game that’s already slipping away.

Back on offense, you hesitate near the arc, drawing in the defense before flipping a behind-the-back pass to Jasmine cutting baseline. The ball barely touches her hands before it’s in the net.

80-46 Harvard.

Coach Matthews calls timeout to sub you out with 1:32 left. The ovation is deafening—every single person in the arena on their feet, cheering until their voices crack. You’ve got 34 points, 15 assists, and 7 steals, but the numbers barely scratch the surface of what just happened.

You jog to the bench, your teammates mobbing you, their hands slapping your back, their voices a chaotic blur of celebration.

As you pass Paige one last time, there are no words. No need.

You both know what this moment is.

The final buzzer sounds: Harvard 89, UConn 51.

Confetti falls, a blizzard of crimson and gold, as your teammates tackle you in a storm of laughter and tears. Cameras flash everywhere, their lenses capturing history in real time.

You stand at center court, calm amidst the chaos, the weight of the moment settling over you.

Because you did it. You won.

The locker room is a storm of joy, the kind that only comes from rewriting history. Music blasts from a speaker in the corner. Sierra’s leading a conga line with the championship trophy hoisted high. Jasmine and Maria are filming every second, screaming into their phones about being “FINAL FOUR CHAMPIONS, BABY!”

You should be reveling in it. You are, to an extent—smiling as Sierra shoves a bottle of sparkling cider into your hands, laughing as Jasmine accidentally sprays half the team with the foam.

But deep down, there’s an itch you can’t scratch.

You made the statement. You dominated the game. You won the war.

But the battle inside you—the one that started long before tonight—is still unresolved.

Later, when the celebration starts to wind down, you find yourself leaning against a corner of the locker room, still clutching the now-empty bottle of cider. The room feels quieter, though the energy still hums faintly in the air. Your teammates are scattered—some FaceTiming family, others sprawled on benches in blissful exhaustion.

Sierra catches your eye from across the room. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, a silent question.

You shake your head. Not yet.

An hour later, you’re back in your hotel room, the championship hat still perched on your head, your phone buzzing endlessly with texts and notifications. Most are from reporters, friends, family. A few from Jasmine and Sierra, who are probably still partying somewhere downstairs.

You scroll through them aimlessly, not sure what you’re looking for until you see her name.

Paige.

She hasn't texted. Not since before the game. Her name sits there like a ghost in your messages, daring you to make the first move. To break the silence that's grown between you like a wall.

For a while, you just sit there, staring at the empty message thread. You replay every moment of the game in your mind—the way her voice cracked when she guarded you, the way she pressed harder and harder as the score slipped further out of reach. The way she nodded, warrior to warrior, as if she knew what you’d just written into history.

And yet, it doesn’t feel complete. Not entirely.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

you can come by if you want

The message is simple. No explanations, no context. You don’t even wait to see if she reads it before tossing your phone onto the bed and heading to the bathroom to wash off the night.

When you come back, the screen is lit with her reply:

where?

Your heart stumbles over itself as you type the room number. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt, trying to ignore how your pulse picks up with each passing minute.

The knock, when it comes, is so soft you almost miss it.

For a second, you just stare at the door, your pulse thudding in your ears. The part of you that has spent months building walls tells you not to answer, not to let her in.

But tonight isn’t about walls.

You open the door.

She’s standing there, still in her UConn travel gear, hair tucked under a beanie. Her eyes are tired, rimmed with dark circles, but there’s something in them—something vulnerable, tentative—that catches you off guard.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi.”

You step aside to let her in. She moves hesitantly, as if unsure whether she belongs here.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room feels heavy with unspoken words, with everything the game couldn’t settle.

“You played…” Paige starts, then stops, biting her lip. “You were unbelievable.”

“Thanks.” You cross your arms, leaning against the desk. “You weren’t bad yourself.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, the sound awkward and raw. “I tried.”

Silence stretches between you again. The words you want to say stick to the back of your throat, stubborn and heavy. You watch her hands fidget with the strings of her hoodie, a nervous tell you used to find endearing. Now it just makes your chest ache.

Finally, it’s Paige who breaks the tension.

“I thought it would feel better,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. “Losing, I mean. Seeing you win. It’s like I needed you to win. I needed you to be okay without me. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

Her honesty feels like a gut punch. You unfold your arms, suddenly unable to stay distant. “Paige…”

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, words tumbling over themselves.“For all of it. For hurting you, for not fighting harder, for—”

“I know,” you cut her off gently, your voice quieter now. “I know.”

She looks at you, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Do you?”

You nod, stepping closer. “Yeah. I do. And I…” You take a shaky breath. “I’m tired of being angry. I don’t want to carry it anymore.”

Her shoulders slump, the tension leaving her body all at once. “I don’t either.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of everything unsaid filling the room.

And then, slowly, you reach out, your hand brushing hers. She looks down at the contact, her lips trembling, and you feel something shift.

Forgiveness isn’t instant. It’s not easy. But it starts here, in this quiet room, with the two of you trying to find your way back to something that feels whole.

“Sit,” you say softly, gesturing to the bed.

She hesitates, then sits down, and for the first time in months, the space between you feels less like a chasm and more like a bridge.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to cross it.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for something. You grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge, needing something to do with your hands.

“Want one?” you ask, holding it up.

Paige glances at you, nodding slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hand it to her, and your fingers brush—just for a second. It’s such a small, fleeting touch, but it makes the air between you feel charged, like something fragile and important is hanging there.

She twists the cap off the bottle but doesn’t drink, just stares at it like it holds answers. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually let me in,” she says softly.

“Neither was I,” you admit, sitting down beside her. The bed dips slightly under your weight, and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of the small space between you.

Her lips curve into a faint, rueful smile. “Fair.”

The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken things. You look at her out of the corner of your eye—the way her hands tremble slightly as she holds the water bottle, the way her hair falls messily over her shoulders, the way her shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Paige murmurs, breaking the silence. “You were… unbelievable tonight. I mean, you always are, but tonight…” She trails off, shaking her head like she can’t find the words.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“I wasn’t just talking about the game,” she adds, her voice quieter now. “The way you handled everything—the pressure, the expectations, even me. It was like watching someone I didn’t even know existed.”

You glance at her sharply, caught off guard by the rawness in her voice. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I thought I did,” she says, her lips twitching into something that’s not quite a smile. “But I think I only knew the parts of you that let me in. And I don’t think I earned the rest.”

Her words hit something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to bury. You look down at your hands, twisting the cap on your water bottle. “You didn’t need to earn it,” you say quietly. “It was always yours.”

She turns her head to look at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, and you can feel her staring, feel her trying to read between the lines of your words.

“I should’ve fought harder,” Paige whispers. Her voice cracks, and she drops her gaze back to her lap. “For us. For you. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” you interrupt gently, surprising even yourself with the softness in your tone. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I’ve already forgiven you.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping like a weight has just been lifted. “Really?”

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sound of her breathing fills the room, slow and uneven, and the faint hum of the city outside filters in through the window.

“It’s weird,” you say after a while, breaking the silence. “I thought beating you tonight would feel like closure. Like I could finally move on. But it didn’t.”

Paige looks up at you, her brows furrowed. “What did it feel like?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “Like I was still waiting for something.”

She doesn’t ask what, doesn’t press, but the way she looks at you tells you she knows.

The silence stretches again, but this time it feels different—like the space between you is slowly shrinking, like the air is shifting.

You shift slightly on the bed, your knee brushing hers. The touch is small, accidental, but neither of you pulls away.

“Do you want to stay?” you ask suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them.

Paige blinks, her eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“Stay,” you repeat, your voice steadier now. “Just for tonight.”

She looks at you, searching your face for something—hesitation, doubt, anything that might make her say no. But she doesn’t find it.

“Okay,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, standing up and grabbing a spare blanket from the closet. “You can take the bed. I’ll—”

“No,” she interrupts quickly, shaking her head. “I mean, we can… share. If that’s okay.”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod again. “Yeah. Okay.”

The bed feels impossibly small as you both lie down, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. You’re on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how close she is. Paige shifts slightly, the mattress dipping under her weight, and you catch the faint scent of her shampoo.

You try to focus on anything else—the faint hum of the city outside, the muffled sound of someone laughing in the hallway, the rhythm of your own breathing. But your mind keeps circling back to her.

“Hey,” Paige whispers after a while, her voice tentative in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Can I…?” She trails off, and you turn your head to look at her. Her eyes are wide, uncertain, the soft light from the window catching the gold flecks in them. “Can I hold you?”

The question catches you off guard, but only for a second. Then you nod, shifting onto your side to face her.

She hesitates, like she’s still waiting for you to pull away, and then she closes the space between you. Her arms wrap around you carefully, like she’s afraid you’ll break, and you feel the warmth of her body settle against yours.

You exhale slowly, your head resting against her shoulder, your hand curling slightly against her chest. Her heartbeat is steady, grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel your own racing pulse start to calm.

“Is this okay?” she asks softly, her breath warm against your hair.

“Yeah,” you murmur, letting your eyes close. “It’s okay.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you like a cocoon, the world outside fading into the background. You focus on the small details—the way her fingers trace absent patterns against your back, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her cheek brushes against your temple.

“I missed this,” she whispers, the words barely audible.

You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening with emotions you’re not ready to name. Instead, you shift closer, tucking your face into the crook of her neck. “Me too.”

Her arms tighten slightly around you, and you feel the faintest press of her lips against your hair. It’s not a kiss, not really—just a gentle, fleeting touch, like she’s afraid to ask for more.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air. But for now, it’s enough. Enough to share the silence, to let yourselves be close again, to let the cracks start to heal.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” she says quietly, breaking the silence.

You open your eyes, your gaze meeting hers in the dim light. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

The faintest smile tugs at her lips, hopeful and tentative, and you let yourself smile back.

For now, it’s enough.

For tonight, it’s everything.

The End

A Note from the Me

Thank you for following The Prophecy's story through these three parts. Your comments, messages, and support have meant the world to me. You've helped shape this story of what happens when perfect meets human, when physics equations meet matters of the heart, when being unbreakable becomes more important than being flawless.

Thank you for being part of this journey (cornball moment lol). If enough people want I can do a 6 year time jump as a short story where they're married.

[archangeldyke-all]

Idea: Isha thinks Santa is real and is horrified of him because she thinks he doesn’t like her because she never celebrated before as well, she was a kid in the mines.

When decorating time rolls around she’s all pouty and sad until you and Sev confront the poor baby.

this is so fucking funny hahahaehhhaheahe

men and minors dni

it's christmas eve.

your family doesn't do the traditional christmas, especially since your family wasn't even a family this time last year.

you and sevika's usual christmas tradition is a nice homemade meal by the fire, maybe exchanging a few gifts, ending the night in your matching mr. and mrs. claus lingerie (just two santa hat and whatever red underwear you can find.)

but now you've got the girls, so you're trying to get a little more festive.

jinx and isha drug home a fallen pine tree branch a few days ago, decorating it with streamers and paper snowflakes they made themselves.

you and sevika splurged on christmas lights, hanging them on your front porch and lining the walls of your home with the multi-colored twinkles. of course, you've both been hoarding gifts for the girls-- anything and everything you could find that you thought they might enjoy you've piled up in the you and sevika's super secret hiding spot (under the bed) waiting to be wrapped tonight when the girls go to sleep.

it's been fun!

isha's been endlessly enchanted by the sparkly lights lining the streets, she squeals each time she sees a rudolph or snowman decoration, and she's obsessed with all the sweet treats that come around with this time of year. hot chocolate, christmas cookies, candy canes-- isha loves it all.

jinx has been having a wonderful time introducing isha to all the fun traditions that come around with the season. she custom made herself and isha matching stockings (she made you, vi, and sevika stockings too-- but none of them were quite as sparkly and fun as isha's.) she's been referring to the little girl as her 'elf'-- isha always bursts into giggles when she does. and when there's fresh snow-- jinx has been bundling the little girl up and dragging her outside to introduce her to the joys of snowballs and snowmen and snow angels.

so, overall, you've all been feeling pretty jolly.

but... you're starting to get a little worried tonight, because isha's been becoming increasingly restless.

you've got the fire going, christmas music playing on the radio, the four of you sharing a plate of cookies and sipping on eggnog in matching flannel jammies.

isha's frowning down at her feet, a worried furrow in her brow.

jinx is fighting off sleep on the couch, sevika's stoking the fire. you reach out and nudge the little girl's shoulder.

"you okay, baby?" you ask. sevika blinks over at the pair of you concern on her face as she looks at isha.

isha blinks up at you with anxious eyes. what is santa? she signs.

you look at your wife, the two of you having a panicked, telepathic conversation.

should we tell her he's not real? sevika's face reads.

you shrug. she's only five, she deserves at least one year of believing, don't you think? you ask with a quirk of your brow.

sevika sighs and gestures for you to speak. you giggle.

"santa's an old man who lives in the north pole, making toys all year with the help of his elves. on christmas eve, when we're all sleeping, he travels across the world using magic and flying reindeer, leaving presents for well-behaved kiddos just like you!" you explain happily.

only, isha looks horrified.

he comes in our house when we're sleeping!? she signs. sevika chuckles. what if he robs us?

"nah, kid, santa's a jolly old man. he's not a thief. he's been doin' this for hundreds of years and he's i've never heard of anyone getting robbed by santa." sevika says.

isha still looks skeptical. okay... but what about the song? he sees me when i'm sleeping and knows when i'm awake? how?

sevika snorts. "you're awfully smart for a five year old." she says, ruffling her hair. "santa's magic kid, 's how it all works." she explains.

isha hums, kicking her feet and digesting the new information. jinx snorts awake, blinking around and trying to pretend she's been awake the whole time.

what if he doesn't like me? isha signs.

your heart breaks a little, and you wrap your arm around her. "why wouldn't santa like you, kiddo? you're a great little girl. way better than jinx-- and jinx never got coal."

"hey!" jinx protests.

isha giggles a bit, then she frowns again, a tear trailing down her cheek. but... he never left me presents before.

your heart shatters. beside you, sevika lets out a heartbroken whimper.

"oh, isha baby..." you coo, pulling the girl into your lap.

"santa's not real, isha." jinx cuts in. you and sevika gasp and glare at her and she chuckles. "what?! it's true. he's made up, he's a fairy tale-- parents use him to trick little kids into behaving well."

isha sighs in relief. so, if i'm bad ms. baby and big mama will still give me presents? she asks.

you burst into giggles, and beside you sevika cackles.

"'course, kiddo. sevika gave me a holiday present the same year i blew her fuckin' arm off-- there's not much you can do that'll stop 'em from spoiling you from now on." jinx says.

well... shit. now you've got tears in your eyes. you didn't know that about sevika, and it only makes you love her more. you reach out and grab her hand, only to find it shaking a little. she must be just as affected by jinx's words as you are.

it takes you a few seconds to make sure your voice won't wobble before you speak. "alright, speaking of-- the two of you gotta go to your room so me and sev can put your gifts out. try to sleep, please." you say.

jinx giggles and pulls isha in her arms, both of them hugging and kissing you and sevika goodnight before wandering to their room.

the second their door clicks closed, you and sevika are in eachother's arms, crying with gratitude for your girls; the best gift you could've fucking asked for.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25

@sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ruiwonderz @littlemisszaunite

[natalievoncatte]

Everything was in place. Lena dropped down into the passenger seat of Jess’s car. The trunk was loaded with presents and books and Lena was ready. Jess fired up the engine of her 2009 Honda Civic and off they went, navigating National City traffic.

Lena’s stomach was full of butterflies. She had her hood up and was dressed down in sweats, not looking at all her fashion place self. Jess parked by one of the service entrances and a security guard let them in with a curt nod. Lena had dropped him a four figure tip to cooperate.

The kids were gathered in a common area on the fifth floor pediatric intensive unit, ranging in age from three to fifteen. Lena fought the lump that formed in her throat as they gathered, some of the younger ones in the laps of the older.

Lena started with a reading of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, complete with sill voices and big smiles and a lot of effort on her part to keep tears from welling in her eyes.

Some of these kids were having their last Christmas, and some of them knew it. Some didn’t. Others would go home, and a lucky few would help change the world with their participation in clinical trials.

On some level Lena knew that Kara would show up eventually- she’d been dropping in regularly enough, once learning that Lena read to the kids.

Sure enough, she showed up as the kids were eating turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy prepared under the supervision of a Michelin star chef that Lena had hired at great expense to prepare their dinner.

Supergirl, all swagger and power, strode into the room. The response was curious. They knew her of course, and she’d been there enough times, even read to them, that there was a peculiar familiarity to her visits and only the new kids got truly excited.

They were more excited by Kara’s plus one. She’d brought with her the most perfect Santa Claus that Lena had ever seen. No fake beard here; every whisker was real, as was every crease and wrinkle. Even his costume was flawless, velvet coat and paints lined with genuine fur. He had a huge beach sack thrown over one shoulder and greeted the kids with a cheer, setting to work handing out gifts.

Kara came over and stood next to Lena.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time,” said Lena.

Across the room, Santa gave a hearty Ho! Ho! Ho!, and had taken up a seat to invite kids onto his lap.

“Believe it or not,” Kara said, “he owes me a favor.”

Lena snorted and Kara winked.

“‘sides, I live at the North Pole, too. Sort of.”

Lena watched the man with the children. He really was quite good, a consummate professional.

She looked over at Kara. There was a twinge of pink in her cheeks and snowflakes melting in her hair, and her new suit showed off her muscular arms. More than that, there was a look of a wistful joy in her eyes as she watched the kids enjoy themselves.

Lena’s heart would have grown three sizes that day, if it didn’t already feel like it might burst through her ribs every time she looked at Kara, really looked at Kara.

She’d long ago admitted her feelings to herself- it was getting them out that was the problem, even now.

Across the room, Santa Claus stood, startling Lena out of her reverie.

“I’m sorry kids, but I really must go. Lots more visits to make tonight!”

He stood and walked over to Kara. “I do have that one stop to make before I begin my rounds proper. Shall we?”

He even had the perfect Santa voice.

Kara turned to Lena and offered a hand.

That was how Lena ended up in something like the setup for a bad joke: Riding in an elevator with Santa Claus and Supergirl.

It was actually rather awkward. Kara opened the roof access door and motioned for Lena, and the Santa Claus impersonator followed her out. Kara went last, lingering by the door.

“May we speak in private?” Santa said.

“Sure,” said Lena, happy to play along. She pulled her hood up against the chill and walked a few dozen paces from Kara, and Santa turned to face her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring you that easy bake oven you wanted when you were six,” he began.

Lena’s face fell. Lillian had exploded at her when she asked on Santa’s lap, a much less convincing Santa, and asked for the silly cooking toy.

She’d screamed that menial tasks were beneath a Luthor and Lena was supposed to ask for the American Girl dolls that Lillian had already bought, and what an ungrateful, spoiled little bitch she was. It was the first time that Lillian had called her that and far from the last; she’d added many insults to it over the years, like stupid or lazy or, most painfully of all, fat; dropping that one had sent Lena into a spiral of crash dieting that almost turned into full blown bulimia by the time she graduated from high school.

She’d never told anyone about the easy bake oven. Not even Kara.

Before Lena could demand an explanation or even speak, Santa reached into his bag, withdrew something, and handed it to her.

Lena took the stuffed bear on instinct. When she did she knew it was more than a bear. As her hands touched the somewhat ratty fur and she saw the little tear in his left ear she knew, she knew.

When the Luthors took her in, Lillian destroyed everything of her old life- everything of her mother, as if to erase her from ever existing. It was spiteful, and hateful. Lillian couldn’t revenge herself on his husband’s mistress so she did it to her child.

She’d burned Lena’s stuffed animals. They were all gone, reduced to ash.

Except… except…

“Clive?” Lena whispered, hot tears burning down her cheeks. “This is impossible, how…”

He placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and Lena felt a wave of indescribable shock roll through her. Something just… opened.

Her mind filled with an image of perfect clarity, and a song fresh and bright in her ears. Her mother’s voice and the distant sound of the sea that would eventually take her. All her life Lena could barely remember her mother- she clawed at scraps, more able to feel her than truly remember her.

Not anymore. As she clutched the bear to her chest, memory flooded her mind like warmth from a hearth fire filling a cold room. She grinned like a fool and choked back sobs.

“How?” Lena chirped out.

“Kara asked me to bring you something very special, and I do owe her a favor. I really must get going, though.”

Then she heard it. Jingling bells.

Lena had seen a woman fly; said woman had saved her from splatting on the pavement too many times. She had never seen reindeer fly, pulling a sleigh behind them.

Wait.

No.

This was not possible.

Santa Claus threw his sack in the rear of the sleigh and climbed aboard. He threw Lena a wave.

“Merry Christmas, Lena Luthor.”

“Wait,” Lena called. “Did you bring Kara something?”

“What Kara Zor-El Danvers wants, I cannot give her,” he said, with a cryptic grin.

Lena stumbled back as the reindeer launched into a full gallop with a blast of air, the rider snapping his reins. It was only then that Lena noticed that the lead animal had a glowing red nose.

Kara stepped up behind her and put her hands on Len/ shoulders.

“Kara,” Lena said. “That was the real Santa Claus.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t understand. That was the real Santa Claus. He’s real. Santa Claus is real and he gave me my stuffed bear back.”

As Lena turned, Kara smiled. “I know, baby.”

Lena swiped at her cheeks.

“I-I don’t know how you did this, but thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t even know what to say.”

Kara stepped closer, into her space. Very gently, she brushed away one of Lena’s tears with the pad of her thumb.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“He said he couldn’t get you what he wanted. I find that hard to believe.”

“He can’t just give it to me because it’s not his to give. He did give me this, though.”

Kara reached under her cape, drawing out a small twig with a pair of scalloped leaves and some red berries.

“Is that mistletoe?”

“Yeah,” said Kara.

She lifted it over her head and held it there, smiling at Lena.

It took a moment for her brain to catch up. Kara was holding the mistletoe over her head. She was under the mistletoe.

Lena faltered for just a moment, but then stepped forward, closing what little gap was left between them. Kara was every inch the dashing prince as she put her arm around Lena’s waist, spinning her a little as the other hand cupped her chin and tilted her head just so for Kara to place a gentle, loving, and utterly devastating closed-mouth kiss on Lena’s lips.

Suddenly Lena understood what it was that Kara wanted and for the second time in as many minutes her heart soared and Lena threw her arms around Kara’s neck and they swayed there like dancers amid the snow flurries until Kara flew them home.

[paceprompting]

Need a Ride?

written for ‘snowfall’ wc: 1000 # | steddie | rated: g | cw: non archive warnings apply | tags: alternate first meeting, pre-season four, feat. steve harrington's beemer

@steddieholidaydrabbles

He was sending his van right to the dump this time. He meant it.

Stupid engine he’d had to drop all his profits on for the third time crapping out right in the middle of the road. Leaving him to hoof it back to the gas station and hope that Wayne was home from his shift to get the call.

And of course, the snow season had to start today.

Head ducked against the wind, with only his battle vest and leather jacket against the bracing cold and snowflakes that stung his cheeks and nose where it wasn’t covered by his hair. He was just glad that there were streetlights so he wasn’t veering off into nowhere in the dark.

He could barely feel his fingers in his pockets by the time he made it to the station. He was still shivering, so he wasn’t quite at the point of hypothermia, but even dialing the numbers on the pay phone was a bit of a feat in itself.

Eddie put his back to the wind as the phone rang. And rang. Eventually, it rang out.

Wayne must have picked up a double shift. Not unusual, especially this time of year. Honestly, Eddie should have guessed that in the first place and called the plant instead of the trailer.

And he didn’t have enough change for another call. Guess he shouldn’t have stopped to buy that pack of cigarettes. That he’d already opened and smoked one from before his shitty van broke down.

“Fuck,” Eddie hissed, smacking the receiver into the hook.

He could trudge back to the van and settle in for the night. But without heat, he’d be just as well off trying to walk home in the wind and snow. And he wasn’t going to be getting sympathy with how he was dressed for spare change, much less did he have anything to deal to someone who would give him the time of day.

If he didn’t figure this out quick, he was going to get arrested for loitering.

Although…

“Munson?”

He perked up despite himself, recognizing the voice. Even if it wasn’t exactly someone he was elated to have run into at a pretty low point in his day.

Standing there under cover from the wind, the snow fell gently onto Steve Harrington. Of course it did. Settled on his hair and his jacket like powdered sugar on an overly-sweet dessert.

He wasn’t getting gas, pulled over and stood with the driver’s door open. One hand braced on the door and the other on the hood of his car, Steve stared curiously at Eddie. He was actually dressed for the weather, a puffy white and pale blue-striped monstrosity with fur around the hood.

Steve glanced at the rest of the gas station, noticing that his was the only car around.

“What are you doing here?”

Eddie stayed beside the payphone, in the wind and snow, but the farthest he could be from Steve. He’d dealt to him a few times, just weed, really, and only knew Steve by reputation. Last he’d heard, Steve had just dumped his two lackeys, Tommy and Carol and had slung ice cream at the Starcourt Mall until it burst into flames.

Why Harrington could care about him, Eddie had no idea.

“Van broke down,” he answered shortly, shoving his hands in his pockets even though the leather was nearly as cold as the wind. He gave a strained smile. “Stuck here.”

“Phone busted?”

“Out of money.” Eddie cocked his head, feeling bold. “Got fifty cents?”

It’d be enough for another call to the trailer and one to Wayne’s work for safety.

Steve raised both brows, and Eddie blanched. He and Steve were practically strangers, and he’d immediately hit Steve up for money. Even if he was known as the rich kid with parties every week because his parents were never home—Eddie was so far off his radar, he might as well have been gum under his shoe.

“I could give you a ride,” Steve said instead. “Forest Hills, right?”

A ride in the Steve Harrington’s Beemer. Sleek and maroon and drool-worthy.

The girls at school that would have literally slit his throat to be in Eddie’s place.

Eddie’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, but he managed to find words and point back at the payphone with his thumb.

“I really just need to call my uncle. He’ll come get me.”

Steve leveled a gaze at him. “And you’ll spend an hour in the snow waiting. I’m not going to leave you out here to freeze.”

Eddie sucked his teeth, staring Steve down. He hated to give Steve the point of being right, but he was starting to lose feeling in his hands and his cheeks were stinging from the wind across his face.

He sighed, wetting his bottom lip. Or tried to, since the wet from his tongue only made his face freeze more.

“Fine,” he said, ducking his head as he trudged toward the Beemer. He didn’t dare stop to double-check with Steve, wincing as he pulled his hand from his pocket to open the door and slide inside.

The inside was immediately ten times warmer, blasting from the fans and Eddie nearly moaned. Until Steve’s door slammed closed and suddenly Eddie was inside Steve Harrington’s car. With Steve Harrington.

“You good, Munson?”

He was staring, he realized only after Steve spoke. If Steve wasn’t apprehensive about letting the school freak into his car, he was sure to be when Eddie acted as though he’d been raised far from civilization.

He forced a hard swallow. “Just surprised this isn’t all some trick. My type doesn’t exactly mesh with your type.”

Steve gave this chuckle, like an inside joke only he had any idea of.

“Right,” he said softly, and Eddie definitely felt as though he was way out of the loop on a new kind of Steve Harrington.

A kind he had a single car ride to figure out.

Part Two

[pnghoon]

daddy's in a tutu !!

(🩰) ── 𝓟ARK JONGSEONG [제이] ⁞ ㅤㅤ𝓰. fluff, humor, married auㅤㅤ୨୧ㅤㅤ warnings : est. relationship, not proofread, pet-namesㅤ⟡ㅤ!nonidol hubby !jay 𝔁 wife !reader ᯓ ꒰ wc : 1.3k꒱ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsynopsis .ᐟ in which you come back home to the sight of your husband in a pretty pink tutu (•̪ o •̪) ── 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ᡣ𐭩

juno's note ─ "unfortunately I can imagine him in a tutu if our daughter asked him too" is so jay coded. you will never not catch me yapping about husband jay..bc why is that man so hubby material. if you enjoyed reading this, please be sure to like & reblog !! ♡

the snow was falling heavily outside, blanketing the world in a soft, white layer. inside your cozy home, you were busy getting ready for a day of much-needed errands.

bustling around the house, you pulled on your warmest winter coat and bundled up, ready to brave the icy roads.

before you left, you turned to your husband, jay, and your four year old daughter, yubin, who was sitting on the couch, hugging her favorite pink stuffed bunny.

you stared at your daughter's crestfallen face as she cuddled up beside jay. It was the inevitable that the four year old would be upset right now. due to the icy roads and heavy snow, today's ballet class was canceled, leaving yubin devastated.

“are you sure you'll be okay?” you asked, fixing the scarf around your neck and grabbing your purse.

jay looked up from the couch, where he was busy trying to cheer up yubin, her eyes still a bit puffy from the earlier tears and her nose resembling rudolph.

“we'll be fine,” he reassured with a smile, “right, princess?”

yubin nodded half-heartedly, a cute pout still present on her face as she clutched her bunny.

“you guys call me if you need anything,” you reminded them, pressing a kiss to jay's cheek and ruffling yubin's hair. “i'll be back soon.”

and with one last look at your two favorite people, you braved the snowy outdoors. the cold air nipped at your cheeks, but the promise of hot cocoa and a warm house kept you going.

you made your way to the car, shaking your head with a smile at how cute they looked together. little did you know, an adventure was unfolding inside.

jay and yubin huddled together in the living room, surrounded by the warmth of the heater and the faint sound of delicate snowflakes hitting the window.

yubin wore her little ballet outfit, a mini bun perched on the crown of her head as she practiced her pirouettes.

jay on the other hand, was trying his best to keep up with her, although his ballet skills were definitely less refined.

“okay binnie, let’s try that spin again,” jay said, puffing slightly. “i think i’ve got it now.”

yubin giggled, her cheeks flushed with excitement as he watched her dad try to catch his breath from just a couple twirls.

“daddy, you’re doing great! but…”

“but what, sweetheart?” jay asked, glancing down at her with a raised brow.

“i think you need a tutu too!”

jay blinked. he hadn't anticipated that request. “a tu..tu? i don’t know if that’s a good idea honey...”

“pleeease, daddy?” yubin begged, giving him her best puppy eyes. “it’ll be so much fun!”

jay stared at his daughter for a moment, his heart swelling in his chest at the sight of her big round eyes staring up at him.

after a moment of thought, jay reluctantly sighed, giving in to her adorable plea. “alright, alright. if it’ll make you happy, i’ll wear a tutu.”

and with that, jay found himself sporting a frilly tutu that barely fit his hips, his face turning an adorable shade of pink to match the tutu. yubin clapped her hands in delight, twirling around in her own tutu.

“we're matching now daddy!” yubin cheered, jumping around in her ballet slippers.

jay laughed, looking down at the slight new change of wardrobe. it was definitely a combo to say the least, never in his life would he expect sweats to look so good with a tutu.

“isn't that right binnie?” he commented, extending his hand for yubin to take. “now, let's get back to those grand jeté's we were working on earlier eh?”

yubin squealed, immediately accepting his requests with the grasp of her tiny fingers and a wide smile plastered on her face.

“yes please!”

as they continued their ballet practice, the living room had turned into a makeshift stage for the two, with yubin and jay performing a whimsical ballet routine, the sweet melodies of the nutcracker adding the perfect touch to their chaotic performance.

“okay, let’s see your best grand jeté!” yubin called out, her tiny arms reaching out dramatically.

jay attempted a grand jeté, but ended up looking more like an enthusiastic baby goose learning to fly, his arms flailing in the air.

yubin giggled uncontrollably, trying to mimic her dad's moves with even more dramatizing flair.

they pranced around the living room for what seemed like hours, their tutus fluttering in sync with every twirl and leap. for jay’s sake, they would take periodic breaks throughout the practice.

during these breaks, yubin would watch in amusement as her dad rested his hands on his waist, desperately trying to regain his composure. let’s just say, it was like watching a wind-up toy wind down.

after what felt like ages, you were finally heading home. sure, the sweet jingle of christmas music and the warm smell of cinnamon from each errand stop were enduring, but what you were really looking forward to was being wrapped up in a warm, cozy blanket with the two people you love most.

as you pulled into the driveway, the house looked picture perfect against the snowy backdrop. you carried your bags inside, balancing them as you nudged the door open with your hip.

“i'm back!” you called out, kicking off your snowy boots and setting the bags down in the kitchen. “i got all the goodies!”

no response. now you were curious.

you walked further into the house slowly, following the sound of familiar classical music you knew all too well. peeking around the corner, you stopped in your tracks, eyes wide and mouth agape.

there, in the middle of the living room was your husband, in a bright pink tutu that barely fit his athletic build. matching his outfit was your daughter, her own tutu flaring out as she twirled around, her giggles a melody of their own. they were completely in the zone, unaware of your presence.

If you were being frank, the scene was too precious to interrupt. jay was trying to execute an arabesque, but his balance was off, making yubin laugh even more.

“come on, daddy! like this!” she demonstrated with the grace only a child could have, and jay tried again, a bit more successfully this time.

you couldn’t hold back your laughter any longer, and jay’s head practically spun at the sound, his face turning even redder from embarrassment.

“oh- hey honey! um, well, yubin wanted to practice ballet–” he explained, his voice trailing off at the end.

“don't stop on my account,” you teased, revealing yourself from behind the wall as you took in the scene before you in all it’s glory.

yubin ran over to you, her eyes shimmering with excitement.

“mommy, look! daddy's my ballet partner!”

you couldn't help but chuckle, kneeling down to hug your daughter. “i can see that," you commented through giggles, your gaze flickering towards your husband for a moment. “and I must say.. he's doing a pretty fantastic job.”

“why thank you.” jay answered. he tried to pull off a graceful bow, but from the energy he had just exerted to his recent performance with his daughter, he stumbled a bit.

you couldn't stop laughing, tears forming in your eyes. “oh, jay, you're a sight.”

jay grinned, walking over to join you and there daughter. “anything for our little princess. plus, i think i’ve found a new appreciation for tutus.”

later that evening, after yubin was tucked into bed, you and jay found yourselves cuddled on the couch, the soft glow of the christmas tree lights casting a warm glow to the room.

“you really made her day today, y'know,” you murmured, resting your head on jay's chest.

“well, that's what dads are for, right?” he replied, his fingers playing with a strand of your hair.

“i think you might have missed your calling as a ballet dancer,” you teased, nudging his side with your elbow.

jay laughed, pulling you closer. “i'll stick to my day job, thanks. but for yubin, i'd wear a tutu any day.”

you smiled, feeling the warmth of his love envelop you. “and that's exactly why you’re so amazing.”

𝓢igning off... @pnghoon

── 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 [OPEN 🗯] @onlyhees @amouriu @greentulip @enhluv1 @samiikeu @hoonwhile @dearrwoni @won4kiss @jakesangel

[sonotpattismith]

as soft as we know

pairing: choso kamo x reader word count: 12.7k (oops) content: fluff, angst, choso experiencing his first christmas, jealousy, insecurity, loss of virginity, choso being a sweetie pie, smut, 18+ a/n: this is a continuation of 'it's britney, bitch', but it can definitely be read independently as well

“That’s not where it goes, Cho.”

“Lower?” 

“A little bit.”

“Here?”

Grunting in frustration, you reached for his wrist, guiding his hand to the proper positioning. 

“These are supposed to be his arms, Cho.” You laughed despite your playful exasperation, helping him carefully shove the small stick he’d found into the snowman’s lumpy torso. 

Stepping back to check your progress, you smiled gleefully and bit back a cackle at the state of it. Its head was far too small for its body, and the rocks you two had found for his eyes were completely different sizes. 

Turning to catch Choso’s reaction to his first snowman, you were almost caught off guard by his stoic expression. His sharp, dagger like gaze could cut straight through glass, pairing terrifyingly with the firm line his lips were set in. One thing you had learned in the few months you’d been with the half-curse though, was that he had the nastiest case of resting bitch face that you’d ever seen on a man. It was no wonder you were so put off by him upon first meeting. Still, you couldn’t help but tilt your head a little to meet his gaze. 

“You okay?” You questioned with a knowing smile. 

Blinking away the snowflakes that had gathered on his dark lashes, his eyes seemed to light up at your question, the abrupt switch in expressions nearly giving you whiplash. 

“Yeah, he looks funny. Why?” Choso grinned sincerely, reaching out to gently brush the snow from your hair. “Was I doing that thing with my face again?” 

“Yeah, you were.” You giggled and reached up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, gripping at his bicep for balance. He hummed appreciatively, a flush quickly coming up to paint his pale cheeks. It was something you were eternally grateful that he hadn’t grown out of since the beginning of your relationship. You were sure if the day ever came that he stopped blushing so furiously at your kisses, your heart would split in two. 

“Does it look how you wanted it to?” He asked as he reached out to straighten the right eye that had slipped a bit. Huffing out a sigh, you sized up the snowman that looked like he had definitely seen better days. 

“He looks… unique.” You offered with a tilted head, trying to see which angle would make it look halfway decent. “But hey, if I can’t decorate a tree, our freak snowman is gonna have to do to get me into the Christmas spirit.”

“Why can’t we decorate a tree?” He questioned with a tilt of his head. From what you had told him, the tree was kind of the main event of this holiday you seemed to be buzzing about. 

“I don’t have time this year.” You muttered dejectedly, distracting yourself by straightening out the drooping arms of your snowman. “I’m supposed to be filling in as supervisor for some of the kids’ missions in the next few weeks.”

Choso hummed pensively, taking note of the gloom that had suddenly befallen your once cheerful mood. In a meek attempt to salvage it, he nodded toward the snowman. 

“Is there anything else we can do to him?”

“Well, I wanted to fix his head, but I think my fingers are gonna freeze off if we don’t stop here.” You confessed sheepishly.

“You’re cold?”

“You’re not?” Your brows rose challengingly, giving him a once over to note that he appeared perfectly comfortable. 

Choso tried to hide his anticipatory smile as he pulled you closer, tugging his gloves off with his teeth to reveal his chipping, black painted nails, courtesy of you, of course. It took almost four weeks of you observing the way he’d watch you so intently as you gave yourself haphazard manicures on the floor of your dorm. You would feel his warm breath over your shoulder as you picked up various bottles to choose your weekly color.

 One evening, you had of course seen it coming a mile away when he apprehensively requested if you could do his, too. You could remember smiling knowingly at him before nudging your chin toward the bottles to prompt him to pick one.

Maybe it was because this grunge side Choso had been ever so slowly leaning into as he came into his own made you swoon just a bit, but you’d be lying if you said your shared, weekly manicures hadn’t become some of your favorite memories with him. 

It was time for a touch up, you determined with a soft smile while he gently gathered your hands to uncover them as well. A slow breath escaped you as his large hands enveloped yours, and you gradually felt a steady warmth begin to fill his palms. Your thus far frigid fingers felt as though they were defrosting in his grip, and you nearly moaned in relief. 

“Is that your technique?” You finally gathered, his supposed immunity to the cold becoming less mysterious. He hummed affirmatively, shifting to place both your hands in one of his as the other came up to cup your rosy, snow-kissed cheek.

Leaning into the heater-like quality of his palm, you peered up at him through your lashes. He became more beautiful each time you looked at him, you were sure. 

The dark circles you once found so intimidating now served as an enticing emphasis for his chocolate, brown eyes. His ever-shifting blood-mark gave a dark edge to his otherwise benevolent nature that never failed to send shivers down your spine. These days, he was wearing his hair loose more and more, and maybe it was because you liked to tangle your fingers in it when he kissed you, but he’d never admit that, of course. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as his thumb maneuvered down to brush heat along your chin, unintentionally snagging on your bottom lip on the way. Everything about him made your mind turn to degenerate mush, and it only seemed to be getting worse the longer you spent with him. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take of the careful tango you two had been spinning in the past few months. 

Choso had been adapting quicker than you had expected to the sorts of little intimacies that came along with being in a romantic relationship. It took some gentle coaching for him to understand what types of those intimacies were appropriate and where. When he was introduced to the notion that your lips were essentially free game for him, you would have thought he’d won the lottery. You by no means minded that his new favorite hobby was discovering all the ways he could leave your lips red and raw, but you preferred he not do it in public.

Still, some neck kisses and love bites seemed to be the extent of Choso’s exploration so far, and you weren’t sure if it was your place to introduce more to him just yet. The man made it hard though when he looked at you with those tired, sultry eyes. Little moments like this, where it was clear how easily tenderness came to him, had your mind wandering around questions of how nice those heated hands of his would feel running up the insides of your thighs.

“I know something that will warm you up faster.” His raspy voice pulled you from your sinful thoughts, the suggestive context making your eyes fly open to meet his loving gaze. The corners of your lips twitched up in anticipation as your breath mingled with his and created ghosts that danced against the contrasting frigid air between you. You tilted your head down to press a soft kiss against his thumb as you raised a questioning brow at him. “Hot chocolate? I found the thick one that Yuji likes.”

Despite the crushing disappointment that you felt in your core, down to the heat between your thighs, you couldn’t help but smile in amusement at his oblivion. Acting on a gnawing urge, you wrapped your arms around his thick torso from under his puffer jacket and squeezed him, a small part of you wishing he’d always stay this adorably oblivious. 

“I’d kill for some, Cho.” You mumbled against his chest, sighing contentedly as his Herculean arms came around your shoulders to squeeze you back. A squeal of delight escaped you when you felt your feet leave the ground, wrapping your legs around his hips so you could climb into a more secure position, arms locked around his shoulders now as he began his trek back to the school with his hands gripping at your thighs.

It was something Choso took notice of very early on, how you’d flush instantly whenever he’d sweep you off your feet. That, and it didn’t hurt that his hands could wander without question when he was carrying you around wherever you went. His curiosity seemed to grow with each passing day, and he was quickly realizing that he was greedy, forever chasing an inexplicable craving he had for you that only drove him crazier the more he fed it. He had a general idea of what his body was asking of him, but the half-curse was still painfully unaware of how to broach the topic, or even what to do. 

So, for now, he’d allow his hands to creep up the expanse of your plush thighs, the ones he could undoubtedly squeeze between his fingers till they fell off. You didn’t stop him as his veiny hands drifted up to cup at the swell of your rear, so he figured it was innocent enough, even if it felt so incredibly far from it. God, how his digits seemed to be lighting ablaze, that insatiable demon in the back of his mind roaring for more as it always did. He wondered if you’d notice, glancing at your contended side profile as he allowed his fingers to squish at those enticing pieces of you that seemed so off limits despite your lack of protest. They were soft, just as he thought they’d be, and maybe if he just snuck a few inches lower he’d be able to see if that heat that seemed to emanate from between your legs was—

“Having fun?” You mused, trying to calm the way your breath wanted to hitch as he drew closer and closer to where you so desperately wished he’d explore, but you were entering the common area now, and you really didn’t want to have to deal with the consequences should someone see his hand on its way to your now throbbing heat. 

In an instant, he halted his exploration, and you chuckled breathily as you watched the blood creep up his neck. 

“Sorry,” he stammered out, guilt beginning to eat at his chest. “I didn’t mean to make—”

“It’s okay, Cho.” You reassured, leaning back to look in his eyes that wanted to focus on anything but you at the moment. Your fingers crept up his nape to twist at the soft tufts of hair there, making him hesitantly peer at you. “You can… touch me wherever you want. Just when it’s us two though, okay?”

The thought had his mind spinning, his heart racing into his throat as he pondered all the possibilities. For now though, you were sliding down his torso, your boots hitting the wood floors with a small thud as you greeted his younger brother who perked up at your mention of hot chocolate. Choso blinked a few times when Yuji asked him if he was okay, and he quickly plastered on a smile, finally lighting up at the thought of spending some time with his two favorite people. 

Though it didn’t happen how you two had expected, the brothers had actually grown closer since the beginning of your relationship. Maybe it was because Choso’s time was actually occupied by something else for a change, and it had finally given Yuji the space he needed to come to his older brother on his own volition. The other theory was tethering on the fact that the pink haired boy and his friends were genuinely baffled that the half-curse had managed to woo you into a relationship, and they were constantly trying to butt in these days to get a sense of how that dynamic even worked. 

Either way, those little moments of Yuji’s incessant nosiness and reaching out to his brother for a change, you felt so lucky to have been able to watch a genuine connection form between the two. 

You smiled warmly as you got the ingredients together, watching as they looked out the window at the snowman you two left behind. The younger boy was using some… colorful terms to describe the unique creation, surely just so he could rile Choso up as he was growing so expert at doing. Rolling your eyes in mock exasperation, you turned to Megumi and Nobara who had been spectating on the sidelines.

“You guys want some too?” You offered, pretending not to notice the way Choso now had his brother in a headlock as he demanded that he apologize for criticizing the snowman you had worked so hard on. Both observers mumbled in agreement, too busy trying to see who would win this one. With a defeated sigh, you began pulling out some mugs. 

“Got enough for one more?” 

The voice almost had you groaning in disappointment, but the last thing you wanted was to cause an unnecessary scene, so you simply clutched at the mug in your hand tightly before offering a tight lipped smile. The smug man leaned on the counter beside you gleamed as his lips twisted into a smirk. 

“Want peppermint in yours?” You offered with as kind a voice you could manage, begrudgingly looking up at Hiroki, with his perfectly punchable face. Since you’d stood him up those months ago upon giving into Choso’s begging, he had been oh so subtly taunting around you. He was smart with it though, never blatant enough for anyone else to notice or even for you to point it out, but you could see it in that sneering glint in his eyes, he was holding it over your head. 

“You trying to tell me I should freshen up for ya’?”

At this, both Nobara and Megumi tore their attention away from the fight to make sure they’d heard that correctly. Even Yuji stopped his attempts to fight his brother off to blink up dumbly at the suggestive comment. You felt the irritation creeping up your neck in the form of flushed skin at the thought of your students having to witness this painfully awkward situation. 

“Dude, are you gonna let him do that in front of you?” The pink-haired boy whispered incredulously at Choso, who was still trying to gather why the energy in the room had changed so abruptly. His brows twitched down in confusion, and he couldn’t understand what was so wrong with the man’s words, but he knew your shoulders were tense and the smile on your face wasn’t a genuine one. Slowly releasing Yuji, he was by your side quicker than you could have processed that the room had grown so silent. 

You felt his hand creep around to rest on your side as he smiled at Hiroki. A ball of guilt twisted in your stomach— you had never told Choso that he was the one you’d stood up all those months ago, and you certainly hadn’t told him about the way he’d been subtly taunting you about it either. 

“Right,” you stammered, hoping desperately to pull it together lest you make the tension obvious to your oblivious boyfriend. “No peppermint then.” 

“Actually, forget about mine— not as enticing when everyone wants it, y’know?” Hiroki shrugged with a poorly hidden smirk as he reached out to brush a stray hair behind your ear. For a second time that day, Choso could feel the energy shift, and he wasn’t sure why the man’s words felt sickening as they settled in the air around him. The hand on your waist tightened, and he pulled you just the few centimeters it took to press you against his side. He was sure if his fingers weren’t pressed to you, they would’ve found their way around this man’s neck. “But let me know when you’ve had your fill, yeah?”

As he walked away, Choso stepped forward, unsure of what he would do but acting on an instinct he had yet to feel throughout his self-exploration as a human. Your hand, still warm from the tight grasp you had on the mug before you, wrapped around his fingers to tug him back. As if coming back down to earth, he blinked a few times, looking back at you with that familiarly terrifying expression— though you were already used to it.

“Are… you okay?” He asked quietly, still unsure of what had transpired and why it seemed to have changed the trajectory of their otherwise pleasant day. 

You nodded, looking away from his concerned gaze to top off his hot chocolate with some marshmallows. As he peered down at the mug now being presented to him, you held your breath. Slowly, he allowed his tired smile to once again replace his frown, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek in thanks. The memory of what had transpired still lingered in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it ruin his day as he began handing the filled mugs out to his brother and his friends. 

You hoped that Choso had forgotten the whole ordeal by that night. The scene kept replaying in your head as the steaming water from your shower ran down your back— how you just stood there and took it as he humiliated you. At the very least, you were grateful that your boyfriend wasn’t too well-versed in deciphering innuendos just yet, but it was clear that he knew something wasn’t quite right. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have pulled him back, let him act on whatever his instincts were clearly telling him to do at that moment. Though Hiroki was a talented enough sorcerer, you were confident in the ways Choso could outmatch him in size as well as combat. It would have been satisfying enough just to see the look on his face as your otherwise docile boyfriend stalked toward him with nothing but human instinct and lean muscle on his side. You smiled at the thought while turning the shower off.

No matter how much he probably deserved the reality check, Hiroki was still technically your coworker. The last thing you wanted was a meeting with the higher ups about how ‘mixing business with pleasure always ended badly’. It gave you a headache just thinking about it. You could be civil, you rationed with yourself as you towel dried. You only wondered if you could say the same for Choso if he ever put two and two together.

Sighing wistfully, you hung up your towel, moving to grab your clothes and get dressed. Blinking a few times in confusion, you took note of the empty counter where you typically left your clothes waiting for you. 

“Shit.” You groaned quietly, your heart picking up a bit at the mental image of your pajamas at the edge of your bed where you’d forgotten them. Chewing at your bottom lip, your eyes drifted to the closed door where you knew Choso was waiting on the other side of. 

You shook your head at your unnecessary nerves. Sure, you two had never… explored each other in such a way yet, but you were both adults. Ripping your towel back off the rack, you wrapped it snuggly around yourself before cracking the door open and peeking out. 

Your boyfriend was lying stomach down on your bed, surely pretending to be sleeping as he had a tendency of doing so you wouldn’t kick him out at the end of the day. Rolling your eyes at his performance, you quietly slipped through the door, hoping he’d keep his eyes closed long enough for you to gather your clothes and run back into the bathroom. 

As you tiptoed to the other side of the bed, you weren’t expecting his eyes to already be open, now staring widely back at you with an unreadable expression. With a small yelp of surprise, you flinched back. It took expert reflexes, but you managed to catch your towel swiftly as it began to slip down your chest. 

Choso would be a stone cold liar if he said he had never imagined what was always hiding beneath the chunky cardigans and oversized sweaters you seemed so fond of. Though he could say with full confidence that he didn’t expect to be so… distracted by it now that it was right in front of him. Well, underneath the towel you were clutching desperately to, but still— it stopped barely midway down your thighs, allowing his eyes to traverse the smooth expanse of your legs and give him just an infuriatingly small taste of the curve of your ass that began just where the fabric ended. 

He felt his fingers twist into the pillow he had clutched underneath his head as his eyes traveled up to your chest, where the swell of your breasts threatened to burst out the top of your towel thanks to the tight grip it now had around your body. They were almost heaving in time with your labored breaths, still glistening from the water of your shower, and god did he want to just lick it off of you. 

“I forgot my clothes.” You stated awkwardly, hoping that he’d either make a move already or just close his eyes. This though— the silent, wide eyed stares that did little to reveal just what was going on in that head of his, the anticipation of what might come— you weren’t sure you could handle it anymore. 

Choso licked his lips, finally blinking for the first time in what seemed to you like hours, before slowly sitting up at the edge of the bed. Tearing his gaze from you, his eyes landed on the neatly folded clothes beside him. It felt as though there was lead in his arms as he carefully picked them up. Instead of handing them to you as you thought he would though, they instead hovered over his lap as he continued to stare down at them in uncertainty. 

“Cho—” You began, but he finally looked up at you.

“Can I kiss you?” He requested, fisting at your clothes while his eyes gave your body another once over before meeting yours again. “Just like this?”

A shiver ran down your spine at the way his ominous eyes seemed to drink you in. Releasing a shaky breath, you took a tentative step toward him, now standing directly between his muscular legs. In an instant, he was dropping your clothes to the ground, head tilting back to watch what you’d do next. 

With your fist tightening around your towel, you carefully raised your knee to rest it beside his hip before doing the same with the other until you hovered over his lap. His glistening, pink lips parted, and you swore you heard the tiniest of moans slip past them as his hands quickly found the small of your back to pull you into a snug straddle on his lap. One of his hands remained firmly on your back as the other crept up to softly grasp your jaw as he finally kissed you. 

That long since dreamt about, golden spot between your legs was pressed right against him now, and, even with the god-forsaken barrier of his pants, he could feel its heat right on his groin. Choso whined into your mouth, the fresh scent of your body wash only adding to the circus of sensations that were overriding his system. 

The hand on your jaw drifted down your damp neck, testing its luck as it grazed over the mound of your breast still covered by the towel. You arched against his tentative touch, and he wondered if you’d think he was completely depraved if he asked you to take the damned thing off. If only he knew you were only keeping the useless fabric on for the sake of him setting his own pace. 

Despite this, you couldn’t help yourself as you allowed your hands to dance down his torso and creep under the hem of his crewneck. Your fingers greedily explored his chiseled physique, the sensation of his abs jolting against your touch making you press yourself into the steadily growing tent in his pants. Choso gasped greedily at the feeling, quickly pulling away from you to yank his shirt over his head once your hands reached his shoulders. 

Had you been given the chance, you were sure you could have spent hours staring at each rippling muscle of his abdomen, the way even his shoulders looked so deliciously defined— you wanted to just lean forward and take a bite of him. So, you did, hands gripping at his bulging biceps for balance as you sunk your teeth into his firm trap. His jaw dropped open involuntarily, and it was now his turn to drive his solid bulge into your center. You moaned softly around his muscle, releasing it in favor of wet kisses to soothe the now irritated area.

Choso wanted so desperately to chase that sultry sound that had just swam into his ears. He gripped at the nape of your neck to pull you back, panting softly as he stared into your blown-out eyes.

“Did… did that feel good?” He asked, hoping to any god that would listen to him that he wasn’t all alone with these confusingly craven feelings. 

“Yeah,” You quickly rasped out, placing a hand on his shoulder to push him back against the mattress. His hand hesitantly found your thigh, running his palm up the smooth flesh until his fingers met the hem of your towel. Leaning forward, you rolled your hips against his, delighting in the way his face scrunched up so gorgeously when he moaned. “Everything you do feels good to me, Cho.”

The fingers against your thigh squeezed at the fat there as his free hand reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear in hopes of getting a better look at you. Despite his mind being on a completely different astral realm at the moment, this movement struck a memory he desperately wanted to forget about right now. 

Shaking his head subtly, he pushed it to the back of his mind and allowed his hand to creep under your towel as you leaned down to kiss him once again. Your skin was still warm from your shower, and his fingers were a mere inches away from your bare ass, and god why the fuck can’t he stop thinking about Hiroki and his grimy hands in your hair?

You pulled back a bit upon noticing the falter in his movements. 

“You okay, Cho? You wanna stop?”

“No!” He insisted eagerly, cursing himself for ruining the moment. An amused smile played at your lips, and you leaned down to begin pressing wet kisses against his jaw. His dark eyes stared up at the ceiling, the same words replaying in his mind until he couldn’t take it anymore. In one swift moment, he sat up, hands gripped at your back so you didn’t fall off his lap as you yelped in surprise. “I just…”

The way your fingers were now tracing feather-light touches up the nape of his neck was making it hard for him to concentrate. Still, when he looked at you he could only see that unexplainably tense expression you’d given just a few hours ago. Whatever chills the sensation of your bare thighs pressed against the skin of his waist were producing though were wildly outnumbered by that gnawing feeling of dread growing steadily in his stomach. 

“What did he mean?” Choso’s question came out firmly despite his apprehensive gaze. You tilted your head in question, but he quickly clarified upon seeing your confusion. “Hiroki.” 

You didn’t say anything for a moment, but your knowing expression still made his stomach churn. 

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now, Cho?” You tried to smile easily at him, leaning forward to press another chaste kiss to his pouted lips, to which he returned quickly. 

“Something is going on.” He pulled away just enough to mumble against your lips. With his forehead pressed against yours, you could feel the way his brows furrowed at the thought of being left out of something seemingly significant. You sighed, your warm breaths mingling in the minuscule space between you. 

“Remember when I was gonna go on that date? You know, before we got together.” You began as you pulled away to sit back on his thighs. After a short moment of thought, he nodded. The slow unfurrowing of his brows told you he was already placing the pieces together though. “It was supposed to be with him, and… I guess he’s just still upset about how I went about it, is all.” 

“So, when he said to let him know when you got your fill—”

“Choso, don’t think—”

“He meant of me.” 

The mark against his nose twitched as his face heated, but for the first time, you weren’t sure if it was born from embarrassment or rage. You tried to gage the far off look in his eyes but were coming up short. A shiver shot down your spine when he looked at you once again, his dark eyes sharp as daggers. 

“He talked about you like you were food.” He spat, the rest of the odd conversation finally clicking in his mind. The fingers against your back dug into your towel before he carefully maneuvered you to the spot beside him. You quickly sat up when he snatched his crewneck from the end of the bed. Grabbing blindly at your sweatpants, you shoved them on under your towel. 

“What are you doing?” You questioned cautiously, gripping at the other end of his sweater to stop him. 

“I’m going to talk to him.” But the enraged glint in his eyes told you he had more detailed plans than he was letting on. 

“No, you’re not.” You insisted, tugging on his arm. 

“This isn’t the first time he’s talked to you like this, is it?” He assumed, searching your face as if daring you to lie. “I don’t like this. I’m going to say something.” 

“Choso, I’m asking you to please let it go.” You pleaded as you tugged him down to sit beside you. “If you make a scene, I’m going to be the one who will have to clean it up later. Please, I’m a big girl— you don’t need to defend me.”

His shoulders slowly deflated while taking in the desperation in your eyes. He could feel his resolve slipping from right underneath him. 

“Will it really upset you?” 

“It really will.” 

The man’s sigh morphed into a quiet groan that you wouldn’t have noticed had you not been so close to him at the moment. His shadowy eyes, still swimming with that unmistakable vexation, watched as the frigid air finally caught up to you, and a subtle tremble shook your frame. Pursing his pouted lips, he slipped his forgotten crewneck over your head before pulling the damp towel off of you. 

“Are you gonna kick me out now?” He muttered, widening his eyes in the matter he knew you always seemed to melt for. As you had already come to recognize— Choso catches on fast.

“You can stay as long as you do that heater thing with your hands again.” You compromised with a grin, watching as he wasted no time pulling the covers over the two of you. Scooting closer to you, both his hands came up to cup your face, and you soon melted into the warmth that flooded them. Humming contentedly, you reached up to hold onto his wrist as you allowed your eyes to drift shut. 

He studied you as you relaxed against him, the fat of your cheeks squished against his hands, and he felt his heart accelerate. It had been a few months now since he began learning of this side of humanity— learning about you. No matter how much he seemed to squeeze at you when he had the privilege of being beside you, or how ever long he’d spend memorizing the divots and marks on your face, nothing Choso did ever stopped the longing he felt for you when you parted. A soft call of your name had you humming in question, too comfortable to bother opening your eyes. 

“Do you think you’ll ever… get your fill of me?” 

At his apprehensive question, you sighed wistfully, blindly trailing your hand up until it tangled into his hair. 

“I could never get enough of you, Cho. I— ” I love you. The words died in your throat. Cracking your eyes open, you found that he was already peering back at you, patiently awaiting the rest of your sentence. Was he ready for that? Were you ready for that? Even so, you questioned if he would really understand the depths of your words enough to reciprocate them genuinely. Twisting your fingers into the hair on his nape, you tugged at it gently, the way he always shivered over. “I think you’re my favorite guy.” 

The way he smiled warmly at you, eyes glistening as he started from scratch once again making sure he had every part of you committed to memory, told you that your meaning got across anyway. One of his hands creeped around to the back of your head to pull you against his bare chest, slotting his leg between yours in hopes of enveloping you completely. 

“You’re my favorite girl.” 

As the two of you went about your week, you prayed that your intimate reassurance would be enough for Choso. Though you could hardly blame him for getting so upset, you wouldn’t change your stance on him letting this one go. And, truthfully, he had all but forgotten it that next morning when he woke up beside you. The only thing still fresh in his mind was your sweet promise, the reassurance that, of all the men that had waltzed into your life, he had somehow managed to find himself at the top of your list. 

This haze-like bliss only lasted so long though, and he was rudely reminded of the need for that conversation in the first place when he saw Hiroki again. The man wasn’t even doing anything wrong, simply talking to one of the supervisors about his next assignment, but everything about him made Choso’s blood boil. 

You had agreed to go on a date with him once, so that must mean at some point in time, in some shape or form, you had been interested in him, too. It was selfish, childish even, but to hell if he didn’t feel like a petulant toddler at the very thought of it. Tearing his eyes away from the man, he continued to remind himself of your request. 

“You gonna show this dude up or what?” Nobara suddenly questioned with a quirk of her perfectly defined brow. Luckily, your fondness of the half-curse helped Yuji’s friends warm up to him more, though they still had difficulty relating to his strange demeanor half the time. 

Choso grumbled under his breath, continuing to collect the materials they needed for their sparring today. A part of him wanted to yell that he was trying to, but he thought it best to keep the kids out of his relationship with their sensei. 

“Yeah, bro, I can’t believe you didn’t kick his ass the other day.” Yuji guffawed with a shake of his head. 

“It’s not worth the trouble.” He responded simply, hoping that they’d change the subject so he could think of anything else. 

“Like hell it is!” The redhead scoffed, piling the targets she was holding into Megumi’s arms so she could pop her hip at the man before her. “You’re underestimating how much girls like a man that fights for them.”

This made Choso’s movements falter for a moment. Should he really be taking romantic advice from teenagers? Yuji circled around him as he continued driving home their point. 

“Yeah, you’re basically giving this dude free reign to flirt with your girl when you just stand there and let it happen.” 

“That’s not what I’m doing.” The half-curse finally defended, his mind reeling with the mixed information he was receiving.

“Then do something about it!” Kugisaki shouted in exasperation as the trio followed him outside. “You want her to feel unappreciated? Get bored of you?”

Her words hit him like a ton of bricks, the memory of Hiroki’s taunting playing like a sick melody in the back of his head. Perhaps if he had been in a different state of mind, not already plagued with insecurities of which he’d never had to worry about before, he would have been able to recognize that the teenagers probably didn’t know best. But it wasn’t different though, and insecurity and jealousy were rearing their ugly heads at him in a first time’s greeting. 

Choso was far too consumed in these new, vile emotions to not allow these kids’ words to seep into his veins. So, when Hiroki passed by him with that nasty smirk on his smug face as the student’s were sparring, purposefully shouldering at the half-curse’s already tensed arm, rational thought was out the window. His hand quickly wrapped around the man’s wrist before he could leave. Taking a calculated breath, he thought that maybe talking wouldn’t be so bad. 

“What’s your pro—”

“I know what you’re doing, and I’m asking you to stop.” Choso explained levelly, his grip unintentionally tightening around his wrist as Hiroki raised an amused brow at him. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”

“Easy man, c’mon.” There was the smallest trace of unease in the man’s falsely nonchalant voice. He tugged at his arm in an attempt to free it, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that was happening before he agreed to the request being laid before him. “I haven’t done anything to her.”

“I know you think I’m stupid, but I’m not.” Choso seethed, and perhaps that insecurity was doing the speaking for him, because he just knew how he appeared to everyone else. Despite his age, he was less experienced, less assimilated to the world around him, and though he tried, he wasn’t sure he’d ever catch up. Still, he wasn’t a child, and the last thing he wanted was for you to ever think of him as someone who couldn’t be there for you because of his inexperience with humanity. “And she might be worried about making a mess, but I’m not.”

He wasn’t sure what was coming over him, but it felt as though he might implode without the opportunity to prove himself to this scum who at one point had a shot with you— who was fucking with you right under his nose. Hiroki scoffed “There’s no need for all that. We’re friends right?” Using his free hand, he patted Choso’s shoulder with an attempted brotherly bonding gesture before leaning into his ear. “No bitch worth getting a black eye for, right?”

He wasn’t sure what caught the trio’s attention away from their sparring first— the instantaneous morphing of his blood mark as it traversed the length of his vexed face in tandem with his last resolve of patience snapping, or the literal snapping of Hiroki’s wrist under his crushing grip. 

“Call her by her name.” His heated demand somehow made it out over the pained yells of the man crumpling to his knees before him. 

“I—”

“Actually,” Choso’s indignation wouldn’t let him just shut the fuck up and let it go. The feeling of bones crunching under his grip didn’t quell his anger— it made it worse. He was boiling over, bursting at the seams in search of relief that was nowhere in sight. “Don’t speak to her again— don’t speak about her again.” 

He thought it would help, give him a sense of accomplishment that he’d protected you from the disrespect of the lesser than individuals you were forced to call coworkers. What he didn’t understand though, was the fact that he was protecting himself. This man could come and make you think lesser of him, and how could he not do anything to stop it? Though he’d had time for his confidence in areas such as combat and technique to flourish over the years, Choso still held the vulnerability of a man decades younger than his body revealed. 

Despite his own justification, nothing would do away with the precipicing guilt setting his guts ablaze with discomfort. It couldn’t be explained— Hiroki deserved it, he deserved the humiliation of having to wake in the morning with the knowledge that everyone saw him brought to his knees so easily. So, why was the half-curse’s mind reeling with dramatized scenarios of how he might explain himself to you when the news undoubtedly found your ears? No matter the myriad of alternate endings he’d concocted though, nothing could have truly prepared him for the betrayal in your eyes as you burst into his space that night. 

Choso stood from the edge of his bed with a haste, as if trying to shroud the fact that he’d been staring at the door with an inexplicable immobility for what seemed like hours. His eyes fluttered as the heavy door fell back against its frame with a thud. Your lips parted, almost as though you had your monologue pre-planned from the moment you began your enraged trek toward his living space, but they shut with a click of your teeth as your face scrunched in frustration. 

His feet were planted firmly into the wooden floors beneath him, preparing himself for the calculated rage that was surely building within that heavenly frame of yours. What came though was worse, because your words were quiet and your eyes lost that flare of outrage that they held when you first entered, replaced by a hoaxed glimmer that made your irises gloss over heartbreakingly. 

“I asked you not to, Choso.” Your cheeks were still ablaze with an unfamiliar rouge, and he wasn’t sure if it was the bitterness of the cold nipping at your skin or an internal ticking clock. 

“How could I have ignored it?” He tried, but you were shaking your head before the last syllables spilled from his lips. 

“Because I asked you not to.” You ground out once again, that rage making a sudden resurgence as you took an indignant step toward him. “Do you know how humiliated I was?”

“You didn’t hear what he said about—”

“I don’t care what he said!” You gasped in exasperation, a smile of disbelief gracing your face before it fell back into that painful scrunch that made his soul cry out. “I don’t care about him. I care about you, I care about my job, my reputation, Choso!” 

The man fell silent before you, his face beginning to sting from the blood rushing to his mortified cheeks. He could only stare down at you with that familiar pout as you crossed your arms over your chest and shook your head. 

“I had to hear about how I was the cause of some pissing match today that put one of our sorcerers on leave.” You began pacing the room in your incensed explanation. Choso wanted to ask you what that meant, as he always felt so comfortable doing with you, but he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth. “Which, by the way, I am now having to help out on missions during said leave, just to put a cherry on top of this shit cake.” 

“I-I’m sorry, I—”

“No you’re not, you’re sorry because I’m having to clean it up like I told you I would.” You knew you might have been laying it on a little thick, but logic was racing from you in the midst of your humiliation. 

“You’re right, I’m not sorry.” He stated affirmatively, as if just now coming to this realization himself. Your brows shot into your hairline. “And you can’t expect me to be, it’s not fair. I can’t, I don’t know—”

“Yes, you can.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ve seen you learn to do things a hell of a lot harder than controlling your anger, Choso.”

“No— I don’t know how to not feel like I’m not good enough for you.” He finally confessed, face ablaze with a shameful tint of red. Your arms gradually fell from their defensive position, hovering at your sides with the weight of a thousand bricks as you watched the dampness gather in his waterline. “I-I’m sorry I made things hard for you, but I don’t know what to do with these feelings. You might have had time to figure it out, but this is my first time, okay?”

“Choso—” You breathed softly, reaching out for him when he turned from you to bury the heels of his hands into his leaking eyes.

“I’m sorry if I messed up. I just don’t know, I don’t—” His trembling ramble was cut short when you wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. “Sometimes I don’t understand when someone is making fun of me right to my face, but I didn’t care until they started doing it to you, and I was…” You felt him take a shuddering breath. “I was too clueless to be there for you, or to defend you, or—”

“Cho, please look at me.” You pleaded gently. With an anxious air that was just so like him, he slowly shifted in your loosening grasp until you were looking right up at his blushing, tear stained cheeks. “I’m sorry I got mad at you. I didn’t know you were feeling like this.”

His somber eyes drifted to the side as if unable to look at you as he carefully sank onto the floor. You placed a hand on his shoulder while you lowered your beside him, watching carefully as he shoved his head into his hands.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing to me. I’m the one that messed up.” He corrected affirmatively. After a moment though, he peeked up at you with a hesitant purse of his lips. “Well, I didn’t mess up when I broke his wrist. I’d do it to his other hand too if I had the chance.”

Despite the mess his aforementioned actions had spilled upon you, you couldn’t help but laugh softly with an incredulous shake of your head. 

“Can I be honest?” You questioned, nudging against his arm with your shoulder, and he nodded with a quick sniffle. “I’m almost more upset that I didn’t get to see it.”

This helped ease some of the palpable tension in his shoulders, knowing that if you were still able to laugh with him that he hadn’t entirely fucked everything up. A shy smile spread shakily across his wet lips. Leaning forward, you brushed a featherlight touch against his cheek.

“Sometimes I feel things so deeply, and I don’t know where to put it all.” His attempted explanation made your heart warm. “I don’t know how to make sense of them, and I don’t know if I’m the only one feeling them.”

“Give them to me then.” You insisted, shifting to sit on your knees in front of him. “I’ll help you. I always have, remember? You have to talk to me though.”

Give them to you? There was a point so early on in your relationship when he was willing to do so without question, eager to learn whatever wisdom your advantage on humanity could give him. You always seemed to have the right answer— the ones that made it all click into place. Choso was learning though that as your relationship blossomed, as did the complexity of all those human emotions— as did the intensity of them. How far could he push before the impending possibility came to fruition that he was alone in these alien feelings? 

“I thought if he kept talking about me that… eventually you’d believe him.” 

You maneuvered closer to him until his hands found your waist, inviting you to sit on his lap. Running your hands up the sides of his neck, he closed his eyes as your fingers slipped into his hair. 

“Did you think any less of me because of what he said?” You asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. His eyes quickly cracked open, and he stared back at you as if offended that you’d ask such a thing of him. 

“No, I would never—”

“Then how could you believe I’d ever think less of you?” 

Silence hung between you, weighing you down on his lap as he stared back at you. Your words made him feel guilty— as though he had betrayed you by thinking so lowly of your devotion to him. His eyes drifted down your face, lips parting with an unspoken apology lingering between the minuscule space separating your mouth from his. 

“I… I have something for you.” 

His words were familiar, making your lips curl up at the memory of the day he’d confessed his feelings for you. Tilting your head, you squinted your eyes teasingly. 

“Is it another car?” You quipped, almost breaking your resolve as you watched his face fall, eyes drifting to the side in doubt before meeting yours once again.

“Do you want another car?”

God, how could you ever stay mad at him?

You clung onto Choso’s shoulders as he piggybacked you back to your dorm, purposefully jostling you here and there just to hear your harmonious giggles. Though you told him you could walk just fine on your own, he insisted on taking you himself— not that you fought him terribly hard on it either. In fact, you found it endearing how much he delighted in carrying you around, though you weren’t sure if it was due to his own enjoyment or the knowledge that you simply melted each time for it. 

“Close your eyes.” Choso scolded as he looked back at your curious gaze once he’d reached your door. Huffing in frustration, you allowed your eyes to shut, your head falling against his shoulder in defeat. You heard him rustiling with the spare key you’d given him— not that he had ever managed the tenacity to invite himself in without your prior invitation. Each time, you’d shake your head in amusement at the sound of his gentle raps against your door, and each time you’d remind him that he had his own key. 

The lingering smell of your festive candle flooded your nose as he stepped into the room, making you sigh contendedly. He crouched down until you felt your bum hit the soft comforter of your bed, and he carefully released you. 

“Don’t look yet.” He commanded clemently as you bounced back gently against your mattress. 

“Not peeking.” You assured with a smile, anticipation tickling up your toes and into your legs as he leaned down to press a swift kiss against your forehead. Upon feeling him pull away, your chest caved a bit in disappointment, your thoughts already having wandered far from whatever likely innocent surprise he had awaiting you. 

There was a subtle rustling on the other end of the room before a soft click had your curiosity reeling. 

“Um— okay, you can look now.” 

Squinting your eyes open, you were met with a myriad of gently twinkling lights. Blinking a few times to focus your vision on the sudden onslaught of brightness, an abrupt gasp escaped you at the sight of the lit up Christmas tree in the corner of your space. The ornament adorning it were a mess of contrasting colors, some too close together while there were various bare spots on the tree. Most of the decorations, you noted with a suppressed giggle, were focused on the upper half of the tree while it remained awkwardly vacant toward the bottom. It was a bit crooked, leaning marginally toward the right in its stand. It was far from the meticulously coordinated trees you had grown so accustomed to setting up, but it was perfect to you nonetheless. 

“Do you like it?” Choso questioned anxiously, smiling apprehensively at his first attempted Christmas tree. With his shadowy eyes fluttering from his handiwork to your awe-struck face, he tilted his head. “I can change it if you don’t like it.” 

“When did you do this, Cho?” You breathed out incredulously, feeling the salty dampness already gathering pathetically in your waterline. Sliding off the bed, you took a few, slow steps toward the tree. 

“Oh— I… I came this morning after you left for class.” He explained with downcast eyes. “I’m sorry for coming in without— hmph!”

His practically instinctual apologies were cut short as you tossed yourself onto his chest, arms wrapping snuggly around his neck. Without question, he was trailing his needy hands up your back to press you closer to him, dipping his nose into your nape with that love-sick smile of his.

“This is alot better than a car.” You attempted a joke through your onslaught of emotions, but the slight tremble in your voice was betraying you. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“You said Christmas gifts have to go under a tree.” Your boyfriend said obviously, and you followed his gaze to the choppily wrapped present sitting under said tree. Biting down your grin, you peered back up at him with a raised brow. 

“And would that be for me too, babe?” You teased, revelling in the sheepish smile that softened his intimidatingly sharp features as he nodded. “Well what do you want for Christmas, Cho?”

The sun was steadily setting outside your window, causing the soft glow of the string lights to warm your sparkling eyes as they stared up at him in question. The warmth in his flushed cheeks seemed to drain from his face, settling like stones at the pit of his stomach. Gulping at the lump in his throat, he shook his head softly at your question. 

“I don’t think I should answer that.” He sighed out honestly, lips twitching nervously under your questioning gaze. 

“What do you mean?”

The tilt of your head made your luscious hair sway just so, the ends brushing teasingly against his arm and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Had you focused enough, you would have felt the way his heart was beating out of his firm chest, making his breathing labor. 

Give them to me. Your words rang in the back of his muddled mind. That overwhelming sense of uncertainty and confusion flooded him once again, and though you had specifically told him you’d walk him through anything, this just seemed too daunting a confession. 

“It’s not—” His tongue darted out to lick his drying lips, and your wanton eyes followed the movement with a sharp precision. “I don’t think it’s… appropriate.”

Your brows rose marginally at his claim, the realization flooding you with the unconscious squeeze of his hands on your waist. A deep, calculated breath had your chest rising to brush against his, and you felt him shudder at the proximity. 

“It’s… just us here.” You offered quietly, hoping your silent invitation was enough for him to burst out of the anxious shell he’d been hiding behind all these months. He furrowed his brows in contemplation at your words, weighing whether the fruits of his vulnerability would outweigh the humiliation of possible rejection. Biding his time, he leaned down to press a longing kiss against your awaiting lips, the little remaining blood that was keeping his mind functioning properly rushing down south. 

“Just us?” He repeated breathlessly against your lips as he tried to make sense of the new territory he was daring to traverse. 

You nodded urgently, reaching up on your tiptoes to chase his panting mouth. Choso’s hands traveled down your waist to hook under your bum, hoisting you up around his hips as he carefully sunk to his knees. The soft whimpers escaping him were driving you into a nonsensical stupor despite his attempts to swallow them down. 

Shifting your hips forward, you urged him to fall back against his hands, his long fingers digging into the plush rug beneath him. You took advantage of the exposed expanse of his heaving chest, running your hands down his pecks until your fingers were dancing across the ripples of his abs as you bit at his lips. His response to your explorative touch was almost instantaneous, raising his hips in a desperate hope that your hands would slip just a few inches lower. 

All his not-so-subtle thrust did though was drive his painfully constricted length right against your inner thigh, the friction nearly causing his arms to buckle underneath of him. You had never mentioned it before— all the times his cock would press against you in such an embarrassingly obvious fashion. It never took much at all, and Choso wasn’t sure if your nonchalance at the feeling was because it was normal, or if you were simply saving face for him as you so endearingly did more often than not. 

Whichever it was though, he couldn’t take it anymore, not when you were dragging your hips against him as though you knew much more about his affliction than you dared to let on. The moan that left him almost teetered on the edge of a cry, and he brought a hand up to push against the subtle arch in your back, pressing you firmly against where he needed you the most. 

Your warm breath shuddered against his swollen lips as you moaned. The hands you had on his abdomen clutched desperately at his shirt, fighting for your composure because you could feel every inch of him straining right against your core, and his sweatpants were doing little to leave anything to the imagination. Pulling away from you in a frenzy, his eyes remained squeezed shut as his fingers dug into the fabric of your sweater. 

“Help me.” He pleaded, opening his eyes hesitantly to catch your reaction with burning cheeks. 

“He-Help you?” You repeated unassuredly, and he nodded quickly as your face flushed with the implications of his request. 

The hand on your back snaked around to tangle in with your own fingers, tentatively maneuvering your hand down his naval. His breath hitched as he guided you over his waistband, and he peered up at you timidly. A damp warmth spread along the lining of your panties at the raw vulnerability of his movements. When you made no indication of protest, his fingers danced up to grip gently at your wrist before you finally took the initiative to finish his clearly set out path, wrapping your hand around the prominent length poking through the outline of his bottoms. 

“Please.” Choso gasped out, bucking up into your warm hand. A blissed out hum reverberated in his chest, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours. “This is all I want. You’re all I want.”

Your thusfar gentle grip on his cock tightened ever so slightly at his tender words, and it was almost instinctual when you palmed him purposefully, squeezing carefully toward his tip in a manner that had him reduced to puddy beneath you. Fighting through your lustful haze, you nodded deliriously at his request, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Choso,” It was clear that you were trying so very hard to steady your voice, and your careful tone flooded into his consciousness. His darkly-lined eyes were half-lidded as they regarded you in question. “Have you… ever touched yourself?”

This made his gaze widen just a hair, the mark across his nose twitching in a tell-tale sign of his embarrassment. Though it seemed impossible, his face seemed to flush that much brighter as he opened and closed his mouth in an attempt to gather his composure before he answered you. A shaky huff escaped him as he cast his gaze to the side, and your free hand reached up to brush the hair from his face. 

“It’s okay, it’s normal. I just want to understand how much you know.” You explained gently. At this, his lashes shifted as he hesitantly looked back up at you before offering a nod so subtle you almost missed it. 

His mind was reeling with memories of all the mornings he’d spent with his hand shoved haphazardly down his pants, dreams of you having roused him from his sleep and lingering without any hope of solace. He thought about how dirty he’d felt when facing you afterwards, ignorant to the fact that he’d spilled himself onto his own mattress with fantasies that one day it’d be you. After so long of feeling isolated and depraved in these unfamiliar cravings, you were right here above him, your hand stroking up his cock in an all too familiar motion, telling him he was normal.

You nodded slowly at his confirmation, releasing your grip on him to trail your fingers along the sliver of skin exposed between where his shirt had ridden up and his waistband. His large frame trembled at the miniscule touch, hips rising in anticipation of your next move. The sudden shift dragged his length right against your pulsing clit, and you could barely disguise your breathy moan as you leaned into the friction. 

The wheels were turning in his head as he absorbed your reaction, his curious eyes locked onto where you two were connected. He tentatively raised a hand and settled it testingly just below your belly button before peering up at you.

“Can I… touch you too?” 

You hummed affirmatively, quickly maneuvering back as Choso leaned forward purposefully to lay you against the pillowy rug just beside the Christmas tree. He hovered on his knees between your spread legs, eyes drifting all over as if he didn’t know where to start. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands began their wavering trek up the sides of your thighs. Feeling him pause at your waistband, you cracked your eyes open.

“You can take them off.” You offered, watching the way his eyes lit up. “—if you want.”

If he wanted. The man could have laughed in your face, because he’d be damned if he wanted anything more right now. 

Hooking his fingers into the waistband of your leggings, you assisted him by lifting your hips while he tugged them down. In his desperate pursuit, the laced hem of your panties were partially yanked down, leaving them bunched and just barely covering your intimates. He was leaning down, eyes locked on your center as though it might disappear if he blinked too long. His intense gaze made you flush, and you weren’t expecting it when he pushed the nearly translucent fabric to the side, the sudden gust of cool air against your wetness making you shiver.

Choso hummed, but you could swear it morphed into a soft groan as he decided that this view just wouldn’t do before sliding your panties off as well. The sight of your plush folds glistening under the twinkling Christmas lights was causing a sheen sweat to break out across his neck, and he pulled uncomfortably at the fabric of his shirt. 

“Take it off, Cho.” You pleaded, desperate to not be the only one so exposed. 

There was no need to tell him a second time, and his shirt was quickly joined with your discarded bottoms. Moved by the wanton way your eyes seemed to drink him in, he found himself crawling up over you to kiss you once again. Your hands wrapped greedily around his broad shoulders, nails working their way across his taut skin. He gasped against you as your hips rolled up in desperate search of friction, your wet warmth grazing against his covered thigh. 

“How? Show me how to touch you.” He rasped out, trembling hands already dancing down your naval as he propped himself up with his free arm. Much like he’d done just moments prior, you laced your finger through his, guiding them through your folds. 

“Here.” You gasped as his warm fingers grazed your clit. Choso’s face crumpled at the feeling, mouth falling open in a silent moan. You pressed down on his middle and ring finger with your own, encouraging the soft circular motions around your swollen bud. The back of your head hit the rug as you arched into his touch, slowly removing your guiding hand once the motion had grown familiar to him. 

“Am I doing it right?” His question came out practically a whisper as he watched you writhe against his hand. The strain in his pants was becoming painful at this point, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop the sensual circles that were sending you into such a whimpering frenzy, by his hand nonetheless. 

“Mhmm,” You hummed, one hand drifting up to grip at his bicep as the other trailed under your sweater, lifting it up in search of relief from the sudden sweltering heat Choso seemed to emanate. “You’re doing so good for me, Cho.” 

A groan worked its way up his throat at your praise, and his hips lurched forward in search of the pathetic friction your leg could provide him. His desperation was sending sparks up your thighs, making his slippery massaging feel that much more heavenly as you felt the familiar coil tightening in your stomach. 

Your jaw popped open, the hand that had found its way under your sweater clutching at your breast as if it could ground you. Choso’s eyes followed the movement hungrily. The swell of your breasts were just barely peeking out from the hem of your top, but it was enough to drive him into a frenzy if he couldn’t see what it was hiding immediately. 

“Take it off.” He commanded with a wavering resolve, his fingers increasing their pressure against you in anticipation. 

Had your teetering release not been solely in his hands at the moment, you would have teased him for his sudden burst of assertive confidence, but you thought you might begin kicking and screaming if anything deterred his rhythmic motions right now. Crossing your arms over your chest to grasp at the bottom of the offending sweater, you messily ripped it over your head before settling back against the rug that was now warm from your imprint. 

Your breasts bounced with your abrupt motions, and Choso felt the saliva gather embarrassingly on his tongue. It was far too clouded in your mind for you to notice though, your breaths beginning to come out in short pants as your peak drew nearer and nearer. 

“Please, please, please.” You babbled nonsensically, gripping at his forearm as your hips began grinding against his fingers. And, god, he wasn’t sure what you were begging for, but he knew he’d lay down his life right here and now if it meant he could deliver it to you on a silver dish, because he knew for certain that he’d never had the privilege of laying his eyes on anything nearly as debauchedly stunning as your naked body submitted so vulnerably beneath him. 

“Anything, I’ll give you anything.” He rationed through lustfully slurred words. Dipping down, he pressed drooling kisses against your heaving breasts, succumbing to a primal desire as he sunk his teeth into one of them.

“Cho—” Your choked plea pitched until it fell silent all together. 

Shifting his weight from his propped arm to his knees, he used his now free hand to press down against your hip as your thighs began trembling with the force of your climax. A warming flush spread from your scalp down your spine, sending tingles of relief down each of your nerves until you slumped back against the ground. 

“Ah— ah!” You stammered out as your boyfriend continued his purposeful ministrations against your now overly-sensitive bundle of nerves. Slamming your thighs shut against his wrist, you attempted to shimmy away from his relentless fingers. “Too much, Cho, it’s too much!”

His lips popped off your breast to pout wetly at you, the hand on your waist pulling you back down toward him as his fingers finally paused their assault on your center. Loosening the squeeze your thighs had trapped him in, he ran his hand up your stomach and chest before grasping the side of your neck. 

Upon closer inspection, you noticed the dampness that clung to his lashes and the way his brows were drawn softly together as he looked down at you hazily. 

“Choso? Are you—”

“I love you.”

Despite having been spread open before him just seconds ago while coming undone on his fingers, you somehow felt all the more exposed now. Your eyes fluttered a few times, and you drew your arms closer to your chest as though it would shield you from his raw gaze. A breathy, forced laugh escaped you as you shook your head softly at him. 

“You’re just turned on right now, Choso.” You tried to brush off his sudden confession, protecting your pride from falling victim to his naivety. He shook his head though, pulling you up until you sat perched upon his lap. 

“No, I love you.” He stated again, this time more matter of factly. “You’re the only one who treats me like.. I’m human and not a curse. You’re the only one who makes me feel like I am human.” His fingers wrapped hesitantly around your forearms as he gently coaxed your arms away from their defensive positions. “I love you. Don’t you love me?”

A soft tremor wobbled your bottom lip, but you willed yourself to pull it together. Allowing your protective walls to crumble down with your last bit of resolve, you pushed at his chest until his back hit the floor. Not once did he let his eyes drift from yours, even as your fingers dug into his waistband to tug down the remainder of his clothes. 

His swelled length sprang free from the fleece lined prison they had been straining against for painfully long, falling against his stomach with a barely noticeable smack. You thought he might shy away from you, flush that familiar shade of red you’d begun making synonymous with him in your mind, but it only felt so natural to him to have your lingering eyes on even the most intimate parts of him. 

“Of course I do.” You whispered, moving to straddle his slim, defined waist. A shudder racked your body at the feeling of his thick cock pressing against your stomach, his tip already smeared with evidence of his arousal. His mouth fell open, eyes widening at the sensation of your soaked folds running across his length. With his rustled hair splayed out on the floor surrounding his head, pupils creating black holes in his already midnight stained eyes, you concluded that Choso would never stop growing more beautiful. “I love you.” 

With a fluttering blink, a stray tear gathered at the corner of his eye, slipping down his temple as you nudged his tip past your slicked entrance. It had admittedly been a while since you were last intimate with someone, so you couldn’t help but wince subtly at the stretch of his girth forcing your walls open. For him though, he wouldn’t know the difference, because he was inside you, and your heat was enveloping him like flames licking up his every nerve ending.

 His hands hovered over your back as you slowly sank down onto him, unable to find the courage to disrupt you until he was finally buried in you to completion. With featherlight brushed against your spine, Choso ran his fingers down the expanse of the silken skin on your back until he met the curve of your ass. Curling his grasp around the plush of fat he’d learned he could utterly worship till the day his body became one with the earth, he held you in place for a moment. 

By the heaving of his chest and the tremble in his pitched moan, you knew he wouldn’t last very long, but you were satisfied enough to watch him come undone under the careful touch of someone who truly loved him— someone he truly loved. 

“Hah, I— I love you.” The man gasped again, teary eyes rolling back into his skull as you steadied your hands on his chest to lift your hips just barely off him before sliding back down. You bit at your bottom lip as his tip grazed against that plush of nerves that hadn’t been explored in so long. His lips were pulling down into his famous pout while he planted his heels into the ground to chase your rhythm with sloppy thrusts of his own. 

“I love you, Cho.” You reciprocated through a harmonious moan, watching his face scrunch up pitifully as the pace of his hips grew erratic. 

“Bite me—ah!” He whimpered softly, puppy dog eyes pleading up at you in the way he knew you could never refuse.

 Your lips curled up at his request, unaware of just how much your previous actions had lingered in his mind. Tracing up the firm planes of his chest, your fingers tangled into his hair, tugging at it to maneuver his head to the side before leaning down to sink your teeth into the first bite you had left on him, the mark just barely faded on his trap. 

Choso felt utterly consumed by you, his heart thumping wildly in his muffled ears. With the pressure of your fingers’ grasp against his roots combined with the subtle sting of your canines against the sensitive skin just below his neck, it took all but one last supple roll of your hips for it all to come crashing down on him. 

His eyes rolled back, a delirious grin tickling his lips at the sensation that he was all yours to use. The once gentle squeeze his fingers had on your bottom morphed into a frenzied digging, surely leaving crescent shaped marks in the wake of his chipping nails. It was meant to hold you there, ensure your hips stayed glued to his own as he spilled himself inside of you with bone grinding thrusts.  He could feel himself oozing out of you and onto the unsuspecting rug beneath him, but none of it mattered to him because he finally understood.

 It didn’t matter the spiteful words that would slice across his vulnerable soul, and it didn’t matter whether or not someone thought he was human enough for you. What he was experiencing now, enveloped in the must of sex-littered air that surrounded you was all the confirmation he’d ever need that he was irrevocably soul tied to you. The half-curse had seen the absolute pinnacle of humanity, and you were perched upon it with your drooping breasts and pleasure-ridden face— the one that made the space between your brows crease and your nails dig into whatever slab of muscle on him was closest to you. 

As he finally began tumbling down the hill of his climax, his hands drifted up to splay across your back, keeping you pressed against his sweat lined chest. The twinkling lights in his peripheral seemed to blur at the edges of his sight as they mixed with his lingering tears. You were working gentle kisses up his neck, dragging your wet lips across his sharp jaw until you finally circled back to his still swollen lips. He hummed against your kiss, deciding affirmatively that he’d stay awkwardly splayed out across the floor of your dorm all night long if it meant he could keep you this close. 

“I… I think I have to get you a better Christmas gift.” Choso concluded, revelling in the sensation of your warmth still enveloping his softening manhood. “Yours was way better.”

You laughed tiredly against his cheek, pulling back to peer down at him in question. 

“What did you get me?”

His cheeks flushed, and he looked over at the small gift that sat just a few feet away from you under the tree with a soft pout. 

“It’s… it’s a Britney Spears CD.”

this was supposed to come out before christmas, but alas the procrastination won this time, so sorry for the delay :(

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I love hearing everyone's thoughts! ◝⠀(ᵔᵕᵔ)⠀◜

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[wqnwoos]

mistletoe / lee chan x f!reader / for @bitchlessdino

On December 23rd, Chan decides he’s going to tell you the truth. The whole, entire truth, the one that nestles warm and aching in the cage of his ribs and sometimes forces its way into his throat, or sends swooping sensations down to the bottom of his stomach — that truth. Chan decides he’s going to tell you that truth, he’s going to tell you everything, for a number of reasons; for five reasons, specifically. 

reason one — first snow. Chan has never really been a superstitious person, but snow came early this year, and it came when he was with you. It’d just been another cold, dark November day, and Chan had felt everything but; he was warm and full and a little bit tipsy, maybe, but it was the weekend, and he was with you. That required at least a little liquid courage, to get through dinner with you and a couple other friends in some hole-in-the-wall, sat opposite you as you laughed under the dim yellow lighting. And then he was offering you a ride home with his driver, because it’s on my way, and he’d only grinned sheepishly when you’d frowned and said no it isn’t, but you’d accepted anyway. 

The snow starts falling as he walks you to the door of your building. You’re halfway through a laugh because of some dumb joke he’s made, and he’s feeling like the entire world is in the palm of his hand because of your laugh, and then you both realise snowflakes are falling at the same time. Chan’s not a superstitious person, but when he looks at you underneath the midnight sky and the floating snowflakes, he hopes there’s some sort of truth to it all.

reason two — his name. When you first met him, you asked him if he preferred Chan or Dino or something else and he’d never really had a preference until that exact moment. Something about the way you say his name has made his insides go molten since his very first time meeting you, a friend of a friend at a birthday party. He’s never fallen so fast and so hard as he did that day, seeing you carrying a candle-lit cake for your friend, smiling that smile of yours. Somehow, he didn’t make that clear enough to both himself and to you, and instead of making a move, asking you out, the two of you ended up friends – friends for close to two years now. Chan had thought (hoped) that his initial crush would fade; instead, it only became stronger with each passing day.

reason three — he almost has. Every time he sees you, it nearly slips; it waits at the tip of his tongue. He’s almost told you at least four times, barely managing to catch himself at the last second. Chan can’t keep a secret to save his life, and keeping this one has been the heaviest thing he’s had to carry for a long time. Of course, Seungkwan knows, because Seungkwan’s friends with you too, and he’s too perceptive for his own good. A couple of his other friends and members have suspicions, about some vague person he has a soft spot for. But nobody really knows, and Chan is tired of not telling people. He’s tired of not telling you.

reason four — he wants to. You’re the nicest person he knows. If you’re going to let him down, you’re going to let him down so gently Chan thinks he’ll barely even feel it. Rationally speaking, there’s not a universe where you make him feel bad about anything, let alone this. He doesn’t exactly enjoy being pitied, but something tells him that’s not you anyway. Really, this whole thing is equal parts hope and a desperate need for closure. An outright rejection could be better than the maybes that keep him awake at night.

reason five — which is what everything boils down to, really. It’s you.

And so Chan goes to Seungkwan’s annual house party on December 23rd with his mind fully made up: he’s going to tell you. He’s going to tell you that he’s had a ridiculously huge crush on you for two years, and he’s really tried to get over it, and he thinks you’re the most wonderful thing that ever happened to him. And somewhere in there, he’s gotta sneak in the Christmas gift he got you, despite you telling him every year not to.

It turns out, once he gets there, that telling you is much harder than expected. Seungkwan’s outdone himself this year, decorations strewn around the apartment he shares with Jeonghan, making everything look warm and festive and cosy, and then there’s you in the middle of it. When he arrives, a little late because of all the pep talks he had to give himself in front of the mirror, you’re carrying a candlelit cake. Just like the day he first met you.

His breath catches in his throat, and he thinks, just quickly, that he’ll never be able to get over you. And then he’s pushing the thought away, greeting his friends, settling in his usual place by your side. The same as every year, only this time his mind is on one thing, and one thing only.

He decides to wait until the end to do it; heartbreak isn’t particularly festive, and he’s sure Seungkwan wouldn’t appreciate the damper on his party. But the night seems to stretch forever, and the anxious pit in his stomach doesn’t help in the slightest. Neither does the fact that his eyes are constantly glued to you: you throwing your head back to laugh, you asking him in a soft undertone if he’s okay, you squeezing his hand when he promises he’s fine. 

You both end up leaving at the same time, and Chan takes his opportunity when he sees it. He’s been waiting too long to let it slip through his fingers, but when he’s face to face with you under the fairy lights in Seungkwan’s hallway, he can’t quite choke words out. He’s rehearsed this – multiple times – but the moment he looks at your expectant eyes, he goes blank.

“Chan?” You laugh a little teasingly at his abrupt silence. “Did you forget what you were going to say?”

“Not – not quite.” He knows what he wants to say. He doesn’t know how to say it. (I’m very nearly in love with you, he thinks hopelessly. The words don’t come out.)

Your eyes flick upward for a second, lingering above you both. “Look,” you say softly. He doesn’t shift his gaze from your face. “Mistletoe.”

And then you kiss him. 

this is for @bitchlessdino as part of cam and em’s a very seventeen christmas secret santa 2024!!!! surprise nana i hope u like it 💗💗 merry christmas to everyone who’s celebrating, and i hope everyone else is having a wonderful holiday/week/life.

thank you to @highvern for making the gift tag banners and letting me use ur actually the best. and thank you @haologram for making me post.

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon

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@immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @doublasting

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[bangaveragewhitewine]

⋆⁺₊❅ the snow ball

teacher!Steve Harrington x teacher!Reader 

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: My second fic for @littlexdeaths The Twelve Days of Promptmas takes us back to 1996. At the annual Snow Ball Dance, Girl Power is supreme and the English teacher is standing very close to Mr H… 

Content: The tension is high. 90’s nostalgia, teacher puns and passing notes. Redefinition of the word nemesis, now to be read as ‘that one colleague you have a lethal crush on’ (the girls who get it, get it)

✨bang average festive fics✨ Steve Harrington masterlist ✨

December 1996

The opening bars of Wannabe are cut by the sound of thirty-odd teenage girls squealing with excitement as they crowd onto the dancefloor in threes and fours. The too-cool-to-dance girls bop and bounce their heads, the popular girls perform like they are at home in their bedroom mirrors or the Superbowl Half-Time Show. Geeky and quiet girls sparkle joyfully under the disco ball, any lack of confidence forgotten by utter glee. Girl Power reigns supreme over Meadow Hill Middle School as the world-ending pettiness and hormonal squabbles of thirteen and fourteen-year-olds are soothed and solved by the bouncy vocals and practiced choreography. 

You watch the boys stand and stare from the sidelines, buoying each other up as they whisper about who they might ask to dance with later and playing down their nerves. You have seen first love and first heartbreak tonight, watching Andi Cooper sway with Brian W to Always Be My Baby as Danny D looked on with tears in his eyes. Poor kid. 

“D’you think they’ll riot if Just A Girl comes on next?”

Your head tilts back against the streamer-covered wall behind you and you can’t help a little smirk at the thought of Female Revolution fuelled by Gwen Stefani and the Spice Girls. 

“Mm, imagine the headlines. Ballroom Blitz - Meadow Hill reduced to ruins by festive female rage.”

He laughs and places a cup of punch into your hand, keeping an appropriate distance between your bodies as you survey the Snow Ball in full swing. 

“And that’s why you’re the English teacher. Such a way with words.” 

“Mm, nice use of sarcasm, Mr Harrington. Gold star.” 

The punch is not spiked, but your words sound a little barbed to the unfamiliar ear. All part of the fun. 

Speaking of the punch, there’s a hipflask in his jacket, full of some strong spirit that he will share with you once the kids have been picked up, while the DJ is packing away his kit. 

“Thanks, you’ve taught me well...” 

You look up, meeting his cocoa-coloured eyes, caught staring. His tone is less barbed, more sincere, and when he says your name - your teacher name - you feel fizzy and warm all over. 

Steve feels it too, a swirling spiralling drag low in his gut. 

It’s fleeting, too quick and far too much for where you are. Too heavy for a gym that smells like sweat masked by Tommy Girl & Victoria's Secret body spray, and looks like an explosion of blue and silver and glitter, festooned with polystyrene snowflakes.

You’re the first to look away, breaking his stare to make sure that revolution is not in fact being stirred up by girls in sparkly dresses and frosted lipgloss. 

Across the dancefloor, you watch Coach Farrell mouthing along the words as he keeps an eye on the aforementioned untainted punch. A perfect distraction from that moment of too much.

“Look at Farrell. Be subtle.”

Steve can just about hear your voice over the scream-singing and chances a glance at the veteran of Physical Education.

“Maybe he’s mellowing.” There’s the sarcasm again. He sips his punch and murmurs, “Asshole.” 

Your shoulders shake with laughter as Wannabe reaches its peak. You are more tickled by Steve’s candour than the spectacle of it all. So here’s the story from A to Z… Neither of you is immune to its catchiness as you watch your students create core memories.

If you wanna be my lover…

You catch each other’s eye again as the proclamation of Girl Power bleeds out. Your face feels hot, the fluttering feeling returns. 

Steve is the one to break it this time, sipping his punch to cool down what is threatening to boil over. 

It’s not just tonight, not simply because he looks hot in his navy blazer and slacks with his stupidly perfect hair. Not only because he helped you re-stick the streamers that had started to sag and fall before the night even began. Not because you caught him looking at the way navy velvet hugged your body, or because he told you looked ‘a million bucks’. 

This has been simmering for two years since he walked into the teacher’s lounge full of confidence and charm, sent searching for you by the administrator who promised the new History teacher that you would show him around. Two years of teaching next door to each other, pretending to be competitive about how your homeroom performed in the Readathon, using the playful rivalry to feature ‘nemesis’ as your word of the week with a picture of Mr H pinned to the board. 

Two years of sharing gossip and frustrations about the district and asshole parents over teacher’s lounge coffee and ungraded papers. Coming in early and staying late to help each other decorate your classrooms for the holidays, just because. Two years of pretending you were not stoking the fire of a crush bigger than the sun, and brushing off teasing questions from students and teachers alike. 

You were just friends, but it stung when you overheard he had a date planned for the weekend. You were just friends, but when you saw his arm around a pretty blonde at a bar one Friday night, you headed home early and hoped he had not seen you. You were just friends but you understood again why teens and poets were so dramatic about matters of the heart. 

You tried to close yourself off, became spiky and quiet to protect yourself from inevitable heartbreak. But Steve was persistent. When you stood him up for coffee for the third time, he delivered it to your desk with a homemade maple pecan muffin with ‘Drink Me’ and ‘Eat Me’ tags as a nod to your seventh graders' reading assignment for the term. 

You let your friends set you up on dates with colleagues and cousins and made yourself unavailable. You found it harder and harder to pretend not to want to spend your shared-free periods shooting the shit with him. To see him looking a little bit lost without his work bestie for company, even when he fit in just fine with the other teachers.

So you gave in. 

You had seen first-hand how crushes ruin friendships; you saw it every day in your classroom and the hallways. You were too old for that and felt like a fraud standing at the top of your classroom teaching kids how to identify themes and literary devices and formulate an objective summary of a text while you were stuck on how Steve's hair looked today and the way he smiled at you in the parking lot.

You could get over yourself, choke down your feelings and mask the bitterness with his baked treats and teacher’s lounge coffee.

The olive branch came in the form of a mug festooned with the face of Abraham Lincoln and the words ‘That’s so four score and seven years ago’. There was also a whole box of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to sweeten the deal. 

His smile was brighter than the sun and his laugh echoed around the empty classroom. Friends again.

Things went back to normal but your crush could not be overcome. It only got worse as Steve became more charming, opened more doors for you and opened up a little more when you graded papers together. You found it easy to open up to him too. The simmering of something more than friends was threatening to bubble up and boil over.

This afternoon, you found a gift on your desk. Beneath blue and white snowflake patterned paper was a mug. 

‘Though she be but little she is fierce.’ 

Inside the mug was a note in Steve’s handwriting. 

Will you dance with me at the Snow Ball tonight? Yes / No. 

The note feels like it is burning your skin, tucked beneath your bra strap. He has been playing it supremely cool all night - you would expect nothing less from Mr Harrington - but you have caught him staring all evening, fleeting glances that the kids are too excited and distracted to see.

Wannabe is followed by the Macarena. You both watch on as the boys standing around the edges of the gym are herded onto the floor by Mrs Willis, who has hogged the mic and insists that ‘everyone knows this one!’

Shared laughter is smothered and hidden by cups of untainted punch, and it’s only a matter of time before both of you are pulled onto the dancefloor to join in. 

Over the music and Mrs Willis’s encouragement, you hear him mutter “Not what I had in mind,” as you fall in step with the student body who are totally mortified that their teachers are dancing.

You both endure almost four minutes of in-sync choreography before the DJ pulls the plug and transitions into All I Want For Christmas and you are free to shuffle to the sidelines again, side by side against the streamers.

The myrrh and amber notes of Steve’s cologne tickle your nose as you stand close. 

You have to do it now. 

Before you can chicken out, you quickly slide the note from its hiding place and into the pocket of his blazer and pray that no one saw. 

“I love the mug. Thank you.”

His eyes light up with more than the reflections of the silver streamers and his fingers wrap around the body-warm slip of paper. 

“Yeah? You’re welcome, I thought it suited you. And, y’know. Shakespeare.”

Steve’s back to playing cool, but beneath the surface the bubbles fizz and rise and the butterflies flap their wings. You can see it, feel it too. 

“And,” he continues, “I’ve seen you in action at those district meetings so ‘fierce’ felt appropriate. And I’m taller than you so…” 

His lips curve into a smile as you roll your eyes. 

“Yeah yeah, big guy. I can still change my answer on that note…” 

Mirth and mischief are replaced by relief, pure joy and a little hint of a scowl. 

“I’ll play nice. Promise.”

There’s an unspoken, “Will you?”

“I’ll play nice too. Just don’t step on my tiny girl-feet.”

Another look that is both too much and just right is held between you for just a few moments. 

“Find me later, Mr. Harrington.” 

Steve watches you swish away, swathed in deep blue velvet and your dancing shoes. 

Later on, when the hall is clear of students and chaperones, when the hipflask has been opened and shared, he will spin you under his arm and watch you glitter beneath the disco ball.

If you made it to the end, thank you for reading - I hope you enjoyed!! Comments, reblogs and likes are loved, adored and stored in my heart!

[heatherwitch]

Bedridden witch: Seasons edition

I made a series for The Wheel of the Year many years ago but I realize that not everyone follows it and dividing suggestions into the four seasons as well might be more helpful for some!

Spring 🌿

Collect the first rain of the season and keep it in a jar

Drink floral or fruit teas

Burn floral or fruit scented candles

Light a candle or turn on an electric candle.

Open the curtains to let light in. 

Visualize a light cleaning each and every room in your home.

Decorate with dried, fresh or fake flowers.

Spray a cleansing spray throughout your bedroom.

Clean an area in your home, big or small. (It could be as simple as making a pile of trash so it’s easier to move later.)

Bathe yourself (either in the tub or sponge bath style). Infuse some herbs/flowers into the water!

Water your plants and whisper blessings to them.

Plant something new! It can be as simple as a beansprout in a paper cup.

Meditate and imagine yourself out in your favorite area in spring.

Make a terrarium.

Spray floral water in the air and on your bedsheets.

Watch for and welcome the returning birds

Learn about local plants.

Crack open all your windows to let in some fresh air.

Bedridden witch: Garden edition

Summer ☀️

Make sun water/tea

Drink fruit teas, infused water or juices

Burn floral or fruit candles

Decorate with flowers and crystals.

Wake up earlier than usual to enjoy a full day of light.

Try to be awake and witness both the sunrise and sunset.

Decorate your windows with rainbow prisms.

Make flower crowns with fresh, dried or paper flowers.

Make sure sunlight and fresh air can reach you.

Enjoy some fresh fruits, veggies, nuts and seeds.

Decorate with/wear/create things with bright colors:

Decorate a new pot for your plants (painting, sharpies, ribbons, etc.)

If you can, put a bird feeder outside your window or just watch them as they fly by.

Pour an offering of water for the plants (indoors, outside or out the window).

Have a picnic (outside, on the kitchen floor or in bed).

Find a way to incorporate honey into your day (scrubs, food, tea, etc.)

Burn beeswax candles.

Listen to music that just sounds like summertime.

Autumn 🍂

Collect the first rain of the season and keep it in a jar

Drink spiced tea, apple ciders

Infuse berries into water.

Burn spiced, woodsy or autumn scented candles

Eat things like breads, nuts, grapes, pomegranates, pies, apples and root vegetables.

Start a new project like crocheting or knitting. This is also a great time to finish that project you’ve been avoiding.

Wear and decorate and create with browns, golds, dark greens, oranges and yellows.

Decorate your home to make it look more like Autumn (fake or real leaves, acorns, paper cutouts, etc.)

Create a picnic/feast wherever is reasonable, with a little bit of everything.

Pull up a video of leaves falling or a fire crackling.

Pumpkin pie, pumpkin spiced-things, pumpkin seeds.

Decorate with small pumpkins, paint them or draw on them if carving is too high-energy.

Create an altar honoring loved ones who have passed on, either a material one or a photo album online.

Pull up a video of a burning fire or light candles.

Turn off all of the lights and sit/lay in darkness.

Visualize your wards and boost your home protection.

Do spirit work/leave offerings for the spirits.

Burn incense/make a spray that smells of spices (cloves, basil, etc.)

Watch spooky/witchy movies.

Winter ❄️

Collect the first snow/make snow water and keep it in a jar

Drink seasonal teas, ciders and hot cocoa

Burn spruce, pine or winter scented candles

Watch gifs/videos of snow, ice forming, fire crackling, etc.

Get/make a small wreath and keep it indoors!

Keep clear quartz and snowflake obsidian around.

Make paper snowflakes! Or find an app/website where you can do a digital one.

Use your heat to draw sigils on frosted windows.

Put a bird feeder outside your window so you get winter visitors!

Get empty glass ornaments and fill them with herbs/pine needles/things that remind you of winter and hang them around.

Get some cute little snow globes. 

Decorate with winter colors! White, blue, silver, grey, dark green, etc.

Create an apple pomander with cloves or dried orange slices.

Decorate with evergreen boughs, holly, pine cones, etc.

Wash your face with snow/cold water.

Make rosehip, peppermint, vanilla, rooibos or spiced tea.

Step outside/open a window to feel the cold air (if you live somewhere warm, do this in the early morning/night).

Handcraft gifts for loved ones or write heartfelt cards/letters to the people you care about.

Put birdseed outside/a bird feeder by your window.

Make a simmer pot, or use this idea to create a scented spray.

Bedridden witch: Winter edition (more ideas in this post!)

You may also like:

Bedridden witch series

Bedridden witch: Wheel of the year edition

Bedridden witch: Elements edition

Bedridden witch: Weather edition

Bedridden witch: Nature edition

Witchcraft for the chronically fatigued

Spoonie witch masterpost

[reborn-readings]

What does your mind need from you at this moment?

Tip Jar | Masterlist

Hello everyone! This is gonna be my first Pick a Pile, I'm so excited! I hope it brings you joy and healing 💜

This is a group reading, so take what resonates and leave the rest. Don't force anything if it does not fit. Remember that the future is not set in stone and that other potential paths exist depending on your movement through the course of time.

Pile 1 (Left)

Death | Rx Four of Cups | Eight of Coins - Ganesha | Ace of Wands | Ten of Autumn | Cycles | Metamorphosis | Culmination – Completion and Renewal

Pile 1, you are spiraling through a lopsided sequence of events right now. It feels like things are building, like trying to contain a windstorm completely out of our control. Change is happening, that much is for sure, but while change is life’s only constant, there are moments that make you ask “Is all this really necessary? Can’t we slow down a bit?” The answer is no, you can’t—the universe is so eager to put new opportunities in your hands that they feel like hurled curses. 

In this chaos, what your mind needs is not a sense of relief or control, but the assurance that you are not powerless in the face of it. Life is giving you a wave—are you going to let it roll over you and send you careening head over heels, or are you going to ride it? Change is a good thing—we often forget that in order to build upon our foundations, we must change and grow. You are a caterpillar ready to weave your cocoon, and only you know the potential you have. Who knows what you’ll emerge as? 

Your mind asks you to consider an opportunity that comes to you and to not guilt yourself for rejecting what you know is not helpful. Follow your intuition on that; don’t close every door that opens, even if it opened by the wind knocking it down. Consistent work will get you where you’re going. Fall back on your previous experience and build on it to bring it to fruition. There is an upcoming end to a material concern or success in a material goal, and it will bring opportunity for a new object of passion with it. You will create something wonderful out of this chaos—I feel the recognition as something making your chest feel full. The chaos may not subside, but with a new understanding of it, you will know how to harness and weather it. 

Other messages - Out of chaos comes creation. Change is beautiful. Satisfaction with financial savings. Bring your all to whatever projects you decide to take on. Having gathered what was needed. Inbox never empty. Kudos for a job well done. 

Symbols - Thick forests. Poured-out vessels. Circles. Insects or other bugs. Perches.

Pile 2 (Middle)

Two of Pentacles | Rx High Priestess | Ace of Wands – Ra and Kokopelli | Rx Hermit | Prince of Winter | Snowflake Obsidian | Dignity | Independence – Carving Your Own Path

Oh, Pile 2, I see the winter in you. Others might look at you and see the throttling of the edges of autumn and spring. You are more than that, but it becomes difficult to tell when everyone just wishes that winter would be over already. 

Perhaps you are someone young, or someone young in spirit. You have depended on others to help you make the right decisions, but when people tell you that they’ll help you make the right decisions, you often suspect that they want you to make whichever decision will be better for them. Masculine and feminine, withdrawn and social, intuitive or logical—these dualities have plagued you, proponents from each side calling for you to cast away the other. In particular, I see an overbearing masculine presence or ideal that interferes with your thoughts when you try to think about how to move forward. 

Your mind needs to be its own. The reality is, you are a lot bigger and stronger than the people around you. You have a commanding presence that’s a little intimidating, and thus, the people around you want to know that you’re on their side. You should feel honored! But at the end of the day, you can’t leave everyone satisfied, and besides, what’s the point if you yourself are never satisfied? 

I see you really benefiting from taking some time for yourself and your own pursuits. You have been wanting to study something or take a deeper look at something—your mind yearns to be enriched. It also yearns to use that information to take action. It wants you to have faith in yourself and your own decisions, and above all else, to finally make a decision. It may be daunting, but afterwards, you will be a sense of security and stability like never before. I have faith in you. Practice having faith in yourself 

Other messages - A strong foundation will keep you safe. Take pride in yourself. Take honor in your choices, achievements, and actions. Stay focused. Sudden or unexpected changes brought about by you. Head into the vault and stay for a bit. Have some fun in the snow. 

Symbols - Screen doors. Long tails. Something hanging from the ceiling? Searing cold and blistering hot at the same time. Roots in the air and branches in the ground.  Blue sparks/light.

Pile 3 (Right)

King of Swords | Rx Nine of Swords | Awakening of Wands – Eros | Rx Two of Pentacles | Prince of Spring | Howlite | Partnership | Miracle – Making a Difference

Pile 3, you are the master of the mind…aren’t you? Or is the mind a master of you? 

Keep on reading—it might seem unbearable to think that you do not have a cap on your emotions, your passions, your place in the world—but at this moment, your mind needs you to trust it. Think about it! When you’re using a computer or other piece of technology, you’re not the one going in and individually flipping each bit and byte to its correct position. It is the same with your mind—let it handle the secrets of itself, trust that it knows what to do to keep you being that same, wonderful you. 

Has Cupid’s arrow struck you? Do you find yourself longing to be that perfect romantic that always gets the girl? Now you’ve got even more of a problem! How are you supposed to keep tabs on two minds?! It feels like everything’s going wrong, burning down, targeting you. To get past this, you must learn to see your mind not as an enemy, but as a friend that knows you better than you know yourself. Go ahead and follow your mind, just for one tiny, unimportant decision or impulse, and see how it turns out. If it doesn’t end up good, then oh well, but if it does, see where it takes you. 

The world is a wonderful place when you open yourself up to its many possibilities, even if they don’t all seem perfect or ideal. Challenge yourself to take action and allow yourself to have reaction. You are a talented individual, and, if you let them, others will see you for that and want to be with you. Allow the rainbow of life to soak you in every hue and you just might find a matching color, someone so seamless and natural that you’ll wonder how you ever lived life without them by your side, that you’ll forget what it was like without them. And allow your mind to forget some things. It’ll just open you up to experience new wonders. 

Other messages - Shed the old to embrace the new. Close your eyes to see more clearly. Work together. Touch each other’s hearts. A challenge that you can successfully manage. Recognition.  Eternal work in progress (have fun working on it!) Love yourself. 

Symbols - Song. Walk with flowers lining the path. Obstacles falling away. Clear skies. Meditation. Pink.

If this was helpful, please consider donating 💜

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[novaursa]

Winter's Eve

- Summary: A short story for Christmas Eve.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is Rhaenyra's daughter.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

- A/N: I'm wishing you all warm and happy Christmas Eve. Be kind to yourself. ❤️

The snow fell thick and silent outside the towering walls of Winterfell, blanketing the world in a hushed stillness that seemed sacred. The air smelled of evergreen and pine resin, mingling with the faint, rich scent of roasted venison wafting through the stone halls. It was Winter’s Eve, the North’s cherished celebration of hearth and kinship, a day to honor the gods for surviving the long night and welcoming the promise of lengthening days.

Candles glowed warmly in every nook of the Great Hall, their light shimmering off the polished swords hung as decorations along the walls. Evergreen boughs and red winterberries adorned the long wooden tables, filling the air with a faint, crisp fragrance. The hall was alive with laughter and song, the kind of revelry that made the cold beyond the walls seem a distant memory.

You stood near the hearth, the massive blaze casting your silver hair in a warm golden glow. Your gown, a deep blood red edged with silver embroidery, stood out amidst the furs and wools of the Northern lords and their families. At your side, Rickon, your stepson, and your eldest daughter, Lyanna, giggled as they shared a slice of honeycake. Your youngest son, Rhaegar, was bundled in your arms, nestled against your chest. His tiny hand reached up to clutch at the strands of your hair, cooing softly.

Cregan entered the hall, a commanding figure even among the gathered lords. His dark hair was windswept, and a light dusting of snow melted on his heavy black cloak. His presence always seemed to fill the room, his deep voice carrying as he greeted his bannermen, clapping hands on shoulders and exchanging hearty laughter.

“Y/N,” he called out as he approached, his grey eyes softening when they found you. “You’ve made the hall shine brighter than the stars themselves.”

“And you’ve brought the winter in with you,” you teased gently, noting the snowflakes still clinging to his beard. “Come here before the children think a bear has wandered in.”

Rickon laughed at that, reaching for his father, who hoisted the boy up onto his shoulder effortlessly. “A bear, is it? Perhaps you should be wary of this bear stealing your mother away.”

Rickon giggled, shaking his head. “Mother would never leave us!”

“Smart boy,” Cregan murmured, ruffling his son’s dark curls before setting him down again.

The merriment paused briefly as Lord Harwyn Manderly, a stout man with a booming laugh, entered the hall carrying a large bundle of fur. He set it down carefully at the edge of the fire, and the bundle shifted, revealing the unmistakable forms of direwolf pups. The room fell into an awed hush.

“Winter’s blessings, Lord Stark,” Manderly said, bowing slightly. “I thought it fitting to bring gifts for your children—a pack for the pack, as it were.”

The pups, four of them, were small but already carried the proud features of their species: thick, shaggy coats, sharp eyes, and strong paws. One was silver-grey, like freshly fallen snow; another was black as night. A third was mottled white and grey, while the fourth was a soft brown, almost tawny.

Rickon was the first to approach, his face alight with wonder. “Are they truly for us?” he asked, glancing at Cregan.

“Aye,” Cregan said, his voice warm with approval. “The North remembers its own. A wolf for each of you.”

You knelt beside Rickon, helping him approach the pups. The black one padded forward and sniffed Rickon’s outstretched hand before nuzzling into it. The boy’s face lit up with joy. “This one’s mine!” he declared, holding the pup carefully.

Lyanna hesitated before stepping closer, her small fingers gripping your gown. You encouraged her gently. “Go on, sweetling. They’re meant to be yours.”

The silver-grey pup seemed to sense her shyness and padded over, wagging its tail. Lyanna giggled as it licked her hand, her bright eyes wide with delight. “I’ll name her Frost,” she whispered, hugging the pup to her chest.

Even little Rhaegar was not left out. Cregan held the mottled pup up for him to see, and the baby cooed, reaching out to touch its soft fur. “He likes you already,” you said softly, marveling at how the wolf seemed to settle instantly in Cregan’s arms, as if knowing it belonged to the smallest Stark.

The brown pup, meanwhile, padded up to you, its head cocked as if studying you. Cregan chuckled. “Seems you have a wolf of your own, my love.”

You reached down to scratch behind its ears, smiling as it leaned into your touch. “Then we’ll call her Ember,” you said. “A wolf to match the fire in our hall.”

The celebration continued late into the night, with the wolves curling at the feet of their new masters and the children’s laughter echoing through the hall. Cregan pulled you close as the night deepened, the warmth of his presence as steady as the roaring fire.

“This,” he said quietly, his voice filled with reverence, “is what Winterfell was always meant to be—a home, filled with life and love.”

You leaned into him, watching your children and their wolves play in the firelight. “And it always will be,” you replied, your voice soft but certain, “as long as we’re together.”

The warmth of the previous night’s celebration still lingered, faint strains of music and laughter echoing in the air as a few lords and ladies, who had stayed the night, stirred slowly in their chambers. Fires crackled in the hearths, and the scent of bread baking in the kitchens mingled with the crisp winter air.

You stirred awake to the sound of muffled giggles and the unmistakable pitter-patter of small feet on the stone floor. It took only a moment to realize that the source of the giggles was your children. Rolling over, you found Cregan still beside you, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his breathing steady and deep in sleep. Smiling softly, you disentangled yourself from him and slipped out of bed, wrapping a fur-lined robe around yourself to shield against the morning chill.

The giggles grew louder as you stepped into the corridor, and you followed them to the courtyard, where Lyanna and Rickon were already bundled in their cloaks, dragging their new direwolf pups along on makeshift leashes fashioned from ribbon. Rhaegar toddled after them, clutching a toy carved from weirwood, while the brown direwolf pup, Ember, kept a watchful eye on him.

The sight brought a smile to your face, but the moment of quiet admiration was short-lived as you noticed what—or rather who—they were approaching.

In the far corner of the courtyard, nestled in the snow, lay your dragon, Balelyx. His massive, silver-scaled form shimmered faintly in the morning light, his great wings tucked tightly against his body to conserve warmth. Wisps of smoke curled from his nostrils as he slept, the ground around him melted into dark slush from the heat of his presence.

“Lyanna Stark!” you called out, striding quickly toward them. Your voice carried a note of warning, and the children froze mid-step, turning to look at you with wide, guilty eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Rickon, always the boldest, spoke up first. “We just wanted to see if the wolves liked dragons.”

“Dragons and wolves don’t always mix well,” you said, softening your tone as you knelt beside them. “Balelyx is still half-asleep, but if you startled him...”

“He wouldn’t hurt us!” Lyanna interrupted, clutching her silver direwolf pup protectively. “He’s your dragon, Mama. He’d know we’re family.”

Your heart softened at her innocent trust, but you still shook your head. “Balelyx is a dragon, my love. He’s not like the wolves. He follows his instincts first and foremost. Come, step back.”

The children reluctantly obeyed, though Rickon glanced longingly at Balelyx’s massive tail, which twitched faintly even in sleep. “Can’t we just sit near him?” he asked. “We promise to be quiet.”

Before you could answer, a deep rumble echoed through the courtyard as Balelyx opened one great, molten eye, focusing immediately on the children. The dragon lifted his head slightly, a plume of smoke curling from his nostrils. For a moment, the children held their breath, but Balelyx only huffed softly, his tail curling protectively around his body as if acknowledging their presence but not perceiving them as a threat.

“See?” Rickon whispered triumphantly. “He likes us.”

You sighed, reaching out to stroke Balelyx’s scaled neck, murmuring softly in High Valyrian. The dragon relaxed under your touch, and you turned to the children. “You may sit nearby, but no loud noises, no sudden movements. And if he so much as growls, you’ll come straight to me. Understood?”

They nodded eagerly, settling onto the snow-covered ground with their pups, who sniffed at the dragon curiously but kept their distance. Balelyx watched them lazily for a moment before lowering his head back onto his forelegs, his eyes half-closing.

The scene might have remained peaceful if not for the arrival of Lord Harwyn Manderly, still dressed in his fine green doublet from the night before. His booming laugh shattered the stillness of the courtyard as he approached, accompanied by a few other Northern lords who had stayed the night.

“Well, well,” Manderly said, clapping his gloved hands together. “It seems the little wolves are braver than most grown men, sitting so near to such a beast.”

“Lord Manderly,” you said, rising to greet him with a polite smile, “Balelyx is no beast. He’s a dragon of Valyria and far smarter than he appears.”

“Smarter, perhaps, but still dangerous,” Manderly countered, though his tone was light. He turned to Cregan, who had appeared in the courtyard as well, his dark hair still tousled from sleep. “What say you, Stark? Shall we make this a Northern tradition—dragons in the snow?”

Cregan chuckled, crossing his arms as he surveyed the scene. “I think it’s enough that the children have wolves, Harwyn. Let’s not tempt fate by encouraging them to bond with fire as well.”

The lords laughed, their voices carrying across the courtyard, and you couldn’t help but smile at the warmth and camaraderie that lingered even after the festivities. Cregan approached you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he gazed down at the children.

“They’ve inherited your boldness,” he murmured, his voice tinged with pride.

“And your stubbornness,” you replied, leaning into him. “We’ll have our hands full with these three.”

“Aye,” he agreed, his tone warm. “But there’s no joy greater than this.”

The morning passed in a blend of lingering celebration and quiet moments like these, the North’s stoic strength softened by the warmth of family and kinship. Winterfell, in all its cold and grandeur, had never felt more alive.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Home for the Holidays

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings:Fluff

Authors Note:I hope you enjoy!

Word Count:1.1k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Christmas Eve

The snow had started falling early that morning, blanketing the world outside in pristine white. You’d spent the entire day buzzing around the house, determined to make everything perfect. A large tree stood proudly in the corner of the living room, its branches dripping with ornaments and twinkling lights. Pine-scented candles flickered on the mantle, where red stockings hung with each of their names stitched into the fabric—“Captain Price,” “Soap,” “Gaz,” and “Ghost.”

The kitchen smelled divine—gingerbread cookies cooling on a rack, a roast in the oven, and a pot of mulled wine simmering on the stove. You wiped your hands on your apron, glancing at the clock.

They’d be here any minute.

You didn’t know how you’d managed to convince Price to keep this a surprise from the others. But the idea of all four of them walking through the door together, with no worries about missions or danger, warmed you to your core.

The sound of tires crunching on snow pulled you from your thoughts. You peeked out the window and smiled at the sight of their car pulling into the driveway.

The front door opened with a gust of cold air, boots stomping as four familiar figures trudged inside. Price, of course, was first—his ever-present hat slightly askew, snow clinging to his coat. His sharp eyes softened as they landed on you.

“Look at this,” he murmured, taking in the festive decorations. “Feels like I’ve stepped into bloody Christmas card.”

“Leave your boots by the door,” you instructed, barely suppressing a grin.

Soap barreled in next, shaking snow from his hair like an overgrown dog. “Lass! What’s all this, then?” he asked, gesturing to the garlands draped along the banister.

Gaz followed close behind, holding a bag full of gifts. “I told her she’d go all out,” he said, his warm brown eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Looks cozy,” Ghost muttered, his deep voice rumbling as he stepped inside last. His black mask stood out against the soft colors of the room, but his eyes lingered on the decorations with quiet appreciation.

You wrapped your arms around Price first, letting the warmth of his embrace seep into you. “Welcome home,” you said softly.

One by one, you hugged them all—Soap lifting you off your feet with a laugh, Gaz squeezing you tightly, and Ghost standing still as you slipped your arms around his waist. He didn’t hug back, but his gloved hand brushed against your shoulder in an almost imperceptible gesture of affection.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Price said, his gaze sweeping over the cozy scene.

“It’s been a long year,” you replied. “You all deserve a real Christmas.”

That Evening

After dinner, the boys gravitated toward the living room. Soap plopped onto the floor, his ridiculous light-up sweater blinking obnoxiously. “Right, who’s ready to lose to me at cards?”

“Dream on,” Gaz shot back, shuffling the deck.

Price leaned back on the couch, sipping mulled wine with a rare smile. Ghost sat at the edge of the fireplace, carefully inspecting the stockings you’d hung. You joined him, holding up a small snowflake ornament.

“Help me hang this?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “You want me to decorate?”

“I want you to help,” you said, nudging him lightly.

With a faint sigh, he took the ornament, his large hands almost comically careful as he hooked it onto the tree.

“Front and center,” you instructed. “It’s my favorite.”

He stepped back, tilting his head slightly. “Looks good.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

The moment was interrupted by Soap waving a sprig of mistletoe above his head. “Oi! What’s this? Mistletoe?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything, Gaz snagged it from him.

“If anyone’s getting kisses, it’s us,” he teased, holding it over you instead.

“You’re all ridiculous,” you muttered, but you indulged them. You pressed a quick kiss to Gaz’s cheek, ruffled Soap’s hair, and gave Price a fond peck on the forehead. When you reached Ghost, you hesitated.

He didn’t move as you leaned up, brushing your lips against the edge of his mask. His eyes softened, and you swore you saw the hint of a smile beneath the fabric.

Christmas Morning

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of muffled voices. Wrapping a blanket around yourself, you wandered into the living room to find the boys sitting around the tree.

“Morning,” Price greeted, his voice low and warm. He patted the space next to him on the couch, and you snuggled in beside him.

“What are you doing up so early?” you asked, stifling a yawn.

Soap held up a small wrapped box. “We wanted to give you this.”

You blinked. “For me?”

“Open it,” Gaz urged, practically bouncing with excitement.

Inside the box was a delicate silver necklace, the charm shaped like a snowflake. You traced the smooth edges with your fingers, your heart swelling.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

“It’s from all of us,” Ghost said, his voice unusually soft. “Something to remind you… that you’re the glue that holds us together.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you looked around at them—Price’s steady warmth, Soap’s boyish grin, Gaz’s twinkling eyes, and Ghost’s quiet presence.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted.

Price leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just say you’ll stick around.”

“Always,” you promised.

As the snow continued to fall outside, the five of you sat together by the fire, sharing stories and laughter. For the first time in a long time, the world felt safe, warm, and full of love.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[redheadspark]

May I have Azriel from ACOTAR with #10?

A/N - AWWW Adoranle for Azriel! Thanks for requesting this, anon!

Warm

Summary - Azriel wants to keep warm on his day off

Warnings - Just fluff :)

You felt it again your toes at first: his own toes being cold.

It made you shiver and shake a bit in the embrace you were in, though the rest of the body was pressed up behind you with muscular arms around your waist and front and knees against your own.  It was a safe and comfortable position, something you and your mate have down with one another for centuries.  Both of a sense of protection, given that your mate’s back was to the door at all times in case of a bush or attack.  But mainly because he liked holding you, a sense of peace was for him when he had you in his arms.

It dated back to before you were mates, out on a spy recon mission together and needing to huddle together for warmth one winter night during a massive storm.  Tucked in your small makeshift tent, he held you close to keep you warm and safe, before you both found yourself falling for one another throughout the night.  He leaned down to kiss you, trusting his instincts and his gut more than his intellect that was telling him that it was a bad idea to kiss his partner. 

But that kiss led to a courtship, then being mates, and now being married for over 300 years.

“Mmmph,” You heard behind yourself against your neck as you blinked slowly and looked out at the massive windows in front of you, massive snowflakes falling from the sky and hitting the cobbled streets in front of the Townhouse.  A fire appeared in the massive fireplace of the bedroom, warmth instantly filling the room along with an orange tint and glow along the four-post bed you and your mate were snuggled in.

The first signs of winter came through Velaris, with the howling winds from the mountains bringing in the first snowfalls and bringing the holiday cheer that would be Winter Solstice.  Shops were open for longer hours, plenty of businesses were conducting sales and bundling items for the holiday to come, and an all-around sense of joy was within the busy town.  You could barely hear some of the citizens already out and about, the sun was not evident since it was hidden behind the gray clouds that were dumping the snow onto Velaris.

“Go back to sleep,” You felt in a whisper against your neck, you humming as you reached down to lace your fingers together against your bare stomach.  

“I will once you warm up your toes,” You replied groggily, the body behind you shifting a bit as you felt his foot push out from under the covers, pointing in the same direction of the roaring fireplace.  

“There, happy?” He asked in a huff, his lips moving along your skin as you chuckled and shifted.  Turning to face the other side, you finally saw the face of your mate: Azriel.  Sleepiness was in his eyes, his bare chest was now pressed in front of yours that had some small scars that were now silver lines along his skin, and his inky black hair which was short and mostly well-kept was tossed against the dark green pillow, and his bright hazel orbs of eyes shined from the dancing light of the fireplace.  No matter how many years you two were married and mates, you still got lost in his eyes and fell in love all over again.

“It’s the first day of our vacation, of course, I’m happy,” You remind him, seeing him sleepily smile back at you as you lean over to peck him on the cheek.  Both you and Azriel were looking for some time together, the past several months were busy with recon missions and visits to other Courts.  Not that you two hated your jobs: you both loved it.  Serving Night Court and helping Rhysand and the others keep Night Court safe.  

You would defend Night Court with all your life, even on the brink of exhaustion and worn muscles.  But for the next few weeks, with peace amongst the other Courts thanks to new treaties and alliances, there was no need for you and Azriel to go out and be busy.  Rhysand made sure of that, giving you both at least two weeks to yourselves just in time for Winter Solstice.  

“What should we do for our first official day of vacation?” You asked him in a tease against his cheek, about to pull away from him before he gently grabbed your chin within his fingers to keep you close.  You stared lovingly at him, breathing in the scent he had and carried ever since you two became mates.  Tree pine, orange slices, and something that reminded you of a storm or a Custer of clouds. 

“Stay in this bed, all day long, so you can warm up my toes with your warm feet,” he murmured, tracing your nose with his.  Seeing him plaint like this, no Truth Teller strapped on his leg, no wearing his leathers, simply open and vulnerable for only his mate to enjoy made you proud of him.  He came so far in his life, from his rough childhood and pain to how having a mate at his side and no fears that would haunt him.

It was not easy being his mate and wife, you knew that from the moment you kissed him and became his mate.  You knew the long nights he would be away on a solo recon mission, or even when you two would work together.  Both of you being spies for Night Court, sometimes that meant your emotions would be on the back burner.  You both had fights and spats because of close calls and injuries, but you’d never go to bed mad at one another.  It was a promise you two made when it got together: you were still mates through and through. 

But it would be such a sight for others to see Azriel, bare under the sheets with his mate without a worry.  Especially Cassian, who would make fun of him for days.

“What if we get hungry?” You asked in a teasing tone. Azriel nearly rolled his eyes as you laughed and he peppered you with kisses.  He was about to pull you in within his awaiting arms but you shoved him away, hearing him groan in protest as you slipped out of bed.  Although you were bare, with your hair cascading down your back, you looked behind your shoulder and saw Azriel sprawled out on the bed and watching you with love and intrigue in his orbs.

“Join me in the shower before we have breakfast in bed then, hm?” You asked, walking off before he could even protest.  You never heard him move out of bed fast enough as you laughed and he bombarded you in the bathroom.

These two weeks will be memorable.

The End

[paceprompting]

ornament of christmas past

written for ‘ornament’ | wc: 857 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no archive warnings apply | tags: pre-canon era & post season 4, toddler steve, gift-giving, cute shenanigans

@steddieholidaydrabbles

Steve went to a public preschool for two whole weeks.

After a termite infestation and a backlog in the exterminator’s schedule, all the children were temporarily transferred to the only other preschool in Hawkins. Being right before the winter holiday, even Steve’s father didn’t bother throwing a fit.

Steve didn’t remember much about the place. Just under five-years-old, not that surprising. He didn’t remember much about the private preschool either, except the bland health crackers they fed at snack.

But he did remember the holiday party the staff had thrown the last day before break. Sugary cake with red and green icing, classic songs on repeat, and a gift exchange of ornaments they’d made a few days before.

Steve had already given his away to a blonde girl he’d played with a couple of times. He’d made a foam snowflake covered in glitter and threaded with a green ribbon.

No one had given him anything.

But that was okay. The kids from the public daycare had little idea who he was, and he wasn’t likely to ever see them again to remember them when he grew up.

The party ended, and all that was left was waiting for the parents and nannies to pick them up.

Another kid sidled up next to him, bumping his shoulder. He ignored it, assuming that everyone’s puffy jackets were to blame for the jostle.

Then the kid bumped him again.

He’d turned to look with a frown his face, and found this wide brown eyes staring right at him. The kid’s head was shaved, dark hair barely growing back in.

“What?” he asked.

“You don’t have a present.”

Matter-of-fact, no room for questions.

“I don’t,” Steve agreed. He didn’t really remember the kid much from those two weeks, if he had ever met the boy before that moment at all.

Whatever reason the boy had, Steve never learned. A man’s voice called toward the crowd—probably the boy’s name, since his attention was pulled over by it—and the boy shoved one of the plastic bauble ornaments into Steve’s hands.

He’d barely kept from dropping it before the boy had run off.

Steve turned the ornament over in his hands. The entire inside had been coated in red glitter with ‘Mery Crismas’ painted across the front in black paint. Or, that was the best Steve could make out, with half the paint streaked across the front.

When winter break was over, Steve went back to the private preschool his parents paid a few thousand in tuition for.

Steve never saw the boy again.

“Where did you get this?”

Steve glanced up from digging into a box of decorations at the sound of Eddie’s voice. Found him turning around a bauble ornament in his hands, catching flashes of red between his fingers.

He extended his hand toward Eddie. “Let me see.”

Eddie bounded across the haphazard living room, half-decorated and the floor scattered with boxes, and took a seat beside Steve on the couch. He bounced slightly on the sofa, curls swatting Steve on the shoulder.

He handed over the ornament.

Somehow, the closure at the top of the plastic bubble had stayed on nearly two decades, keeping the red glitter trapped inside. The painted words on the outside had fared nearly as well, chipping off just a bit on the edges of the letters.

“Had this since preschool. Some exchange thing. Some boy gave it to me.” Steve gave the ornament back.

Eddie quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Some boy have a name?”

“I was only there two weeks. Never saw him again.” Steve shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a four-year-old from my past.”

“Oh, I know I don’t need to be jealous,” Eddie said brightly. He stood from the couch and headed to the bare pine tree by the window.

Steve sat back on the couch, his hands braced on his knees. “You do?”

“Yeah,“ Eddie answered plainly.

He selected a branch right in the center of the tree, facing toward Steve, and hooked the ornament carefully in place. He tapped it with his fingernail, and then aimed a mischievous grin at Steve.

“Considering it’s mine,” he said.

Steve raised a brow high. “You remember an ornament you made in preschool?”

“Well, Wayne remembers me talking his ear off about a boy from the fancy school named Steve around then. Said I should give him a gift for Christmas. Still likes to remind me of it.”

“So your game plan was to shove my present at me and then book it?” Steve chuckled when Eddie shrugged, a pink blush glowing across his cheeks. “And that was better than just talking to me?”

“Well,” Eddie drawled out, walking a back and forth path across the rug.

Steve’s gaze followed him as Eddie walked slowly back toward the couch, his dark eyes fixed on Steve underneath his bangs. He easily moved his hands out of the way for Eddie to climb onto his lap, knees on either side of Steve’s thighs.

Eddie cocked his head, curls falling over his shoulder as he said, “Had to mark my claim, didn’t I?”