#i like doing it so i feel like time actually passed in-world

[harrysfolklore]

christ-max -mv1

summary: you invite your boyfriend max to spend christmas with you for the first time, however, your family doesn't quite believe you're dating a formula 1 world champion. wc: 5.8k

folkie radio: HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF YOUUUU! i hope you're having the best day ever with your loves ones. this fic ended up being longer than i intended but i hope you like it!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

You're nestled into Max's side on his couch, wrapped in the soft throw blanket he keeps specifically for these quiet moments together. The afternoon light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Monaco apartment, casting a glow across the room. Your feet are tucked under you, and you can smell the lingering scent of the coffee you both made earlier.

The Netflix show you'd put on - some random documentary about deep-sea creatures - has become mere background noise. Max's fingers are threading through your hair in that gentle way that always makes you melt, occasionally stopping to massage your scalp. .

"I can't believe the season's actually over," you murmur, tracing lazy patterns on his arm. "Feels weird not having to plan around race weekends anymore."

Max chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest where your head rests. "Yeah, but now we have to plan around all the end-of-year events instead. Did you see how many galas and ceremonies are coming up?"

"At least those don't involve you flying halfway across the world," you tease, tilting your head to look up at him. His hair is slightly messy, free from its usual styling, and you resist the urge to reach up and run your fingers through it.

"True," he agrees, then glances at his phone on the coffee table. "Speaking of events, I can't believe it's already December. Christmas is going to be here before we know it. Guess time flies when you're busy winning championships."

Your heart skips a beat. This is the opening you've been waiting for. You've been thinking about this for weeks, planning how to bring it up. "Actually… I wanted to ask you something about Christmas," you start, sitting up slightly to face him better.

Max's blue eyes meet yours, curious. "What's on your mind?"

"Well…" you bite your lip, suddenly feeling nervous despite knowing there's no reason to be. "I was wondering if you'd want to spend Christmas with me and my family this year? I know we've kept things private, but I really want them to meet you, and-"

"Wait, really?" Max interrupts, his whole face lighting up with that boyish excitement that made you fall for him in the first place. "You want me to meet your family?"

You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Of course I do. We've been together almost a year now, and they keep asking why I'm always smiling at my phone." You playfully poke his side. "Which is your fault, by the way."

He catches your hand, intertwining your fingers. "My fault? I'm just being my naturally charming self," he grins, then his expression turns slightly more serious. "But are you sure? I mean, won't they be surprised when you show up with, well…"

"With a four-time World Champion?" you finish for him, laughing. "Actually, my dad might pass out. He's been watching F1 since before I was born. He has no idea I've been dating his favorite driver."

Max's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm his favorite driver?"

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn playfully. "But yeah, he's got your merchandise and everything. It's actually kind of embarrassing how much he talks about you during race weekends."

Max throws his head back laughing, and you can't help but join in. "Oh God, this is going to be interesting," he says, wiping at his eyes. "What about the rest of your family?"

"Well, Mom will probably try to feed you until you burst - she's like that with everyone. And my little sister Ruby, she's seven and she's going to have so many questions. She's in that phase where she wants to know everything about everything."

"I can handle questions," Max says confidently, then hesitates. "What kind of questions are we talking about?"

You pretend to think about it. "Oh, you know, probably things like 'How fast have you ever driven?' 'Have you ever crashed?' 'Do you want to marry my sister?'"

Max nearly chokes on air at the last one, his cheeks turning slightly pink. "You're joking, right?"

"About Ruby? Nope, she has absolutely no filter," you laugh, then soften your voice. "But seriously, they're going to love you. Just be yourself - the you I know, not the racing driver everyone else sees."

He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'd love to spend Christmas with your family. I can't wait to meet them." He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Should I wear my race suit when I meet your dad?"

You swat his arm, laughing. "Don't you dare! He'll actually faint." You settle back against his chest, feeling warm and content. "Thank you for saying yes. It means a lot to me."

"Thank you for asking me," he murmurs into your hair. "I love you."

"I love you too," you respond, smiling as his arms tighten around you. The documentary continues playing, forgotten again as you both start planning for Christmas, trading ideas and jokes about how to break the news to your family.

You're sitting cross-legged on Max's bed while he's in the shower, your phone propped up against a pillow as you FaceTime your family. Your mom's face fills most of the screen, with your dad peering over her shoulder and little Ruby bouncing around trying to get a better view.

"Honey, we can barely see you. The lighting is terrible," your mom critiques, and you adjust your position slightly.

"Better?"

"Much better! Now, what's this important thing you wanted to tell us about Christmas?" Your mom asks, while Ruby shouts "Is it presents?" in the background.

You take a deep breath, trying to contain your smile. "Well, I wanted to let you know that I'm bringing someone with me this year… my boyfriend."

There's an immediate explosion of excitement. Ruby starts jumping up and down, your mom gasps dramatically, and your dad's eyebrows shoot up with interest.

"Finally!" your mom exclaims. "We've been wondering when you'd introduce him. You've been so secretive about this boyfriend of yours."

"What's his name?" Ruby pipes up, her face suddenly taking up half the screen as she pushes closer to the camera. "Is he nice? Does he like Disney movies?"

You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yes, Rubes, he's very nice. And his name is…" you pause, knowing what's coming. "Max. Max Verstappen."

There's a moment of silence before your dad bursts out laughing. "Good one, sweetheart. Now, what's his real name?"

"I'm serious, Dad. I'm dating Max Verstappen."

Your mom is trying to hold back her laughter now too. "Honey, isn't that the racing driver you and your father are always watching? The one your dad has all those caps and shirts of?"

"Yes, and I'm actually dating him," you insist, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Ruby's face scrunches up in confusion. "The fast car man? From TV?"

"The very same one, Rubes."

Your dad wipes tears from his eyes. "Come on now, what's next? Are you going to tell us you're best friends with Lewis Hamilton too?"

"Dad!" you groan, running a hand over your face. "I'm being serious! We've been dating for almost a year. I'm literally at his place right now!"

"In Monaco?" your dad asks skeptically. "Prove it."

You swing your phone around to show the familiar view of Monaco through the windows, but your dad just shakes his head. "Could be any apartment in Monaco."

"You're impossible!" you huff. "Fine, don't believe me. You'll see at Christmas."

Ruby presses her face closer to the screen again. "Will he bring his race car?"

"No, Rubes, he can't bring the race car," you say, softening your tone for your little sister. "But I promise you'll love him."

After a few more minutes of your family teasing you about your "imaginary Formula 1 driver boyfriend," you end the call with a mix of frustration and amusement. Just as you flop back onto the bed, you hear the bathroom door open and Max walks out, his hair still damp from the shower.

"How'd it go?" he asks, noticing your expression.

You let out a laugh. "They think I'm making you up. They literally don't believe I'm dating you."

Max raises his eyebrows, looking amused as he sits next to you on the bed. "Really?"

"Really. Dad laughed so hard he nearly cried. And Ruby, my little sister, just wants to know if you're bringing your race car for Christmas."

"Sorry to disappoint Ruby," he grins, then looks thoughtful. "You know, maybe we should've waited to tell them in person. The looks on their faces would've been priceless."

"Oh, don't worry," you sit up, wrapping your arms around his neck. "They'll still be priceless. Dad's going to lose it when he realizes all those times he was rambling about you during races, he was actually talking about his daughter's boyfriend."

Max laughs, pulling you closer. "What else should I know before meeting them?"

"Well, Ruby's seven and obsessed with Frozen. She'll definitely make you watch it and probably sing along too."

"I can handle that," he says confidently.

"And recite all the lines?"

"…Maybe not that."

"And act out the scenes with her?"

Max's eyes widen slightly. "What have I gotten myself into?"

You kiss his cheek. "Too late to back out now, Verstappen. You're stuck with us."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he murmurs, pulling you in for a proper kiss. "Even if it means playing Olaf the snowman."

"Oh no, you'll definitely be playing Elsa. Ruby's very particular about casting."

The look of horror on his face makes you burst out laughing, and soon he's joining in too. As your laughter dies down, you can't help but think about how perfect this feels - being here with him, planning to spend Christmas with your family, even if they don't believe you yet. You can't wait to see their faces when you show up at their door with Max Verstappen himself.

"Hey," Max says softly, breaking into your thoughts. "What are you smiling about?"

"Just thinking about how Christmas is going to be interesting this year."

"Interesting is one way to put it," he grins. "Should I wear my race suit when we arrive?"

"Don't you dare! Dad will actually faint."

"That's kind of the point," he winks, and you grab a pillow to hit him with, both of you dissolving into laughter again.

"Let me guess, another text from 'Max Verstappen'?" your dad teases from his spot at the kitchen counter, making air quotes with his fingers. He's wearing one of his many Red Bull Racing shirts, completely oblivious to the irony.

"Actually, yes," you reply, rolling your eyes. "He'll be here soon."

Your mom chuckles while peeling potatoes. "Honey, you can just tell us who your boyfriend really is. We won't judge, even if he's not a Formula 1 champion."

"Mom, I've told you a million times-"

"LOOK!" Ruby crashes into the kitchen, pointing at the TV in the living room where they're showing highlights from the last race. "It's YN's boyfriend!" She dissolves into giggles, clearly in on what she thinks is a funny joke.

"Very funny, Rubes," you mutter, but check your phone again when it buzzes.

Max: "Just turned onto your street. Nice neighborhood 😉"

Your heart starts beating faster. "He's here," you announce, heading toward the front door.

"Oh, we're still doing this?" your dad calls after you, amused. "Should I get my Max Verstappen cap for him to sign?"

"Actually, Dad, yes, you should," you shout back, slipping on your boots.

"Sweetie," your mom starts in that gentle voice she uses when she thinks you're being ridiculous, "you don't have to-"

The sound of a car pulling up interrupts her. You open the front door and step out onto the porch, watching as Max's car comes to a stop in your driveway. Your family has crowded behind you in the doorway, probably expecting to catch you in your "lie."

Max steps out of the car, looking unfairly handsome in his dark winter coat and scarf. His face lights up when he sees you, and you don't hesitate to run down the steps toward him.

"Hi," he grins, catching you in a tight hug and lifting you slightly off your feet. "Missed you."

You hear a loud gasp behind you, followed by what sounds like your dad choking on air.

"Missed you too," you murmur against his chest before turning to face your family, keeping one arm wrapped around his waist.

The scene on your front porch is priceless. Your dad's mouth is hanging open, his face pale except for two bright red spots on his cheeks. Your mom has both hands pressed to her face in shock. Ruby is the only one moving, bouncing up and down with excitement.

"IT REALLY IS THE FAST CAR MAN!" she shrieks, breaking the silence as she barrels down the steps toward you both.

Max laughs, crouching down to her level. "Hi Ruby. Nice to finally meet you. Your sister has told me a lot about you."

"You're real!" she exclaims, poking his arm as if to make sure.

"Very real," he confirms, looking thoroughly amused.

"I… you… but…" your dad stammers, still frozen in the doorway.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. LN," Max says, standing back up and guiding you and Ruby toward the porch. "Thank you for having me for Christmas."

Your mom seems to snap out of her shock first. "Oh my goodness, please come in! It's freezing out here. I… oh dear… the potatoes… I should… more food… I need to…"

"Mom, breathe," you laugh, as Max follows you inside.

Your dad hasn't moved an inch, still staring at Max like he's seeing a ghost. "You're… you're actually… the Brazil overtake…"

"Dad, no F1 talk yet!" you warn. "Let him at least get his coat off first."

"Right! Yes! Coat!" your dad says frantically. "I'll take your coat! And then maybe… could you… would you mind signing my…"

"Collection?" you finish for him, smirking. "The one you thought I was making up?"

Max raises his eyebrows at you, remembering your conversation about your dad's merchandise collection.

Ruby tugs on Max's hand. "Do you want to see my Frozen dolls? And can we watch the movie? Sissy said you've never seen it!"

"Ruby, let him settle in first," your mom calls from the kitchen, where she appears to be panic-cooking. "Oh God, is the food good enough? Do Formula 1 drivers have special diets? Should I-"

"Mom, the food will be perfect," you assure her, then turn to Max. "See? I told you they'd be cool about it."

Max tries to suppress his laugh as your dad continues to stare at him in awe, your mom stress-cooks enough food to feed an army, and Ruby continues pulling on his hand.

"Very cool," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Though I think your dad might need to sit down."

"I'm fine!" your dad squeaks, then immediately sits down heavily on the nearest chair. "Just… just give me a minute to process that my daughter is actually dating Max Verstappen and I've been accidentally talking about my future son-in-law during every race and-"

"DAD!" you exclaim, feeling your face heat up while Max chuckles beside you.

"What? I'm just saying… all those times I said 'that Verstappen boy would make someone a good husband someday' and it turns out-"

"Okay!" you interrupt loudly. "Who wants coffee? Max, come help me with coffee!"

As you drag a laughing Max toward the kitchen, you hear Ruby start explaining the entire plot of Frozen to him, your mom muttering about needing to buy more food, and your dad still talking to himself about racing statistics.

"Still think this was a good idea?" you whisper to Max.

He pulls you closer, grinning. "The best. Though you might want to tell your dad to breathe before he passes out."

"Can we build a snowman after coffee?" Ruby calls out.

"Only if Max gets to be Elsa!" you shout back, earning you a playful glare from your boyfriend.

Looking around at your slightly chaotic but loving family, and seeing how naturally Max fits into it all, you can't help but smile. This is definitely going to be a Christmas to remember.

The initial chaos has settled into a cozy scene in your living room. You're curled up on the couch next to Max, who has Ruby practically attached to his side. She hasn't stopped talking since everyone sat down, and Max, to his credit, is giving her his complete attention.

"And then Elsa makes this huge ice castle," Ruby explains, using elaborate hand gestures. "Can you drive as fast as Elsa runs up the mountain?"

"Probably faster," Max answers with a grin, making Ruby's eyes widen.

"Even in the snow?"

"Even in the snow."

Your dad, who's finally regained his ability to form complete sentences, sits in his armchair trying very hard not to bombard Max with racing questions. He keeps opening his mouth, then closing it again when you give him a warning look.

"It's okay, Dad," you laugh. "You can ask him one race question. Just one."

Your dad looks like he might cry from happiness. "The overtake in Brazil-"

"Which one?" Max asks with a playful smirk, and your dad launches into an enthusiastic discussion about racing lines and grip levels.

Your mom returns from the kitchen with a tray of hot chocolate and cookies, having finally accepted that she doesn't need to cook enough food for an entire F1 paddock. "Here we go. I hope it's okay, Max. YN mentioned you like hot chocolate."

"It's perfect, thank you," Max says warmly, accepting a mug.

Ruby immediately reaches for a cookie, then pauses. "Do race car drivers eat cookies?"

"Only the fast ones," Max whispers conspiratorially, making her giggle.

"Ruby, give Max some space to breathe," your mom says gently, noticing how your sister is practically in his lap.

"It's fine," Max assures her. "I have nephews. I'm used to it."

Ruby beams at this information. "Really? Do they like Frozen too?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure they'd love to hear your explanation of it," he says, and Ruby launches into another detailed plot summary.

You catch your mom watching the interaction with soft eyes, all her earlier panic forgotten. She meets your gaze and mouths 'He's wonderful' when Ruby isn't looking.

Your dad has moved on from Brazil to discussing tire strategies, but stops himself mid-sentence. "Sorry, I'm probably boring you. You live this stuff."

"Not at all," Max says sincerely. "It's nice talking about it with someone who understands racing. YN usually just tells me to stop being a nerd when I talk about tire compounds."

"Because you spent two hours explaining the difference between C3 and C4 compounds!" you defend yourself.

"It's fascinating stuff," your dad says eagerly, and Max nods in agreement.

"Oh no, there's two of them now," you mutter to your mom, who laughs.

Ruby tugs on Max's sleeve. "Can we watch Frozen now? Please? You promised!"

"Ruby, let Max rest a bit," your mom starts, but Max shakes his head.

"A promise is a promise," he says solemnly to Ruby. "Should we watch it now?"

Ruby squeals with delight, jumping up to get the remote. Your dad looks slightly disappointed that his racing talk is being cut short, but you can see him hiding a smile at Ruby's excitement.

"Fair warning," you whisper to Max as Ruby sets up the movie, "she knows every word. And she will sing along."

"As long as she doesn't expect me to sing," he whispers back.

"MAX!" Ruby calls, patting the spot next to her on the floor where she's arranged pillows. "You have to sit here! It's the best spot!"

Max obliges, settling down next to her while you stay on the couch, exchanging amused looks with your parents as Ruby starts the movie, already mouthing along to the opening music.

Your mom leans over to you. "I'm sorry we didn't believe you," she whispers. "He's lovely. And so good with Ruby."

"I told you," you whisper back, watching as Ruby explains to Max why Elsa has ice powers.

Your dad joins in the whispered conversation. "Think he'd sign my mug collection later?"

"Dad!"

"What? I'm just saying, Christmas cards would be sorted for the next few years…"

You're about to respond when Ruby shushes you all loudly. "This is the best part!"

Max catches your eye and winks, clearly enjoying himself despite being roped into a Disney movie viewing with a very enthusiastic seven-year-old commentator. Your heart swells watching him with your family, how naturally he fits in, how gentle he is with Ruby.

"Do you want to build a snowman?" Ruby starts singing along with the movie.

"Later, Rubes," you promise. "Let's watch the movie first."

She nods seriously, then turns to Max. "Pay attention to this part. It's very important."

"I won't miss a second," he promises, and Ruby beams at him before turning back to the screen.

Your mom reaches over and squeezes your hand, giving you a knowing look. Even your dad has stopped thinking about racing long enough to appreciate the moment – his youngest daughter sharing her favorite movie with your boyfriend, who happens to be the F1 driver he's been fan-boying over for years.

It's perfect, you think, watching your family and Max together. Different from how you imagined telling them, but perfect nonetheless.

"Shh!" Ruby whispers loudly. "Elsa is about to sing Let It Go!"

Max shoots you a slightly panicked look as Ruby starts to stand up, clearly ready to perform the whole number. You just grin and shrug. After all, you did warn him about the singing.

Later that evening, you finally manage to steal a moment alone with Max. Ruby had fallen asleep during the third replay of Frozen, and your parents took her up to bed before retreating to the kitchen to finish some Christmas preparations.

You find Max on the back porch, leaning against the railing and looking up at the stars. The winter air is crisp, and you can see his breath forming little clouds in the darkness. Quietly, you step out and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back.

"Hey," he says softly, turning in your arms to face you. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer. "Needed a little break from being Elsa?"

You laugh quietly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "You were amazing with Ruby today. I think you're officially her new favorite person."

"She's a sweet kid," he smiles, then adds with a playful glint in his eyes, "Though I didn't expect to watch Frozen two times in one day."

"Just wait until tomorrow. She'll probably want to act it out."

He groans dramatically, but you can see the fondness in his expression. "The things I do for you."

"Mmm, and I appreciate every one of them," you murmur, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him softly.

Max responds immediately, one hand moving to cup your face while the other pulls you even closer. The kiss is gentle and unhurried, full of unspoken emotions. When you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"For what?"

"For being so perfect with my family. For watching Frozen multiple times. For not running away when my dad started his racing commentary."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. "I like your family. Your dad's racing knowledge is impressive, your mom's trying very hard not to mother me to death, and Ruby…" he pauses, smiling. "Ruby reminds me of Victoria at that age."

You snuggle closer, seeking his warmth in the cold air. "I was so nervous about telling them, and then even more nervous when they didn't believe me. But this… this is better than I imagined."

"Even with your dad asking me to sign his entire Red Bull merchandise collection?"

"Hey, at least he waited until after dinner," you laugh. "Though I'm pretty sure he's in there right now planning which items to bring out first."

Max wraps his arms more securely around you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I love you," he says quietly, and your heart skips a beat like it does every time he says those words.

"I love you too," you reply, tilting your face up for another kiss.

This one is deeper, more passionate, until you hear the back door creak and quickly step apart.

"Oh!" your mom exclaims, looking flustered. "Sorry, I just… wanted to ask about breakfast preferences… but it can wait… carry on!"

She disappears back inside, and you both burst into quiet laughter.

"We should probably go back in," you sigh, though you make no move to leave his embrace.

"Probably," he agrees, but instead of letting go, he pulls you back for one more kiss. "Five more minutes?"

You smile against his lips. "Five more minutes."

In the quiet of Christmas eve, wrapped in each other's arms, you can't help but think how perfectly he fits into your life, into your family, into your heart. Tomorrow there'll be more Frozen, more racing talk, more of Ruby's endless questions, but right now, it's just the two of you, and it's everything.

The winter sun is just beginning to peek through the curtains of your childhood bedroom, casting a soft golden glow across the room. You're wrapped in warmth, nestled against Max's chest with his arm draped around your waist. His steady breathing tells you he's awake before he even moves.

"Good morning," he murmurs against your neck, his voice still rough with sleep. His lips brush against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"Morning," you whisper back, feeling his hand slowly slide beneath your sleep shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"Sleep well?" he asks innocently, but his actions are anything but innocent as he presses closer, leaving a trail of kisses from your shoulder to your ear.

"Max," you breathe, caught between wanting to lean into his touch and knowing you should stop. "We can't… my parents…"

"Then we'll have to be very, very quiet," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. His hand travels higher under your shirt, making your breath hitch.

You turn in his arms, ready to either give in or properly protest - though the way he's looking at you, eyes dark with desire and that signature smirk playing on his lips, makes you lean heavily toward the former.

"You're trouble," you murmur, reaching up to run your fingers through his disheveled hair.

He leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss. "You love it."

Just as his hand starts to wander again, a voice pierces through the quiet morning:

"IT'S CHRISTMAAAAS!" Ruby's excited scream echoes through the entire house, followed by the thundering of small feet running down the hallway. "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! SANTA CAME!"

Max drops his forehead to your shoulder with a frustrated groan. "Your sister has impeccable timing."

"Welcome to Christmas with Ruby," you laugh, pressing a consoling kiss to his cheek. "I tried to warn you."

"YN! MAX!" Ruby's fists pound on your door. "GET UP! There are presents EVERYWHERE! And it SNOWED!"

"Five more minutes, Rubes!" you call back.

"NO MINUTES! NOW!" she insists, continuing to knock. "Mom said breakfast is ready and Dad made hot chocolate and I SAW A HUGE PRESENT WITH MY NAME ON IT!"

Max chuckles against your shoulder. "I suppose we should…"

"PLEASE!" Ruby calls again. "I promise I'll let you drink your coffee first!"

"That's quite the offer from her," you tell Max. "She usually doesn't allow any delays on Christmas morning."

"We're coming, Ruby!" Max calls out, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "Give us two minutes to get dressed."

"TWO MINUTES! I'm counting!"

You can hear her dramatically counting down in the hallway, making Max laugh. "She's serious about this, isn't she?"

"Oh, you have no idea."

The living room is a festival of color and chaos when you finally make it downstairs. Ruby's bouncing by the tree in her Christmas pajamas, while your parents are settled on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee.

"Finally!" Ruby exclaims. "I counted way past two minutes!"

"Sorry, princess," Max says, accepting a coffee mug from your mom. "But I'm here now."

"Max, sweetheart, you really didn't have to get us anything," your mom says, noticing the pile of presents he'd arranged under the tree last night.

"Of course I did," he replies warmly. "It's Christmas."

Ruby's practically vibrating with excitement as your dad starts distributing gifts. "Can I open mine from Max first? Please?"

At your nod, she tears into the elaborate wrapping paper, gasping when she reveals a beautiful wooden chest with golden details. "It's like a treasure chest!"

"Open it," Max encourages, smiling.

Ruby lifts the lid carefully, her eyes widening. Inside is a complete collection of princess dresses, each one a perfect replica from different Disney movies, along with matching accessories and a tiara for each one.

"The chest is magical," Max explains, kneeling beside her. "Every time you open it, there might be a new surprise inside. And look at this…" He reaches in and pulls out a small envelope.

Ruby opens it to find a letter with the Disney castle letterhead. "Dear Princess Ruby," she reads aloud, her voice getting more excited with each word. "You are cordially invited to spend a royal weekend at Disney World, where you will have a private breakfast with all the Disney princesses…"

She doesn't even finish reading before launching herself at Max, nearly knocking him over. "Thank you thank you thank you! Can I try on the Elsa dress right now?"

"After presents," your mom laughs. "Let's see what else Santa brought."

Your dad opens his gift next, finding an envelope that makes him pause. "Son," he says, voice thick with emotion as he reads the contents. "This is…"

"VIP passes to the British Grand Prix," Max confirms. "Including garage access, grid walk, everything."

Your dad has to sit down, clutching the passes like they might disappear. "This is… I can't…"

"And this," Max hands him another package, "is just a little something extra."

Inside is a vintage racing jacket from your dad's favorite driver from the 80s, signed and authenticated. Your dad actually tears up.

Your mom opens her gift next, despite protesting again that Max shouldn't have gotten them anything. She unwraps a beautiful pair of earrings.

"Oh, Max," she whispers, "This is beautiful."

Ruby, who has been surprisingly patient, tugs at Max's sleeve. "Can we do my princess breakfast now?"

"After we finish presents," you laugh. "And maybe we should have real breakfast first?"

"But I'm a princess now," she declares. "Princesses have special breakfast times."

Your mom shakes her head fondly. "How about pancakes fit for a princess?"

"With chocolate chips?" Ruby negotiates.

"With chocolate chips," your mom confirms. "Max, honey, how do you like your pancakes?"

"However they're made is perfect," he assures her, but your mom is already heading to the kitchen, muttering about making sure she has enough chocolate chips.

Your dad finally finds his voice again. "Max, this is too much…"

"It's not," Max says firmly. "You're… you're family now. Or at least, I hope…"

He glances at you meaningfully, making your heart skip a beat.

Later, after pancakes and multiple princess dress changes from Ruby, you manage to steal some time alone with Max in your favorite spot on the back porch. The morning sun has warmed the air slightly, but there's still a crisp winter chill that gives you an excuse to stay close to him.

"Your turn," Max says softly, pulling out a small wrapped box from his pocket.

Your hands tremble slightly as you unwrap it, revealing a velvet jewelry box. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with two intertwined pendants - a heart and a tiny racing helmet.

"Max," you breathe, touching the pendants gently. "It's beautiful."

"Look at the back," he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of nervousness you rarely hear.

You turn the heart over to find an engraving: "You're my biggest victory. -MV"

"I love you," you whisper, pulling him down for a kiss. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as if you're the most precious thing in his world.

When you finally part, you hand him your gift - a wrapped box that makes him raise his eyebrows at the weight.

Inside, he finds a handmade scrapbook filled with your personal moments - sneaky paddock kisses, quiet mornings at home, victory celebrations, and candid moments no one else has seen. The final page holds a photo from yesterday - Max on the floor with Ruby, both laughing during their third viewing of Frozen.

"This is…" he starts, voice thick with emotion.

"Wait," you say softly, reaching into your pocket. You pull out a key on a simple keychain. "I thought… maybe… if you wanted…"

"Move in with you?" he finishes, breaking into that brilliant smile that never fails to make your heart race. "Yes. Absolutely yes."

He pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other holds the key carefully.

"MAX!" Ruby's voice carries from inside. "I need help with my Cinderella shoes! And then we have to build a snowman! A FROZEN snowman!"

You both laugh against each other's lips.

"Duty calls, Elsa," you tease.

"Only if you'll be my Olaf," he grins, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips.

"Always," you promise, letting him lead you back inside where Ruby waits, already changed into her third princess dress of the morning.

Your dad catches your eye as you pass, "If you don't marry this boy," he whispers, "I will."

"Dad!"

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, then heads outside to join the snowman-building committee.

Your mom appears at your other side, wrapping an arm around you. "He's right, you know. He's perfect for you."

You lean your head on her shoulder, watching Max let Ruby direct him on where to place the snowman's arms. "I know," you smile. "I know."

"Best Christmas ever?" she asks softly.

Looking at your family, and Max in the middle of it all, belonging there like he's always been part of it - you smile.

"Best Christmas ever," you agree.

[hhmnya]

ㅤ ꢾ꣒ㅤㅤ SECRET SANTA──PSH.

resumen ｡｡ he gives you a second gift.

( 성훈 ) femreader ㅤㅤ✦ㅤㅤ 619wc implied friends to lovers ㅤ──ㅤ w not proofread

you step outside of jake's apartment building, pulling your coat tighter around you once the cold air hits your face. you stand on the curb, waiting for your uber as you stare up at the sky.

secret santa: a classic christmas game, one that your friends decided to do before you all left to your hometowns. you had gotten yeojin, buying her a weighted blanket. eventually you were the last one without torn up wrapping paper around your area and the only person yet to give a gift was sunghoon.

he handed you a small box, wrapped so pretty that you almost didn't want to tear the paper. you did, though, and inside was a bracelet. which you immediately recognized as an expensive necklace, definitely not within the fifty dollar budget the group had decided on.

a smile takes over your face when you remember the shy look sunghoon had given you, his cheeks flushed red while your friends scolded him for buying something out of budget.

"you're not cold?" you turn towards the voice, flinching out of surprise. you glance up and glare at the man standing next to you.

"oh my god, you scared the fuck out of me," he laughs, backing away as you hit his shoulder. regretting the action, you stuff your hands back into your coat pockets to warm them up and mumble quietly, "you're actually awful, sunghoon."

"i'm not that bad. i spoiled you today."

you tilt your head in confusion before you smile in realization, "oh, you did. it's pretty, by the way. thank you."

he hums, letting the conversation die out. the two of you stand silently in the cold, but it's not uncomfortable. that's what you like about sunghoon—he's the kind of person you don't have to be constantly talking to, he provides you with the kind of comfort that hot chocolate does on a snowy day.

"there's a second part to your gift," he says, breaking the silence. he kicks at the ground roughly, avoiding your gaze.

"what do you mean?"

"the necklace isn't the only thing i'm giving you."

"wait—hello? how much did you spend on me?"

"i only spent money on the necklace."

you don’t follow, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. maybe you’re just oblivious, but you have no idea what he's talking about. he's giving you two gifts, but one of them was free? that makes zero sense in your mind.

"i like you," he says it with so much confidence, like it was the most simple and obvious thing in the world. it makes you feel like you should've known this whole time.

you're in a daze and by the time you get a hold of yourself, your uber pulls up, a notification going off on your phone to alert you.

you don't notice—too distracted—when sunghoon glances at the license plate, storing it away in his mind just in case.

"you should go, it's late," he guides you to the car, opening it for you.

well that's just unfair—he's pushing you away, clearly avoiding your reply to his confession. his confidence was obviously an act he put up.

rolling your eyes, you lean up and place a kiss on his cheek. courtesy of the streetlights, you can see sunghoon's cheeks turning redder with every passing second.

"i'll see you next week. maybe we can hang out?" you shift nervously, looking up at him expectantly.

he nods immediately, the biggest grin you've ever seen spreading across his face—he looks like a kid who's just gotten his dream gift.

"yeah, yeah. definitely."

when your uber drives away, you freak out in the most discreet way possible. this was genuinely the best christmas you've had in a long time.

anna's note. happy holidays guys ily all and i especially love hoon :3

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ click4more.

[starboye]

starring: santa claus x male reader

request: SO. Santa is visiting a young man, the reader, who is actually at the top of the nice list this year. Santa comes down the chimney and, instead of cookies and milk, finds the reader fucking himself with a candy cane, looking at naughty drawings of the very St. Nick himself! Clearly, the reader deserves to be on the naughty list. Unfortunately, Santa didn’t bring any coal! Surely, a day long, brutal plowing from his Saint Nick Dick will be enough punishment, right?

warnings: smut, cursing, really rough sex, fucking yourself with a candy cane

christmas, the best time and the time to get present for the great old saint nick (if you believe in that kind of thing) and what do you know it seems you were a good boy this year so you're the first stop of the night getting a visit from santa.

as long as this has been going on the old man expected to find some cookies and milk out like any other year or even a note bit instead he reaches the end of the chimney and finds you fucking yourself with a candy cane "oh dear what is this all about" santa asks, eyes darting around what sound be a very good boy but it seems only a naughty one lives here.

"santa i wasn't expecting you" you moan, the delicious treat plunging deeper and deeper into you, this isn't right naughty boys deserve all the coal in the world but uh oh it seems he forgot it in his sleigh and he's getting hard in his jeans so what other pusnishment could he choose.

walking over to you and standing above you with a mean look written over his face "why don't you pleasure yourself with something more real" santa says pulling his pants down to reveal his thick cock and you jump at the offer, wrapping you hand around it and sinking your mouth onto it, not being able to get it all in you just stroked the rest with your shaking hand.

"no need to be nervous boy, santas gonna take real good care of you tonight" the old man says before grabbing both sides of your head and fucking your mouth roughly with no remorse more the gagging sounds you make, a bunch of obscenities leaving his mouth as you took him in your throat.

"turn around boy" he orders pulling out from your mouth and stroking his cock to the juicy sight of your plump ass, it just looked so fuckable and fucked is what he did, plowing your hole open nice and wide with his long cock, calling you such a nasty boy for being a slut to the joy bringer of december "what is mrs.claus not putting out enough" you joke earning a stinging slap from the big man, a red mark being left on your skin which probably wont go away for another months or so.

"shut up boy before you cant walk for a month" he threatens but like doesn't that sound like such a good time, so you continue to hurl jokes at him just enough to where he fucks you so hard your hole feels like it's being ripped apart, he did this all night, making sure you understood the consequences of being naughty.

fucking you until you passed out, waking up the next morning sore and unable to fully move but finding a letter from the man himself saying "i hope to see you next year the same way i left you" and maybe this isn't a bad thing, i mean getting fucked by santa is better than any present i've ever gotten.

taglist:@mailmango @spermeboy @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac

[feministfang]

I am not even anti-billionaire when it comes to rich women. Women deserve to be ultra rich and live however we want; having financial freedom, real independence, enjoying luxury, not owing our time and energy to anybody, and being impossible for men to exploit us cause we don’t need them for anything. I myself am working hard to be rich enough that i don’t have to work hard anymore and so i can enjoy my life while fulfilling my desires that are far beyond my basic needs. If i ever become as rich as Taylor Swift, i'd love to have my own private jet as well and use it to travel everywhere while leaving the carbon emissions on every jealous hater’s face to make them feel suffocated so they can shut their mouths for once!

These low-life, chronically online, judgmental freaks who talk about caring about humanity or the environment only do their judgmental shit talk when they have to target or blame a woman. Meet them irl and you’ll see they are just jobless, miserable nobodies sitting behind their phones all day scrolling and pointing fingers at other women thinking they can bring them down to their level. Sigh!😮‍💨 And they fail every time. You will never find these people actually doing something nice for the world themselves because they think hating and blaming women automatically puts them in the "good people" category and gives them the validation of everyone else pretending to be a good person on the internet! They are so horrible they even defend cyberbullying rich successful women with comments like:

“but she’s a billionaire she deserves backlash”

“oh she’s so rude and obsessed with herself she deserves all the hate”

“oh but she has never donated her money to charity she’s so selfish”

The so called angry liberal activists, including some of the radfems, go in all their way to pass such stupid ridiculous comments; no wonder so many women are leaving feminism because what we want is freedom, rest and to own our lives. We are not here to carry the burden of everything y'all like to put on our shoulders. Feminism is only about our liberation from men and patriarchy so put your focus on that, whatever we do other than that is none of anyone’s damn business. Stop expecting feminists to solve every humanitarian crisis as we are not here for that! Stop asking women to cut off our expenses and make sacrifices for the sake of others. No we won’t do that! Cope and cry! And do it yourself if you care!

And to the women who often get guilt-tripped by these miserable insecure losers for wanting a rich luxurious lifestyle, ignore them all! They are not at your level for you to be wasting your energy on them. You are the only one working hard for yourself to gain these privileges, money, and freedom. You deserve to cherish it however YOU want, and not according to these low-value people who didn’t put an ounce of effort in your life but have the audacity to tell you what to do with your blessings. They all didn’t support Taylor Swift in 2016 when she was cancelled, didn’t care about how she was feeling, refused to acknowledge her existence like cowards to be on the safe side of the internet, and also participated in cyber bullying her all over the internet just for fun. Now when she’s a self-made prospering billionaire, all of a sudden she exists in everyone’s mind as a horrible person because she is not living her life the same miserable way as theirs.

Always keep in mind that they don’t even hate you, they hate themselves, they hate their lives, they hate everything about themselves so what they direct at you is just the projection of their own insecurities and they always do it in the form of gaslighting. If Taylor Swift did it while enduring the entire world hating on her, so can you! Stay evil and selfish while sipping on your fav wine in your private jet and let them cry about it because nobody is important when you’re lost in having fun, let alone their opinions. I am proud of you for choosing to upgrade your life, instead of suffering in the same shit! Cheers! 🥂

i will always be anti-billionaire, but it pisses me off when people talk about Taylor swift likes shes the literal spawn of Satan. sure, she does have a very big impact on the environment, but I see males harassing her about her carbon footprint but don't bat an eye at elon musk or any other male billionaire. if you're going to target a billionaire for their impact on the environment maybe focus on all billionaires, not just a woman lmao. don't claim to be doing this to "help bring awareness for the earth" when you literally only talk about taylor

[mqriuss]

written in lucky stars

synopsis 。。。rindou doesn't know what to do with all the origami stars you give him. he doesn't have the heart to throw them away, so he buys a jar to hold them when the stars—and memories—start piling up.

contents: rindou x fem!reader, childhood friends, perceived unrequited love, death & grief, unnamed illness, non-linear

playlist

note: girl i don't even know if rindou is still in character throughout the story, i just started vomiting words. hope you guys will still like this tho lol

𖤐 "hi rindou! i wonder if you'll even read this. if you see this, say 'star' tomorrow when we meet."

"what's this?" rindou gave you a puzzled look, eyes darting between you and the small origami lucky star in your palm.

"a star," you answered him innocently, making him deadpan at you.

"obviously, i know that." he rolled his eyes. "i just meant... what's it for?"

"it's not for anything," you trailed off, his words making you think. you couldn't let him find out you wrote something on the inner parts of the folded paper star. it'd be more fun if he found out himself, you thought. "i just made it and wanted to give it to someone. you're the only person i can think of."

rindou's gaze returned to the star. he's definitely seen them before—probably in kindergarten or elementary school, but he's never actually received one. you were gifting it to him, he understood that much. so he took it from you, albeit hesitantly.

not because he didn't want it, he just didn't know what to do with it.

"you can throw it away later if you want," you said, as if hearing his thoughts.

there's no way rindou could do that though.

rindou kept the star in his pocket. when he returned home that day, he pursed his lips at the sight of the now flattened star. he was just glad it didn't tear. he placed the star on his desk, not sparing it another thought.

the next day came, and rindou never said the word "star."

—

𖤐 "so you didn't open the star to read it? aw. i wonder what would happen if i said i liked you."

a week passed since the first star you handed him. you had accepted that he either threw it away or just didn't read it. you supposed rindou wouldn't be the type to think, "i wonder if anything is written in this tiny origami star. i should unfold it and find out." so really, what were you expecting?

perhaps giving him another star would get him curious?

"here." you pushed your hand towards him when you met him by the school gates.

"another one?" he raised an eyebrow at you, taking out one of his earphones.

you chuckled, "get used to it. i'll give you one when..." you trailed off, and rindou looked at you expectantly. "whenever i feel like it!"

he sighed, taking the star from you wordlessly before heading to class. every now and then, he'd glance over his shoulder—just to make sure you were still walking with him.

nothing interesting happened the next day. you gave him another few days, and there was still nothing. it seemed he didn't know about what you wrote... or did he find out, but he was just purposely ignoring it?

oh well, there was no point in dwelling on it. the world kept spinning.

—

𖤐 "third time's the charm. i'm getting bullied again by takeo and his friends lately."

you, in fact, were not getting bullied by takeo and his friends.

the last time it happened was years ago. it wasn't as if you were lying for rindou's attention, but you wanted confirmation that he absolutely never opens these paper stars. you knew for sure he'd give some kind of reaction if you mentioned takeo.

the memory was almost clear as crystal. origami papers on your desk, takeo sitting in front of you, lunch break, a half-empty classroom, and no teachers around.

throughout elementary school, takeo had always been a bully and a tease to whoever he felt like targeting. you weren't a special case to him, he just didn't like the way you always sat quietly, playing with the toys you made out of origami papers.

takeo tore your origami papers because he felt like doing it. he crushed your paper cranes because he felt like doing it. he crumpled them and threw them in your contorted face because he felt like doing it. he laughed at the tears you tried to hold back because he just felt like doing it.

unfortunately for him, rindou pushed him to the ground because, well, he felt like doing it.

you didn't even know who rindou was at the time. he was in the same year but different class, though you've heard about his brother, haitani ran—your senior. not long after rindou had pushed takeo to the floor and stomped on his hand, ran came strolling in to your class.

"nice, rindou." he grinned widely at his younger brother before they both turned to you. "takeo's so lame, isn't he?" ran said, picking up the paper crane takeo crushed earlier.

you were unresponsive, which was fine—they weren't really expecting anything. while ran didn't think to do any more for you than give you a tissue to wipe your tears with, rindou couldn't help eyeing your torn origami papers.

"let's go, rindou. you'll be late for your next class," ran reminded him, making his way out. he stopped in his tracks when he noticed rindou wasn't budging.

"your papers..." rindou muttered under his breath, but it was coherent enough for you to hear. ran watched for a moment before he decided to head out first.

"it's okay. i can still use them." you sniffled, rubbing your nose a little before taking a torn piece of origami paper.

"how? you can't make birds with that, right?" he tilted his head. "it's way too thin."

he watched as you grabbed a pair of scissors from your pencil case. when you started cutting the strip of paper to make it slightly thinner, rindou tilted his head in confusion. but before he can say anything, you had began folding. you made a knot and created a small pentagon shape, wrapping it over and over until there was not enough paper left to fold. the real magic happened when you used your fingers to pinch at the points of the pentagon, puffing up its shape to create a star.

that day after classes came to an end, rindou had used some of his pocket money to buy you a new set of origami paper.

—

𖤐 "i always thought you looked cool playing basketball, y'know? i'm just too shy to tell you. i also like when you sit next to me after you're done playing."

rindou noticed the star is a lot... puffier than usual. unbeknownst to him, it was just because you had more words to write at the time.

sweat trickled down rindou's forehead as he gulped down half of the water from his bottle. the puppy sticker you had pasted on it a long time ago was still there, it's a little faded—probably from all the washing it's been through. seeing it always warmed your heart, and you couldn't help but tease him about it sometimes.

"why don't you just scrub it off? it's hanging by a thread at this point," you questioned him. rindou exhaled deeply as he put down the bottle, panting slightly.

"i don't know. it's just there." he shrugged and you huffed at his dry response.

"seriously? i thought you didn't like that sticker."

"i never said that," rindou denied almost immediately. "did it... seem that way?" he added, his hesitance made you laugh.

"so you like the sticker? is that why you kept it?"

"no."

"then why do you keep it?"

rindou sighed, almost groaning at your questions. "i dunno, okay? it just won't come off," he claimed as he stuffed his towel and water bottle into his bag. "now, get up. i'm walking you home."

you followed him suit in silence for a while, a small smile lingering on your face. "i saw you finally scored a three-pointer, by the way."

rindou flashed you a cocky grin. "yeah? looked cool, right?"

"hm, i think you looked cooler when i saw you missing three shots in a row in your backyard."

"oh, shut up. why were you even at my place yesterday?"

"i wanted to try your mom's cookies."

—

𖤐 "it's getting a little hard to breathe, rin. i don't maybe it's 'cause you're so breathtaking!"

rindou never really liked it when you walked tailing behind him. he felt more at ease when you were beside him instead, even better if you were on the inner part of the sidewalk.

at times, he'd find you walking slow—too slow for his liking. there were normally two reactions to this. the first, he would grab your wrist and pull you with him. rindou didn't need to do it too hard, he just wanted to make sure you were still with him. the second, he would simply let you, but not without looking back to check every now and then. it usually happens when you were strolling around the neighbourhood. he hid it well whenever he worried about you, but why he felt that way to begin with was a question mark to even himself.

he always tried to convince himself that it's just because you were a klutz, but it didn't feel entirely right.

as time went on, you grew close enough for him to tease and play around with you more. in a friendly way, of course. he was always careful not to take things too far. after all, he didn't want to be one of the reasons for your tears.

so when you were walking particularly slow one day—your three steps equating to his one single step, rindou purposely walked faster. you were just in the neighbourhood, so he wasn't worried about anything bad happening.

"bet you can't catch me!" he called out, a cocky grin stretching from ear to ear.

and you really did try.

you could still run. you could still run fast enough to catch up to rindou's speed-walking, but his speed-walking turned to running. you knew you couldn't be as fast as him, but you didn't think you'd have to stop so soon to catch your breath.

your hands had found your knees as you bent, head pounding slightly. concern flashed across rindou's face when he could no longer hear your footsteps. when he came rushing back to you, you gave him a grin.

"i know better than to try you in a race, rindou. you'd surely win!" you laughed. you laughed, but rindou felt unsettled.

he blinked at you, handing you his water bottle. "here," he said, and you blinked at him too. rindou urged you to take it as he nodded.

you took the half-empty bottle in your hand, eyeing it hesitantly. twisting the cap open, you tilted it for a sip, pressing your lips against the spot where his had just been. the thought immediately spread warmth across your cheeks, contrasting the cool liquid traveling down your throat.

he was blushing too, but you wouldn't know with his back turned to you. "don't stay up too late. you need the energy if you wanna keep up with me."

rindou held your hand for the first time that day, and he didn't let go until you returned home.

—

𖤐 "i told myself i'd confess after we graduated junior high, but i guess i haven't changed. i'm still a coward."

by the end of junior high, rindou's jar was starting to pile up with all the paper stars you gave him. he had bought it when he received his tenth star. it wasn't a big jar so it didn't take long to fill—it was almost full and rindou had lost count of how many you'd made.

you were also spending an awful lot more time at his place than usual, and even started getting along with ran better.

by the end of junior high, you made a decision to tell him. tell him that you like him, straight to his face. it's clear that he never unraveled any of the stars to read the tiny letters written on them, so you thought, it's about time you told him soon.

and yet, the words never came out.

"i..." you said, trying to ignore his expectant look. "i hope we do well in high school together," you blurted out instead of your confession, preparing yourself for rindou's laughing fit over how corny you were being. his laughs never came out.

instead, he nodded. he simply nodded.

"you gonna give me another star?" he asked. he began to expect it now, the origami lucky stars.

you broke into a fond, gentle smile at his words. your right hand went down to your blazer's pocket, fishing out a paper star. slightly bigger than the ones you usually gave him.

"the strip of paper was thicker for this one. it's a special day after all." you chuckled, placing the star on rindou's already outstretched hand.

—

𖤐 "i miss you a lot, rindou. but you shouldn't miss me too much, okay? hehe <3"

rindou had no idea he'd be going to high school without you.

he remembered you clearly telling him you'd go to the same school as him. well, you more so implied it. your idle chatter with rindou normally took place at school during break, or after school when you're sitting on the bleachers before heading home together, but also on his rooftop whenever the weather was good enough to stargaze under.

"i'm not so excited for high school," rindou had said one time, making you tear your gaze away from the sparkling night sky.

"why?" you questioned and he deadpanned at you.

"maths will be harder, obviously." his response elicited a laugh from you.

"you'll be fine! i'll pay extra attention in class and take notes for us to go over together," you reassured him.

but here you were, nowhere to be seen.

he only got the news about you transferring schools after the semester started. admittedly, he was a little bit pissed. could you not have told him beforehand?

rindou couldn't be upset for too long though. you still visited his house every week and as usual, you gave him a star.

and as usual, he'd never unfold them. as usual, they went straight to his jar.

every week turned to every day—you were always with him, always coming over to his place after his classes ended. even rindou didn't have all that free time, but you were okay with it. most days, you preferred to lie in his bed and do nothing, maybe fall asleep for a while. you rarely wanted to go out and do anything now, claiming that you just wanted to hang around here.

when he asked you why, your answer was something along the lines of, "i like it better here." and it never failed to alarm him.

you always refused to tell him any more than that.

—

the last time you came over to his place, there were plenty of moments when rindou thought you were acting weird.

the first instance was when he was in the bathroom, you were inside his mom's bedroom while she was cooking in the kitchen. he would know, because just as he was coming out, you came out of the room at the same time. rindou always thought it was an unspoken rule to not go into each other's parents' bedrooms because it was... odd, yet you were acting like you did nothing of the sort.

the second weird thing you did was hug his brother. even ran didn't have the slightest idea of what was going on, but he played along smoothly, teasing you for "preferring him over rindou."

rindou couldn't even bring himself to be jealous. he couldn't bother himself with asking why ran got to hug you first and not him. he especially couldn't when you immediately retreated to his room after eating dinner with him and his family at the table. you've been in his room before though, so that wasn't the weirdest part.

the weird part was when you grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down onto the bed with you.

you were laughing the hardest he's ever heard you laugh in the past few months. "look at your face, it's so red!" you may have laughed too hard though, and you started coughing a little bit.

"quit it, what the hell are you doing?" rindou exclaimed, flustered. he meant for his words to come out lightheartedly, but fell silent when he realized his tone was a bit too harsh for his liking.

despite that, the smile you wore remained unwavering.

you nuzzled your head into his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. "can we stay like this for a while?" you asked, and instead of an answer, he wordlessly draped a blanket over both of your bodies before snuggling a little closer.

"what's up with you today, hm?" rindou questioned, his eyes becoming droopy and his words a little slurred.

"nothing. just missed you," you answered, closing your eyes.

"you saw me yesterday."

"i wish i could see you every day though."

rindou raised an eyebrow. "but you have been coming over every day," he said, and you chuckled at his words.

"i might not get to do this all the time, y'know? what if i make plans or have other places to be in?"

that much is obvious, rindou thought as he pursed his lips. your words had sent him deep into thought, and he found himself imagining things he didn't want to think about. his pounding heart took over his senses for a moment.

rindou is a teenager after all, so the thought had finally crossed his mind that day—is this what it was like to have someone special to you? to hold them close, walk with them hand-in-hand, and feel the need to shield them from anything that would harm them? to want them to stay in your life forever?

you both had fallen silent, it remained that way for a few minutes. the only thing you could hear was the sound of each other's soft breathing. rindou had wondered if you were thinking of him too, the way he thought of you.

"you didn't give me a star today."

your eyes fluttered open at his words to look up at him. he had a neutral expression on, but in your mind, he kind of resembled a wet puppy.

"did you want one?" you teased, a grin appearing on your face when he rolled his eyes.

"you started giving me one every day these past few weeks," he said, jogging your memory. "and you haven't given me one today, so i was just wondering."

"aw, so you noticed." your hand found its way to his cheek. rindou visibly froze and reddened at your gesture, and his eyes widened when your gaze travelled down to his lips. "i might have... something better than a paper star," you whispered, leaning closer to softly press your lips against his.

he was wide-eyed when you kissed him, your hand slightly cold against his cheek. but rindou quickly melted into the kiss once he'd processed what you were doing. tilting his head and placing a hand behind your head, he deepened the kiss and let out a sigh of contentment.

you were acting weird again, he thought. but maybe you really were better than paper stars.

perhaps it was the thrill of having his first kiss, but he found himself looking forward to seeing you again after you left.

much to his dismay, rindou wouldn't hear from you again since that day.

—

everything feels blurry now.

rindou doesn't respond when spoken to, not even when people tell him that they're "sorry for his loss." even when your mother had gasped earlier upon finding out that he had no idea about your illness, all rindou could do was nod or shake his head, as though words had abandoned him completely. his expression so lifeless, you'd think the funeral was for him.

the words are barely coherent as your mother explains what happened to you. again, all he could do was nod. wordlessly. absentmindedly. he's in another world, forcing ran to do all the talking and responding for him.

rindou hates seeing the way you look right now. laying in the cramped casket when you should be lying next to him on his bed. your hands placed on your stomach when they should be cupping his cheeks. and your eyes closed when they should be looking into his, letting him admire the way they glimmer. the thought that they would look hollow if pried open now sends a chill down his spine.

he's known for most of his life that everyone's time would come eventually, inevitably. to be human means to be impermanent. to have life, death needed to coexist. he knows all of that already, but why? why did your time have to come so quickly? why couldn't he know about this sooner?

did you disappear for a week to prepare him for this exact moment? to prepare him for a life without you? he wonders hopelessly.

just when things start to become clearer, just when he figures out that you're the person he wants in his life, everything becomes muddy again. what was he supposed to do now? the thought of moving on felt impossible at this moment, couldn't he just go with you?

your mother approaches him with a small drawstring pouch in her hands. she doesn't say anything at first as she simply opens the pouch, and rindou feels slightly more grounded upon seeing its contents.

more origami stars.

"rindou," your mother speaks up. "y/n wanted me to give these to you, and she wanted you to do something with them."

—

rindou fishes out the pouch from his pocket before taking his blazer off in a hurry, discarding it somewhere in his room. he sits down at his desk, opens the pouch, and dumps all of the paper stars out in front of him. he goes over them for a while, recalling your mother's instructions.

"save the purple star for last."

picking out the purple-coloured star, he sets it to the side. rindou takes a random star and begins unraveling the origami.

he's met with words you had written with a black pen. though your handwriting was legible enough to read, he couldn't understand the message. his eyebrows furrow as he mumbles the words to himself.

𖤐 "doesn't she sound cute? she loved to stargaze like we did!"

rindou frantically opens another star, but is careful not to rip it.

𖤐 "i saw that lucky stars are usually gifts to symbolize good luck, love, and support."

he grows even more confused. were you seriously leaving him behind with a puzzle to solve?

𖤐 "did you know? the origins of lucky stars began with a tale of a girl named hoshi."

he opens another. the message written is far more alarming, causing him to tense up.

𖤐 "but no matter how many stars i fold, i can't seem to save myself."

it didn't take him long to react, he was immediately unraveling every single star. except for the purple one.

his eyes lit up when he found a message that seemed to match one of those he previously opened.

seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to at least two hours. rindou has never found himself cooped up in his room for this long that even ran began to notice his brother's absence.

"not having dinner? mom's gonna be mad that you ignored her calling you downstairs." ran leans against the door frame with his arms crossed, watching his brother go through every strip of paper, mixing and matching them.

"i'll eat later."

ran raises an eyebrow, uncrossing his arms as he entered the room. he looks over rindou's shoulder for a few moments and his mind begins to process what he's doing.

"this one goes here, no?" ran points to a strip of paper, making rindou pause. the latter blinks and tries his brother's suggestion.

the next few minutes go by faster with ran's help. rindou feels confident about the order now and sits back, going over the entire message.

𖤐 "hi, rindou! if you're reading this, you probably already know what happened to me."

𖤐 "i wonder how much you'll miss me. if you see your basketball moving on its own, just know it's my ghost! hehe."

𖤐 "anyway, i saw that lucky stars are usually gifts to symbolize good luck, love, and support."

𖤐 "so if you wondered why i gave you so much of them, i guess i just wanted to show how much i cherished you."

𖤐 "i don't think you ever opened them to read the messages though, but i'm not hurt by it!"

𖤐 "i'm mostly glad 'cause i know you never wanted to ruin them."

𖤐 "did you know? the origins of lucky stars began with a tale of a girl named hoshi."

𖤐 "doesn't she sound cute? she loved to stargaze like we did!"

𖤐 "one night, she saw the stars began to fall during a meteor shower and she was sad about the stars falling."

𖤐 "so she started folding paper stars because she believed it would save each star that fell."

𖤐 "but the stars kept falling so she got the help of other children in the village and they folded stars together."

𖤐 "they folded thousands of paper stars and soon, the night sky began to shine with stars again."

𖤐 "i really liked the story, it was the thing that kept me going besides our friendship."

𖤐 "i wanted to believe i could live a little longer and be saved, just like the stars in the story."

𖤐 "and i like to think that we're both stars. you always shined so bright to me, rindou."

𖤐 "your glow was quite contagious too, but i think my light is slowly dimming."

𖤐 "no matter how many stars i fold, i can't seem to save myself."

𖤐 "i lo you can open the final star now!"

rindou reaches out for the purple lucky star to unfold it, but not without squinting at the scribbled letters on the last star.

𖤐 "go to your mom's bedroom. look under the cushion of her window seat."

rindou only realizes now that ran had left his room a while ago, but he pays it no mind. he rushes to his mother's room, entering without knocking. "rindou?" she says, startled. he doesn't respond as he makes his way to the window seat, pushing the pillows to the side and lifting up the cushion. nothing.

he lifts the other side of the cushion and finds a usb flash drive hidden underneath it.

rindou takes it and places the pillows back in their original spot before dashing out of the room. "close the door!" his mom reminds him, and he does just that before going back to his room.

he immediately plugs the usb to his pc to find just one file. it seems to be a voice recording titled, "to rindou." he wastes no time clicking on it.

"hey... i didn't want to write this one down, because i really wished i could have told you in person." the sound of your voice plays on his computer, and his heart twists upon hearing you again. "i love you, rindou—and i don't just mean it as a friend. i'm sure you know that already but i had to reassure you just in case."

"it's okay if you don't feel the same, but if you do..." he doesn't miss the subtle way your voice cracked, and you paused before shakily continuing. "i'll be really happy. i'll be leaving with many regrets, but you'll never be one of them. i lived a good life knowing i had you."

as your voice recording comes to end, his room is silent. it's silent until he hears the faint sound of something dripping on his table. it was only then he became aware of the saltiness on the corner of his cracked lip, and the tears staining his cheeks.

—

everyday, rindou would unfold one star.

it's become a routine now, and he was nearly halfway through the jar. he'd wake up and the first thing he does is walk to his desk and read a message you left behind. he'd check the time on his phone after doing so. he didn't care if he was running late for something—you're a priority even though you're no longer with him.

ran notices this new routine as well at some point. perhaps it was rindou's way of grieving, he thought.

everyday, rindou would make a lucky star. writing your name and the date on the strip of paper before folding it into a star. despite knowing you couldn't be saved with lucky stars like in the tale, he hoped that you could be more at peace, knowing that he still thought about you, still loved you, and that it would never change.

occasionally, he'd write other things on them the way you used to. words he never got to say to you in person.

𖤐 "i actually really liked the sticker you put on my bottle back in junior high. so i never took it off."

every year, rindou visits you at least twice. on your birthday and your death anniversary. every time he did, he'd sit in front of your tombstone and fold ten lucky stars for you. he doesn't know why he makes ten of them either, it just felt right. it felt like a number you'd choose.

at some point, rindou thought he'd give you all the stars in the night sky one day, but you beat him to it.

sometimes, he still wished you could've come back that day when you left him with an abundance of stars. real or paper, it didn't matter. you didn't need to come back with thousands of stars. there was only one you, and that would've been enough.

but as long as he had the jar of stars you gave him, and strips of origami paper to make more, your light could never dim. you were brighter than any star he's ever seen.

[hsnlv]

cookie confession | l.hs

pairing: heeseung x fem!reader

synopsis: when you come home to heeseung baking cookies, it seems like a sweet surprise—until his overly affectionate behavior sets off alarm bells. as you dig deeper, his guilty confession leads to a whirlwind of burnt cookies, broken blushers, and hilariously clumsy apologies.

warnings/others: fluff!, mention of hamster’s death (gasp! tragic!), heeseung is clumsy but he’s cute so he’s forgiven!

wc: 1.6k

a/n: hello! it warms my heart knowing that adorably mine! receives a lot of love from people. so heres another hee fic for you <3 and feel free to check out my page and read my other creations (the old ones are cringe ew so pls dont read those😵‍💫)

you unlock the door to your apartment, the faint scent of something sweet wafting through the air. it greets you the moment you step inside, and you furrow your brows, slipping off your shoes. the aroma is enticing—warm, sugary, and a little… burnt?

you head toward the kitchen, your bag sliding off your shoulder, and there he is. lee heeseung, standing in the middle of the chaos he’s somehow created.

the counter is dusted in flour, bowls and utensils scattered around, chocolate chips spilled everywhere. heeseung himself looks like a disaster: hair slightly messy, an apron tied around his waist, and a smudge of flour on his cheek.

his head snaps up when he hears you, and a wide grin spreads across his face. “baby, you’re home!”

his voice is so soft, so warm, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart flutter.

“what’s going on in here?” you ask, setting your bag down on a chair. you glance at the oven, where a faint trail of smoke seeps out from the edges.

“i’m baking cookies for you,” he announces proudly, walking over to you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “because my girlfriend is the most amazing, beautiful, smart person in the whole world, and she deserves cookies.”

you blink up at him, confused but also charmed. his voice is sweet, dripping with sincerity, but something about the way he’s acting doesn’t sit right.

“cookies, huh?” you murmur, tilting your head as you eye him suspiciously.

he leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “only the best for you.”

his words are perfect—almost too perfect. and that’s when it clicks.

“heeseung,” you say slowly, watching him tense slightly, “what did you do this time?”

he pulls back, blinking at you, a picture of innocence. “huh? i’m just baking cookies for my beautiful girlfriend. what do you mean, ‘what did i do’?”

you narrow your eyes. you know this heeseung. the overly sweet, doting heeseung who only acts this way when he’s done something he’s trying to cover up. you’ve seen it before.

like the time he accidentally bathed your hamster.

<flashback>

“hee, where’s mochi?” you asked, setting down the hamster cage that you had been cleaning in the other room.

heeseung’s eyes darted toward the bathroom door, and you immediately felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“heeseung,” you said slowly, your voice laced with suspicion, “what are you doing?”

“nothing!” he yelped, his tone way too defensive for it to actually mean nothing.

you stormed toward the bathroom, pushing the door open to find… mochi. soaking wet. sitting in the sink.

“heeseung!” you shrieked. “why is mochi in the sink?!”

“he smelled weird!” heeseung cried, his voice high-pitched and panicked. “i thought i could, you know, help him out—”

“you’re not supposed to BATHE hamsters!” you cut him off, your hands flying to your head in disbelief.

“how was i supposed to know that?!”

you glared at him, watching as mochi blinked at you both, looking utterly done with life.

you sighed heavily, scooping the little hamster out of the sink and carefully drying him off.

later that week, mochi passed away—not because of the bath (though you’ll never let heeseung live it down), but simply because he was old and fragile.

and of course, heeseung cried at least twice as much as you did, apologizing to mochi’s empty cage every time he passed by it for the next month.

<end of flashback>

you shake your head at the memory, eyeing heeseung as he fidgets under your gaze.

“lee heeseung,” you say again, your voice firm this time, “what did you do?”

his lips part as if to respond, but he hesitates, his hand lifting to scratch the back of his neck. “nothing, baby, i swear. just… just focus on the cookies, okay? you’ll love them, promise.”

“hee,” you deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest. “what. did. you. do.”

he sighs, defeated, and gives you a sheepish smile. “okay, okay, i might’ve broken something.”

your stomach drops. “you what?”

“it was an accident!” he rushes to explain, holding up his hands defensively. “i didn’t mean to—i was trying to clean our room and my elbow—” he stops, cringing.

“what did you break, heeseung?” you ask, dread creeping into your voice.

“your… blusher,” he admits quietly, wincing as he says it.

“you broke my what?!”

he winces again, his voice small. “your blusher. the one in the little pink compact.”

“heeseung!” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration.

heeseung flinches, his hands coming together in front of him like he’s praying for mercy. “i know, i know, and i’m really, really sorry. but it wasn’t on purpose, baby! it just… fell! and then it kind of… exploded.”

“exploded?” you echo, staring at him incredulously.

he gestures helplessly toward the trash can. “it’s everywhere, and trust me, i tried to salvage it, but it’s just… gone. like, really gone.”

“which one was it?”

“it says ‘charlotte’ something,”

“lee heeseung, what the fuck?! my charlotte tilbury blusher?” you’re screaming at this point. heeseung just stands there, blinking innocently, his lips in a pout.

you sigh deeply, shaking your head. “heeseung, that was a limited-edition shade! i can’t even replace it!”

he winces at the word limited-edition, looking like a scolded puppy. “i’ll buy you a new one,” he offers quickly, stepping closer to you. “any shade you want. even if it costs a fortune.”

you cross your arms, glaring up at him. “you bet you will.”

“please don’t be mad,” he pleads, wrapping his arms around you. “i’ll make it up to you, i promise. i’ll even get you two blushers—one for everyday use and one as a backup!”

you huff, turning your head away from him. “you’re lucky you’re cute, lee heeseung.”

he grins, sensing the tiniest crack in your armor. “cute enough to make you forgive me?”

“no.”

“adorable enough to make you consider forgiving me?” he tries, his voice light and teasing as he nuzzles his nose into your neck.

“don’t push it,” you mumble, though you’re already fighting a smile.

“what if i let you eat the cookies first?” he offers, pulling back to look at you with big, hopeful eyes. “the ones i baked with all my love.”

you glance toward the oven, where the faint smell of something burnt still lingers. “hee, those cookies are probably inedible.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just wounded him. “how dare you doubt my skills?!”

“heeseung, you burned instant noodles last week.”

“that was one time!”

“and the spaghetti before that.”

“okay, fine,” he concedes with a sheepish grin. “but at least let me try to make it up to you. we can go shopping tomorrow, and you can pick whatever makeup you want. blushers, lipsticks, foundation, the whole works.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re just saying that because you feel guilty.”

“absolutely,” he says without hesitation, pulling you into another hug. “but I also mean it. because i love you, and you deserve everything.”

you roll your eyes, though your heart softens at his words.

“fine,” you mutter, resting your forehead against his chest. “but i’m still mad about the blusher.”

“understood,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “i’m officially on probation.”

“and you’re cleaning the kitchen,” you add, glancing at the flour-coated counter.

he groans dramatically. “you drive a hard bargain, babe.”

“consider it payback for mochi,” you say with a smirk.

heeseung freezes, his expression comically guilty. “you’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

“never,” you reply, stepping out of his embrace and grabbing a cookie from the tray he set on the counter. it’s slightly misshapen and more than a little burnt, but you take a bite anyway.

it’s terrible.

but as heeseung watches you with a hopeful, lopsided grin, you can’t help but think it’s a little perfect, just like him.

[threepandas]

Bad End: Trust

"Meet your new mates, cargo! Get breeding!"

I didn't understand the bellowed noises at the time. It was just incoherent gibberish. Heaped on top of what was likely a concussion, mixed with what ever drugs they had pumped me with. Thrown into a cell, roughly, and hitting the ground hard. I couldn't have caught myself if I had wanted too. My limbs, unresponsive and dragging meat, that I could barely FEEL.

Please, god, I had thought. Don't let me be paralyzed. Not on top of everything else.

They'll kill me.

Behind and around me, the weeping cries of sorrow and fear rang out. Screams of violence, born of desperation. Countless races, bound together, suffering in this hell. Newly enslaved. I didn't... I couldn't understand. Shaking and struggling to remain conscious, laying on the blood stained floor. The world swayed violently. It was all I could do, to barely keep from passing out.

It was so cold. The air, the floor, the deep and clawing despair, sinking like knives into my gut. Those furry... things, had grabbed me while I was alone, before I could react. W-would anyone notice? Could anyone DO anything? I wanted to get away from the door. Curl up in a corner and... and cry. But I could not move. Like a doll, dropped thoughtlessly on the floor, I could not... could not move.

Tears I likely could not afford, threatened to choke me.

I... I was scared.

Then, deeper in the hovel that was my new home, movement. The heavy clink of chains. Shifting, slow and careful, followed by the drag of metal. A warm hand. Fingers, calloused but careful, checking my neck. My pulse, for injury perhaps, I couldn't tell. But... god, i could have sobbed in relief. They... they felt human.

How terrible of me. That I was GLAD not to be alone. T-That it was relief, to have another person here. Someone who might know what's going on. What to do. To.. to stick with. I... I should wish it was just me, right? That they captured no one else? But... oh god. O-Oh God, I can't! I'm scared. Please. P-please...

I'm so scared.

The person checking me hummed low and soft. Their voice crackling like an old radio that's been left sitting on a shelf too long, unused. How.. how long has it been? Since they last had anyone to talk too? They sounded male, but.. but I didn't want to presume. Could just have a low voice. Throat injury. Might be Trans. I didn't care, couldn't care. I was pretty sure? We were all we had now.

They... no, He, found nothing alarming enough not to move me. Shifting into view as he gently slipped his arms under me. Enough to pick me up and carry me away from the door. He was... is... pretty handsome.

Okay, REALLY handsome.

Horrifically enough? I could see WHY they grabbed him. Athletic as hell, TV ready, really smart. If you were going to ignore ever bit of decency and morality to ever exsist? Might as well go for the best, I guess. Don't know why they grabbed ME, but I guess? They need a stand in or something? Or my predecessor is dead.

(God, I hope she's dead. The alternative...)

Pretty quickly became apparent, though, that one of the main problems (of so, SO many)? Was we don't actually speak the same language. Which... I mean... Well, shit. That's, putting it mildly, "less then ideal". Being unable to communicate with the only other person nominally on "My Side"? Kinda bad! But, I AM learning. And I am teaching him english! So there's that.

We have nothing but time, after all. It helps distract from the suffering just outside. The weeping and screams. The sounds that must be begging, in alien dialects. All the mercies they do not find.

(Is it terrible? That I am glad I can not understand what they are saying? Their cries for help? I can't help them. It hurts. Helpless to even save my self. God, I'm sorry. Please... I'm... I'm so sorry...)

Food gets shoved in. Lights flipped on. Lights shut off. The timer odd, but probably standard for somewhere. It's like being told to go to sleep halfway through the afternoon. Yanked awake before full nights are done. I struggle to adapt, even a little, following my fellow prisoner's lead. Or, well, trying too. There's a lot of charades at first.

Then, practicing our languages. Taking what naps and cuddling for warmth we can. Harsh lights be damned. It's cold, we're tired, but we have to keep our strength up. Right? Throughout it all, I try to ignore the weird smells they pump in. Still not used to getting random scents blasted at my head from above, from the air vents in the walls.

Day in, day out, rinse and repeate. The weird gasses smells like people have had sex, to be honest. I think? But don't quote me. They might be trying to get us to "mate", like animals, so they can sell our kids. Induce some nonexistent human heat cycle or something. I've kinda started to worry, not gonna lie, about what they'll do... you know, once they finally get frustrated. Figure out, we don't work like that.

Or... more relevantly, might not even be? Compatible?

Cause Azenari is DEFINITELY not a human. They fucked uuuup. Cause if he is? There is some probably serious divergent evolution going on. He did NOT get nabbed from Earth. HE got nabbed from his SHIP(as in, yeah, a fuckin Space Ship). Because HIS people are space faring! The man has pointy ears for fucks sake! Some seriously fangy canines. And while, yeah, seriously kinda cool? No idea if our species are related, or... you know...

So yeah, The Fur Covered Slaver Bastards are apparently Humanoid face blind, on TOP of being just generally terrible. Or dumb! Might be dumb, honestly. Wouldn't put it past them. Banality of evil and all that. But recently? There was a... tension. Something was coming. The Bastards seemed twitchy.

"Not long now, beloved. We're two stops from the extraction ambush." Azenari murmured, from where he was tucked loosely around me as I watch the latest patrol pass, one arm cradling me tight. Even as, with the other hand, he sleepily stroked my back. "You'll look lovely in proper robes. You deserve finery, my love."

I couldn't understand most of the sentence. Normally he simplified for me, since I was still learning. He seemed... pleased? Smug? The more tense and twitchy the Bastards got, the more darkly amused he seemed to become. As though he knew exactly why. As though he was laughing inside.

"My magnificent darling, you'll belong to me in everyway that matters. I'll take safer jobs. No more slave ring stings. I promise."

Oh. I think I got it. Azenari though of me as family! Yeah, that tracked. Trauma bonding and all. I did too. Couldn't help but smile, hugging him back, much to his clear delight. Yeah. We were in this together.

I'm glad I had someone I could trust. The universe was big and I would be pretty much alone without him. All but thrown at his feet and told I was his, Azenari had every chance to hurt me. But he didn't. He was a good man. Solid and stable when everything when frightening, warm and there when I needed to hide.

Really, it was only a matter of time before we would be chatting like old friends!

"You are NEVER going to escape me, beloved."

"I Love You."

[koenigami]

soft kissing hour. tags : fluff, fem!reader, touchy togame, mentions of reader wearing make up wc : 950 - Less is more. Togame likes to live by that simple rule in more than only one way. Whether that be his clothing, his minimalistically decorated home, or his decision to exchange his long messy mullet with a plain short undercut a few years ago. As cheesy as it sounds, he just thinks that it is important to appreciate the mundane things in life.

His conviction is even further undermined once your silhouette appears in the doorway of his bedroom.

It is the first time that you’re actually spending the night at his, and to say that he’s more than elated is an understatement.

Being able to watch you pad around his room in his own clothes, hold you in the comfort of his bed, and having the honor to have you being the last thing he sees before falling asleep as well as the first thing when he wakes up the following morning. The simple thought of it makes him only now aware of the fact that his home has been missing something significant all this time. You.

That's why you're met with the most gentle smile once you walk over to the unoccupied side of the bed, clad in an old shirt of his and sweat shorts.

A light shiver runs through your body accompanied with goosebumps rising along your skin once you slip under cold sheets. Yet when Togame's arm reaches out and pulls you in by your waist, you can't hold back the little hum of contentment once you feel his warmth.

You always tell him that he's a walking furnace. Especially on days when he calls you a living icicle. When your freezing fingers meet his warm palms, or when you bury your cold nose in the crevice of his neck, soaking in his warmth and the woody scent of his that you've gotten so very addicted to.

"I don't think I've seen you like this before." He speaks lowly once you're nestled against him, your head resting on his upper arm.

"Like what?" You breathe out and wonder whether he can feel your heartbeat like this, chest to chest. His lips are so close, all you would have to do is lean in the slightest bit only to taste him, slot your mouth against his and forget the entire world around you.

His soft gaze travels across your face. Your eyes, your lips, your jaw, your nose, again your lips-

Your eyebrows perk up when he opens his mouth, obviously unsure about how to word his thoughts. There's a stuttering beat against your chest, and you have no clue whether it is yours or his. A second passes, then another, and when the suspense is getting almost unbearable, Togame only sighs. You both giggle in unison when he just curses while a rosey blush suddenly dusts over his cheeks.

"Jo! Come on, just say it already." The corners of your mouth are starting to hurt from the bright grin plastered on your face. Though it falls slowly when his palm cups your jaw, and he just silently looks at you.

Your heart swells at how tenderly his thumb swipes over the skin of your cheek. Togame Jo, a man so strong yet a man who knows that the blessing of such a strength comes with certain responsibilities.

His broad shoulders and back have always been an advantage when facing adversaries, allowing him to intimidate them easily. Now, he knows that those same shoulders are meant to carry any burdens that seem to weigh you down.

Big strong hands that have punched and broken so much, been covered in blood for way too many times. Now, he can use those same hands to gently hold your softer ones in his, glide them over the plush skin of your curves and feel your warmth.

"What are you doing?" You giggle quietly when his thumb slides higher up to the corner of your eyes, tracing the dark shades which are usually covered by a light sheen of concealer. He can easily move the pad of his finger over your eyebrows and down your nose bridge without you whining about how he's messing up your make up.

"You're just-" You follow his eyes which somehow seem to drift all over your face, as if he wants to take in all of you and burn every single detail into his memory. There's just something so satisfying about being able to see every single mark and blemish on your skin, and it's crazy how he has thought that you could not be any prettier. Yet here you are, taking his breath away and leaving his mind empty, and unable to come up with words to properly describe you. "Pretty. Very."

A beat of silence passes, while you blink at him.

"My boyfriend has such a way with words." Your voice is a pitch higher as you fan your face, containing your smile with a bite on your lip until you shriek when his teeth suddenly graze your jaw.

"Maybe my girlfriend should have dated a poet instead then." There's something darker in his voice as he looks at you through hooded eyes. As if even the single thought of you with someone else is able to kindle a fire inside him that could only ever be extinguished by you yourself.

No, Togame may not be your classical poet. However the way his body language speaks to you, reacts to you, how his fingers trace all kinds of shapes into your skin, how his eyes roam all over your body, pupils dilating and throwing shadows into the green forest in his eyes- It's probably more worth than simple words on a piece paper.

"Nah." You quip and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself impossibly closer to him. The tip of your nose touches his. "I think I'm more than fine like this."

[kingofbodyrolls]

REMMY—😭😭😭When you told me to check Tumblr because you’d left a review, I was NOT prepared for this emotional ambush 😭 The fact that you took the time to write something so thoughtful? For me?? ME??? 😭 Days have passed, and I’m still sitting here sniffling into my tea.

I’m absolutely over the moon that you’re enjoying your birthday gift so far! (Though my ignorant European ass did forget about those pesky Freedom Units again… 😂). It’s cozy without feeling cramped, right? ✨ And the way you called it a WHOLE ASS WORLD? 😭 I’m sobbing. I didn’t even think I did that much world-building for this one—I purposefully kept it light because I didn’t want to bog down the story with scene explanations and accidentally double its length. (Though let’s be real, you know I love doing that).

And yes! I normally don’t write Yoongi like this, but I decided to mix it up this time. He’s quieter, more reserved, but his actions? Oh, his actions. They’re practically shouting with love and warmth! He’s going to be there for Y/N in ways that feel so steady and genuine (don’t worry—no big bad angst! The only backstory drama is Jimin’s past, which… maybe was a spoiler? Whoops 😬).

His daughter? Adorable. Sweet, polite, playful—she’s everything 🥹 You’ll see (or should I say read). And oh, the location details! As I told you on Discord, this place is pretty far out—like five hours from the big city by car (even longer by public transport). It’s a poorer neighborhood, which is why everything is so affordable—Y/N’s house is dirt cheap compared to her city apartment.

AND JIMIN—😭😭😭 I’m actually tearing up again because this Jimin owns my entire heart. I’ve never met the man (obviously), but I poured so much of what I imagine him to be into this story. He feels so authentic to me, and I hope that comes across for you too! He’s warm, welcoming, and OH, you’re going to get so much more of him 😏

As for Y/N—YOU are Y/N! (Or not—you do you. Personally, I dissociate completely 😂 I write Y/N as someone totally different from myself.) But yes, the tea she’s drinking? Absolutely your favorite 🥰

THE BEST PRESENT YOU’VE EVER HAD??? 🥹 Now I’m straight-up bawling. I hope that’s just a sweet exaggeration, though, because surely you’ve received something better than this silly little story! Either way, I’m over the moon that it made you so happy. I was low-key terrified you might not like it 🫣Thank you so much for reading and leaving that incredible review, @remmykinsff 🫂 You know I absolutely adore you. And for the love of Jimin, don’t forget to eat! (Did you enjoy them, by the way?) Sending you all my love and a billion hugs 💜

Songs of the Heart (m) | pjm | chap 1: rebirth

Having just settled into a small house on the outskirts of the bustling city, you’re drawn into the haunting melodies of your neighbor’s sad love songs, echoing through the quiet walls day after day. Concerned, you finally gather the courage to knock on his door, unsure of what to expect—only to be face-to-face with Park Jimin, the renowned singer-songwriter whose voice has touched millions. What begins as a simple gesture of kindness soon unravels into something far more complex, as the melodies of his heart beckon you closer.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: musician!au (not completely idol!au), single dad!au, slice of life!au → Trope: strangers to lovers / neighbors to lovers → Genres: slow burn romance / fluff / angst / smut / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 5.6k → Warnings + triggers: nothing much, just heartache and small misunderstandings 🤭 → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: Hi!!! How are you doing?? 😄 I hope you’re as excited about this new series as I am (and I really, truly mean it when I say this might be my last series for a long while… so buckle up, it’s going to be a ride!). Now, before you go thinking I’m just setting myself up for failure, let me be real with you: my last Jimin series didn’t exactly set the world on fire—sigh. But I adore it, like, adore it. (I know, I’m biased, but can you blame me?) Soooo, this time, we’re going for a more “mainstream” vibe. Think heavily inspired by Jimin’s album Muse (seriously, his whole vibe in that is chef’s kiss), sprinkled with some Face flavor, and, honestly, just Jimin being Jimin. Because, let’s face it—he’s my bias, and I’m OBSESSED. Like, full-on crush mode. So, yeah, it’s basically me writing about my ultimate crush 😳 Now, let’s clear the air about the smut—I’m not going all-out with it here (though there will be some spicy moments, don’t worry 😉). Why? Well, I have a sneaky feeling this series is going to do okay (I mean, I adore these characters so much already 🥹, but engagement might be a different story). So, I’m going to save my energy for what really matters to me—the heart and soul of the story, instead of focusing too much on the smut (which, honestly, I’m not as into writing as I used to be). Okay, okay—back on track. I’m super excited to share this story with you, and I really, really hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Don’t forget to tell me your thoughts—whether you love it, hate it, or just want to fangirl over Jimin with me ✨ This whole story (which will be posted every Sunday for the next eight weeks) is for my dear friend @remmykinsff! I hope you’ll love it 💜

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“Why the hell do you have so many boxes?” Yoongi groans, his voice slicing through the quiet winter air as he hefts a particularly heavy one—something he clearly should have let Namjoon handle. His breath fogs up like ghostly clouds, a silent testament to the biting cold.

You stand by the moving truck, arms crossed, the chill curling around you like an unwelcome scarf. The streetlamp above flickers weakly, casting long shadows over the small gathering of your life in boxes. You shiver, not just from the cold but from the weight of this moment—watching your brother Yoongi and your best friend Namjoon haul the sum of your memories into the truck, piece by piece, bound for a new beginning.

It wasn’t your choice to leave; the landlord had pulled the rug out from under you with a sudden hike in rent you couldn’t possibly manage. But this wasn’t just an ending. There was a glimmer of hope in the move—a small house on the outskirts of the city with a garden that you could already see yourself tending, sunlight warming your face. Perfect wasn’t something you’d often dared to dream of, but this felt close enough to touch.

Namjoon heaves the final box into the truck and straightens with a satisfied grin. “That’s the last of it. We managed to fit everything,” he says, his breath visible in the frost-tipped air.

Yoongi, less triumphant, leans against the truck, arms crossed, his usual scowl softened by exhaustion. “Not a lot of stuff, huh? Then why does everything weigh as much as a small planet?”

You roll your eyes at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Tiny apartments don’t leave room for a lot of stuff,” you murmur, thinking of your now-abandoned shoebox of a home. What you own might not fill much space, but every piece carries its own story, its own weight. To them, it’s just heavy. To you, it’s everything.

“Yoon, you should really hit the gym more,” you tease, your voice laced with playful scorn, though the grin on your face betrays your fondness. The sibling bond—a language of its own, fluent in jabs and unspoken affection.

“Are you calling me weak?” Yoongi snaps, his tone sharp, but the flicker of indignation in his eyes is almost theatrical. He knows the answer. You know he knows. It’s part of the game.

You laugh, the sound light and unbothered, a knowing glint in your eyes as you glance at his slender arms. “I don’t have to say it, do I?”

Before the exchange can escalate, Namjoon steps between you with a calm authority that feels as solid as the ground beneath your feet. “Alright, easy, you two. I’ll take care of the heavy lifting. Yoongi, you drive.”

Yoongi scoffs, letting your remark go as he shoots you a withering look that doesn’t quite land. He climbs into the driver’s seat with a practiced air of resignation, his fingers brushing over the steering wheel as Namjoon closes the back of the truck with a satisfying clunk.

The three of you settle inside the truck, and silence slips in, gentle and familiar, as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. The radio crackles to life, filling the space with the soft strains of a slow love song. The melody spills out like liquid silver, sad yet hopeful, and the singer’s voice—a perfect blend of sweetness and longing—wraps around you like a blanket against the cold.

Your chest tightens as the words begin to take root, burrowing into the quiet corners of your heart: “Even though I was pitch black, I can’t stop thinking about you all day long. Without you knowing, I want to take one step, then another, closer to you. Stay with you. I will be your reason. I hope this feeling reaches you.”

You stare out the frosted window, the aching beauty of the lyrics mingling with the soft glow of the late afternoon light. The world outside shifts and transforms as Yoongi steers the truck with steady hands, the city’s sprawling chaos giving way to the calm, snow-dusted edges of the outskirts. Frost clings to the barren trees and lonely streetlamps, their icy shimmer catching the fading sunlight like quiet promises.

There it is—your new beginning, cradled in the quiet of the outskirts. The small house stands modestly, embraced by a low, whispering hedge that frames its quaint charm. A tiny terrace juts out at the front, its stone surface dappled with the faint traces of winter frost. You remember the cozy backyard from the last time you visited—a patch of earth waiting patiently for spring to bring it to life.

Yoongi eases the truck to a stop in front of the house, the engine humming briefly before falling silent. The three of you step out, boots crunching softly against the snow-dusted gravel. Your heart thuds louder with each step as you approach the door. It’s a humble thing—made of frosted glass that blurs the world on the other side, catching the dim afternoon light and casting it gently inside. You know that when the sun graces it, the whole entrance will glow like a promise.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you fit the key into the lock, turning it with a satisfying click. The door creaks open, and you step over the threshold into your new home. It greets you with its smallness—barely 80 square meters—but it feels vast compared to the cramped city apartment you left behind. Here, there’s space to breathe, to begin again. And the rent, blissfully lower than what the city demanded, makes it all the sweeter.

You glance at the neighboring house—a touch larger, its lot sprawling wider—but you don’t feel envy. This space is yours. Yours to fill with laughter, with quiet mornings, with life.

Flipping the light switch, the warm glow floods the entranceway. The layout unfolds before you in inviting simplicity. The entrance flows seamlessly into a snug living room, its openness spilling into the compact kitchen. The single bedroom feels intimate but holds a delightful surprise: a small walk-in closet that sets your heart alight with possibility. The bathroom, unexpectedly spacious, feels almost indulgent—a small luxury you hadn’t dared to imagine.

You stand in the quiet warmth of the space, letting it envelop you. Yes, it’s small. Yes, it’s simple. But it’s yours. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not just standing in a house. You’re home.

Namjoon brushes past you with a box in hand, his footsteps purposeful. “Where should I put this?” he asks, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of settling dust.

“In the bedroom, please,” you reply, recognizing your own messy scrawl on the side of the box. He nods, disappearing down the short hallway. Moments later, Yoongi follows, arms burdened with lighter boxes this time, his silent stare speaking louder than words. You’re not sure if it’s disapproval or exhaustion—or maybe a mix of both.

Together, the three of you move with practiced rhythm, unloading the truck, the occasional grunt of effort punctuating the soft winter stillness. One by one, your belongings find their way inside, until finally, after an hour and a half, the truck stands empty. Inside, your life now lies in disarray—boxes scattered like misplaced puzzle pieces across the small living room. Thankfully, the heavier furniture already sits snug in its designated spots, thanks to Namjoon’s methodical eye for order.

You all collapse onto the sofa, a symphony of sighs and tired exhales filling the room. The cushions envelop you like a long-awaited embrace, and you lean back, the ache in your muscles giving way to a fleeting moment of peace.

“Do you need help with anything else?” Yoongi asks, his tone more dutiful than eager. You catch the subtext immediately: he’s ready to leave, and who could blame him?

“No, I’m good,” you reply with a grateful smile, sinking further into the plush comfort of your sofa.

But Namjoon isn’t done yet. “Can we make dinner for you before we go?” he offers, sitting up straight as if a second wind has just hit him. You wave him off, declining politely, but he shakes his head, determined. “I saw a grocery store just down the street. Yoongi and I will grab a few things, and then he’ll cook for you.” He’s already on his feet, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves.

Yoongi remains rooted to the sofa, his arms crossed and his expression somewhere between incredulous and annoyed. “You think I’m going to cook for my baby sister?” he scoffs, throwing you a pointed look.

Namjoon doesn’t miss a beat, rolling his eyes like an exasperated parent. “What, are you planning to let your family starve?”

Yoongi’s brows twitch as he fires back, “She’s over thirty. She’s a grown-ass adult. She can take care of herself.”

Your lips part, ready to volley something back, but before you can, Namjoon grabs Yoongi’s arm, hauling him to his feet with an ease that speaks of strength and familiarity. “Come on, Mr. Grown-Ass-Adult,” he says dryly, shoving Yoongi’s coat into his hands while slipping into his own.

Yoongi grumbles under his breath, but he doesn’t fight it. As Namjoon steers him toward the door, he casts a helpless glance back at you, like a cat begrudgingly herded.

“We’ll be back in a moment,” Namjoon calls over his shoulder, his voice brimming with cheerful authority. “Relax. Or unpack. Your choice.”

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you in the stillness of your new home, the faint scent of winter air lingering. You let out a soft laugh, your heart warm despite the cold. Family might be exhausting, but they’re also everything.

Then the door closes, and for the first time today, you’re alone. The silence wraps around you like a fragile shell, amplifying the creak of settling walls and the faint hum of distant life. You sink into the sofa, letting the stillness settle, until your ears catch something unexpected—a faint thread of melody, a guitar’s quiet murmur drifting through the air.

Curiosity tugs you upright, your steps soft against the floor as you follow the sound. In your new bedroom, you pause, pressing your hand to the wall. The music is clearer now, gentle and raw, strings bending under someone’s practiced fingers. Your new neighbor, perhaps? The thought lingers as you drift back to the kitchen, the faint melody becoming a backdrop to the rustle of cardboard and clinking pans. You begin to unpack—the pans your brother will use to cook, the utensils that clatter together like an impromptu percussion. Cooking has always been his way of showing love, and you can’t wait to taste the comfort it brings.

As you move through the small kitchen, time slips through your fingers like grains of sand. You make progress—each box emptied feels like a small triumph. The living room is next, and though you didn’t bring much, your touch begins to transform the space into something warm, something yours.

The sharp chill of winter sweeps in as the front door swings open, announcing Namjoon and Yoongi’s return. Cold air rushes past them, carrying the earthy scent of snow and fresh groceries. Shoes and coats are shed in a flurry of motion, and Namjoon drags his bags to the counter, while Yoongi mumbles something under his breath—his version of commentary that you’ve long learned to ignore. Yoongi grumbles as he hauls two bags into the kitchen, while Namjoon shoulders four with ease, a playful smirk on his face as he shakes the cold from his hair. Your brother dives into the kitchen, already rifling through drawers to find the pans you just unpacked.

As you help Namjoon sort the groceries, you note their choices: fresh greens, vibrant vegetables, sturdy staples like rice, beans, and coconut milk. Practical and thoughtful, as always. Your brother doesn’t waste time, snapping orders your way to chop this and rinse that. Namjoon, wisely, steers clear of the chaos and retreats to the sofa, knowing better than to tempt fate near a knife.

You and Yoongi move seamlessly, a practiced rhythm born of years of shared meals and unspoken communication. The kitchen fills with the sizzling symphony of cooking: onions crackling, garlic blooming in fragrant waves, and the gentle stir of sauces melding together. The aroma wraps itself around you, warm and grounding, a promise of the meal to come.

When the food is done, the three of you gather at your small round dining table. The plates are filled with comfort—steaming rice, perfectly cooked vegetables, and savory flavors that speak of home. Yoongi hums faintly in approval as he eats, his silence a language of contentment. Namjoon, ever the conversationalist, smiles wide as he asks about the neighborhood. You don’t know much yet, but his enthusiasm fills the gaps.

The meal lingers, rich and satisfying, until the plates are empty and the room carries only the faint scent of what was. They stand to leave, hugs exchanged at the door, their warmth momentarily shielding you from the cold creeping back in. As they drive off, the truck rattling softly into the night, the quiet returns. But this time, it feels different. Not empty.

Your home, though still half-full of boxes, feels alive now, touched by their presence. And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Silence settles again, fragile and heavy—except for that faint sound of a guitar, now joined by a man’s voice. It drifts through the stillness, soft and haunting, the kind of melody that reaches into places you didn’t know were aching. From the little you can hear, his voice holds a quiet sorrow, tinged with a beauty that seems almost too fragile for this world. Wrapped in the haze of a full belly and the gentle pull of exhaustion, you sink deeper into the cushions of your couch. The music lulls you, and before you know it, sleep claims you.

When you wake, it’s to the sharp protest of stiff muscles, your body groaning in rebellion. You stretch, long and languid, wincing as you ease into movement. The living room light is still on, casting a warm but tired glow across the scattered boxes. Reaching for your phone, you blink at the screen: Saturday morning.

A sigh escapes you, accompanied by another stretch, your bones clicking softly in protest. As you yawn, the faint strands of music that lulled you to sleep the night before have grown bolder, louder, weaving through the quiet morning air. It’s coming from next door, a melody more insistent now, rising and falling like a tide against your walls.

You pause, half-annoyed, half-curious. Who plays music so loudly on a Saturday morning? Still, it isn’t unpleasant. The sound curls around you, melancholy and mesmerizing, coaxing goosebumps to bloom along your arms.

Shaking off the morning grogginess, you shuffle into the kitchen to make tea, the faint chill of the floor against your bare feet grounding you. As the kettle hums and hisses to life, your attention drifts back to the music. This song, like the one before, carries a sadness that pierces through its beauty, the kind of sorrow that feels personal yet strangely universal.

You sip your tea slowly, the warmth unfurling through your chest, and let the notes wrap around you. The lyrics, muffled but achingly tender, float into your thoughts. A sad love song, you think—heartache distilled into sound.

And then, for a fleeting moment, your mind wanders. Who is your neighbor, and what might they be feeling? It’s hard not to wonder. To play songs like this on a quiet Saturday morning—it speaks of longing, of loss, of someone trying to untangle the knots of their heart.

Exhaustion anchors you to the couch, your body heavy with the weight of weeks spent unpacking, working, and simply trying to adjust. The hours blur together as you let yourself drift, half-lost in the steady stream of music flowing from your neighbor’s house. Sad love songs, one after another, their melodies curling through the air like smoke, filling the silence with their ache. At least your neighbor has good taste; the voice is mesmerizing, familiar, tugging at the edges of your memory. And then it clicks: you’ve heard it before, floating from car radios or playing softly in cafes.  

Nearly two weeks slip by, the days stacked like unopened letters. Despite the proximity, you’ve yet to meet your enigmatic neighbor, though their music has become an unintentional soundtrack to your life. Namjoon, ever the social butterfly, has nudged you more than once to pay them a visit. “Just say hi,” he urged, grinning. But socializing hasn’t exactly been high on your list, not when there are boxes to unpack, deadlines to meet, and your energy drained to its dregs.  

Still, a seed of worry takes root. The songs haven’t changed—still steeped in longing, still carrying that unshakable sadness. Day after day, it’s as if the house next door is exhaling heartbreak. Maybe Namjoon’s right. Maybe you should go introduce yourself, ask about the neighborhood, and gently check if everything’s okay.  

Which is how you find yourself walking up the snow-dusted path to your neighbor’s door, nerves prickling like the winter air against your skin. Their house looms larger than yours, its quiet elegance a subtle reminder of its age and stature. Even the door, frosted glass like your own, feels imposing—a pale barrier between curiosity and the answers waiting behind it.  

Your footsteps crunch softly on the frozen ground as you approach. You hesitate, your breath clouding in the cold, before raising a hand to knock. For good measure, you press the doorbell too, its chime echoing faintly into the stillness.  

And then you wait, heart thrumming in quiet anticipation.  

The music drifts out from the house, faint yet achingly persistent, wrapping around you like the winter chill. You shift on your feet, blowing warmth into your hands, impatient as the cold nips at your nose and fingers. Just as the thought of retreating crosses your mind, the door creaks open.

Your gaze lowers, meeting a pair of wide, brown curious eyes belonging to a little girl. She’s impossibly small, bundled in a sweater too big for her, her dark hair a gentle mess. Her smile, shy but sweet, carries a warmth that momentarily pushes back the frost.

“Hi,” she says, her voice as soft as a whisper of wind through snow-covered trees. She studies you carefully, her head tilting as though trying to puzzle you out.

You return her smile, bending slightly to her level. “Hi, I’m Y/N. I just moved in next door.” A pause, then a gentle laugh. “I was getting a little worried with all the sad music coming from here. Are your parents home?”

Her smile falters, her gaze flickering downward before rising to meet yours again. There’s something heavy in her small expression, far too much for a child her age. “It’s just me and my dad,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with something you can’t quite name.

Your heart clenches at her words, though you don’t fully understand why. She’s so young, so sweet, and yet there’s a fragility to her presence that stirs something protective in you. For a moment, you wonder about her mother, where she might be, what might have happened.

“Is your dad home?” you ask gently, your tone as soft as your smile.

She nods, stepping back into the warm glow of the house. “I’ll go get him. Please wait here,” she says, her words so polite they make you smile again. She scurries off, leaving you at the threshold with the frosty air swirling in around your feet.

As you stand there, you catch glimpses of the house’s interior: the dim light casting long shadows, the faint smell of wood and something floral, and always that music—a bittersweet tune that seeps into every corner.

When she returns, she isn’t alone. A man follows her, his presence filling the doorway.

Your breath catches, your jaw slack as your mind struggles to process the sight before you. You’d expected the father of the sweet little girl to be ordinary, unassuming. But this? This man? He’s a vision pulled straight from the realm of angels.

The first thing you notice is his presence—tall, confident, yet carrying a quiet weariness that tugs at the edges of his posture. He’s dressed simply, but somehow that makes him all the more striking. A plain white t-shirt stretches across his chest, the sleeves rolled just enough to bare sinewy arms, and on his wrist, a faint tattoo peeks out like a secret. His black dress pants sit high on his impossibly small waist, falling loosely down his legs in elegant folds, a sharp contrast to the effortless way he carries himself.

And then there’s his face—soft yet devastatingly sharp, a contradiction of beauty. His jawline is so defined, it looks as if it could carve through stone, and yet his full lips, slightly parted as if mid-thought, ground him in warmth. His eyes—soft brown, tender, and framed by glasses and sleeplessness—pull you in, speaking of long nights and untold stories.

His hair, warm blonde kissed with streaks of brown at the roots, falls in uneven waves, longer in the back. It looks as if it was tousled by the wind or restless fingers, and you can’t help but wonder if he even knows how effortlessly beautiful he is. A few faint birthmarks dot his skin, adding something human to a face that feels otherworldly. As he steps closer, his features soften even more, and your pulse quickens.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a low, soothing melody that sinks into your bones. It’s angelic yet grounded, the kind of sound that lingers, reverberating long after the words are spoken. “What can I do for you?”

For a moment, you forget how to speak, how to breathe, how to exist. All your intentions, your purpose, your very reason for knocking on his door dissolve under the weight of his gaze. You can only stare, unmoored, helplessly captivated.

“This lady said she’s our new neighbor,” the girl chirps beside him, her bright voice cutting through your daze like sunlight through clouds. She looks up at her father with a grin, and he nods, clearing his throat.

He steps closer, extending a hand toward you, the motion deliberate and polite. His hand is warm when it meets yours, soft in a way that belies the calluses at his fingertips—marks of labor, of skill, of a life lived. 

“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” he says with a gentle smile, and you realize your heart is racing, thundering in your chest like it’s trying to escape.

“My name is Jimin, and this is my daughter, Hwa-Young,” he says, his voice soft yet resonant, like the distant hum of a melody that refuses to be forgotten. It’s only then that you realize—mortifyingly—that you’re still holding his hand, the warmth of his palm grounding you far too much. With a jolt, you release it, your cheeks burning like embers, the sting of your foolishness wrapping itself around you. This is why you don’t talk to people, you scold yourself silently. You’re a mess. A fool.

The moment blurs, and you barely register Jimin’s words as he politely repeats something—was it your name? Before you can respond, Hwa-Young steps in, her voice clear and chiming with youthful certainty. “Her name is Y/N,” she declares with the pride of someone who’s solved a puzzle.

Jimin smiles, his expression warm enough to melt the frost clinging to your thoughts, and opens the door wider. “Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea, Y/N?”

You nod mutely, words lodged somewhere between your heart and throat. Speaking feels too dangerous; your silence, you hope, can’t betray how tangled your thoughts have become.

Inside, the house welcomes you with a kind of quiet charm. You peel off your coat and shoes, swapping them for a pair of slippers left by the entryway. The hallway leads you into a living room bathed in soft, creamy tones, its minimalist style broken only by the unmistakable fingerprint of family. Children’s drawings hang on the walls in uneven rows, their vibrant colors a stark but beautiful contrast to the muted decor. A small clay sculpture, wobbling slightly on its base, sits proudly on a side table. It feels like stepping into a story—a place where every corner holds a piece of life lived and loved.

Jimin gestures toward the sofa, and you sink into its inviting cushions, the fabric soft against your fingers. Hwa-Young follows, nestling beside you with a quiet familiarity, her presence grounding. From the nearby kitchen, the faint clatter of porcelain and the rustling of tea packets signal Jimin’s quiet movements.

The room feels alive with warmth, not just from the home itself but from the gentle energy of its inhabitants. You take it all in—the way the light filters through the curtains in golden streaks, the faint scent of lavender mingling with the hum of boiling water, and the soft chatter of a child’s imagination as Hwa-Young shows you a paper star she made.

You glance toward the kitchen, where Jimin moves with unhurried grace, and a strange calm settles over you. Maybe, just maybe, this unexpected meeting wasn’t such a mistake after all.

“Are you from the city?” Hwa-Young asks, her voice bright with curiosity, her smile tugging at the corners of her youthful face. You nod, mirroring her smile with one of your own.

“Yes, I just moved in about two weeks ago,” you reply, the words tumbling out like snowflakes in the quiet. “How old are you?”

“I just turned ten!” she exclaims, her voice brimming with pride, her grin wide and unrestrained. Somehow, the innocence in her joy stirs something deep within you, a warmth that begins to thaw the cold edges of your weary heart.

“Congratulations,” you say softly, folding your hands in your lap as if to hold the fragile moment still.

Jimin enters the room, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He sets them gently on the coffee table, the soft clink of ceramic against wood breaking the silence. With effortless grace, he disappears briefly, returning with a glass of water for his daughter. As he takes his seat in a plush chair opposite you, his presence feels both calming and grounding, like the steady rhythm of a familiar song.

“How are you liking the town so far?” he asks, his voice carrying a soothing cadence, as if he’s accustomed to drawing out answers with kindness alone.

Lifting the mug to your lips, you blow softly on the surface of the tea, the fragrant steam curling upward like a wisp of memory. “I like it so far,” you say, your tone reflective, as though you’re still making sense of this new chapter in your life.

The faintest flicker of realization ignites, and you remember the reason for your visit. You set the mug down, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “I haven’t seen much of it yet. Between work and unpacking, I’ve barely had a chance to explore. But, actually…”

He takes another sip of his tea, and you can’t help but let your gaze linger. The delicate curve of his lashes, impossibly long and casting soft shadows on his cheekbones, draws your attention. His lips—pink, full, and unassuming—meet the edge of the mug, and for a brief, absurd moment, you find yourself wondering how something so simple could be so captivating.

What are you even thinking? You shake off the thought, clearing your throat.

“Ah, yes,” you stammer, a little too loudly. “I couldn’t help but notice…” You trail off, grappling for the right words. “I’ve heard a lot of sad songs coming from your house since I moved in, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Like, not…heartbroken or anything?”

Your words hang in the air, an awkward tangle of concern and curiosity, and you silently curse yourself for blurting them out. Was that a question or a statement? Even you aren’t sure.

But then he smiles—a real, genuine smile—and for a split second, his eyes vanish into crescents of warmth. His teeth peek out, slightly crooked, but so charming it nearly takes your breath away. Running a hand through his tousled blonde hair, he chuckles softly, his laugh like a melody in itself.

“Oh, that’s me. I’m the one guilty of all the sad music,” he admits, his voice carrying a quiet confidence that makes you feel at ease despite your earlier awkwardness.

Your brow furrows in thought as you tap your pointer finger against your lips, the name of the voice eluding you. “What’s the name of the artist? I know I’ve heard him on the radio, but I just can’t place it…”

His smile blooms, radiant and unrestrained, his eyes crinkling into crescents of pure light. “That’s me,” he says, a giggle escaping his lips, soft and melodic like the hum of a lullaby.

You blink at him, utterly perplexed, your mind spinning as you try to piece together what he could mean. “Sorry?” you venture hesitantly, hoping for clarity, your confusion painted plainly across your face.

“The artist,” he explains, his voice effortlessly calm and sure, “is Park Jimin. And I’m Park Jimin.”

The name lands in your ears, but it takes a second longer for the meaning to sink in. His daughter bursts into delighted laughter, while you sit frozen, your expression surely something straight out of a cartoon—wide eyes, jaw unhinged, disbelief written all over you.

Your thoughts race, chasing one another in circles. His voice, angelic and hauntingly beautiful, had felt familiar from the moment you heard it. And suddenly, the puzzle clicks into place. The songs—the ones that wrapped around you like a bittersweet embrace—were his. His.

Your eyes dart toward one of the rooms down the hall, where the music had been flowing endlessly up until the moment he greeted you. But now, the silence is palpable, a stillness that confirms your dawning realization. It wasn’t the stereo at all. It was him.

“Daddy, show her a song!” Hwa-Young pipes up, her small voice brimming with excitement as she hops off the couch and scampers toward a room. The door is ajar, revealing a glimpse of equipment and scattered papers.

Jimin’s smile softens, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle invitation. Without a word, he rises and gestures for you to follow. And as though caught in a spell, you do, your curiosity pulling you forward.

His studio is a world unto itself—a symphony of black and white, sleek lines, and personal chaos. Guitars in all shapes and sizes line the walls, their polished bodies gleaming under soft light. A microphone stands at attention, its cable curling like a lifeline to the scattered pages of sheet music littering the desk and floor.

It’s not just a room; it’s a glimpse into his soul, a sanctuary of sound and vulnerability. You can’t help but let your gaze linger, taking in the effortless beauty of it all.

Hwa-Young leaps onto the couch with a boundless energy that only a child can muster, the cushions bouncing under her weight. She pats the spot beside her, a silent invitation laced with an innocent warmth. You accept, settling in as Jimin crosses the room with a quiet confidence, his every movement purposeful yet unassuming. He retrieves an acoustic guitar, its wood glowing faintly under the soft overhead light, and perches on a nearby stool.

“Play her that new song, dad,” Hwa-Young beams, her voice lilting with pride and affection. She leans back into the couch, her tiny frame dwarfed by its embrace, but her presence fills the room.

Jimin nods, a soft smile tugging at his lips, and then his fingers meet the strings. A single strum reverberates, low and tender, a sound that seems to dissolve the walls and pull you into a different world. 

And then he sings.

His voice flows like a stream over smooth stones—gentle, searching, yet laced with a fragile ache. Feather-light and haunting, it brushes against you, delicate as a whisper yet powerful enough to root you in place. “We never met, but she’s all I see at night.Never met but she’s always on my mind.Wanna give her the world,And so much more.Who is my heart waiting for?If every day I think about her,Yeah, every day of my life.Then tell me why I haven’t found her.”

Each note hangs in the air like a secret meant only for this moment, for you, for the stillness that has settled over the room. Your mind empties, swept clean by the sheer beauty of his voice, each syllable carrying raw emotion that you can’t help but feel, though it’s not your story to claim.

You watch him, this man who pours his heart so freely before a stranger, as if vulnerability were as natural as breathing. His fingers dance over the strings with practiced ease, but it’s the weight in his voice—the yearning, the quiet pain—that lingers in your chest.

A flicker of a question rises, unbidden, as you take in the scene—a renowned singer-songwriter, his talent unmistakable, living humbly in this crappy and cheap neighborhood. Why here? Why this place, when his voice alone could carry him anywhere? But the question dissipates as quickly as it forms, lost in the tide of his music. At this moment, none of it matters.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv

→ Series taglist: @13-manggaetteok @mima795 @hnnnjm @flaneuseonthestreets @miniesjams32 @graydolan12

→ Author’s endnote: soooo?? Tell me everything! What do you think about Jimin? Is he stealing your heart yet, or is it his adorable daughter who’s totally got you wrapped around her tiny finger? 👀💜 And don’t even get me started on what’s coming next... are you excited? Nervous? Ready to cry?? Because trust me, the next chapter has all the feels™. Let’s hear your thoughts—I’m dying to know!

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[rambosgirl]

Christmas with Logan headcanons (x reader)

Original trilogy Logan:

he was never big on celebrating when he was on the road, but now the x men throw a big party for all the students so now he has to participate

he claims to not care, but you can tell he's enjoying himself

you were acquaintances going into the Christmas party, but you came out as friends

you talked a bit before moving on, but as the party died down, Logan noticed that you were gone

he followed your scent to find you (not in a creepy way haha)

you were in front of the mansion's biggest window, which featured frosty edges, looking at the snowy landscape

he silently came over, putting himself by your side to look out the window with you

the wind was carrying the snowflakes in sweeping motions before adding them to the powdered ground. In the moonlight reflections, you could see how it looked like glitter.

it was beautiful outside, but he was starting to think he'd rather look at you

You made quiet conversation with each other for a while before you started feeling tired

"You should probably get to bed," Logan mumbles.

"Right"

He wants to follow you so bad but stays behind out of respect. You weren't like the girls before and he wanted to treat you right

You became better friends after that, talking more often and finding quiet moments between missions and teaching.

Worst!Logan:

He had not celebrated anything in a long time, just kept to himself in his world, probably drinking

now that he's staying with Wade, he'll just sit and watch whatever he does for the holidays

he isn't planning on participating until you show up, an old friend of Wade's

He sees you decorating part of the gingerbread house but hesitates to join in. What if you didn't want him near you? What if he messed it up?

You noticed him, taking a break to say hi

you coaxed him to join you with the gingerbread house, which he eventually did (he's pretty bad at decorating gingerbread houses, but as bad as Wade)

the two of you just hit it off, and stuck together for a lot of the party

you learned that you were pretty different from each other, but he found that refreshing

Wade teased you all evening

"Look who found their Christmas spirit! I didn't think this grinch would actually separate from his drink," Wade retorts

"Shut up"

"Are we gonna witness a Hallmark movie with you two?"

With that, Logan guided you away, ignoring Wade (and his warming face)

You later find a quiet corner to talk while Wade was distracted trying to juggle ornaments

"I didn't think I'd actually have fun tonight," Logan admitted, his voice barely above a grumble

"Well I'm glad you did"

You eventually had to go home, and Logan swore he could feel his heart sinking.

until you gave him your number

"We've gotta hang out more," you say, passing him the slip of paper, "Maybe without Wade next time." You whispered the last part

And hang out you did. A lot. in the next few months, the two of you became inseparable

Logan finally felt like he had something to do, somewhere to go. Someone to make smile. (he would do anything to see that smile or laugh)

and you would do anything to help Logan heal what he couldn't himself

[abbysimsfun]

Dating Deanna Entry: Nicola Moody-McMillan for @changingplumbob

Hey everyone! I've never done anything like this before so I don't know exactly how to introduce myself. But I'm a schoolteacher in Henford-on-Bagley, the same small town where I was born and raised.

I'm currently living in my childhood home in the Bramblewood with my mother, Kim, and my younger brother, Dominic. Our relationship is pretty good even though my mom can be a bit of a problem at parties, but I'm a family-oriented sim! My mother and brother mean the world to me, and we've been especially close since my dad passed away not that long ago.

Apart from my job, which I love, I like doing Henford things - offering favours to people in need, cross-stitching, gardening, and talking to birds! I haven't really travelled much, but I'm ready to get out of my comfort zone!

I think. I really love comfort, and I've heard these bachelor shows can get a little wild. My friends said not to worry about my manicure - but honestly, I'll probably always worry about my manicure.

The big elephant in the room is my marital status - divorced. At 24! I married my high school sweetheart but she turned out to be less sweetheart, more heartless...sorry, that's a boring story! We grew apart.

Some days it feels like we divorced just yesterday. But some time has passed, I really believe in counseling, and I'm ready to try dating for, really, the first time in my life. That's kind of embarrassing to say out loud!

My friends said don't be negative. But some days can feel like the worst day ever, you know? Maybe you don't know. I don't know. I'm not always great at first impressions and I can be a little high maintenance, but I'm excited about this experience!

I can't wait to meet Deanna. Joey can flirt with me if he wants, but I'm a high maintenance lesbian who wants a family, so he'd be wasting a good line on the wrong gal! Even though I can be a pretty competitive teacher on School Sports Days, I'm really looking forward to getting to know the other contestants, too. People who don't know Hazel. Who isn't important.

More about Nicola, housekeeping, etc...

Nicola Kimberly Moody-McMillan (she/her), daughter of Henford townie Kim Goldbloom, and granddaughter of townies Ian McMillan and Derek Moody, who adopted Kim. Nicola's father was a very blond randomly-generated sim named Eddie Harmon (RIP!). She has a younger brother named Dominic.

She's grown up from a wee sprite in my Sims In Bloom legacy challenge as a best friend and then girlfriend/later wife of my Gen 2 heir's little sister (until it all fell apart).

Nicola is a cis lesbian who is exclusively attracted to women, both romantically and sexually. She is a monogamous sim, but Henford is a small town. Whether her interests include non-binary or trans women remains to be discovered, actually.

Goes By: Miss Moody-McMillan (in class), Nicola, Nic, but not Nicki Hometown: Henford-on-Bagley Traits: High Maintenance, Family Oriented, Good (originally she had one of @maplebellsmods's More Traits - Spoiled - in addition to the last two, and I figured High Maintenance was closest to that one). She had a fourth bonus trait, Childish, which I lost when I switched out Spoiled, but feel free to add it back in for the sake of keeping her canon if you have the extra slots! Fears Being Cheated On (I think this should carry over into the Gallery-saved version but I'm actually not sure...) Likes: Bowling, Gardening, Handiness, Research & Debate, Cross-Stitch, Fitness, Wellness, Physical Intimacy, Flirtation, Deep Thoughts, Compliments, Stories, Small Talk, Discussing Interests, Discussing Hobbies, and has a more upbeat, poppy, or catchy singer-songwriter driven music taste Dislikes: Dancing, Fishing, Programming, Arguments (they make her feel bad even though she can be combative), Deception Favourite Colours: Blue, Grey, Purple, White

Open to flirt/get intimate with other contestants? She's there for Deanna and to build a future with her, but she's also spreading her wings for the first time so yes.

Open to polyamory? As much as marriage sucked for Nicola the first time around, she still believes in soulmates and true love and monogamous commitment.

Open to woohoo? She would be if it feels right.

Doesn't vibe with pessimistic, argumentative, and ambitionless sims. And yes, with her traits and Henford origins she's definitely grown up to be a little fairytale princess-coded. Maybe she's a little like The Princess and the Pea, so we'll see how she does with the challenges and her high maintenance mood swings.

Now that introductions are out of the way, she and her Watcher are All In.

Download Available: On the Sims 4 Gallery under userID simcann, 'Nicola for DatingDeanna.'

cc used? The submitted version of Nicola has EA eyebrows in a shade darker than her hair colour, but normally she has TwistedCat's Lush eyebrows which are Maxis-friendly. Even though they look darker on her, they're the same shade of blonde as her hair. Most of the above photos were taken with her new eyebrows, except the portrait with her mother and brother, which shows her OG cc brows.

For anyone curious to see her dear departed dad, Eddie, here he is with Nic's mom, Kim, in their younger years, next to a shot of kid Nicola because I'm shamelessly buying affection for her:

And recently, Nicola randomly dressed for Spooky Day as The Final Girl. Just saying:

WCIFs: The picture of Kim, Nicola, and Dominic is from @simmireen's amazing Ultimate Family Portrait posepack, a perpetual favourite of mine! The classroom is just a room, but I found it on the Gallery by Jmadyson1030 - I love the aesthetic, the hamster cage, and the cushy extra seating along the walls. Felt like a classroom I'd almost want to be in myself!

[cheriladycl01]

Quirk #4

Here is my fourth quirk idea! Feel free to use this in your fanfics (just give me credit if you directly got it from me) obviously I know however I’m not the only creative person in the world and that some people may have also had these ideas before me!

Quirk: Manifestation of Illustration

This quirk could work two ways.

Number 1 where’d she’d be similar to Tamaki where the illustrations on her body can manifest onto her. So if she had a tiger tattoo she can get tiger ability’s or turn into one.

Number 2 would be that she can bring to life ‘manifest’ anything drawn by her or on her. So it would kind of work like Megumi from Jujitsu Kaisen Demon Dogs do, mixed with Momo’s creation abilities. She has dogs tattooed on her. She can send them out as scouts. She has a dagger drawn on her, she can make it into a real dagger to use etc.

Or both if you want her OP (one can be like a quirk awakening later down the book?)

This entails:

- Objects Creation

- Object Morphing

- Animal Characteristics etc

Weaknesses

- Can only use a certain amount of ink at one time. The ink is kind of like blood to her if she looses too much ink, she will faint or pass out.

- If a tattoo is destroyed, like a dagger is snapped or a deck of cards is burned she will feel that in her body.

- If an object manifested gets lost on the real world she can’t ever tattoo over it again or use that object again.

- She can’t use it like Tamakis quirk where he can choose which bit of his body changes into what he ate. For girlie it’s all or nothing so she either turns fully into the animal tattooed on herself or she can only use their characteristics (echolocation from a dolphin, strength from a dung beetle etc)

- if she doesn’t have it tattooed she has to spend time drawing it on paper, and when she’s rushing her artistic skills can falter (she’s learned this from traumatising experiences)

Strengths

- As long as she has a tattoo of it she can pretty much manifest anything into existence. (Her classmates or prohero friends would joke about ‘useless tattoos’ until they find out it’s something they need)

- Because of the ease when it comes to drawing weapons she trained to learn how to not solely rely on her quirk, so she’s actually able to use the weapons effectively that she draws.

- very powerful quirk, top 5 hero kinda powerful.

Hero Name:

The Embodiment Hero: Bodice

Zodiac: Leo

Ethnic Background: French / Japanese

Height: 5ft 8

Weight: 134ibs

Style: Tomboy

Physical Traits: Lots of tattoos everywhere and they get more random the more you look.

Mannerisms: She rolls her eyes all the time, you compliment her, expect and eye roll, you tell her you’ve just killed five citizens and her cousin was one of them, expect an eye roll, her food comes out wrong at a restaurant, expect and eye roll.

Favourite:

Food: Coq au Vin

Drink: Champagne

Colour: Grey

Weather: Snow

Possession: Dagger

Morning Routine:

She has two diaries, one where she’ll draw out how she thinks and expects her day to go and then another one where it’s how it actually went.

Hobbies:

Painting and Hikes

Special Skills:

Drawing duh!

Pet Peeves:

Chatty Strangers

Bad At:

Opening up to people, bit of a closed book!

Biggest Fear:

Her ability to draw one day going, or not enjoying it anymore.

Greatest Flaw:

She’s a massive smoker!

Goals:

To eradicate the need for a hero society (ie no large scale villains means no need for hero’s)

Who I see them with:

Guys - HAWKS, Denki

Girls - MS JOKE , Kendo

[littlemessyjessi]

"To Woo A Warrior": A Holiday Hobbit Imagine: Dwalin Fundinson

….

A Holiday Hobbit Imagine

Dwalin Fundinson x Reader, Plus Size Reader, PS Reader, Human Reader

Warnings: Middle Earth in and of itself?  This is post BOTFA .   HOWEVER, we’re rewriting it in which I’ve chosen to keep the line of Durin alive because I don’t want to bawl my eyes out this holiday season.  That’s the joy of fanfiction and writing it myself.  I can do what I want. 

Use of Y/N because we’ll all be lucky to see this if I stop to figure out a character.  For those of you who are still waiting for Thorin and Fawn’s story… I’m sorry.  It’s coming.  I just… got stuck in world building mode.   *cowers in writer’s shame*.  Back to Dwalin and this fic though.  

TBH… this is loosely based on a story I’ve written for Dwalin but I just haven’t had the confidence to post.   

Fem Identifying Reader just cause I wanted to.   If that causes gender dysphoria for you, hey, please take care of yourself.  No hard feelings if you scroll on.   Totally fine.   I just like writing a fem Y/N a lot of the time because I love writing women because women are awesome.   

Disclaimer:  I don’t own the works of Tolkien or his characters.   I just own my own characters, my writing and such.   

Additionals:  If you are under 18, listen.   I love you.  I wish you well.  A very Happy Holidays.  However, this would be the time for you to leave.  My page is not for you until you reach a certain age.  Sorry but it’s not.  Love you but shoo.  But also be kind to yourself, remember to drink water and do something nice for you today.   Tootles, though.  

……

The markets of Dale were bustling and busy as ever. 

The morning was crisp and a certain cheer seemed to saturate the very air itself. 

Winter Solstice drew closer and closer every day, urging the citizens of Erebor and Dale to leave the cozy warmth of their homes and venture to the markets. 

Delightful trinkets and trades laid out just waiting to catch your eye and make you think of the perfect recipient. 

This morning was no different but the buttery sweet scent of star bread cut through that crisp cool mountain air that morning and a certain Captain of the Guard was all but paralyzed in fear. 

Dwalin knew that no one else made star bread that smelled like that. 

Y/N.

A very talented baker who lived in the city of Dale… though she frequented the halls of Erebor so much that she might as well have lived there.  

This was, in part, because of Thorin. 

He sought out her services on a fairly regular basis because, frankly, Bilbo Baggins had a remarkably large appetite for such a small creature. 

It had nothing to do with those little blackberry and brie swirls of bread, fruit and cheese that danced on his taste buds as if his very ancestors came to bless him.   

Most certainly not. 

It was just because the hobbit had an insatiable appetite and a seemingly endless cavernous void for a stomach. 

Bilbo was very much aware of Thorin and his pride. 

And he let him keep it because Thorin’s borderline obsession with blackberries actually served to further his matchmaking tendencies. 

You see, the baker, Y/N was a lovely woman who Bilbo had spent many an afternoon tea with at this point.  

A delightfully charming creature with a wonderfully surprising duality. 

The woman could throw together a handful of anything and turn it into something scrumptious…. and that was high praise coming from a hobbit. 

However, she also seemed to have a penchant for weapons. 

He’d seen the impressive set of kitchen knives … and the endless array of weapons that seemed to produce from seemingly no where.

Bilbo swore that she and Fili would have a grand old time speaking of weapon concealment if he could ever get her out of the kitchen and Fili out of council meetings.  

But back to how Y/N came to Dale.  

After Smaug the slughead had been slain a relative had sent word. 

Her ancestors who had lived there previously had long since passed many years ago. 

However, it was a great surprise to her when she received word from her cousin, Bard. 

She’d been to Dale only once before and it was directly after the passing of his wife.

Dale was struggling as were all its inhabitants. 

Suddenly, Bard had lost the love of his life, his partner and was left to care for their little ones alone…. and unable to do so because he could not leave them. 

Sigrid and Bain were still quite small and Tilda was just a newborn.   

It was an impossible situation. 

He couldn’t leave them alone to care for themselves but if he didn’t leave for work they would all starve.  

He’d sent word to his nearest kin… all of which rejected him by claiming they had their own problems. 

Y/N, who’d barely been out of adolescence herself at the time, wrote back and told him that she’d only just turned sixteen but that she’d had plenty of experience in caring for children, keeping house and plenty of other things. 

And most importantly, she said she’d come and help. 

He’d been a bit hesitant because it seemed she was still a child herself and that seemed like another mouth to feed and care for. 

However, he was desperate and sixteen was old enough to be in charge and look after the others. 

He’d wrote her back in thanks and acceptance. 

Imagine his surprise, when she showed up by the next full moon with a wagon of supplies. 

He learned that she was a highly resourceful creature and given the right equipment and ingredients… could make delicacies that brought many a man to his knees. 

What had surprised him was how she managed to evade the shake down upon entering. 

He learned just exactly why the next time Alfrid saw her in public. 

The man had apologized profusely and ran the other way. 

When Bard had asked her about it, she’d given him a vague answer involving a frying pan and a battle axe. 

He hadn’t questioned her about it since. 

She stayed with the family for a few years and when Tilda, who’d been a baby when she came, reached five years of age… another family member wrote to her asking for help. 

A cousin of her father’s had lost a child and succumbed to the darkness of it herself. 

The father had followed after her in heartbreak. 

Understandable, but it had left the twins without anyone to look after them. 

And they were only seven. 

It had broken her heart to leave the family she’d come to know in Dale.  

Bard’s as well. 

She’d come to be like a younger sister to him rather than a cousin.

He hated to see her go but understood that the twins had needed her more than they did now and so she left. 

It had been many, many moons since they’d seen her. 

They’d received the occasional letter from their Y/N but had not seen her in years. 

However, when Smaug had been slain and Erebor restored… Dale had flourished and her cousin, Bard, was now the King. 

Of course, all those family members he’d reached out to before came in droves then but they mattered not. 

He hadn’t been heartless about it but they hadn’t been the ones he had missed. 

When his duties as King only increased, he found himself with less and less time for his children. 

They understood, of course, and they were well looked after… but he knew what was missing. 

So he finally wrote to his cousin, Y/N, asking for her help once again. 

She was there once again by the next full moon. 

Though this time, it hadn’t been needed; she arrived again with a wagon of supplies. 

She had been embraced by Bard and the children once again.  

Auntie Y/N had returned to them.  

Upon remembering how wonderful her baking had been, he’d immediately offered her a job as the royal baker. 

She’d accepted the frilly title but in reality she much preferred her old apron that had been worn soft with age. 

Bard had provided her with a room and kitchen of her own and that’s where she really created her magic. 

Sure, she worked in the kitchens where she was in charge of the feasts and delicacies and every other ridiculous thing one could think of when it came to food. 

But where she found her joy was on the days of the market where she sat up a little stall with her wonderfully charming little treats. 

They weren’t over the top in design. 

Simple but pretty and the taste always felt like a warm hug. 

Her prices were fair and she always gave samples. 

Bard had assured her that she didn’t need to, as he’d buy her whatever she wanted. 

She had thanked him but informed him that she enjoyed it and to let her be for she was far more pleasant to be around when she was happy than not. 

Bard, who had been married to a woman for years, understood that that roughly translated to, “Bard, thank you but mind your own business.   I need a project to keep me from overthinking everything.  Either this can be my project or annoying the ever living hell out of you can be my project.  Take your pick.” 

He chose wisely and didn’t question her again. 

Fortunate that he didn’t because it was for this very reason that led her to Dwalin Fundinson. 

Or rather, led him to her. 

You see, Dwalin had a sweet tooth about as big as his arm and when word spread about the new royal baker and her amazing creations… he’d been intrigued. 

When Bilbo returned to the castle with two guards carrying boxes upon boxes of them… it got his attention. 

When Thorin nearly had a stroke over a blackberry pastry and suddenly had to place an order from the woman every few days… Well honestly he hadn’t been surprised by that one. 

His cousin had a serious problem with blackberries that he really thought he might need to see someone about. 

Gold sickness looked like a jealous pouty child compared to what Thorin Oakenshield looked like when there were blackberries to be had. 

However, one day Bilbo decided that he was going to the market and Dwalin, having had enough of listening to stuffy council meetings all day, volunteered to be his personal escort. 

Bilbo was happy to have the company of his dear friend and they set out to the city of Dale. 

Bilbo drug Dwalin all over the market looking for this vegetable or that fruit or that jam or those herbs but he didn’t mind. 

The fresh air did him well. 

Dwalin did not miss hardship in the slightest but occasionally he did miss the freedom of his old life. 

The simplicity of it. 

For example, a lot of peace can come to the mind when doing something as simple but useful as sharpening your blades. 

‘Maybe a new whetstone…’ he thought to himself as he caught sight of a stall ahead. 

Bilbo, having already followed his gaze in that incredibly observant way of his, simply waved him off and told him that he would be right here looking at honey for quite some time. 

Dwalin had laughed for he knew just how long the hobbit could spend deciding on honey. 

He’d nearly watched Kili explode out of impatience once when Thorin set the young dwarrowman to be Bilbo’s guard as a punishment for falling asleep during a council meeting. 

Bilbo, the mischievous little creature that he was, actually took the opportunity to ask about every. single. honey infusion available.    

It had taken hours and Kili nearly lost his mind. 

So he felt assured that the hobbit would be just fine for him to peruse the stall and check out the new wares. 

Dwalin spent some time looking at the stones as well as a bit of time eyeing some new polishing cloths. 

However, his mind was clouded in a haze as the scent of buttery, sugary sweetness filled his nose. 

“Hello, Mr. Kaznia.  How are you today?” 

“Quite well, Miss Y/N.  And yourself?” 

“Lovely actually.  I love it when the air is a bit crisp like this.” “Oh aye.   It’s coming strong off the mountain today.  Probably a fair bit of wind coming.” 

“I hope so.” she giggled. 

“You hope for wind?” the dwarrowman asked with a laugh. 

“Oh definitely!” she said.  “I sleep best with a bit of cool air.  I’m no fun when I’m too warm.  A bit too stuffy and I become right unpleasant.” 

“Oh, Miss Y/N.  I’ve never seen you be unpleasant a day in your life.” 

“Well, Mr. Kaznia, you haven’t known me my whole life either… nor have you been round when I’ve just woken in the morning.” she said. “Let me tell you.  Perhaps, the lot of you should have loosed me into the mountain on the great slug when I’ve just woken and there’s no tea to be had.  According to Bard, I am quite the fire breathing beast when there’s no tea.” 

Dwalin couldn’t help it and he laughed a bit. 

However, he’d gotten a first hand account of Smaug and was well aware of Bard and his … Bardness. 

“You must be tha’ cousin then.” Dwalin said.  “The wee fancy baker that's the cause o’ me cousin’s blackberry addiction.” 

She turned to face him fully and his breath caught in his chest as he looked at her. 

She was a beauty absolutely ridden with a soft fullness that had him absolutely enchanted. 

“You must be a cousin of King Thorin then.” she smiled.  

“Aye.  Dwalin.” he said with a bow.  “At your service.” 

She gave him a kind smile, “Y/N.  At yours.  Charmed to meet you, Master Dwalin.” 

It was there that began the very long and drawn out game of cat and mouse between Dwalin and Y/N. 

And subsequently the testing of every last nerve that Bilbo Baggins had in his possession. 

For months, the two of them did this song and dance.  

  Sometimes they met at the market at the stall where they first met. 

Sometimes Dwalin hand delivered Thorin’s latest order. 

Sometimes she slipped a tiny star bread into his hands as she passed him while she hand delivered the order to Erebor.  

Over time the both of them just kept making excuses to see one another … and yet neither would make a move. 

Bilbo was about to lose his patience. 

But that day, on yet another cool crisp market day… with Winter Solstice drawing near… the pair of them set out to find one another again. 

Bilbo had had just about enough and he was about ready to take matters into his own hands. 

It had been months, nearly a year, and no progress had been made. 

He knew and if neither one of them would make a move… he was going to make it for him. 

He was so sick of dwarvish courting customs and human wooing. 

Hobbits had their own ways of course but this was simply ridiculous. 

He set off to grab Dwalin by that mangled ear of his and drag him to Y/N if he had to. 

However, upon nearing that little stall… the hobbit halted in place. 

There they were strolling through the market. 

Dwalin happily munching away on a massive star bread in his hand. 

Y/N gleefully clutching a shiny new axe in hers. 

And their free hands entwined together swinging between them. 

The hobbit tilted his head, a funny little smile on his face. 

It seemed that Miss Y/N knew exactly the way to woo a warrior.  

It wasn’t how he thought this would go but he was happy nonetheless. 

He nodded to himself, thumbs tucked under his suspenders in contentment until…

“Miss Y/N!” 

Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin when Thorin lumbered past him towards the pair of them. 

“I heard you had blackberry bread today at your stall.  How many more do you have?  I will buy them all.” 

Bilbo sighed and turned his face to the heavens. 

“Yavanna, help me.” he said in exasperation, “Thorin, come back here!” 

Thorin did not, in fact, come back there. 

Bilbo did have to chase him down. 

Dwalin never stopped eating his star bread and Y/N simply laughed at scene before here. 

This blackberry obsessed dwarf being chased by a tiny meddlesome hobbit. 

She turned her gaze to her own dwarf, “Dwalin, love?” 

“Hmm?” he asked, licking his fingers along with the last of his treat. 

“On a scale of one to ten-” 

“Ten.” 

“What?” 

“Tha’ was a ten, lass.  Best one yet.” 

“Well, thank you, sweetheart but that wasn’t what I was going to ask you.” 

“Ok, ten again.” 

“What this time?” she giggled. 

“Yer definitely a ten in mah book, love.” he said with a bit of a smirk. 

“Smooth.” she said, hand reaching to smooth over the top of his head.  “But not that either.” 

“Alright.  What is it then?” 

“On a scale of one to ten, what would I have to do to get you to help me make a certain dwarf king and a certain hobbit to admit their very obvious feelings to one another?” she said.  

“Ah, lass.  Let them be in their own time.” he groaned. 

“I will make you a yule log cake, cranberry creme puffs and star bread.” she said.  “As well as kisses and canoodling.” 

Dwalin chuckled, “Ye had me at cake, lass, but I’ll definitely be taking everything from cake to canoodling.” 

“Good.” she said with a nod before pulling him into the bushes.  “Let’s have dessert first then.” 

His eyes lit up, “Oh? Ye got more treats you been keeping from me, lass?  Where are these secret treasures?” 

She gave him a smirk of her own, “The cakes come later, love.  They’ll take time to make.  However, I can make good on my offer of kisses and canoodling right now.” 

The two of them shared a massive grin before the sweetest of kisses... a lots of canoodling.

Miss Y/N certainly knew how to woo a warrior.

……

…….  

Hello, loves!  I hope you enjoy this holiday content! 

Hope ya’ll are having a great day! 

Love you. 

— 

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K, Love you, Bye!

[supermarine-silvally]

The Dragon Age brainrot has returned in full force so here's my inky~ can't wait to see her again in Veilguard!

[marypsue]

Man, it's cool and all if you see a metaphor for marginalisation in the monstrous, and if you want the power fantasy of 'what if you could just eat anybody who threatened you/pissed you off'. Me too.

However, as soon as you start saying 'no, these monsters are a 1:1 on Specific Marginalised Group, and you have to treat them in the fiction like they are directly representative of real human members of the marginalised group', BUT you also, in the fiction, make them hurt/kill/eat humans? And then try to shame me, your audience, for noticing or engaging with the bit where they kill people, because you made them directly representative of a real-world marginalised group? You have lost me, and also, I think, the plot.

[heylittleriotact]

The only reason Emmrich isn’t a puddle of grief on the Lighthouse floor the way he should be in his non-lich resolution is because he cheated death - this time. He has a legacy in Manfred and makes peace with the fact that with training, Manfred will be able to care for himself when he eventually dies, but he only got here in the first place by fucking around with the natural order.

The playing field is still even in this outcome between he and Rook: they’re both mortal, and they will both inevitably die, but they may choose a life together that could be prosperous and joyful and all the other sentimental shit Emmrich has yearned for.

If he “accepts” Manfred’s death and becomes a lich, he does actually mourn him. There’s the banter where Davrin remarks that he heard crying coming from Emmrich’s room, which implies that he’s privately confronting those feelings of loss. Some people read this as regret, but I honestly think it’s grief presenting itself in a complicated manner for Emmrich.

Emmrich’s grief in this case is complicated because not only is he dealing with the emotional complexity of grieving a child who isn’t *technically* his child, but we’re adding survivor’s guilt on top of that, and the fact that Manfred’s sacrifice was ultimately his ticket to immortality.

That’s a-fucking-lot to unpack.

Is it any surprise that he’s weeping alone in his room when he thinks no one is around? How could ANYONE understand? WHY would anyone understand? So he hides it away and doesn’t even talk about it to Rook, his partner, and man… that is a slippery ass slope to some wildly unhealthy coping behaviours.

In real life you might see someone stuck in complicated grief become depressed, socially withdrawn, emotionally erratic, fall into substance abuse, self-harm, self-destructive behaviour, or suicide. Complicated grief is a bitch. Because remember - grief is vital: it is personal, but it is also communal, and Emmrich starts out his journey into lichdom by slipping into complex, isolated grief over Manfred’s passing.

So now instead of a regular person, you’ve got an immortal super-mage who can never die dealing with death TERRIBLY. This forms the foundation for his approach to death for eternity. Of COURSE he’s going to be insufferable to Rook. Of COURSE he’s going to take a holier-than-thou “be more careful please” stance without any thought to the staggering power imbalance that exists between them now.

It’s the most tragic, self-destructive ending for Emmrich, framed in a way that’s almost poetically cruel. He’s fucked himself, and he can’t un-fuck himself, and he has to live with that forever. He might be in denial about it for a month, a year… a century - but he’ll get there eventually.

You finally found the love of your life that you yearned for desperately for decades? You will smother them. Burden them. Shackle them unwittingly with your own shitty, shitty insecurity because even though you’re immortal you refuse to accept the natural order.

Regardless of which outcome you go with, Emmrich is in dire need of therapy. Luckily, as a human and not an immortal undead lich, he can do a lot less damage to himself and those he claims to love. But he really does need to work through his issues around his fear of death, his denial of mortality, and his insecurities in relationships, and I think if he stays mortal it’s more likely that in time once the world is saved and he and Rook settle down, he would be open to addressing those things - or hell he might even identify and work on them himself because he’s got the support of his partner - his EQUAL - who will stand by him and help him navigate things however they can.

Lich Emmrich though? He doesn’t feel like he *needs* to. Rook is no longer an equal, they are someone to be cherished and protected like an exceedingly old and rare edition of a book. They lose their personhood in EmmLich’s eyes and eventually become a possession, which should disgust him and he’d deny it vehemently but it’s true.

This is very rambling and badly worded and I’m just spewing random disjointed thoughts without any real point, @aldisobey I really loved this and how insidiously sweet it was. It’s just perfect. Thank you for writing it 🤍

Fuel to Fire

AO3 Link - Fuel to Fire

A gift on this eve! Finally got it to a point where I don't mind sharing. Emmlich content, come get some Emmlich and Rook angst. It's got comfort and warmth and I've been with it too long just take it before I start hating it again. Tagging @emmg you asked for it! (oh yeah and the title is just the song I listened to the most, it's how I'm naming things because eugh naming things how). Technically part two in a series, check out Nascent Blight if you need more.

Word Count: ~3k

Relationship: Rook Thorne x Emmlich, M/M

Full story below because why not

Emmrich paced the room, green flickers of his skull mixing light with the soothing glow of the water’s reflection on the ground. Rook sprawled out on the divan, head back on the armrest, eyes closed, and rubbed at his temples. Peeked a moment at the towering necromancer gleaming soft in the muted room.

“Rook.” Emmrich’s stern tone made him squeeze his eyes shut. The lich ceased pacing and stood near the small table at the center. Hands folded behind him he faced the waters. “That was reckless.”

The Warden was still coated in lingering blight from the Wetlands. He’d meant to clean up and go celebrate the Eruption’s destruction on return to the Lighthouse, but it was all he could do to drag himself here. He could still feel the echo of it. Too close, too much.

He gripped his head, pressed hard as he dared to drive away the thrumming recollection of whispers. Thank whatever luck graced him it hadn’t…his hands dropped. One to the ground, the other his chest. Their pressures had provided no relief. It would fade, always had, should have stopped when they burned the thing, but something of it’s nature let that damnable echo persist. That or a head injury, he’d taken some hits.

He sighed. Slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to glance at Emmrich’s back facing him.

“Had to be done.” Equally stern in a quiet way, exhaustion clear.

“You might have left the matter to Davrin.” A resounding voice. The folded hands clenched, then released, flicked to the side as Emmrich turned round to fix Rook with his hollow stare, “Or Evka and Antoine, or any number of other Wardens in Lavendell.”

“Emmrich,” Rook responded more softly, slowly, but kept firm, “I had my reasons.”

“And?” The skull tilted, frustration snipping, “Were those reasons worth it?” Emmrich gestured towards Rook, everything said in that tone and movement. Today had not been easy for the rogue. Taash had to half carry him back.

“Yes.” Grumbling, he swung his legs off the divan, sat up properly to face Emmrich’s accusations. “They were.” He straightened his back and squared off his shoulders, suppressed the pulse built on his forehead with a heavy blink. “Look. I brought Taash because they can burn whatever comes their way. And I brought you because you’re undead.”

Emmrich twitched, almost imperceptibly, at that. Rook might’ve missed it had his attention on the lich been less than absolute, but the movement sent his stomach falling. He bit at his tongue and rushed on.

“We got the job done alright? Lavendell can thrive. Everyone safe.” He rushed the words. Kept them short. Folded his arms. He might’ve looked petulant, but the wear of the day was too loud. Holes in the sleeves, tears on the sides, slash on the leg, all red stained, all healed flesh below, but memories of wounds. Everywhere.

“Darling. What about you?” Emmrich’s voice shook, seeing more than the evident physical. Undead eyes exposed a roiling of lingering red pain whispers, swirling confusion, exhaustion like a leaded blanket.

“Hmm? I’m already blighted, it was no concern.” Rook shrugged, doing his best to appear at ease. Brush off the worry, confirm the wellness of the situation. They were here, they were whole, they…

“Enough.” A snarl of exasperation, Emmrich stepped closer, seeming ever taller as he approached, “Davrin would have joined us had it been no concern. You brought Taash.” There was finality in the words, a stillness as the simmering anger evened and burned with purpose, “I was there, Rook. Your Warden friends were quite clear on the danger that Eruption posed to you.”

Rook grimaced, rubbed his hands, felt over callus, cut, and bruise. It hurt. He added pressure, focused the pain there.

Emmrich was right of course. The lingering pounding in his head was testament to that. What if the Eruption had sparked something? It felt safer for Taash to be there with their fire. Why put more than one Warden at risk? How many was it if not him? If not Davrin? Thoughts roiling he shrank below that green gaze burrowing into him feet away. Rook realized then he’d gone slack jawed, unable to think of an acceptable excuse. But no. He had made the right call.

He snapped his mouth shut.

“Fine!” Rook growled and stood using the armrest with a stifled groan. Patience worn thin after all the drumming in his skull he put his hands to his hips when he reached his full height and glared up at Emmrich.

He didn’t shout, but matched the steaming frustration, “I knew it was dangerous for me. Alright? But I had to do it.” The words came out through grit teeth, biting back the desire to escalate.

Emmrich drew back. Not a step, but into himself. “Dearest...”

“No, don't dearest me.” It came out like a hiss, and Rook leaned the smallest degree forward, “The Grey Wardens need every last person after all this.” His hands flailed out, gesturing vaguely to the world at large, “After Weisshaupt…” A breath found him. The fury caught on his tongue. This shouldn’t be so hard.

He cleared his throat, kept strong, “My jobs done once we’ve killed those gods.” His hands returned to his temples for a moment to steady himself, applied pressure to calm the beat. The blood flushing to his face couldn’t be helping.

Rook gave his head a shake and looked askance, maker how did a skull appear sad, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Unable to face Emmrich in that hunched posture before him. Bent, mourning, pathetic…no, Rook swallowed. Not that. The necromancer didn’t stand alone. The lean was enclosing him, protective. He dared a glance forward.

The lich stood draping the Warden in shadow like some gilded ribbed vaulting. And Rook, an insignificant supplicant come, with soft flesh aching, stinking of blight. Before a cathedral.

“Davrin’s got a book in the works!” He sputtered before he forgot all of the pieces reinforcing his decision. “Antoine makes such things?” Because it had been the right decision, “Can you imagine things if left to Evka’s hands?” They would all flourish after he did his part.

“You think I’d risk a single one of them?” Voice a hushed whisper of desperation. He couldn’t bear it.

No. The gods died next. No one else.

Tomorrow. His mind kept at a furious pace. A last check on Lavendell. Then Treviso, the Crows had word. He could feel cold sweat on his neck, they might have a location. Almost there. Not much longer now, almost safe, and all at once his legs went weak. Rook sank, barely controlled, back down to the divan. He settled with elbows on his knees, hands holding his head, and stared down at the floor. Could feel welling in his eyes, blinked it away.

“Rook,” Emmrich’s voice was slow, the gentle echo of a creek; water over stones as it traveled through him, “I’m sorry.”

Sincerity. Rook could feel it. Feel his nerves still at the serene appeal, “You carry the weight of every decision. Don’t you?” Not a question, a declaration, and in hearing it, so firmly spoken, Rook quaked.

“You were exemplary today.” Finally. A shuddering breath, a tiny lift, that voice of praise, a warming balm.

“My love,” The words sank deep past the skin, something in the tone kneading them firmly within the chest, past bone and into heart where a soul might sit, “let me help you.” Rook sniffed, didn’t trust his voice, dipped a nod once. Emmrich extended his hand, gestured towards Rook’s head.

Movements small, close, Rook leaned in, but then gave start, bit his lip, froze, “..wait.” He still needed to scour, make sure every speck of blight was gone, that could take awhile for hair.

“That’s of no concern.” Emmrich smirked.

Rook looked up as that comforting palm settled soft on his head. Peered past the linen, memories flashing of that arched brow, those lidded eyes, and met a crowned skull, flickering flame. He’d heard it in the tone.

His eyes went wide, tight pain gripped his chest. That was the cost wasn’t it? But then, he felt his heart beat. There was that…the desire...ever since…

'Rook’s Necromancer. An excellent subject to test how long one could go back and forth between life and death.'

Rook blinked at the perfect, beautiful, loving undead skull staring back at him, the whisper of hope escaping from dreams and solidifying here and now.

“You’re safe.” Rook choked out the words.

Then collapsed. Gone so limp he would have fallen from couch to floor had Emmrich not anticipated the movement and dropped to his knees to catch him in his arms.

They dropped together a moment, Emmrich’s arms a cushioning guide. And once stable, once still, he lifted, held the trembling man close, and carefully settled down on the divan with him. The Warden, for his part, was all snot and tears, clinging to the lich’s robes. His arms wrapped tight around the ribcage as he pressed close as he could.

"Emmrich, it can't…” His voice and body shook, words closing off in the shudder of relief.

Emmrich cradled Rook as tight as he dared, a soft hush drifting from him as he brought calm in his firm embrace. There was no measured breathing to guide the man hiccupping into his cloak, so Emmrich purposefully rubbed Rook’s back in the rhythm of a breath, and with a few extra movements green sprites darted from his fingers. All at once sound was still and calm around Rook’s hearing, and then began the sigh of trees, wind through leaves, in measured cadence to help level the rogue’s racing heart.

Rook almost felt a cool breeze on his skin same as he heard it, and the glow of water and flame mixed like light through the leaves to his eyes. He sighed, then lifted his head, buried it beneath the lich’s chin, felt his final quivers fade as a hum traveled in waves through the bones embracing him, back and forth, kissing skin where it touched, a fleeting doting touch. The beginnings of a smile and easy breath came to him at last.

Emmrich’s voice sounded quiet around…in…where his head lay. The traveling hum returned deep and pleasant, warming the skin where it passed. “My love. To think…you worried over me, to such...” Disbelief mixed with adoration, Emmrich’s voice eased its way into Rook’s waiting ears, pure love. The lost words saying more than any uttered.

Rook was steady now, melting instead of shivering, he clung to that genuine smile dawning on his lips, he could have this at least. They couldn’t take this. Rook tilted his head up to whisper to the air where Emmrich’s throat might’ve been.

“I love you.”

He put his head back down as he felt both of Emmrich’s hands move up to massage his scalp. The room was incandescent with green, the necromancer’s palms the epicenter of the glow. Focused. He plied at the Warden’s head. His movements were rhythmic, the magic alive with a pulse and rippling at his direction.

Rook could feel the echos become sated, the answering ebb of the necrotic channeling a path of release, carrying the riptide tight and rebounding in his skull back out to sea. Ease and push, gentle waves of magic and fingers worked the movements with Fade and physical, gently towing that ache out from the Warden’s skull.

Rook yawned, almost a thrum while in Emmrich's care, “Of course I was worried.” And he stretched in small movements, “You immortal fool.” His voice was low, pining, enraptured by the fool he entrusted with his care. Emmrich didn’t reply, his voice occupied in the ending incantations. Otherwise they kept in silence, the soft green glow encasing Rook’s scalp continuing to pulse, dancing with the shimmering from the tank.

“Darling,” when Emmrich's voice finally graced Rook again it sent warmth flashing through him, “I’m safe.” A rolling delight, the aches and pains losing hold, Rook groaned, toes curled as every muscle seemed to tighten, and hold. Then release.

The magic dimmed. Rook breathed heavy, then slow, then measured, calm. Almost asleep.

Emmrich sighed, his voice an echo that resounded through the room. He took a long laborious moment to take off his crown, and with utmost care placed it on the table behind them. Then, barefaced as possible, spoke gentle, the deep echo private now, tumbling only to the Warden’s ears, “But, Sir Thorne.” He looked down at Rook, tilted the man’s face to look up from where it lay on his sternum, kept his tracing fingers there, touch yearning. “You are most unsafe.”

Rook felt his eyes go hot at the words, if only because Emmrich’s couldn’t, and he could hear the despondent tears held in the lich’s tone. He tried to look away, but that meant leaving that soft touch on his chin, he pressed down into the palm instead.

“I’m sorry.” he twisted his head deeper into the hand, whispered the mumbled words into Emmrich’s thumb. The thumb traced Rook’s lips a moment, but seemed distant, moving further away.

“Those are words, Rook.” Emmrich’s hand withdrew, Rook looked up, sensing the gravity in the next words had been stressed by absent touch. “Please. If only out of love for me. Take more thought and action towards your safety?”

Rook gave the barest of nods, mind rebelling against the gross hope of self preservation. He nestled back down and away from the skull’s sight. Emmrich’s voice grumbled in old exasperation, his hands moving to cradle the Warden’s skull and massage along his neck. “If you remain so determined to put your life at risk I’ll have no choice but to drag you to the deepest tombs of the Necropolis. Seal you there until you develop a modicum of sense.”

“That a promise?” Rook’s voice surprised them both, and had Emmrich been able to feel heat his hands might have burned from where they held Rook. So quick and fierce was the flush on the man, so immediate the reply, it came without thought, driven by something deeper.

He could feel the lich’s fingers dig hard into his skin. Maker he really did want...The skull was staring up and away from him now. But Rook could hear the words resound in his own chest, “Don’t tempt me.” A low rolling warning, like thunder from a storm still away. But Rook could sense the ache, felt his heart quicken at what some choice words might lead to, felt the barest tremor in the hands holding him, but then they were gone. The storm gave way to trickling laughter at the thought.

Emmrich moved to extricate himself from the divan, took extra care to settle Rook comfortably in place. Hummed away the lighthearted mirth as he stood free and took off his cloak, gently draped it over the fading Warden, “Seriously, dearest, you mustn't jest.”

Rook held tight to the lich’s cloak and burrowed into it, buried his face deep in the lapel as he muttered half asleep already, “Don’t tease, you started it”.

He yawned. Felt warm, eased his mind to think of falling quiet, but the shiver of dreams crept up at him. The Fade always awaited, didn't it. Rook bit at his cheek, blinked an eye open to peek out from beneath the cloak. Emmrich was still there, though his back was turned to him now, he had taken to quiet pacing again, fish in the tank following as he glittered in the pale light.

“Emmrich.” Rook whispered.

“Hmm?” Emmrich paused midstep, fish paused midswim.

Rook stifled a chuckle, overcome at that moment with overwhelming adoration. He could ask this, a beaming smile hidden beneath the cloak, eye twinkling from beneath the fabric he muttered, “You once comforted me by saying the lich lords were, ‘Unlikely to visit your slumber’.”

Rook mused, calling back to that first time, that first terror. Emmrich had been so excited to share, so animated when explaining, the first time Rook heard the word ‘Lich’. Ice had taken Rook’s veins then. Fresh terror, new fear, but what emotion did he know better? And what a blessing it could be? His blood ran cold. Something deep in his gut warned him, but he ignored it. Looked long at the lich before him, fish following Emmrich’s concerned sway, and let the prickling sensation thaw, there could be warmth here, “Is that…something…you could do?” He finally asked.

“Oh.” The lich seemed to stand taller, an edge of excitement to his tone. “I hadn’t the time to consider it.” He started towards Rook, came to kneel at his side, put a hand on the cloak where the man’s shoulder lay, head tilting in question, “Would that interest you?”

Rook poked more of his head out so that his lips could be read, voice a hush, “Maybe…if you can, just uh check in?” He swallowed, “That song, it's in dreams…it’s worse…” Emmrich’s hushing tones cut off Rook. One hand going so far as to pull the cloak back up to cover the Warden's mouth and tuck him in.

“My love, speak no further. Sleep. Nothing will dare trouble your dreams.”

“Thank you…you know you can troub…”

“Another time darling. Please. Rest.”

Eyes closed Rook could hear the smirk again, felt a heaviness settle in his limbs, swore he was already dreaming when he heard the warmth in the immortal’s voice holding him, was that a lullaby? And sleep took him.