#my cheeks are warm and my heart is beating too fast

[ellewritesx]

explore me slowly

(part two of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: Firsts aren't always easy. Lucky for you, Harry's got patience— and a plan.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, lots of talk about virginity and sex, fingering, brief oral (f!receiving), sexual guilt (it's so common and it's time we start talking about it)

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! sorry this update took foreverrr. i've had a rough week, but i'm back now and working hard on creating new content for you guys :) i'm so happy to see the love i received on part one of this, thank you all sososo much. series tag list is open x

Word Count: 4,319

...

You're nervous.

Not the jittery, wide-eyed kind of nervous, but the quiet kind. It simmers just beneath the surface, where your stomach feels light and fluttery, and your thoughts are buzzing too fast to catch.

You're sitting with Harry on his couch, tucked beneath the blanket that always smells like him, like fresh, warm laundry and cedarwood and something a little sweeter underneath. The movie he put on a while ago has turned to static now, background noise, barely audible under the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Your mind keeps drifting back to last Friday night, to that first conversation you and Harry had about your virginity, turning it over in your head, trying to decide what you want.

But now you know.

You pull back a little, tilting your head to look at him properly, and your voice is smaller than you mean it to be when you speak up. ''I think… I want to try something tonight.''

That gets his attention.

His arm, which had been draped along the back of the couch and absentmindedly stroking your shoulder, stills. He turns to face you, scanning your features with those sharp, observant eyes like he's trying to understand everything you're not saying. ''Try something?'' he echoes, but it's not teasing. It's curious. Encouraging.

You nod. Your fingers curl in the hem of your shorts, anchoring yourself. ''I don't know what exactly. I just… I trust you. And I want to explore. Whatever you think is best to start with.''

He stays quiet for a beat, his thumb brushing the side of your thigh under the blanket. ''Are you sure?''

You nod again, firmer this time. ''Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. I'm not trying to rush into anything I'm not ready for. And I'm not ready for... everything, but we could do something else, right?''

Harry's expression softens into something tender. You can see it shift, the subtle change in how he's holding himself. The way he sinks a bit deeper into the cushions, like the weight of your blind trust, and his responsibility for it, slowly settles onto his shoulders.

''Okay,'' he says. ''We'll go slow. If you're okay with it, I'd like to understand where you're at. What you're comfortable with. What you like, what you don't like, y'know?''

You inhale deeply, your shoulders relaxing at the sound of his calm voice. You hadn't realized how much tension you'd been holding until now. You hum in response, heart thudding steady in your chest.

Harry's eyes flick to your lips, your eyes, your hands in your lap. He shifts slightly so he's facing you more directly. ''So… when you say you want to try something, what does that look like for you tonight? Is there something you've been curious about?''

You chew your lip. ''I don't know, really. That's the thing. I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know where I'm supposed to start, what I'm supposed to explore. That's why I'm asking you to... I don't know, lead. To tell me what to do.''

''I can do that. Is there anything that's off-limits tonight?'' he asks carefully, his hand moving to rest lightly on your bare knee.

You think about it for a moment, then shake your head. ''I don't want to… you know. Go all the way. Not yet.''

''Okay,'' he smiles, squeezing your knee softly in reassurance. ''What about me touching you? With my hands, or my mouth?''

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks. The words make you squirm, but you manage to give him a curt nod, forcing a tight-lipped, nervous smile. ''Yeah. I think I'd like to try that.''

He smiles gently, fingers brushing your neck, waiting for any sign of hesitation. When all he sees is curiosity etched onto your features, he dips his head under yours, pressing soft kisses to your neck.

Your heartbeat pounds under your skin as Harry caresses your arms, rubbing them up and down soothingly. You gasp when he sucks lightly on your skin, taking his time getting you in the mood.

''Do you want me to show you what feels good? Or do you want to tell me what to do?'' he murmurs, his lips brushing your collarbone.

You bite your lip, throat dry. ''I… I want you to show me.''

He stands up, then holds out a hand.

''Come here, love.''

You take it, and he tugs you to your feet, pulling a huffed laugh from you. He puts his hands on your waist and begins slowly walking you backward, firm and deliberate, toward his bedroom, not breaking eye contact once. Something about it, the effortless confidence he exudes, the air of nonchalance, makes your breath hitch.

And when your back hits his bedroom door, he pauses. He leans in, foreheads touching, his breath mingling with yours.

''You're sure?'' he whispers.

You nod. ''I'm sure.''

And then he kisses you, deep and passionate, his hand fumbling for the door handle behind you. He chuckles against your lips when he clumsily opens the door, and you both stumble in with a laugh.

Harry's bedroom is dim, the lamp on his bedside table painting the room in a soft yellow. You turn around, taking in his space. It feels intimate. It's simple, minimalistic, but so Harry.

There are sticky notes attached to the small notice board above his desk, filled with hasty scribbles like yoga pushed to 7 this Thursday!!! and pick up mum from the airport!!! and a nonsensical jumble of random words and phrases. Lyrics for new songs, you think.

The door clicks shut behind him and you feel his presence behind you, steady, unfaltering, unlike the beat of your heart. For a second, neither of you speak. You're not sure when the room got so quiet, but your pulse thrums in your ears, the sound of your shallow breathing seeming to mute everything else.

Then his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back into the solid heat of his chest. He dips his head to your height and presses a kiss just behind your ear, then another one to the slope of your neck, and you melt into him by instinct.

His fingers find the hem of your hoodie, his hoodie, technically, the navy one you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. It still smells faintly like his cologne, the way his clothes always do when he forgets them on your couch. He gathers the fabric, lifting it inch by inch until it bunches beneath your waist, right above your grey shorts.

It had felt a little silly when you put it on after your shower this morning, but his mouth twitches into a smile when he recognizes it, his fingers toying with the material. ''This mine?''

''Yeah. You were outgrowing it anyway,'' you tease, turning around in his hold and playfully squeezing his biceps. He's been frequenting the gym increasingly more often, and it shows. You assume it's his way of blowing off steam now that he's not performing.

''Hm. It does look better on you,'' he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hands trail lower. He gently tugs at the hem, waiting for your approval. ''Can I take this off?''

You hesitate, just a second, but it's enough to make him pause, watching you closely. It's not that you don't trust him, or don't want to, but you can already feel the air on your thighs, your stomach, the dip of your lower back. And the idea of being completely bare under his gaze, no barriers, no fabric, no layers to hide behind, suddenly feels a little too exposed. Too vulnerable.

Your hands catch his quickly, wrapping around his palms, though you know that Harry wouldn't move an inch without your consent.

''I… would it be okay if I kept it on? Just for now?'' you ask, cheeks burning. ''I don't think I'm comfortable being fully naked yet.''

There's not even a beat of silence before he nods, brushing your hair back behind your ear. ''Of course. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You look beautiful like this, too.''

Your hesitation doesn't frustrate or deter him. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulls it up over his head and carelessly tosses it aside.

Your breath catches. He's so close that you can see the faint freckles adorning his collarbone, the gold cross nestled between his pecs, the trail of ink curling down his strong arms.

You reach out before you can second-guess it, fingers brushing across the small tattoos above his heart, the ones you've only ever seen half-hidden beneath his clothes. Your hand grazes the tattoos that trail down the skin of his left shoulder, his bicep, his arm, like a river that meanders delicately through a forest.

He watches you, quiet and confident, as your palm flattens over his chest. His skin is warm under your fingers, smooth and solid and real. You trace one of the swallows across his collarbone, then dip lower, brushing your knuckles down the line of his sternum. The ridges of his abs flex slightly beneath your touch.

''You're so…'' you trail off, suddenly embarrassed by your own awe.

Harry gives you a lopsided smile, like he knows what you mean without needing to hear it. ''Thank you, baby. You can touch me as much as you want,'' he says, voice thick with something more tender than lust. ''Take your time, darlin'. I'm not going anywhere.''

You lean up to kiss him, and when your hands settle around his hips, he presses forward just enough to guide you backward toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress and you land with a soft thud. Harry follows, kneeling between your legs, one hand curling around the back of your thigh to pull it around his waist.

You shiver when his knuckles graze the edge of your shorts, and he catches the reaction immediately.

''Still okay?'' he murmurs against your lips.

''Yeah,'' you whisper. ''I just… don't know what I'm doing.''

''You don't have to,'' he insists. The sheets are cool against your skin, grounding, while Harry hovers over you, broad and warm and impossibly gentle and patient. ''That's what tonight's for, yeah? You tell me what feels good. What doesn't. I'll listen.''

His fingers stroke over the outside of your shorts first, featherlight at first, then with a little more pressure. Just enough to let the heat pool low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively at the unfamiliarity of it all. You let out a soft, shaky breath.

He looks up at you, lips curved, eyes kind. ''That feel alright?''

''Mhm.''

''Use your words for me, baby,'' he teases lightly, but there's no pressure. Just playfulness.

You swallow. ''It feels… really good.''

That earns you a kiss, warm and sweet, and this time his hand drifts over your stomach, fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie. He doesn't try to lift it again, just slips his palm beneath the fabric, splaying it over your skin, stroking your bare side.

His hands don't rush. They just keep tracing the shape of you, mapping the curves and valleys like they're sacred terrain. Then his fingers slide down past your navel, knuckles grazing your skin, brushing the waistband of your shorts.

You draw in a shaky breath.

''Still good?'' he asks, watching you.

You nod. ''Yes. Please.''

He smiles reassuringly and continues his trail down your shorts. His fingers move over the cotton, just the faintest pressure, barely there. But even that is enough to send a jolt through you, hips twitching in surprise when he brushes against your clothed clit.

You're more sensitive than you expected. Everything feels heightened: his breath on your cheek, the press of his fingers through the fabric, the weight of his gaze on your face.

''Feels good?''

You nod, unable to speak.

He strokes over the same spot a little more firmly this time, slow and rhythmic. ''You're already wet,'' he groans, almost like he's in awe. ''I haven't even done anything. Fuck, that's so hot.''

You flush, turning your face into his shoulder, and he chuckles softly. ''You don't have to be shy with me,'' he whispers. ''Nobody's around. It's just you and me, yeah? I've got you.''

You nod bashfully. His hand slips under the waistband of your shorts and slides your panties aside with a gentle tug. For the first time ever, someone else touches you where you've barely explored yourself, the pad of his finger dragging softly through your folds.

You tense instantly, just from the unfamiliarity of it, but he doesn't push. Just keeps it slow, gentle, careful, learning the way your body responds, noting every soft whine and every stutter of breath. It's a different kind of touch than your own. More assured. Confident, but not cocky. He's paying attention to every shift in your body, like your pleasure is a language and he wants to be fluent.

He finds your clit and circles it with the pad of his finger, light and teasing, until your hips lift from the bed with a choked whimper, and his pace quickens. You didn't know it could feel like this. Every nerve is lit up, like your skin is catching fire in the best way.

''Oh,'' you breathe out, your body sinking into the mattress as you sigh contently, the tension in your muscles melting away.

Harry smiles. ''Yeah?''

You nod, eyes fluttering shut, head thrown back against the pillow.

Harry glances up again, pride flickering in his expression. ''That good?''

''So good,'' you whisper.

He grins, but it's soft, not smug. He eases you further back onto the bed, and you go willingly, your legs falling open around his waist as he crawls down your body, pulling your shorts down with him as he goes, just enough to expose your panties to him.

Then he leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. And another, closer to the edge of your underwear. He hums low in his throat, like the scent of your arousal has undone something in him. His hand is still between your thighs, and he pushes a finger inside, just one for now, testing, studying your reaction, while his thumb keeps stroking your clit to keep you relaxed.

Your breath catches at the stretch. It's not painful, just… new. Unfamiliar. Full.

But it feels good. Better than anything you've ever felt on your own.

Harry leans his cheek against your inner thigh, watching your pussy accomodate to the stretch of his finger with awe etched onto his face. His eyes flick up to your face, searching your expression for any discomfort or pain. ''Too much?''

You shake your head. ''No. Feels… good.''

Then he kisses your thigh again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his hot breath against your cunt, and you realize what he's planning.

But when you feel the first swipe of his tongue, it's too much.

You gasp and your hand flies to his hair, not tugging hard, just enough to pull him back. ''Wait. Sorry. That's... a little overwhelming.''

He pulls back instantly, looking up at you with such gentle understanding it nearly makes your heart burst out of your chest. ''Don't apologize. That's totally okay.''

''I don't know why,'' you say, cheeks warm. ''It's just… a lot.''

''It's okay, love. This is all brand new to you,'' he soothes, pressing a kiss to your thigh. ''We can save that for another night, yeah? We have all the time in the world to go slow, baby.''

There's no disappointment in his voice. No pressure. He's just... here. With you. For you. The realization tugs at your heartstrings.

You nod, and he climbs back up your body, propping himself up on one arm, letting you catch your breath as he hovers over you. The warmth between your legs lingers, building slowly as his hand starts to move again, hushed praises falling from his lips.

His touch is focused, fingers slow, right where you need them. This time, you relax into it. Let the tension coil in your belly, growing tighter and tighter with every slow circle of his fingers, every kiss he presses against your shoulder, your jaw, your temple.

Your breathing stutters. Your thighs clench. Your fingers dig into his forearm, making him groan. He curls his finger slightly and your back arches with a sudden, gasping moan.

''Harry, fuck—''

''There she is,'' he breathes. ''There you go, darlin'. That's it. Let go for me. You don't have to think. Just feel. I've got you.''

He keeps the rhythm steady, his thumb circling your clit, his finger curling inside of you. Your thighs tense, your hips stutter, and then your whole body locks up with a choked sound as the pleasure spills over all at once. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, sharp and sweet and overwhelming in the best way. Your fingers grip the bedsheets, and you can barely hear yourself moaning his name like a prayer, your breath stuttering out in broken gasps.

Harry's voice is low and tender as he eases you through it. ''That's it, baby. So good. So fucking good. You did so well for me.''

You're shaking while he helps you ride it out, only pulling his hand out of your shorts when you whine quietly in overstimulation, your chest heaving. His attention shifts to you immediately, cradling your face in his palm, brushing sweaty hair from your temple.

''You okay?''

''Yeah. Just…'' you swallow, blinking up at him, dazed. ''I think… I think that was my first real orgasm, Harry.''

He stills, his mouth curving into a slow smile. ''Yeah?'' he says, and he sounds so proud you could cry. ''That was your first?''

You nod again, cheeks hot. ''I thought I'd already had one, but it's never felt like that before. Not even close.''

He leans in to kiss you, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he's ever laid his hands on. ''Fuck, baby. Thank you for letting me be the first. That means more than you know.''

He rolls over and plops down on the mattress with a content sigh, one arm falling over his eyes. You rest your head on his heaving chest, heart still pounding, and his other arm instantly wraps around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

Your body feels weightless, boneless, like you've melted into the sheets completely. The air around you is warm and still, the silence only broken by Harry's pants beside you.

The hem of his hoodie is still bunched around your thighs, and you're vaguely aware of the dampness between your legs and the faint throb in your muscles. It doesn't hurt, it just lingers, like your body is still catching up to the memory of being touched.

Harry presses a kiss to your temple, then leans up on one elbow, brushing your hair back gently.

''Stay here,'' he whispers. ''Gonna get you some water and a towel to clean you up, alright? I'll be right back, promise.''

You nod, dazed. His voice is so soft. So safe.

A few minutes pass while he moves around the room. You hear the faucet turn on in the bathroom, the clink of a glass against porcelain, the shuffle of his feet across the floorboards.

Everything is ordinary. Normal.

But the longer you lie there, the tighter your chest becomes.

It starts slow. A little whisper in the back of your mind. You did that. You let someone do that to you. You gave it away. It's over.

Your thighs are still damp. You feel the stickiness on your skin and suddenly you can't breathe quite right. Your heartbeat starts to pick up. A sour kind of shame crawls up your throat, thick and hot, choking you before you can swallow it down.

You shift in the bed, curling your legs up to your chest. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, knuckles turning white from your grip.

It was good. He was kind. You wanted it. So why do you feel like this?

The door creaks open again. Harry enters quietly, carrying a glass of water and a warm washcloth. His eyes go to you first, always to you, and the second he sees how you're curled in on yourself, his face tightens, his brows furrowing.

''Hey,'' he calls out gently, setting everything on the nightstand. ''What's wrong?''

You try to speak but your throat closes up. The tears come suddenly, a choked sob leaving your chest. One moment your eyes are just stinging, the next they're spilling over, silent and hot, streaming down your cheeks faster than you can wipe them away.

Harry's at your side in an instant.

''Baby…'' He kneels beside the bed, cupping your face in both hands, eyes scanning yours like he's desperate to read your mind. ''Talk to me. Did I hurt you? Was I too rough?''

You shake your head, but your voice is caught in your chest.

''Do you… do you regret it?'' he asks, and you hear the break in his voice. ''Did I do something wrong?''

''No,'' you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracked. ''No, it's not you. You didn't, Harry. You didn't do anything wrong. You were perfect.''

His brows pinch together, eyes searching, lips parting like he wants to understand so badly, but can't. ''Then what is it? What's hurting you, love? Please talk to me. Tell me so I can fix it.''

You swallow hard, wiping your tears in silent frustration, your voice small and scared. ''I just feel… gross. I feel dirty. I don't know why. I wanted it, and I don't... I don't regret it, but now that it happened I...'' you hiccup a sob. ''I feel so fucking ashamed.''

The words are like acid in your mouth. Saying them aloud makes them more real.

Harry's eyes soften instantly, his whole body folding toward you. He takes a seat next to you on the bed, pulls you into his arms gently. ''Oh, baby,'' he breathes out, cradling you against his chest. ''I'm so sorry, love. I should've realized how you were feeling sooner.''

You press your face into his shoulder, fists curling in the fabric of his sweatpants. ''It's not your fault,'' you whisper. ''I promise. I just… it's me. Something's wrong with me.''

''Nothing's wrong with you,'' he says, kind, but firm. Definitive. ''Nothing. This is so much more common than you think, baby. Especially when it's your first time.''

''Really?'' you ask, timid.

He pulls back slightly to look at you. ''Yeah, love. You can want it, and it can feel amazing, and you can still feel overwhelmed after. It's okay to feel both things at the same time,'' he gives you a pained smile, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ''It's not because you did something bad. Not at all, baby. It's because we're taught to feel shame around sex. Especially women.''

You sniffle, the words loosening something in your chest.

''I just feel like I lost something,'' you say quietly, shame sinking into your bones. ''Something I can't get back. And I know I chose it. I don't regret it, I really don't, but it feels... sinful, almost. Like I should've saved it longer, or done it differently, or just… I don't know.''

Harry kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there. ''You didn't lose anything, darlin'. You shared something. With someone who loves being trusted by you. You didn't lose anything.''

Your eyes blur again at the softness in his voice. ''But it feels so wrong, and I know that doesn't make sense. You were gentle, and I wanted it, I loved it, and I still feel like I did something wrong.''

Harry wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you close like he can protect you from your own insecurities. ''It makes perfect sense,'' he says. ''You're not wrong for feeling this way. You're human. You're taught that virginity is something that gets taken from you. It's not. It's an experience you share, but nothing fundamental changes.''

You bury your face in his neck, your voice muffled. ''But why do I feel so small?''

''Because it was a big step,'' he says simply. ''Because it mattered. You've built this up in your head for so long, and maybe part of you started to think doing this would change you forever. But you're still the same person you were yesterday, baby.''

Your breath shudders and you collapse into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, and he just holds you, rocking you softly and murmuring sweet reassurances and praises into your hair.

Eventually, the tears ease. The ache in your chest dulls. You feel whole again, grounded. And you stay there, in his arms, breathing in the safety of his skin, until the world feels quiet again.

Harry kisses your hair and whispers, ''Wanna try that water now?''

You sniffle and nod, still tucked against him. ''Yeah. Thank you.''

He reaches for the glass and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours. You bring it up to your lips and gratefully take a few sips before handing it back to him with a shaky smile.

''You okay to stay here with me tonight?'' he asks as he puts the glass back on his nightstand.

You nod again, taking in a shuddering breath. ''Please.''

He helps you under the covers and slips in beside you. You curl into his chest and he strokes your hair like it's second nature. Like holding you is something he was made to do.

''I think I'm in love with you.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73

teach me slowly series tag list

@maddiesalvatore1839 @mleestiles @imaginexxharry

...

[wvyik]

୭ ˚. ᰔ ILYSMIH. ⋆˚࿔

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: after giving birth, you are utterly exhausted but safe in dean’s arms, who’s the proudest, most supportive dad ever. through the haze of sleepless nights and overwhelming love, dean proves he’s got both your and baby’s back.

♯ warnings: mentions of childbirth and exhaustion (no graphic medical details, but some emotional rawness), emotional vulnerability & tearful moments, slow-building parenthood fluff, hints of postpartum struggle, focus on comfort, love, and care.

♯ notes: hi loves!! so please tell me im not the only one that’s borderline obsessed with kali uchis?? ilysmih is my favorite song on her recent album!! anywayzz hope this gives you all the warm fuzzies.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. Just the weight of everything crashing down once the room quieted, the pressure behind your eyes, the way your chest felt like it had been split open and filled with something too big to hold. There were voices. Nurses, footsteps, maybe even soft crying, and then nothing.

Then warmth.

Not the kind that blankets you, but the kind that feels alive. A palm brushing your forehead, calloused but careful. Fingers threading through your messy hair like you were something fragile. That’s what woke you. That, and his voice.

“Hey, mama.”

Dean’s voice wasn’t loud, it was barely there. Like if he spoke too hard, the moment would shatter. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t trying to hide it. He stood at the edge of the bed, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them, eyes locked on the tiny bundle resting on your chest.

He looked at you like he’d been struck. Like he’d seen a ghost and fallen in love with it.

“You— baby, you did it.”

You blinked slow, trying to pull yourself up on your elbows, but your body protested instantly. Everything ached. Your muscles, your head, even your teeth. Dean noticed immediately, rushing to your side and pressing a hand to your shoulder, shaking his head.

“No, don’t— don’t move. I got you. Just rest. Just breathe.”

And then he reached down; gently, reverently, and picked up the baby. Like it was holy. His hands were big around them, careful, sure. His breath caught in his throat the second he had them cradled against his chest.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Oh my god, look at you.”

There was a beat. The kind of silence that means everything. And then he laughed, low and breathless and a little broken. The kind of laugh you let out when you’re looking at something you never thought you’d get to hold.

“You made this,” he whispered, glancing at you like you were the moon. “You made this, sweetheart. Jesus.”

The baby made this tiny, sleepy noise, and Dean’s whole body curled in around them. Like instinct. Like it was the only thing his body knew how to do anymore. He sat on the edge of your bed, eyes wide and heart in his throat, and rocked the baby with a rhythm that was too natural to be learned.

“I didn’t even know it was possible to love something this fast,” he said, voice cracking. “Didn’t know it could hit like this.”

You were so tired. Every blink felt like it might be the last before sleep pulled you under again. But you didn’t want to miss a second. Not this. Not him.

Dean looked over at you, tears sliding down his cheeks like they didn’t even belong to him. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “You’re so fuckin’ brave. I don’t know how I got this lucky, but I swear to God I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you know.”

He leaned over, kissed your temple. His lips stayed there for a while. Breathing you in. Like he needed proof this was real. Like if he let go, he might wake up in the Impala in some cheap motel parking lot, and this would all disappear.

Then he whispered something to the baby. Too quiet to catch. Just soft enough that you knew it was sacred.

When he sat back again, he started humming. Some old rock ballad you couldn’t place through the fog in your brain. He rocked the baby like it was muscle memory, smiling down like he’d just been given the world wrapped in hospital blankets.

“I’m your dad,” he told them, chuckling to himself. “I’m your dad, holy shit.” he looked back at you again, eyes soft, “And you’re their mama. The love of my life. My girl.”

And maybe it was the exhaustion, or the hormones, or the rawness of it all, but you cried. Quietly. Just tears slipping out the sides of your eyes while you laid there, overwhelmed and in love and full of something you couldn’t name.

Dean didn’t panic. Didn’t freak. He just reached for your hand and kissed it like he’d do it a million times more. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We got you. Me and this little bean— we’re on night shift.”

You let your eyes fall shut, finally.

And the last thing you heard before sleep took you under was Dean Winchester singing your baby to sleep with a voice meant for backroads and lullabies.

The next morning feels like a dream dipped in gold. You’re not even sure what time it is. Could be noon, could be 4 AM, but you wake up to the sound of a soft knock, the rustle of flannel, and a baby’s breathy coo. Everything hurts less. Or maybe it still hurts, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Not with the way Dean looks standing by the window, sunlight catching the edge of his jaw, holding your baby like he was made to.

He’s swaying again. Same slow rhythm. Same whisper-singing under his breath like he’s telling secrets only the two of them get to hear. The baby’s nestled against his chest, all tucked into a blanket that he probably rewrapped five times to get perfect. He looks down at them like he’s memorizing everything; the tiny lashes, the soft fists, the weird little way their nose scrunches when they yawn. And then he sees you.

“Hey, sleepy girl,” he says, voice soft like syrup. “We missed you.”

You blink at him, hazy and warm, and he crosses the room like he can’t stand being that far from you. He leans down and kisses your forehead like it’s instinct, like he’d do it every hour on the hour if you let him. He’s so gentle when he sits beside you, so proud it hurts to look at him.

“She smiled,” he whispers like it’s breaking news. “I mean, probably gas or something, but still. She smiled. And she’s got your nose. Totally. It’s not up for debate.”

Your heart folds in on itself. You let him pass the baby to you, watching the way his hands linger for a second longer than they need to. He doesn’t want to let go. You don’t blame him.

And then, chaos, but the tiniest version of it. A nurse walks in with discharge forms. You’re cleared. You’re going home.

Dean’s whole face lights up like a Christmas tree. “We get to take her with us?” he asks, like she might still belong to the hospital. The nurse laughs. “She’s yours, dad.”

Dad.

That word hits him hard. You see it, the way he swallows it down, the way it echoes in his chest like thunder. He helps you dress, one hand always hovering at your back, as if the world might hurt you if he lets you go for a second.

And when it’s time to buckle the baby into the car seat, he hovers like he’s defusing a bomb. Arms crossed, pacing, muttering to himself. “Too tight? Is it too tight? Is her neck gonna snap? Holy shit, is this thing even safe?”

You have to gently lay a hand on his arm to stop him from spiraling. “Dean. She’s fine. You did good.”

He still insists on sitting in the backseat the whole drive home, one hand on the baby’s chest, the other gripping the side of the car seat like he could shield her from gravity itself. You’re driving— don’t ask how that happened, and he keeps glancing at you through the mirror like you’re some kind of divine miracle.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks every two minutes. “You need water? Food? A blanket? Jesus, I should’ve packed a cooler.”

Home is a safehouse two towns over. A small one. Quiet. Warm wood floors, soft lamps, the faint smell of sage and dust. Dean spent a week prepping it before the due date. Baby clothes folded into drawers, bottles lined up on the counter, a rocking chair in the corner that creaks with love.

He carries the baby in like she’s made of glass. You’re close behind, a little wobbly, but smiling. And the second you walk through the door, Dean exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hospital.

“We did it,” he says. His voice cracks again. “We fuckin’ did it.”

You collapse on the couch, baby in your arms, body tired and soul full. Dean disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a peanut butter sandwich cut into triangles. “Best I could do,” he shrugs, and sits beside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do exactly this.

You’re both quiet for a while. The baby’s breathing softens. The room is golden with early evening light. Dean reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re my whole world, y’know that?” he murmurs. “Both of you. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

And then, when the baby makes that tiny little noise again; that sleepy, airy half-laugh that sounds like she’s dreaming something sweet— Dean just loses it. Tears. No warning. Just full-on tears sliding down his cheeks as he laughs softly and presses a kiss to your temple.

“I didn’t know love could feel like this,” he says, voice thick. “I didn’t know I could feel like this. But I’m never going back.”

You nod, eyes full. You’re never going back either.

You look down at your baby— your baby, and you still can’t believe it. That they’re real. That they came from you. That you carried them, made space in your body, let your bones shift and stretch just to bring them here.

And now they’re here. Tiny and perfect and loud in the most beautiful way.

You’re not the same. You know that. You’re not just you anymore. You’re someone’s home now. You’re the arms they’ll fall asleep in. The voice they’ll search for in a crowd. The one who’ll know every cry, every little sigh, every look on their face before they even learn how to talk.

It’s terrifying. And holy. And so gentle it makes your hands shake.

You think about the way Dean looked at you in the hospital. How he still looks at you, like you’re the sun. The way he calls you mama now, like it’s always belonged to you. Like it’s more than just a title, it’s sacred. He doesn’t say it casually. He says it like it’s a promise.

There are moments, especially in the quiet, where you just hold your baby against your chest and cry. Not because you’re sad. But because it’s all too big. Because your love doesn’t have words big enough. Because you’ll never be able to explain it— but you’ll spend your life showing it.

This is what love is. What it’s meant to be. Loud and soft all at once. A song only the three of you know.

You kiss the top of your baby’s head and whisper, “I love you so much it hurts.”

And you mean it.

You’ll always mean it.

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[jun9w0n]

☆ ENHYPEN AS YOUR OFFICE COWORKERS

─or in other words, them as your motivation to work.

( N𝒪T𝑒𝓈. ) enhypen as your secret work crush. fluff. mentions of food. fem!reader. 2300 words. PLS REBLOG .ᐟ

yang jungwon ( 양정원 )

୨୧ 𓂂 ˳ you rush into the office, your coat slipping half off your shoulder, your laptop barely closed in your bag. before you even reach your desk, your eyes catch sight of a steaming coffee cup. your name is written neatly on it — no hints as to who it’s from.

you let out a relieved breath. when you look up, you see jungwon, calm and focused as always, staring intently at his screen. he doesn’t even glance your way, but you just know the coffee is from him.

a small, almost involuntary smile tugs at your lips as you settle into your seat and take the cup in hand. “you’re late,” he finally says without looking away from the monitor.

“hm? oh... yeah, sorry.” you begin unpacking your laptop while speaking. “i overslept. i was trying to finish that report last night.”

only then does he lift his head and turn toward you slowly. his dark eyes soften, losing their usual sharpness. “which report?”

you furrow your brow slightly. “the one for the meeting today? you said it was important.”

a quiet grin spreads across his lips — subtle but sincere. “we could’ve worked on it together,” he says, with that familiar tone he always reserves for you — somewhere between teasing and warm. “i could’ve helped you, dummy.”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop a faint blush from creeping onto your cheeks. “i thought you were busy enough with your own stuff.”

he leans back slightly, still grinning. “for you, i’d even skip my excel sheets.”

you pretend to sigh, but your heart beats a little faster. “wow… that’s almost romantic.”

he winks. “wait until you see my powerpoint presentations.”

lee heeseung ( 이희승 )

୨୧ 𓂂 ˳ “so, are you actually working... or just pretending really well?”

his voice cuts through the quiet like it always does — effortless, teasing, a little too amused for someone who just walked into the room. you glance up, and there he is: heeseung, leaning against the edge of your desk with a coffee in one hand and, to your horror, your favorite pack of cookies in the other. 

“what are you doing?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“inventory check,” he says innocently. “your snacks are now part of the team’s emergency supplies.”

he flashes you that signature grin—half smug, half charming—and props himself against your chair, half-hovering over your shoulder. you try to close your browser tabs, but not fast enough — he’s already seen.

“wow. five tabs open, three of them memes. classic.”

you roll your eyes. “research. for... the team’s emotional resilience.”

“sure.” he makes himself comfortable, sets down his coffee, grabs a cookie and slowly takes a bite. “i didn’t know animal memes were your coping mechanism. makes you weirdly more likable.”

“i like animals. at least they’re honest.”

“unlike... deadlines, excel sheets, and coworkers who steal your snacks?” he tilts his head. 

you shoot him a look. “i’m this close to locking my drawers.”

he holds up his hands dramatically. “hey, i only take what you offer between the lines.”

you laugh — despite yourself. he notices. of course he notices. there’s a quiet satisfaction in his smile, like this was exactly the reaction he was fishing for.

“you should take breaks more often,” he says casually, grabbing another cookie. “it’s good for your nervous system. and your snack supply. which, by the way, is clearly under attack.”

“if you keep helping yourself, you’ll be the one under attack.”

heeseung raises an eyebrow, amused. “was that a threat?”

“an invitation to back off.”

heeseung leans back, lifts both hands in mock surrender. “okay, okay. i’m leaving — but i’m taking one more cookie for emotional support.” he shoots you a wink, grabs his coffee, turns to go.

but just a few steps away, he stops, looks over his shoulder and adds with a smirk, “if you need anything — memes, distraction, or cookie therapy — you know where to find me.”

and somehow, the day feels just a little less heavy after that.

park jongseong ( 박종성 )

୨୧ 𓂂 ˳ your eyes are glued to the screen while your stomach growls loudly and your to-do list seems to grow endlessly. the pressure on your shoulders feels heavier by the minute, and you can hardly believe how fast time is flying.

suddenly, you hear soft footsteps behind you. before you can turn around, jay gently places a bag with your favorite food next to your laptop. “i thought this might make your day a little better.”

you look up and meet his relaxed gaze, accompanied by a warm smile. it’s as if a small calm spreads through you in that moment. “you really have a talent for showing up at exactly the right time.”

he shrugs casually. “everyone has bad days sometimes. food just makes it a little easier.”

as you take your first bite, he leans in casually beside you and says in a calm voice, “don’t worry, it’ll be fine. and if not, i’ll just bring even more tomorrow.”

you smile, feeling some of the tension ease away. “thanks, jay. you’re my personal hero today.” he winks mischievously at you.

as the food touches your tongue, a quiet, relieved sigh escapes you.

“tastes good?” he asks, curious, peeking over his screen, his eyes the only part visible. you nod, mouth still full.

he grins and says, “good, otherwise i’d have wasted a lot of time in the kitchen.”

sim jaeyun ( 심재윤 )

୨୧ 𓂂 ˳ you’re sitting at your desk, just finishing up a story about your weekend, when jake suddenly appears next to you, laughing way too loudly at your poorly timed joke — like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day. you shoot him a questioning look, but he just grins mischievously and shrugs casually.

not long after, he’s back again, “checking” your pc even though everything is working perfectly fine. you’re about to protest, but he just plops down in the chair next to you and starts pretending to be helpful.

you lean back in your chair and grin at him. “isn’t this kind of time theft?”

his eyes sparkle with amusement. “what? i’m obviously helping you right now.” with a soft whir, he rolls his chair closer, leans in slightly, and taps your screen with his finger.

you follow his gaze — but there’s nothing new, nothing urgent, nothing that wasn’t exactly the same five minutes ago.

“you mean this perfectly stable, absolutely flawless spreadsheet?” you ask dryly.

“could crash any second now,” he murmurs, his tone calm, almost casual. but his eyes linger on your face just a moment too long, like he’s trying to read something there you haven’t quite noticed yourself yet.

you snort a laugh that makes your shoulders shake slightly and shake your head with a wide grin. “you’re impossible sometimes.”

later that afternoon, a message from jake pops up on your screen: “wanna step outside for a bit during the break? only if you need some fresh air”

before you can reply, he’s suddenly standing at your desk with two steaming coffees. he smiles and says casually, “i wasn’t sure which one you’d want… so i got both.”

you take one of the cups, nod gratefully, and feel your day suddenly lighten just a little.

park sunghoon ( 박성훈 )

୨୧ 𓂂 ˳ you’re juggling a towering stack of folders on your way to the copy room — because, of course, you’re the one who stepped in today, and of course no one told you just how much paperwork was involved. as you try to push the door open with your elbow, it suddenly swings wide before you can even touch it.

“are you seriously carrying all that by yourself?” sunghoon stands there, a crooked grin on his face, and without waiting for an answer, silently takes half the stack from your arms.

you blink, a little surprised. “uh… thanks.”

“welcome to hell,” he mutters dryly as you both step inside.

the copier whirs to life. you lean back against the wall with a tired sigh, while sunghoon positions himself nearby — not too close, but close enough that you can hear his voice clearly, even when he speaks softly.

“you do know you could’ve just handed all that off, right? the interns would’ve been pretty offended if you didn’t.”

“too late,” you murmur. “i’ve already booked myself some sore muscles.”

he looks at you sideways. “you’re weird.”

“thanks?”

“that was a compliment.” a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips, and you can’t help but grin back.

suddenly, the copier beeps. paper jam.

you curse quietly, but sunghoon’s already leaning forward, lifting the cover with practiced ease and freeing the crumpled page with a casual confidence that almost seems too cool to be real.

“do you do this a lot?”

“more than i’d like.”

as he straightens up, he slides the finished stack across to you. then he looks you straight in the eye. no grin this time — just that calm, serious gaze.

“next time you have to carry stuff like this… just ask me for help.”

you open your mouth to say something, maybe a witty comeback on your lips — but he’s already walking past you, back toward the office.

and though he said almost nothing, you can’t shake the feeling that you just got more attention from him than anyone else all day.

kim seonwoo ( 김선우 )

୨୧ 𓂂 ˳ the morning hasn’t even properly started, and you already feel three meetings behind and two coffees short. you drag yourself to your desk, bracing for another day of office chaos — when you spot a small, neatly folded note resting on your keyboard.

“today is tuesday. you need something sweet. check the second drawer.  – ☀️”

you blink in surprise, pull open the drawer — and immediately have to smile. inside lies a donut, perfectly wrapped, glazed in your favorite color, sprinkled with bright confetti as if someone sprinkled a little magic onto the day.

your eyes scan the desks — and there he is: sunoo, glowing as always, surrounded by positive energy. he leans over his desk, waving at you with a grin.

“you’re going to need this,” he calls softly, just for you. “the call at ten is with him. but don’t worry, i’ve got your back.”

you laugh — half startled, half relieved. of course, he knows. of course, he’s thinking ahead. of course, he’s already two steps ahead — with sugar, color, and comfort — before you even realize you need it.

“what would i do without you,” you murmur, shaking your head as you take a bite of the donut.

sunoo pretends to ponder, resting his chin on his hand and squinting one eye.

“probably collapse miserably and cry secretly in the printer room.”

you almost choke on your donut and shoot him a mock outraged look.

“wow. harsh reality right at eight in the morning?”

he laughs, clear and bright, then leans in a bit, lowering his voice but keeping that typical sunoo sparkle in his eyes.

“just being honest. but hey, while i’m here, you don’t have to. i provide snacks, support, and silent judgments of people who type too loud.”

you grin and lean back for a moment. it’s exactly that mix of lightness and intuition that suddenly makes the morning a lot more bearable.

as you turn back to your screen, his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer.

“and remember, if the call goes south wink twice in my direction. i’ll find a way to get you out.”

“what, you gonna crash the server?”

he shrugs, completely serious, “if I have to.”

you laugh, and for the first time in days, tuesday doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

nishimura riki ( 西村リキ )

୨୧ 𓂂 ˳ it’s late. the screens around you have long gone dark, the office chairs sit empty, and the hum of the air conditioning is the last trace of life on the floor. your eyes sting from staring too long, and just as you’re about to close your laptop, a ping suddenly appears on your screen.

a new email.

you click it open — and freeze.

MonthlyReport_final.xlsx

the file is complete. properly named, neatly formatted, every number accurate.

only… you didn’t do it. you completely forgot.

your heart skips a beat.

then a second ping. this time a message.

@Ni-Ki: saw you forgot. i was still here anyway.

you stare at the message. of course. niki. quiet, unobtrusive — but probably the sharpest eyes in the whole office.

before you can reply, a second message pops up:

@Ni-Ki: you owe me a coffee. or two.

you grin, shaking your head in disbelief. somehow, it hits you harder than you want to admit. that quiet recognition. that helping hand without many words. you type back.

@You: two. and a cookie. homemade, if you’re nice.

the only thing that comes back is a ☕ + 🍪

you lean back in your chair, feeling a little warmth in your cheeks, even though the office is usually too cold at this hour. maybe he’s still somewhere in the next room, headphones on, hoodie pulled over his head. maybe he’s been there the whole time.

maybe he sees more than you thought.

the next morning begins hectic as usual. but today, you have a little plan: with two steaming coffee cups and a small cookie in hand, you stand by niki’s desk. he’s there, as always, absorbed in his screen, headphones resting loosely around his neck.

“here—coffee and cookie, just like i promised,” you say, carefully placing the items next to his laptop.

niki looks up briefly, his eyes meeting yours. for a moment, a small, almost shy smile plays at his lips. no big words, no grand gesture — just that quiet sign that says thank you. that silent acknowledgment is enough.

as you turn and head back to your desk, a warm feeling lingers — a simple act that said more than a thousand words ever could.

© jun9w0n - do not copy, translate or steal my works.

[shosweet]

i feel like akaashi keiji has a genuine, unshakable, unironic love for tangled.

𐙚 he’s most likely dressed up as flynn for halloween and if he wants to switch it up, he’ll be rapunzel!

“why do you look better in that dress than i do?” you ask, smoothing down your navy blue vest.

“i dunno, maybe it’s a sign that it’s who i’m meant to be,” he sighs, looking out the window with longing, wind favoring his pretty black strands. he takes a deep breath, feeling familiar guitar strings play in his head.

“wrap it up, keiji, you’ll never be her.”

“GOD FORBID A GUY HAS A DREAM?!”

𐙚 he’s probably tried to convince you to get a pet chameleon.

he won’t tell you straight up, he’d just softly hint at you — primacy effect!

when you go to the bathroom, he’d sneak on your phone, search up pictures of chameleons, and leave it like that for you to come back to. when you do, he’ll just wait with patient eyes.

when you go to the pet store or just walk by it, he’d linger on a chameleon’s display window, whispering sweet promises to it.

“you’ll come home with me soon,” he giggles, tapping the window gently as he admires the little reptile.

finally caving in, you take him to the store once more and grant his wishes.

“you really want one, kei?” you smile.

he looks at you with wide eyes, literally sparkling as he nods so fast he might become a fan.

now at home, he’s cuddling with his new favorite friend.

“i think i’ll name youuu…. pashcal. you can’t beat the original, but you’re my special little boy,” he whispers to it, stroking its head lovingly with his fingertip.

𐙚 he’s most definitely sang “flower gleam and glow” when brushing your hair.

he has a gentle hold on your strands, weaving the brush through them softly. it’s his favorite pastime with you, especially if he needs to unwind after a long day. sometimes, he’d whisper (what he considers) sweet nothings.

“i promise i won’t cut off your hair and sell it,” he says with a genuine smile. you tense up a bit, fighting the urge to call the police, but you can’t interrupt this man’s happy time. thus, he keeps going, rubbing his toes together in his fuzzy socks happily.

on days when he’s exhausted, he’ll lay his head in his lap, silently asking for you to do the same to him. you give a small peck to his forehead before running your fingers through his hair, scratching and massaging his scalp the way he likes.

sometimes, he’ll look up at you with wide, sleepy eyes, signaling you to do something. getting the hint, you smile and sing his precious little song. after you do, he smiles and closes his eyes, melting into your touch.

𐙚 he love love loveees lanterns!!

for your one year anniversary, you took him to the park at night, candles and a small meal prepared on a soft blanket. there’s fairy lights on the trees surrounding you, illuminating your little spot. grabbing something from your bag, you tell him to close his eyes.

“no peeking, kei!” you giggle.

“i’m not, i’m not,” he chuckles.

“okay, open!”

his eyes see two paper lanterns in your hands, still unlit, but he noticed intricate patterns on the paper. his breath hitches, feeling his heart swell and eyes sting.

“you didn’t…”

“happy anniversary, kei,” you bashfully say, twisting your body left and right out of excitement. he takes one lantern into his hand, cheeks warm with tears. with your free hand, you cup his cheek and wipe them away.

“awh, don’t cry, baby,” you coo. he only feels more tears coming, dipping his head into your shoulder.

“i love you so much,” he sniffles. you smile and rub his back, kissing the side of his head.

“i love you, too.”

after a bit, you light up your lanterns and send them into the sky, hands intertwined. each anniversary, no matter which one it is or where you spend it, you’ll always end off the night with a pair of lanterns.

in bed, as the world grows quiet, you’re cuddled close to him, breathing in his faint, sweet vanilla as he kisses your head. every night, he whispers the same thing with more love in his heart than the day before.

“you’re my dream come true.”

[fleurliz]

𝑅aison 𝒟´𝐞tre

bf!anton x f!r  𓂃⋆.˚   fluff, comfort   ──────✿  ❕ nothing only fluff     

You don’t even remember what triggered it — just that the day was heavy and everything felt too loud, too fast, too much. You’re curled up in the corner of Anton’s bed now, wrapped in his giant grey hoodie, knees tucked to your chest like it might keep you from falling apart.

He finds you like that when he comes home — fresh from practice, hair damp, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He stops in the doorway, eyes softening instantly at the sight of you.

“Hey,” he says, so gentle it makes your throat close up. You can’t look at him. You bury your face in your arms instead.

There’s a quiet rustle as he drops his bag and crosses the room. You feel the mattress dip when he sits next to you, a warm hand smoothing over your back. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He never does — because Anton knows sometimes the why doesn’t matter.

“Come here, baby,” he murmurs, tugging at your hands until you uncurl, pliant in his arms. He pulls you into his lap like you weigh nothing. His chest is solid and warm under your cheek, the steady beat of his heart an anchor against the storm in your head.

You sniffle, blinking hard against the burn in your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, voice muffled by his shirt. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

His arms tighten around you, one hand cupping the back of your head, thumb stroking slow circles into your hair. “Don’t say that.” His voice is quiet but firm. “You don’t have to be anything for me. You don’t have to be okay all the time. Just be here. That’s enough.”

You feel your chest crack open at that — how easily he says it, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. You pull back a little, enough to see his face. His hair is messy from your touch, eyes dark and gentle and unwavering.

“Why do you love me?” you whisper, almost scared of the answer.

Anton smiles, so soft it aches. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re my life,” he breathes. The words taste foreign, soft, sacred on his tongue. “My reason for being. That’s it. That’s everything.”

You let out a shaky laugh that cracks halfway into a sob. He kisses it away — your cheeks, your nose, the corner of your mouth — until you’re hiccuping giggles into his skin instead of tears.

“You wanna lay down?” he asks, voice still laced with a smile. You nod, small and quiet, and he shifts you down onto the pillows, crawling in beside you. He slots himself behind you, arm draped around your waist, his chest pressed to your back so you can feel every rise and fall of his breathing.

For a while, there’s only this: his hand tracing idle shapes on your stomach under the hoodie, his lips brushing your temple every so often, the hush of the world beyond his bedroom door fading into nothing.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the dark. “For what?” he murmurs back, half-asleep already. “For being my reason to stay,” you say, your voice breaking in the sweetest way.

Anton’s hold tightens, impossibly warm, impossibly safe. “Always, baby,” he breathes against your hair. “Always.”

[zeroseuniverse]

Hi, i saw your NCT DREAM Reaction: You Sleepily Confess to Them Without Realizing It, can you do it with ot9/just maknae line ZB1?

ZB1 Reaction: You Sleepily Confess Without Realizing It

Taglist:@zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120 @llunaticc13 @1daily2lele7 @etaernaluvv @hanninova

Hanbin

You nodded off during a late-night talk, your arm lazily hooked around his. As he adjusted your jacket, you mumbled something like, "Feels nice... being with you. I always feel better when it’s you." He stopped for a second, unsure if you even knew what you were saying. He glanced at you you were fully asleep, eyes shut, breathing even. A small, warm smile tugged at his lips. “...You make me feel better too.”

Jiwoong

You’d drifted off on the couch, head tipping toward his shoulder. Just as he reached to adjust the pillow behind you, you whispered, barely audible, "You’re so good to me, Jiwoong... I wish you knew how much I like you." He froze. Blinked. The moment passed as quickly as it came. He didn’t say anything, just watched the slow rise and fall of your chest with a dazed expression. Later, he sat beside you a little closer than usual.

Zhang Hao

Your eyes were fluttering shut while watching him tune his violin. Without thinking, you whispered, "Hao... I like when you play. And... I like you." He glanced over, a faint crease forming between his brows. “You like—” He paused. You were asleep, head lolling against the cushion. He blinked once. Twice. Then returned to his violin, but his fingers trembled on the strings for the next few notes.

Matthew

You were nodding off beside him, mumbling through a yawn. "You always take care of me... I think I’m falling for you." He slowly turned to you like he didn’t quite process it. “Wait… wait, what?” he whispered. Then you shifted, completely out. He stared for a long beat, mouth open in disbelief, then softly face-palmed. “…Don’t do that to my heart, bro.”

Taerae

You were lying in bed after a long day, both of you quietly on your phones when you drifted off mid-scroll. Out of nowhere, you sighed, "I think I’m gonna fall for you if you keep being like this..." Taerae looked over immediately. You were already asleep, thumb hovering over your screen. He blinked a few times, face slowly warming, then tucked the blanket around you more tightly. No response just his quiet smile in the dark.

Ricky

You fell asleep mid-conversation, cheek resting on your hand. He leaned back to grab his charger when you murmured, "I like you more than I should, huh..." He froze, eyes wide. “Wait—what?” He leaned in a little too fast, accidentally bumping the table. The noise jolted you upright. “Huh? Wha—what happened?” Ricky quickly smiled, too wide. “Nothing! Nothing. You said... uh... something about soup.” He didn’t sleep that night.

Gyuvin

You were half-asleep in the backseat of a van after a long outing, leaning against the window. He was scrolling through photos when you murmured, "You’re my favorite... don’t tell the others." His head snapped toward you so fast it almost gave him whiplash. “…Huh?” You didn’t move. He blinked in stunned silence, then stared out the window with the softest, most bashful grin. No one had to know—but he’d remember.

Gunwook

You were curled up beside him with a blanket over your head, complaining earlier that you were too tired to think. Moments later, he heard: "Why do you have to be so easy to like..." Gunwook’s eyes slowly widened. He gently pulled the blanket back to look at your face. Fast asleep. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if he should feel honored or panicked. “...Wow. Okay.”

Yujin

You fell asleep during a late group hangout, head resting near his shoulder. Just as he reached to make sure you didn’t slump over, he heard, "You’re the reason I get nervous, you know." He choked. Actually choked. Coughed loud enough to startle you awake. You looked up, dazed. “Yujin? You okay?” “Me? Yeah! Totally! You—you were talking in your sleep!” he blurted, flustered. “About what?” He panicked. “...Potatoes.”

[novaimperia]

★ nerd!nanami x popular girl!reader getting dirty in a closet

“we shouldn’t do this,” nanami whispers. 

rolling your eyes, you continue unbuckling his belt. his pants fall down his legs, revealing the Calvin Klein boxers you got him on a day which happened to be his birthday. you rub up on the bulge in his boxers. “you say that but, ken, you’re hard. have some shame, won’t you?”

as the most popular girl on campus, you have a reputation to uphold – no one can see you with the nerdiest guy around. always with a book and those stupid glasses that get in the way, nanami isn’t someone you want people knowing you’re fucking. and honestly, if you had it your way, he’d be thrown in the dust along with all the pathetic idiots you’ve let in your bed, but…nerdy as he is, he’s also really goot at sex. 

he’s got a huge dick too. 

“i can’t help that,” he grouches. “just leave first and i’ll come out soon; i need to wait for this to go down.”

clearly nervous, you can see, even in the dark, the way his eyes keep darting from your cleavage to the gap in the door. there’s a party happening out there and you have to go on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear just so you can be heard over the heavy bass, obnoxious chattering and whooping.

someone’s closet isn’t even the freakiest place you two have gotten it on – you’ve fucked in your car, in his, in a classroom, in the dean’s office, in a park, in the gym, under the bleachers, in the locker room, and so on and so forth. 

yet he's always just as jittery as all the other times. one would think he's still a virgin if they didn't know all the nasty positions he'd folded you into.

“ngh! s-stop, please.” 

shaky hands try to pull your hands away from his hard and leaking cock. his mouth isn’t very honest but thankfully his body is. already wet, you easily slot his cock in between your thighs, letting it rub on your slit. he moans through gritted teeth. fuck, he’s warm and firm and you can feel every vein on his long length. how unfair that this dick had gone so long without being used. thank god you're here now. he really ought to be more grateful.

“shush, kento. you can leave at any time and you know that, so cut the shit, and move your hips.” his forehead falls on top of your head. you feel his breath fan your face. hands gripping your hips, he keeps you still as he rocks back and forth, coating his cock in your juices. “good boy.” 

he throbs. 

in the cramped space, you two struggle to find a rhythm as you jostle around, trying to make the most of what you have. tightly packed together, you have no choice but to cling to his stupid vest. his heart beats fast under your cheek. cute.

his cock head catches on your clit and the friction is delicious. "hmm, just like that, ken. yeah, that's nice. you know just how i like my clit rubbed, don't you?"

breathless, he replies, "yeah."

annoyingly, his voice drops an octave into something seductive and sinful when he's in deep focus, which happens either when he's studying and scolds you for trying to get in his pants or when he's balls deep in your cunt and he's trying not to cum prematurely.

soon, with the party in full force and the crowd growing thicker and more drunken, he speeds up, unable to help himself. you’ve sprayed more perfume than usual today; it gets him whimpery when he can’t smell anything other than you. it's just one of the ways you like to make sure you're in control at all times.

“keep quiet, ken. you don’t want them to hear you, do you? you don’t want them to see you with your pants down and your pretty cock out, right?”

fingers dig into the fat of your ass cheeks through your skirt. your legs tighten and he groans, all choked up and needy as his pace increases until he’s rutting against your pussy with no rhyme or reason. “n-no. i don’t want them to see you like this either. i don’t want them to see your p-pussy or your pretty face when you orgasm. y-you’re mine.”

you sigh. that would be the sign to leave, to ditch the loser and move on, but ah, fuck, you’re close. any second now you’re going to cum all over his cock and you’ll make him clean you up. 

maybe you’ll give him one more chance. he’s a quick learner after all.

“yeah, ken. i’m yours. now, make me cum.”

he grabs hold of your face and smashes his lips to yours. clumsily and messily, he kisses you, shoving his tongue in just to taste you. you forgot he likes to kiss right before he cums. guess you do too because, at the same time like some shitty cliche, you two shudder against each other, skin slapping and juices flying.

“oh, fudge! t-thank you. thank you so much.” he’s wrapping his arms around you, suffocating you with his chest. good thing he practices good hygiene and actually smell good. much better than some of the other guys around, that’s for sure. another reason why you keep his clingy ass around. 

hot cum floods your panties and you curse the fact that you’ll have to dance with that mess between your legs. 

“yeah, yeah. hurry up and get on your knees. you know i like to cum at least three times before i party.”

nanami also looks good with your juices on those plump lips of his, oh and you do like it when his glasses fog up and he looks dazed with your taste. hmm, for a nerd, he is quite pretty, especially when those blond locks of his get all messy after you’ve had your way with him. if only he'd be better dressed and would pick up a sport or two.

“you have an exam tomorrow – maybe we should -hah- study for that.” not wasting any time in worming his tongue into your hole, he expertly hikes up your thigh over his broad shoulder, pressing his face up tight against your pussy, uncaring of the fact that his cum is mixing on his tongue.

you roll your eyes. “ugh, fine. but we’re fucking in your car before and after, alright?”

he smiles. your heart squeezes.

“good girl.”

“w-whatever.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

GAME NIGHT, RUINED

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (was supposed to be nanny!reader but lit rally no mentions of her being a nanny LOL) summary: one question you refuse to answer gives you the best sex of your life. warnings | an: p in v sex, choking, one bite, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise kink?? hotch profiling reader and its so sexy i want to kith him on the mouth, there is aftercare i just didn’t write it, oopsies, established relationship word count: 2.9k

✧ masterlist

In all fairness, you hadn't actually read the rules of the game before suggesting it tonight. But maybe Penelope had – and maybe that's exactly why she'd wrapped it in floral paper with a gingham ribbon, like it was some sweet little gift and not a trap in disguise.

Because now here you were, cheeks warm, pulse ticking too fast, staring down a question that made your soul want to leave your body.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad.

You liked being manhandled. Liked a little choking – nothing too wild, just enough to feel it. Worst things have happened. Honestly, it wasn't even that big a deal.

Until you looked up... and saw Aaron’s eyes on you.

You swallowed, looking back down at the card again just as a breathless little laugh slipped out.

Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should.

“Pretty sure we’ve already had this one,” you said, maybe a little too brightly, as you tucked the card neatly under the deck like it was nothing. “Next!”

You barely brushed the edge of a new card before Aaron’s hand closed over the stack, pulling it right out of reach.

“Oh, are we done playing?” you asked innocently, sitting up a little straighter as your hands slid to your thighs. “Good idea.” You were on your feet now. “Pretty sure there’s a pile of laundry upstairs with my name on it –”

“Sit.”

Your hands hovered for a second before landing on your hips, a half-formed protest catching in your throat, but you obeyed, lowering yourself back down onto the couch, trying to act unbothered. Trying to ignore the way your heart had picked up speed.

“We haven’t been playing this game long enough to get the same card twice,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Really? Huh. Could’ve sworn we already had that one.”

He arched a brow. “What was it?”

“Aaron come on,” you deflected, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. “It was something silly.”

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the deck over in his hand, eyes scanning the top card.

“Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should,” he read aloud. “Hm. Definitely don’t recall hearing your answer to this.”

“You don’t?” you said weakly.

“Just because you keep repeating everything I say doesn’t mean you’re going to get out of answering.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“You begged to play this game,” he continued calmly. “And now you’re skipping cards?” He gave you a dry look. “That hardly seems fair.”

You let out a quiet huff and leaned back into the couch, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Your heart was beating faster than it should’ve been. Not because you didn’t trust him – you did. Completely. You knew he’d never shame you or make you feel small for wanting something.

But he’d also seen the worst of humanity. He’d spent his career staring into the darkest corners of people’s minds. You weren’t sure how he’d feel knowing his girlfriend got turned on by things like rough hands. The feeling of being pinned down and utterly helpless, even when she wasn’t.

It sounded a lot messier out loud than it did in your head.

“I just…” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal. It’s probably not even your thing.”

“Well, if you’re unhappy in that department, I’d absolutely like to know what it is.”

“Oh my God – no, no. Not at all. I’m not – unhappy.” Your voice pitched as high as your hands flew up in protest, and now you were spiralling. “I’m very happy. I’m, like, obscenely happy. I think your ability to give me more orgasms in one night than I’ve had in my entire life before meeting you should be studied. Or patented. Or possibly banned in several states –”

He blinked once. Then bit back a smile.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately,” you muttered into your palms.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice dipping just a little. “Or am I going to have to profile it out of you?”

You peeked out from between your fingers. “You wouldn’t.”

He gave a mild shrug. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Your heart thudded.

“You get flustered when you lose control of the conversation. Especially with me. You fidget more. You avoid eye contact like you’re doing right now.”

You shifted almost immediately.

“You like routine and structure. You’re organised to a fault, but the second I step into your space and do something unexpected, you melt.” He tilted his head. “You act like it annoys you, but I’ve watched you for long enough to know it doesn’t. When I back you against the counter. When I pull your hair back mid-sentence just to kiss your neck. When I don’t ask and take instead. You don’t stop me, you lean into it.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You like being told what to do,” he said simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was always obvious. “In little ways. Safe ways. And when you’re overwhelmed, your instinct isn’t to push back, it’s to submit.”

He watched as your throat worked around a hard swallow.

“You like it when I’m in control.”

Your legs pressed together tight. Too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He smiled. “You throw around sarcasm, roll yours eyes, push back, pretend to fuss when I get bossy. But the second I tell you what to do – really tell you – you listen.”

You stared at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“And the truth is, you don’t want to say it out loud because you think it’ll sound messed up. But it doesn’t.” He paused for a second. “I understand you and I’m not judging you. I want to give you what you need.”

Another moment of silence passed before he added, “But if you keep pressing your thighs together like that, I’m going to start thinking we’re done playing this game.”

You let a breath out before speaking. “I…I think we’re done playing,” you managed, voice hoarse.

“Yeah? You sure?”

You nodded before your brain could catch up. “Yes.”

“Then get upstairs.”

You rose on shaky legs and turned towards the stairs, amazed you didn’t trip over yourself on the way up. You could hear him following behind unhurried, while your vision nearly swam from what he’d managed to do to you with just words.

Inside the bedroom, you stopped at the foot of the bed, unsure whether to turn around or stay still. But you didn’t have to ask.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed immediately.

He stepped in close, the heat of him pressing into you just as his hand gripped a firm handful of your hair giving it a tug.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against your neck. “You’ve been so worked up since downstairs.” His lips trailed along your jaw slowly, down the curve of your neck, before you felt him bite down gently, his tongue smoothing over the sting.

“Clothes off, sweetheart.” He took a step back, giving you space.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and peeled it up over your head, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes tracked every inch of newly exposed skin, like he was cataloguing every place he intended to touch.

You pushed your pants down next, shimmied them over your hips, then stepped out, standing there in just your bra and panties, chest rising and falling.

“All of it.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached behind and undid your bra, letting it slide off your shoulders. Then finally, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them and standing bare in front of him.

He nodded toward the bed.

You turned and sat on the edge first, heart racing, then eased yourself down, your back meeting the cool sheets as you settled into place beneath his gaze.

It didn’t take long before he was hovering over you, one hand spreading your thighs as he settled between them, the other coming up to rest lightly – so lightly – around your throat.

You whimpered.

“There it is,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “That little sound you make when you’re starting to let go.”

Then his fingers found your clit, and you arched off the bed with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure landed exactly where you needed it

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’d think this isn’t ‘my thing.’” His fingers kept working you. “Feel what you’ve done to me.”

Your hand moved down between you, palming him through his jeans – and Christ, was he hard. Straining against the fabric, so much so that it almost felt painful.

He groaned at the contact, his hips instinctively pressing into your touch.

“See?” he murmured, slipping a finger inside you without warning, drawing a moan from deep in your chest. “This is exactly my thing. And you—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “you like this is my thing.”

You gasped, your back arching again, but his other hand was already moving, finding your neck again, pressing down just enough to hold you in place.

He leaned in close, brushing his nose along your cheek, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he added a second finger. “You don’t even realize how pretty you are when you’re desperate, do you?” he whispered. “The way you shake. The way you clench around me when I take my time.”

“Aaron…”

He smiled against your skin. “I could keep you like this all night.”

“Please –” was all you managed, the word falling out in a half-broken whimper.

His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make your breath hitch, the same time he curled his fingers inside you. You clenched around him so hard you thought your body might unravel right then and there.

“Fuck – I – I –”

“What is it? Tell me exactly what you need.”

You bucked against him, unable to stop it, hands flying to his forearms – not to push him away, but to hold on. He didn’t move, didn’t ease up either of his hands.

“Or… do you want me to decide for you, hm?”

You couldn’t answer, not in words. Your mind was a haze of heat and ache, your breath catching somewhere between a sob and a moan. Your nails dug into his forearms, desperate for some sort of release.

“Too overwhelmed to answer?”

And then he stilled.

Fingers deep inside you, his body caging yours, hand still resting at your throat but no movement. No friction. No relief. You whined, your hips shifting in an attempt to chase more.

“I’ll decide, then,” he said softly, like he was offering kindness. “You want release? Earn it.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, achingly slow, and the loss had you nearly sobbing. But before you could even begin to beg, he brought his slick fingers up between you and pressed them to your lips.

“Taste it,” he murmured. “Taste how worked up you are. Taste what you do to me.”

Your lips parted without thought, wrapping around his fingers. You moaned as your tongue slid over them, tasting yourself on his skin. He pressed a little deeper, a little further down your throat, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking greedily.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice rough now. “So fucking good for me.”

He began making his way down your body, peppering kisses over your chest, you stomach, your hips. You could feel him everywhere, his breath fanning against your skin, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open again.

He lowered himself between your thighs, and when his mouth finally met you again, it was everything.

His tongue lapped at you, circling your clit before dragging lower to taste all of you. He groaned into you, the sound deep, pushing you that much closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moving – hips bucking, thighs twitching, grinding against his face, desperate for more. But he only gripped your hips harder, strong arms pinning you down like it was nothing. Like your squirming didn’t even faze him. Like it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You whimpered, barely coherent and all you could think about was how badly you wanted those bruises. You wanted to see the outline of his fingers tomorrow. You wanted to remember exactly how they got there.

The pressure built low in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble, clenching around his face.

“S’okay baby,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled by your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And that was all it took.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips jolting up off the bed, and you cried out, high and breathless, one hand flying to your mouth, the other tangled in the sheets. You writhed beneath him, overstimulated and soaked, gasping through the aftershocks. Your whole body was twitching, lips parted, chest heaving.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening. “You should see yourself. You don’t even know how beautiful you look when you come.”

You were still catching your breath when you heard the sound of his zipper, the clink of his belt hitting the floor. You reached up to brush a strand of hair off your damp forehead, but your hand dropped the second you felt him between your thighs again, tip dragging slowly along your soaked slit.

Your entire body went still, mouth falling open and he hadn’t even pushed inside you yet.

“You okay?” he asked, pausing just long enough to check in.

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes wide. “More than okay. So okay.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Now you want to talk?”

“I’m just –” you started, breath catching every time the head of his cock slid through your folds. “I’m just saying, I didn’t know it could feel like this, and I – God, Aaron –”

And then he thrusted into you.

One deep stroke that filled you completely, stealing the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth. Your eyes flew open, a strangled gasp caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the pillow, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

“Yeah,” he gritted out, his voice hot against your ear. “I thought that might shut you up.”

You could only whimper in response, nails digging into his skin as he stayed there, buried to the hilt, giving you no room to think.

“You feel that?” he murmured, rocking into you once, slow and deep. “You take me so fucking well.”

You nodded, mouth open, breathless. “I wasn’t done talking,” you managed to whisper.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to drag the tip out to your entrance and paused. “Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Try.”

“Fuck y–”

He slammed back in, cutting you off mid-word with a thrust somehow deeper than the last.

“Fuck you?” he echoed smugly. “Yeah. I think I will.”

And he did – hips rocking into yours, each thrust pushing you further into the mattress. Then his hand came up, wrapping around your throat again and you clenched around him, a moan escaping your lips. He let out a low tsk, like he’d caught you misbehaving.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against yours, his thrusts slowing. They were deeper now, rougher, grinding into you with so much intensity you weren’t even sure where your body ended and his began.

“This,” he murmured, squeezing just a little tighter, “this is what you were so scared to ask for?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to give him something, anything, but he slammed into you before the words could form, another deep, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you.

“I—Aaron, I—” you tried again, voice thin.

Another thrust. Harder.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed. “You’re not even letting me –”

He did it again, cut you off with a stroke that had your vision going white at the edges.

“Fuck—you’re doing this on purpose,” you whimpered, dazed and desperate.

“I sure am.” His hand tightened just a little more at your throat. “You want to know what my turn-on is?” he muttered, not waiting for an answer. “Seeing you fucked senseless.”

Another thrust hit that perfect spot, making your entire body jerk beneath him. You tried to speak, to respond, but he snapped his hips again and you mewled out whatever nonsense your uncooperative tongue could muster.

“You want to come?”

You nodded frantically, words useless now, tears brimming from the sheer overload.

“Good. Then do it.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, setting a pace in perfect sync with his thrusts. Your hips began to stutter as you screwed your eyes shut, the pressure building too fast to stop.

It took mere seconds before your body seized around him.

“Jesus – fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “You’re so fucking tight when you come –”

His rhythm faltered, stammered and then he was slamming into you one last time, your name falling from his lips as he came.

He loosened his grip on your throat, both hands sliding to your ribcage, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

Neither of you spoke. Both of you were too focused on catching your breath, sharing the same shallow air like it might not be enough.

Finally, after a minute, he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Think we should play card games more often.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic

dbf!bodyguard!hotch using food as foreplay coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

dividers by cafekitsune

[kamaluhkhan]

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 10.5k summary: after years away, vi returns home for the holidays and reunites with you, her ex-girlfriend. the universe (*cough cough* and your meddling families) push you together again, and neither of you can ignore the feelings that linger. (or: you, vi, and the ghosts of christmas past, present and future.) warnings: reader is ekko's older sister but not necessarily biological so appearance isn't specified; childhood friends to lovers + second chance romance; reader gets hit on by a creepy guy + gets into a fight (injury + blood mention), smut [strap mention (reader receiving), oral (both receiving), fingering (both receiving), biting, spitting, tribbing, sub!vi makes an appearance...kinda rough + possessive sex but there's aftercare too <33] (18+) ! a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR GIRLS AND GAYS <33 tbh i debated whether to post this now bc xmas was like....3 weeks ago but figured i might as well. so pls enjoy what is essentially an x-rated sapphic hallmark holiday movie.

♪: ‘tis the damn season by taylor swift (sun); winterbreak by MUNA (moon); last christmas by wham! (rising)

track 1: thank god it’s christmas by queen

(winter — age 17)

“okay, just relax your fingers — no, but keep some tension, apply a bit of pressure on the string….yep, that’s better. now, straighten your back….”

it’s dark and snowing outside, and the cold’s seeping in through the window of her attic bedroom, but vi still almost melts into the floor when you follow her advice and press against her chest. she worries that you can feel how fast her heart is beating — faster than it maybe should for someone she’d been calling friend ever since she could remember. 

you shift in her lap, her arms still wrapped around yours from when she offered to guide you through an instrumental version of wham’s “last christmas.” you tilt your head towards her, nose almost brushing against hers. 

“vi?”

“....yes?”

“maybe we should finish our lesson another time. we better hurry up, anyways. i bet ekko and powder are already arguing over whether we should watch home alone or home alone two.”

vi snorts. it’s practically a tradition at this point, along with the annual post-christmas-dinner pyjama movie night.

you try to hand her the bright pink guitar pick, but vi shakes her head.

“it’s yours. you’re gonna need it if you want more lessons.” 

“hm, or maybe i could sell it for a billion dollars once you’re a big rockstar,” you tease. “i can picture thousands of fangirls painting your portrait and writing mrs. violet lanes in their notebooks.” 

you get up, shoot her a wink, and leave vi on the bed, clutching her guitar and trying to get her pulse under control. 

neither of you say anything as you both get changed. the stereo plays the mixtape you’d made for her — you got her for secret santa this year.

“my mom loved this song,” vi hums, a warm ache growing in her chest when the next song plays. this is the second christmas without her, but vi is still not used to using past tense. “she thought freddie mercury was the best rockstar of all time.”

“i remember. you…you must miss her.” 

of course she does, and she could run through a million reasons why.

“vander says you’ll be spending new year’s at your dad’s,” is what she says instead.

you let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “yeah.”

“your mom going, too?”

“just me and ekko. i swear, it’s like he’s trying to be this perfect dad to his new stepkids, meanwhile he’s the one who left us here to deal with his mess, the one who just ran away, and….whatever.” this time, you do scoff. “hey – do you have a shirt i could borrow?”

vi looks over to find that you’ve switched from the velvet dress you wore during dinner into a pair of flannel plaid pants; her cheeks flush when she sees that you’re only wearing a black lacy bralette on top. 

she clears her throat and pulls a clean jersey from her dresser, tosses it over to you. 

“that’s a shame. i was looking forward to spending new year’s eve together.”

you hum and slip the shirt over your shoulders. the only sources of light are the moon and the stars and the multicoloured christmas lights strung along vi’s walls, but she swore that your eyes flick down to her lips. 

“why’s that?” you ask. 

there’s something absolutely dizzying about being this close to you, the way your sparkly eyes wait patiently for her to respond. joni mitchell sings about skating away on a river, and vi wishes she could skate away from this conversation, but there’s nowhere to go. 

vi blinks away from your gaze and fixates on one of the many things she’s pinned up on her bedroom walls throughout the years. it’s a page torn from an old notebook of yours, something from seventh grade math class, but vi always loved your little drawings in the margins. 

vi?” you prompt, never one to let go easily.

“i want to kiss you at midnight,” she confesses.

“yeah?” 

vi nods. she’s tempted to walk out of her room, down the stairs and out into the winter night, until you weave your fingers through hers and squeeze her hand. she looks up — and you’re beaming, a smile that brightens vi’s entire being. 

“i want that too.”

vi finally, finally crashes her mouth onto yours, lips sticky with marshmallow fluff.

you taste like vanilla and gingerbread and hot chocolate that is definitely not spiked with irish cream that vi slipped into your mugs while you distracted the adults. 

you taste like home.

….

so, slight change of plans….i’m gonna stay here in london with the rest of the band. apparently the kirammans throw a super fancy holiday party with super fancy people every year, and cait convinced her parents to let us perform. fingers crossed someone important discovers us.

merry christmas, baby. and, if i don’t get the chance to say it: happy new year.

….

track 2: winter wonderland by darlene love

(winter — age 12)

you’re supposed to be looking after ekko while your parents are at work, but all that really means is making a big bowl of kraft dinner and stove-top s’mores for lunch and watching old christmas specials on the worn-out living room couch while you draw in your sketchbook and your brother, only 7 years old, programs the doorbell to play ‘jingle bells.’ 

when someone rings the doorbell, the tune floats through the house and wakes up your dog who starts barking like it’s the end of the world. 

“easy, ziggy.” you click a marker closed and run a hand through the husky’s fur, attempting to calm him down. “let’s go see who it is.”

you open the door, and there’s vi: snowflakes sparkling on her eyelashes, pink hair hidden under a knitted hat, and a toothy grin that brings out the dimple in her flushed cheeks. she’s also got a split lip and crooked nose from her last hockey game.

“we’re building a fort,” she tells you. she shuffles to the side so that you can see powder, who’s making a snow angel. “well, we’re going to. wanna join?”

you nod, smiling. “ekko!” 

your brother’s already behind you, slipping on his chunky boots and oversized coat that used to be yours before running outside and collapsing onto the fluffy snow next to powder. ziggy bolts outside, too, running circles around them. 

you stumble to get your winter gear on as fast as possible, the cold air rushing inside your front hallway as vi waits for you, kicking her snowy boot against the concrete entryway step. not even a heartbeat after shutting the door behind you, vi takes your gloved hand in hers and pulls you forward, the two of you a flurry of laughter.

…..

hey, pretty girl. i was at this party and one of your songs came on! every time i hear it, i’m in awe of how amazing it is….how amazing you are. i’m basically walking home in a snowstorm, so i’m gonna go before my fingers freeze off, but i just wanted to say that i’m so proud of my rockstar girlfriend.

i was also wondering: are you coming home any time soon? the holidays are coming up, and i really miss you. we all do.  

…..

track 3: last christmas by wham!

(winter — now)

vi should have learned from sonic youth and fleetwood mac: 

no sex or romance between bandmates. it never ends well.

it was bad enough giving into the rumors and fooling around with cait, but it’s another layer of messiness now that cait and maddie dating. meanwhile, cait is very much still bitter towards vi, vi is very much pining after someone whom she’s pretty sure never wants to see her again, and steb and lorris are very much caught in the middle. it’s no wonder the band’s manager suggested everyone take some time apart to ease the tension. frankly, while others protested, vi was almost relieved at the suggestion.

so cait’s off to london, maddie’s off to glasgow, the boys are going god knows where, and vi —

vi’s heading back home, back to you.

she wakes up in the bed of her childhood for the first time in a long time. her dad put on fresh sheets, but they’re still the same ones from back then — worn flannel with cartoon penguins. it takes a lot of willpower to untangle herself from the warmth and cloud-like softness, but eventually she heads downstairs to the kitchen.

powder still has exams so she’s not home from college until tomorrow, and vander’s gone to work. it’s just vi in her too-small christmas pyjamas (she has yet to unpack), eating a box of stale cinnamon pop-tarts for breakfast even though it’s well past noon. curiosity gets the best of her, so she peers through the window to see if anyone is next door.

your mom’s car is in the driveway, completely snowed in. there had only been a dusting of snow while vi was devouring the first pastry, but four pop-tarts in and it’s about doubled. she waits until the snow stops falling; with nothing better to do and a sugar rush to burn off, vi pulls on her old winter coat and snow boots she hasn’t worn since she was 18, grabs a shovel from the garage, and gets to work. 

it doesn’t take her long to clear the driveway, and she has some adrenaline to spare, so she decides to be a good neighbor. 

vi’s heaving one last shovelful of snow over her shoulder when she hears:

“violet? is that you?” 

she turns around. and, okay the first thing she registers is ziggy running towards her, the husky toppling her over into the snow.

“i missed you too, zig,” vi laughs. 

she gets up as ziggy’s still bounding around in the snow, and sees your mom standing in the doorway, looking a little more tired and a little more gray. but the smile on her face when she sees that it is, in fact, vi — it’s so bright that the snow might not exactly melt away, but the years sure do. 

vi remembers making snow angels with you while your moms gossiped over tea, how the two of you would stomp inside with a mess of slush and snow while laughter echoed from the living room. vi remembers your mom keeping a comforting arm around her shoulder through her mom’s funeral while you held her hand. she remembers your mom helping her pick out the perfect corsage to match your suit at prom, making a joke about how next time it might be an engagement ring, and telling vi how proud her mother would have been of her at your high school graduation party. 

with the golden glow of nostalgia comes a crashing wave of guilt at what vi said to you last time you spoke. 

“come inside, sweetheart. i’ll make you some hot cocoa as a thank you.”

vi is tempted to reject the offer, but your mom looks so hopeful and vi’s fingers are about to freeze off, anyways. 

so your mom makes hot cocoa as vi defrosts, the two of them chatting in the familiar yellow kitchen that you and vi once almost burnt down while trying to bake a cake for powder’s birthday. even the magnets and paper memories decorating the fridge are the same, with the addition of an article about vi’s band that was featured in the rolling stone, pinned up by a ceramic cow. 

“she’s an art teacher now,” your mom tells vi after giving an update on ekko. she glances at the oven clock. “speaking of which — i know you just finished shoveling our driveway, but do you mind helping me with another favor?”

“after the world’s best hot chocolate? anything.”

“i told my daughter that i’d pick her up from work, and i’m wondering if you would be able to take care of that.” your mom smiles. “i’m sensing a bad migraine coming on.”

the last sip of hot chocolate trickles down vi’s throat like cement. she knew she’d be seeing you, but didn’t quite plan for how that….reunion might go.

“of course,” vi says. 

vi puts both of their mugs in the dishwasher, about to grab the car keys from the hook by the door when your mom calls out: 

“oh, and violet?” vi turns around. “i’m so glad you’re home.”

you’re talking to a student when vi enters the art room of your old high school. nothing else in the building had changed — same boring concrete, same scratched up lockers, same graffiti immortalizing whom hooked up with whom. this room is the exception, vibrant with how students’ art is displayed all around, paintings and drawings and collages, and you’ve strung up multicolored christmas lights that give the whole space a cozy ambiance. you look the part of a cool, young art teacher: wearing a simple dark purple turtleneck tucked into black jeans and the same combat boots you’ve had since tenth grade, paint stains on your skin that is exposed by rolled up sleeves, and a marker behind your ear. you’re standing in front of an easel, talking to the student who happens to notice vi before you do.

“holy shit. is that violet lanes?”

vi watches as your face scrunches up in confusion, and then falls into shock when you see her standing there.

“it seems that it is violet lanes,” you state coolly while the student squeals. “what are you doing here?”

“oh, i, uh,” vi clears her throat, her palms sweaty. why is her body reacting like she’s a teenager about to ask out her crush for the first time? “your mom wasn’t feeling great, asked if i could pick you up from work.”

“you guys are friends?” the student asks, eyes wide as they flick between you and vi. 

“we used to date, actually,” vi clarifies. wrong move, she realizes, because you can’t help but glare at her.

“oh my god.” the student squeals again and reaches in their pocket to whip out their phone. “i need to tell alyssa that ms. l/n was in a relationship with the violet lanes. are you guys gonna get back together? oh my god, have you come to win her back —”

“layla,” you clip, and by the furrow of layla’s brow, it seems like you’re not usually so stern. you smile at layla, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’ve done some great work today, but you’ll have to finish this when we’re back from winter break. do you mind giving ms. lanes and i a minute?”

layla nods once, gathers her things. when she walks past vi, she can’t help but ask for an autograph. vi complies, of course, even lets her take a selfie. a fan is a fan, after all.

and, quite frankly this is the only part of being in the band that she still enjoys: hearing how excited young girls are at the music she writes, the music that vi wished she had growing up, about girls liking girls, about girls falling in and out of love with each other. everything else is just an occupational hazard that vi’s getting more and more fed up with. 

when vi turns her attention back to you, you’re finished putting all the material away, wiping your hands with an already paint-stained towel.

“i meant what you’re doing back in town,” you explain, not quite meeting vi’s eyes. you pack away some books and your laptop into a supple leather briefcase, and slip on your coat. vi’s cheeks flush when you catch her watching you. 

“it…it doesn’t matter. i’m here for a while, though.” 

you sigh. “okay.” and you don’t say anything more. vi keeps up with you as you switch off the lights, lock the door, and stride to the parking lot in silence. when you get to the car, you extend your hand.

“i’m driving,” you say, gesturing at her to give you the keys. “we both know that you’re a terrible driver.”

“i’m not a terrible driver,” vi guffaws. 

“says the lesbian who gives the rest of us a bad name,” you quip, a hint of a smile dancing across your lips, like the first bout of sun after a winter storm. “c’mon, pretty girl. i’m not giving up, so unless you wanna freeze to death….” 

the nickname slips effortlessly from your tongue, so much so that you don’t even seem to realize it, but vi’s breath hitches and she’s more than happy to fold to your every whim if it means hearing you call her pretty one more time. 

“so….” vi glances over at you from the passenger seat. a snowy landscape passes outside the window, and you tap on the steering wheel to a generic christmas song that plays through the stereo. “you’re teaching high school now?” 

she wonders if you remember the last fight you had, almost two years ago to the day.

you keep your eyes on the road. “yeah. guess i graduated from finger-painting with kindergarteners.”

vi feels her cheeks heat up all over again. 

so, you do remember. 

she wonders if you’ve replayed it over and over again and hoped for a different ending like she did. she should have thought more about what to actually say to you —

“you know, i never understood why you liked this song so much,” you suddenly say when the radio starts playing dolly parton’s cover of ‘i’ll be home for christmas.’ 

vi can read between the lines, but she’s waiting for you to point out the irony in her preference for a song that’s about someone wanting to go home for christmas, something vi has deliberately avoided at all costs these past few years. 

“it just seems kinda sad,” you continue. 

“you love ‘last christmas,’ and that one’s pretty sad,” vi points out.

“sure, but it ends hopefully.”

“oh?” vi tilts her head towards you. “how’d you figure? 

“sure, it’s someone singing about heartbreak and how much it sucks during christmastime, but then there’s this hope that they still find true love down the line. it’s a maybe that isn’t hopeless.” you shrug. “meanwhile, your song ends with the lyric ‘if only in my dreams,’ which just seems too accepting of the fact that going home for christmas, being with the person they love — it might just be a dream.”

“i don’t know. some dreams do come true,” vi muses. 

by now, you’ve made it home. you put the car in park but keep the engine going, presumably to avoid becoming icicles. neither of you make a move to leave. 

you glance over at vi. “your dreams sure came true, ms. violet lanes,” you joke, but there’s an air of sadness to it.

“not all of them.”

“yeah? which ones haven’t?”

vi swallows the lump in her throat and hopes that you understand the look in her eyes. “let’s just say i’m working on them.”

you blink away and cut the engine.

….

you’re still dealing with the shock of seeing vi back in town when your brother, freshly home from college, suggests going skating. 

he can be fairly convincing, especially when he mentions that it’s a christmas season tradition, so, you prepare for what is essentially a double date with your brother, his girlfriend/your ex-girlfriend’s sister, and your ex-girlfriend, with isha as a fifth wheel.

should be fun. 

it turns out, despite all her past hockey experience, vi really cannot skate. in fact, skating seems to be the complete opposite of riding a bike: she’s terrible at it after years off the ice, essentially reenacting that scene from bambi. it’s easier to ignore vi’s presence when she’s sitting next to the snack bar, by herself, but then powder skates up next to you and asks if you’d be kind enough to please help her sister have a good time. you roll your eyes at her shit-eating grin, but it is a bit sad, watching vi on the sidelines. she’s wearing a beanie and a pair of sunglasses to hide her identity, and now she kinda looks like a divorced dad watching his grown kids pass him by while he’s stuck in a midlife crisis.

you convince vi to give skating another shot — it’s tradition after all — and pull her out onto the rink. you start by holding her from behind, keeping her hips steady until she gets the hang of it. you try to let go, but vi stumbles and reaches out for your gloved hand, and you melt into the familiarity of her fingers curled around yours. the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, first with you pulling vi along, then with her taking the lead, until vi almost knocks into a small child.

“see what i mean by you being a bad driver?” you jest, successfully maneuvering to avoid collision. 

then, you follow where vi’s eyes have settled — on powder and isha laughing and chasing each other around the rink. vi had asked earlier when isha had dyed her hair blue; you still have some residue under your nails from last weekend, when powder came for a study break and the three of you ended up helping isha achieve a new look she’d apparently been itching to try. 

“you know powder’s graduating this year?” 

“she overloaded her credits so she could get out of there as soon as possible,” you explain, having had many conversations with powder leading up to the decision. 

vi nods, her jaw clenched. you already know what she’s thinking, and frankly, you agree: that vi hasn’t been here, literally and figuratively. you also feel the warmth of vi’s skin radiating through her glove to yours, notice the slight flush to her freckled cheeks, how chapped her lips are from the cold, so much so that you’re tempted to share the vanilla chapstick you’ve got on your own lips, to kiss her deeply like you did last time you were here, together.

it’s only been three days since vi’s been back home. this is only the second time you’ve seen her, and you’re already falling back into old patterns, tempted to ask her to stay, to try again, even though you already know the answer.

except….not staying isn’t the deal breaker it used to be, so maybe trying again isn’t as hopeless as you think it is.

vi squeezes your hand, and you realize that you’ve stopped skating entirely. 

“hey. you still with me?”

you nod, decide to enjoy this moment for as long as you can, and the two of you glide across the ice.

…..

when you suggest making stove-top s’mores, it’s another item on the list of things she’d missed. 

a list that’s been growing a lot these past few days.

vi offers to make more once you’ve all run out, and ekko follows her into their kitchen while you, powder, and isha keep watching christmas specials in the living room. she turns on the gas stove, stabs a marshmallow through a wooden skewer and waits for it to roast — and, for ekko to say something.

“i don’t know what happened between you and my sister, but i need you to promise me that the tabloids aren’t true. that you and that kiramman chick didn’t hook up…at least until after y’all broke up.” 

“or, what, you’re gonna challenge me to an arm wrestle? think you can finally beat me?”

“oh, i know it.”

a pause. the marshmallow catches on fire and vi blows on it to quell the damage.

“i didn’t cheat on her.” she throws out the burnt marshmallow and gives it another shot. “i would never. does….does she think i did?”

ekko shrugs. “not sure. some of those articles are pretty convincing. but, since you’re promising me that you didn’t…”

“i didn’t.”

“then that saves me from kicking your ass.” ekko nods once and uncrosses his arms, handing vi some graham crackers and chocolate. “actually, i could use your help with something.”

“sure.”

“she applied to this great art residency in new york, like, on whim. the only people she’s told are me, powder, and vander….i think she’s nervous to tell mom, at least until she knows for sure she’s gotten in, but this is the most excited i’ve seen her be about something in a while, and she worked really hard on her application…” 

“i’m sure she did,” vi states. “what do you need my help with?”

“convincing her to go.” 

“i’d love to help, but i’m not sure i’m someone she’d wanna hear from, especially about this. she was never a fan of me leaving to pursue my dreams.”

“she was never a fan of you leaving,” ekko corrects. “she’s still a fan of you pursuing your dreams.” he juts his chin out at the article stuck to the fridge. 

vi had just assumed that your mom had pinned that up.

“okay.” vi says. “i’ll talk to her.” 

a plateful of semi-burnt s’mores later, and vi and ekko return to the living room with the rest of you. 

vi forgot how nice this felt, all of you cuddled on the couch, ziggy included, watching how the grinch stole christmas. she half expects her mom to walk in through the door without even knocking, shake the snow off her hair, and hold up a batch of pre-baked gingerbread people she’d gotten for the kids to decorate.

but that’s not happening. other than isha, none of you are kids anymore and things can never be the same.

and yet — you glance over at vi and give her a sticky marshmallow smile, and she feels her heart grow three sizes.

….

baby, i swear it’s not what it looks like. the record label thought it would be good promo to get a picture of me kissing under the mistletoe…’tis the season and all that…..cait and i were both really drunk and things got a bit out of hand….but it looks worse than it is. i swear on my mother’s grave that nothing happened.

please call me back, baby…..i’m so fucking sorry….please. 

it’s not christmas without at least hearing your voice. 

….

track 4: river by joni mitchell

(winter — age 23)

it’s hard to believe that hours ago, you were kissing vi backstage and showering her with praise after the concert. she was happy to indulge in your excitement, even though she was all sweaty and her ears were still ringing from the crowd. 

more than happy, in fact. phone sex can only go so far, and it’d been too long since vi had seen you writhe and heard you whimper for her firsthand. 

“i missed you so fucking much,” you groan, tightening your grip on vi’s hair. it’s now an inky black instead of fuschia — the band’s starting to lean more punk rock. 

a particularly hard thrust is her way of telling you that she missed you too. so fucking much. she throws your legs over her shoulders, pushing the strap deeper inside you and digging her knees into the mattress as she coaxes you through another orgasm. you pull her down for one last searing kiss, your tongue searching each crevice of her mouth. 

“i can’t believe you’re here,” vi continues a few moments later, after you’re both cleaned up and getting dressed. she wants to add something along the lines of i love you, but she bites back the sentiment. she’ll save that sappy shit for later tonight, when she finally gets down on one knee for you. 

you glance back at her from where you’re pulling out a sparkly silver dress from your side of the closet (and isn’t that such a slip of the mind? your side, as if it’s a shared closet and a shared bedroom and a shared home; if she thought about it more, though, she would realize that, though she has no problem asking you to marry her, she’s still terrified at the thought of staying in one place for more than a few months).

“me neither,” you smile. 

vi walks over to you, presses her half-dressed body against your lingerie-clad form (vi’s sure you wore this fuschia set just to drive her insane; it’s working). she lodges her hand behind your ear and pulls you in closer, kisses you deeply because you’re here and she missed you so fucking much and she’s so ready to make you her wife.

she could write a whole record just about the taste of your lips: the sweetness of vanilla chapstick, the saltiness of sweat and the headiness lingering from the wetness you lapped up from between her legs.

you pull away first. vi tries not to stare at how your chest heaves, your breasts straining against intricate lace. 

“we, um.” you clear your throat. you slip your hand underneath vi’s blazer, and she groans when you make contact with the exposed, burning skin of her abdomen. vi thinks you’re about to suggest another round, or two, or ten, but instead you untangle yourself from her and say: “we should probably get ready.”

the after party is going well. the club’s busy, the music’s good, and the drinks are flowing.

you seem to be having a great time until someone (probably cait or maddie, on cait’s behalf) lets it slip that the band’s heading to london later in the month to start recording their new album before the end of the year….something vi decidedly did not want to tell you until later tonight, after the high of the proposal, after she’s promised you that she’s dedicated to this relationship, that she’s always been dedicated to you. 

instead, vi’s trailing behind you as you angrily stomp towards the bathroom, her mind scrambling to come up with a way out of this argument.

there’s a line, but you cut in front and slip inside as soon as someone walks out. 

“wait, what the fu —”

you slam the door and lock it behind you once you’re both inside, ignoring the subsequent banging and jiggling of the handle.

“please, baby, let me explain —”

“i can’t fucking believe you,” your voice is steady, measured, and for some reason that makes vi even more nervous. “you give empty promise after empty promise that you’ll be more present, but something always gets in the way, is always more important than —”

“don’t you dare say that you’re not important to me. i offer to fly you out anywhere to be with me, but you’ve only taken me up on the offer once. twice, now.”

“it’s been five years, vi. five years of us staying together because….god, at this point i don’t even know why — ”

“do you not understand how much i love you?” vi raises her voice over the sound of the club music outside. “i was gonna propose tonight.”

you stare at her, then start to laugh.

“please tell me you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“if you think marriage will save us, then you’re delusional. what was your plan — call me your wife while we’re thousands of miles apart, but not even have the time to answer my calls? we’re barely in a relationship now, vi. all that’s left between us are missed calls and voicemails —” 

“oh that’s really all that’s left between us?” 

“i love you, violet. i have since we were kids. but, now, there’s also all this — the parties, the crowds, the fame….you’ve gone all over the world, and you can’t even be bothered to visit your family during the holidays.”

“well i’m sorry that my ambitions are bigger than that nothing town we grew up in,” vi snaps. “i can’t believe you’re throwing a tantrum because i’m not making it home for christmas. for what? so we can all reminisce by the fireplace, pretend that we can be kids again, even though things can —” vi chokes back a sob, soothes it with a healthy dose of anger. “things can never be the same. you need to grow the fuck up.”

“maybe you should be the one to grow up!” you finally yell. “convincing yourself that this relationship is working, meanwhile you’re running away from everything and everyone you grew up with because it reminds you of your —”

“at least i’m not afraid to actually go after my dreams,” vi cuts you off before you can finish that sentence, uses the broken shards of your words against you. “don’t you want more for your life than finger-painting with a bunch of kindergarteners? you’re gonna end up just like your deadbeat mom, going nowhere, drinking yourself to sleep, all alone, with nothing to show for the life you’ve lived.”

as soon as the words leave her mouth, vi wishes she could take them back. you don’t bother swallowing your tears, letting them rush down your cheeks. vi digs her nails into her palms to prevent herself from reaching out and wiping them. it wouldn’t make sense, anyways. she’s the reason you’re crying. 

you take a deep, shaky breath.

“yeah, well, i’m glad that your mom isn’t alive to see what a selfish asshole you’ve become.” there’s a pause, and vi feels her stomach turn at your casual cruelty, your quiet anger. “i’m gonna pack up my stuff and catch the first flight out of here. merry fucking christmas and happy fucking new year. have a nice life.”

vi screams and throws the velvet box against the door you’ve slammed shut behind you. the hot tears that were building in her throat finally boil over. the engagement ring clatters onto the floor.

…..

vi? it’s me. not sure if you’ve blocked my number. i wouldn’t blame you. i know it’s been, like, a year, but it feels weird not hearing your voice for this long, especially around the holidays. well, i guess i could just turn on the radio….it’s not the same, though. anyways, merry christmas. happy new year, too. and….and i’m sorry. 

please come home.

…..

track 5: i’ll be home for christmas by dolly parton 

(winter — now)

karaoke at the last drop used to be one of vi’s favorite christmas traditions, so you decidedly avoided it at all cost since the breakup. vander always tried to convince you to join, but he understood and even made sure to not give you a shift during that time after you started working there at 21. 

you kept the job because, evidently, high school art teachers don’t make a ton of money, and you would one day like to move out of your mother’s house. 

which, as it turns out, might happen sooner rather than later. you applied for this artist residency in new york, and, yeah, you put time and effort and heart into your application, but you were sure that you’d be rejected. while you got your acceptance email this morning, and you were so fucking overjoyed at first, the thought of leaving still terrifies you, so you’ll postpone worrying about that until after the holidays. that’s what they’re for, anyways: a break from reality, a peek into a cozy snow-covered world where everyone is festive and joyous and worry-free.   

right now though, you’re feeling neither festive nor joyous. gert called in sick, and no one else is able to cover for them, so you’re stuck at the last drop on christmas eve, listening to one of your old high school classmates drunkenly fumble the lyrics of darlene love’s ‘christmas (baby, please come home).’

about three verses in, vi walks into the bar with mylo and claggor, flakes of fluffy snow melting into her grayish pink hair. you’re already pouring their drinks before they reach the counter. mylo and claggor offer their sincere appreciation, chattering away as they leave to snag a booth in the corner. vi stares at her drink before grabbing the beer glass. 

“you remember.” 

“are you surprised?”

vi smiles. “no. it’s just nice. cait keeps insisting i order gin martinis instead. says it’s classier.” 

something sour curdles in your stomach. “yeah, well. i’ve always liked you the way you are.”

that probably ended up sounding like you’re still pining after vi (which you’re….not) rather than the bitter comment you intended it to be. 

vi’s soft blue eyes search yours. 

“i better get back to the boys,” she finally says. “maybe sign up for a song or two.”

you’re busy clearing a table when you hear her voice again. actually — a silence fills the bar, and it’s replaced by the lush rumble of vi singing ‘last christmas.’

you watch her as she performs, eyes locked on yours, and it’s over before you know it. you feel like you should go say something to her, but then there are a bunch of excited fans that she has to attend to, signing autographs, taking photos.

as you swallow your disappointment, the normal chatter of the bar resumes. you’re walking back to the kitchen when you feel someone pinch the back of your thigh, right under your ass. you whip around to find that old classmate who butchered a christmas classic an hour or so before (james, you think his name is, from ninth grade science), with the most arrogant smirk.

“hey, gorgeous. my friends and i were just arguing over who should take you home tonight.” he gestures towards a table of guys who look like equally preppy assholes. “i won the chugging contest.”

“good for you,” you say, balancing a tray of empty glasses. “grope someone in here again, and you’ll be sorry you did.” you turn around to get back to work, but james grabs your wrist and stands up abruptly so you’re chest-to-chest.

“i don’t think you understand what i’m offering, baby.” you gag at the nickname and the stench of beer on his breath. you’re a bartender, you’re used to getting hit on, but creeps like this are the worst.

you rip away from his grasp. 

“i’m not interested,” you snap. “and i’m not your baby.”

“listen.” james puts his hands on your shoulders, and if both of your hands were free, you would promptly push him away. everyone’s having a good time and you don’t wanna cause a scene, so you try to think of ways to get this asshole out of the bar and into the snow without much of a fight. “you know, santa might come down your chimney on christmas eve, but if you’ve been a good girl this year i’ll come down your —” 

“there you are!” powder’s voice is loud over the sound of someone singing another generic christmas carol. she knocks into your side, breathless. “sorry we’re late. had some car trouble.”

“well, hello.” he removes his hands from your shoulders, shifts his predatory gaze from you to powder. 

oh, fuck no.

“powder,” you keep your voice steady even if your heart is racing. “go back to the table. i’ll be there in a sec.”

james reaches out for powder, but you punch him square in the jaw before he can so much as touch her, the tray of glasses crashing on the floor. 

james’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only egotistical, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a blow to their ego. 

in fact, he’s angry enough to deliver a punch right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but powder manages to catch you before you tumble into the broken glass. she holds you as people start yelling. you think that vander rushes over, too, shouting at james to get the fuck out of his bar and never step foot in it again. 

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is all a bit fuzzy. powder tries her best, but you slump your body weight into hers and she almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” vi’s surprisingly calm voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. 

somehow, you find yourself in the bathroom, sitting on the counter as vi stands between your legs. she carefully examines your injury, but you notice how she avoids making eye contact. 

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while.

“remember teaching me how to throw a punch?” the question slips past your lips before you can stop it.

vi looks slightly amused, and she finally meets your gaze. “‘course i do,” she hums. “you tried to convince me to help you start an all-female fight club at school.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the pain from your nose.

she remembers. 

somewhere within her, vi holds on to fragments of you.

“thank god the principal vetoed it. would’ve been a disaster,” she continues.

vi wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of her silk red button-down now stained a darker crimson. “how’s your hand?” she asks. 

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

vi smiles sadly. “i guess you’ve been the one protecting my sister while i’ve been away.”

while i’ve been away. 

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart. 

vi’s back home, sure, but only for a limited time. 

her fingers graze your cheek, and the breath hitches in your throat.

“you know, i only wanted to start that fight club as an elaborate plan to spend more time together,” you confess, opting to preserve the delicate bubble of nostalgia you’d stumbled into together. “we were each so busy….i had studio, and you were always away at hockey games. it wasn’t realistic in the end, though.”

“i would’ve stayed if you asked,” she tells you, and you wonder exactly what she might be referring to. 

you swallow the lump in your throat. “it’s what you loved, though.”

“but i - i loved you, more. you had to have known that.”

“yeah, well. i loved you, too,” you explain, and it’s clear that neither of you are talking about a lesbian fight club. “whether it was hockey, or music….as long your heart was in it, it was more worth it to let you go, to not stand in the way of your dreams.” 

“you were my dream.”

you scoff, cheeks heating up, and look away. “you probably say that to all the girls.”

“no.” vi guides your chin towards her. “just the one.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on vi’s— messy, urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. she cradles your face in her hands, and you wrap your legs around her waist to bring her closer. you taste beer on her tongue, and maybe a hint of lime, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the adrenaline, but dizzy from her. vi’s gaze is heavy on yours as she traces your top lip with her thumb.

“vi,” you whimper, itching to kiss her again. 

“you’re still bleeding.”

vi wipes away the blood with the sleeve of her shirt. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s a knock on the door. vander, wondering if you’re okay and if maybe you could hurry up and get back to work. 

you can’t sleep that night. before, staying up on christmas eve was an elaborate operation to catch santa. now, it’s overthinking a very hot kiss and all the unresolved tension between you and your ex-girlfriend next door. 

logically, you knew that you missed vi, everything about her and who she is, the way you would laugh and argue and make love. but the rush of feeling her tongue licking into your mouth, her body melding into yours after being apart for so long….

you’re scared that she won’t feel the same, but you’re even more terrified of letting the moment slip through both your fingers without at least trying. 

so, you grab your phone, deciding to finally reach out to her, when by some christmas miracle you get a text from her.

she climbs through your window not long after, wearing plaid boxer shorts and a zaun university sweatshirt you’ve been looking for, for about five years. you didn’t bother to change, either, only wearing an oversized shirt. you sit cross-legged on your bed as she waits by the window. vi stares at your chest for a good few seconds, and you remember that you’re wearing one of her band’s concert tees, faded from years of wear. 

“so, um,” vi starts, her voice as soft as the well-worn cotton of your shirt. “we have so much shit to talk about and figure out, but, i, uh, can’t stop thinking about early tonight —”

“vi.” the swarm of butterflies in your stomach is replaced by something more delicate, more urgent. “do you wanna come sit?”

vi swallows thickly, looking between you and the still open window. a winter breeze rushes through. you shiver, thinking she might just turn around and disappear into the cold night. instead, she shuts the window, removes her snow-covered boots, and settles onto the bed next to you.

you place a tentative hand on her cheek, still cold and slightly flushed. she shudders when you run your thumb over the tattoo under her eye.

“i know there’s a lot we have to work through.” you take a deep breath as she shifts closer, suddenly dizzy from the familiar scent of her winter pine old-spice body wash. “right now….right now, i just want you.”

“yeah?” vi smirks, her shyness melting away. she settles a warm hand on your bare thigh. “how do you want me?”

you exhale sharply when her hand travels higher, dull nails scraping at the fabric of your underwear. 

“it’s cute that you’re flustered,” she quips, leaning in even closer. her breath is warm and heavy against your lips. “because i’ve spent so many night replaying all the dirty, nasty things we used to —”

you tug her sweatshirt and pull her back onto the bed, feeling her body solid against yours. the vibration of her groan shudders through your body when you crash your lips onto hers with such hunger, you’d think you had been starving without her. 

“how’s about an encore, superstar?” you drawl. 

you bite your lip hard at how vi nods at you desperately, eyes all dark and lustful.

“you read my mind,” she breathes. by now, her hand has reached the hem of your shirt, and she pushes up the cotton to reveal the supple skin of your stomach. you give her permission to remove it, leaving your top half exposed.

her lips nip and suck down your body until she reaches the waistband of your panties. she pulls it up with her teeth, the elastic snapping back when she lets go. you whine her name, and she looks up at you with dark eyes. 

“can i?” her breath fans over your navel, her nails digging into your hips as she waits for your answer.  

“yes. please.”

you hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but you could feel vi smirk against your inner thigh before sinking her teeth into it. you whimper, and vi salves her tongue over the area to ease the sting before removing your underwear. she positions your legs over her shoulders for better access to where you need her most.

vi moves her tongue and fingers in all the ways she remembers makes you shake, curl your toes, and grind down on her face. in return, you grip her pink hair, tightly, and utter praise in all the ways you remember makes her shake. 

“just like that, pretty girl,” you encourage, practically melting into the mattress. it feels so good — dangerously good, intoxicating, even — to be devoured by vi.  “keep doing a good job and i’ll return the favor later.”

vi’s moan vibrates throughout your body and she becomes faster, reaches her tongue deeper, bringing you over the edge. she leaves a few more bites on your body on her way up to meet you and when she does, vi’s lips and chin are shining with your release.

you lean forward slightly to lick it up. you ghost your mouth over hers.

“your turn,” you taunt and run your thumb over her tattooed cheek. 

you twist your calf around vi’s leg and flip your positions. she lets out a yelp when her back hits the mattress. once you’re hovering over her, legs and arms on either side of her body, you do what you’re sure you’d never get tired of doing: you kiss her, passionately, deeply. you bite her lip as you pull away. 

there was always a bit of jealousy that gnawed at you, became your very-own shoulder devil that you just couldn’t shake when you were together, no matter how hard you tried. it was no secret that vi was admired by many, that girls around the world were crushing on her, hoping they’d catch her eye, get their chance with her. you never felt like she was yours, and yours alone. 

but you do get a deep satisfaction knowing that right here, right now, you’re the only person who gets to see her like this — pink hair splayed across the pillows like her very own halo, but the rest of her telling a much less-angelic, much more sinister story: her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her cheeks a devilish shade of red, her eyes dark and lustful and waiting for you to make the next move. 

"you want me to have my way with you?" you whisper, voice honeyed with desire.

vi whimpers, a sound that fuels the fire in your abdomen. "yes."

you practically rip off her sweatshirt, kiss down her jaw, her neck, her exposed chest and sternum down to her stomach. vi lifts her hips from the bed so that you can remove her boxers, and you’re delighted to find nothing else underneath. 

you’re greeted by her glistening pussy. blowing onto her folds, you run your tongue from her hole to her clit, loving how you already feel her slick coating your lips. vi spread her legs even wider, and you take the opportunity to sink two fingers into her cunt. you know her body, as well as you know your own, as well as she knows yours. you flick your gaze up, view slightly blocked by the pink curls of her bush, but you can still picture it — how her eyes roll back, how her mouth opens to release a perfectly delicious gasp.

"god, i've barely touched you and you're already about to cum. did you miss me that much?" you tease, feeling her clench around your fingers. as if you aren’t subtly rutting your hips against the mattress, eager to ease the throbbing between your legs. 

all you get in response is whine. it’s muffled, and you crane your neck upward to see her biting down on her knuckles, so hard you’re worried she might break skin. 

unacceptable.

the rest of the world gets to hear her every day, any time they please. you want to be serenaded by the lyrics of her want, the notes of her desire. all for you and you alone.

with your other hand, you reach up to pinch one of her pierced nipples, always so sensitive. "answer me, violet."

vi props herself up on her elbows to look at you, just as you remove your mouth from her.

"yes!" she sings, practically sobbing. you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel the throbbing between your thighs intensify, hearing the frantic lilt of her voice — like she needs you and only you. "i missed you so fucking much. please, just do something."

at her request, you move up the bed so that the two of you are face to face, one of your hands holding her chin while the other is two fingers deep in her cunt. you add another, just to reveal in the timber of her sultry moan. she tries to bring her hand back, to quiet herself, but you shake your head. 

with your thumb, you trace over her lips, uneven and scarred and imperfectly beautiful. "open." 

vi obeys you instantly. you spit in her mouth, heart racing as you watch her swallow the combination of your saliva and her cum without question.

you continue fucking her with your fingers until she moans, louder and louder as she reaches her peak.

removing your fingers from her pussy, you lock eyes with her as you bring your syrupy fingers to your mouth and suck off her juices. then, you kiss underneath her ear, lips sticking slightly to her skin, and you whisper: "now i know why they say you have the voice of an angel.”

“fuck,” she exhales, the breath turning into a chuckle as you kiss underneath her chin, where you know she’s ticklish.

"one more time for me, okay, pretty girl? i want to feel you against me," you whisper. "i want to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

vi nods, allowing you to adjust your positions so that your cunts are touching. you start fucking her down into the mattress and she sits up slightly so that your nipples brush against each other, the cold metal of her piercings encouraging the roll of your hips, her nails digging into the curve of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. 

“i missed you too. so fucking much,” you finally admit.  you flick one of the silver rings before leaning down and wrapping your lips around her nipple. 

“i missed these, too,” you add as you release her nipple with a pop, and vi moans. you’re grinning from ear to ear because, holy shit, vi is here and you’re together and you’re both happy, if only at the ecstasy of your silken cunts gliding against each other, at the taste of the other slicking your tongues, as thick as nectar and twice as sweet.

she laughs — love and magic and everlasting bliss — and you have to capture her lips now if you want to swallow the sound. you feel it bounce through your ribcage, awaken something deep within you that you feared was lost to time.

vi thrusts her hips upwards, presses harder against the seam of your cunt until you’re gushing against each other, not quite sure who’s making what mess. 

strings of cum connect you as you remove your body from hers. for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch your breath. vi drapes an arm over her eyes, chest heaving. 

you throw on some clothes and leave the room, hoping that vi’s still there when you get back.

….

vi worries that if she opens her eyes, she’ll wake up from this dream. 

she’ll be in some uncomfortable bed in london or tokyo or los angeles. the dull ache between her legs would be thanks to some girl who’d be eager to text all her friends and spill all the details about what vi likes in bed, or caitlyn who would tell vi to shave next time, darling, or i won’t let you fuck me again anytime soon.

instead, vi hears the creak of a door opening, feet tiptoeing along the floorboards. the mattress shifts with the weight of someone between her legs, though their body is not touching hers. 

“vi, baby,” a gentle coaxing, a familiar voice, pulling towards something she forgot she needed. her heart soars when she finds you kneeling on the bed, holding a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in another. 

“yeah?” her voice is hoarse, but her throat doesn’t sting in the same way it does after a concert. it feels tender, well-used, well-loved.

you hold out the cup of water, watch vi eagerly gulp down half of it before she realizes what she’s done.

“shit, i — did you want some?”

you smile and shake your head. “i had some downstairs after my shower.” it’s then that vi registers the water dripping from the ends of your hair, soaking the fabric of her (fine, your) sweatshirt. “i’m gonna clean you up. is that okay?”

vi nods.

okay? okay? vi thinks she might have whiplash. 

it’s been a while since someone has fucked her so well she’d be satisfied for years and then touched her so tenderly afterwards. you run the damp cloth over vi’s sticky, sweaty skin, occasionally leaning down to press soft lips where you’d left teeth marks and bruises before. 

“there.” you throw the cloth on the floor. “so, um. do you wanna stay….?” 

you bite your lip as you wait for vi to answer. you start picking at your nail polish, too. vi sits up and grabs your hand. 

“i do,” she soothes. “do you want me to?”

your smile brightens the entire room and you kiss vi before muttering:

“i do.”

vi slips on her boxers as you settle into the bed next to her, leaving her top half bare. she notices the sketchbook on your bedside table, and she lifts it up at you, a silent question if she can flip through. you take it from her as you shift to sit between her legs, her chest warm against your back. the room’s only illuminated by the string of multicolored christmas lights you’d left on, but vi can see the talent, the passion behind your work as you walk her through your sketchbook. you tell her about the techniques you’ve been working on and new mediums you want to explore, about how you want to make the kind of art that makes people appreciate the beauty in the everyday. 

“i always loved your art,” she muses. vi cranes her neck slightly, places a kiss on your shoulder then one on your cheek. “the world would be more beautiful if you shared it.”

you hum and place the sketchbook on your bedside table. you each shift to your sides, facing each other; vi notches a leg around your hips, and you throw an arm around her waist, fingers trailing down her tattooed back. 

“ekko talked to you, huh?”

“i would have said that even if he hadn’t,” vi promises. “so….have you heard anything yet?”

“well….yeah,” you sigh, smiling shyly. “i got in, actually.” 

“really? that’s amazing, baby.” she beams at you, excitedly cupping your face in her hands, leaving small kisses across your cheeks until you’re giggling. 

“okay, okay,” you laugh. “i don’t know if i’m gonna go yet.”

vi hums knowingly. she presses her forehead against yours. 

“i know you’re scared, baby,” she says softly. “but sometimes it’s just a leap of faith.” 

“i know.” you pause, gnawing at your bottom lip while your eyes fixate on the scar on her upper lip. “can i ask you something?

“anything.”

“when you proposed to me….” her body tenses up, but you brush your hand over her bicep and the tension in her muscles dissipates. “was that a leap of faith? like, were you scared?”

“well, not at first.” she takes a shuddery breath, her voice suddenly small. “i always thought that we’d be together….i just didn’t think through how we’d make it work, i guess. i didn’t mean to mess things up, though.”

“hey.” vi leans into the hand you cup around her cheek. “we both messed up. we never actually talked, you know? but….i’m glad we are, now.” you swallow. “i still love you, vi.”

vi exhales. “you know, girls tell me that they love me pretty much every day.” 

you can’t help it — you roll your eyes, and vi laughs. because, truthfully, her heart has felt more full at your admission of love just now than it ever has for an area of screaming fans.

“there’s a point to this, i promise,” she says, nudging her nose against yours. “i used to get such a thrill from it….but then i think about what you said earlier. my heart — it’s just not in it anymore. all the band is now is drama and gossip and compromises of fame over art, and…. i don’t know. it’s not really what i want anymore. i want to be with you. for real, this time.”

you blink at her; she can feel your chest pulsing against hers like a hummingbird.

“would you, um, if i were to take that leap of faith and do that artist residency, would you —”

“anywhere you wanna go,” vi promises. she thinks about it a bit more….how nice it’s been to be home for the holidays, how nice it would be to come home year round.  “preferably close enough so we can have dinner at home on the weekends.” 

“sounds like a plan,” you smile.

the two of you twist closer underneath the flannel sheets, sink into the mattress, and gaze up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling until you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

you jolt awake a few hours later, several firm knocks on the door and ekko shouting:

“it’s christmas! get the fuck up before ziggy eats all the bacon!”

beside you, vi protects you from the frosty winter morning. her body radiates warmth, and her eyes flutter open, ever so slightly, as you gently shake her shoulder. 

she groans, turning on her back, rubbing sleep from her eye. 

“i better go.” 

“....yeah.”

you flush when you glance over as vi’s slipping on her sweatshirt, rose-petal bruises delicate across her skin. she opens the window, hair still mussed up, and a gust of frigid air rushes into the room. 

the image is so familiar: vi, one leg in your room and another out the window. you feel like a teenager again, scrambling to get dressed and avoid anyone hearing that you’d snuck your girlfriend into your room late at night. but there’s something else now, too — you imagine this becoming routine: waking up next to each other every day, swapping clothes, kissing over coffee and pancakes at breakfast. a place where the two of you might create some new memories, build a shared life together. and much more, so much more that feels like it could be your reality, sooner rather than later. 

you’re so deep in thought that you don’t notice vi rushing back towards you. she kisses you and kisses you, until your lungs are burning.

"merry christmas, baby,” she mumbles against your lips.

you grin back at her. “merry christmas, vi.”

....

hi baby, i know you’re at studio right now, but i forgot to ask you this morning: how do you feel about sending out holiday cards this year? i know they’re kind of cheesy, but it seems like the type of thing married couples might do…..

anyways, we’ll talk about it when you get home. i’m test-driving this new recipe for brussel sprouts to bring to dinner at my dad’s. 

i’ll see you later. love you!

[cinnamongrl2006]

JASON TODD thinks he doesn’t know how to love, but…

a/n: I missed writing for my man!! Also, thank you for 600 followers I can't even begin to explain how sweet and welcoming this Tumblr community has been, I love u all! cw: mentions of sex, fluff, fem!reader

Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love, but when it's late at night and you're tired he'll undress you and take your make up off with gentle but clumsy hands. His eyes glued to your face like his life depended on it, like he needs to memorize it, engrave it in the back of his brain before you go away.

He thinks he doesn't know how to love but he never lets you walk on the side of the pavement closest to the road, always keeping a steady hand at your waist.

Jason Todd thinks he doesn't know how to love because he can't bring himself to say the words out loud, they catch in his throat, get jumbled up into a ball and come out weird. He fears if he says it out loud the spell will break, the bubble will burst, and you'll see something you won't like in him.

He makes up for it by showing you how much he loves you.

He memorizes your coffee order, knows exactly how cold it has to be before you ask for his jacket, and he gives it to you before you can even notice the discomfort; he knows each and every expression you make, can feel your gaze on him from the other side of the room, warm like a blanket, holding him tight like a boa constrictor, taking his breath away.

He thinks because he isn't saying it you won't notice, but you do. You notice how there's always flowers and coffee in his hands when he comes home too late in the morning, apologetic smile on his lips and a purple bruise blooming on his jawline.

You notice how the ac always works, no longer stops in the hottest days of the year, how the sink is no longer dripping in that constant manner, how you never register that you're feeling cold before he carefully drapes his jacket over your shoulders.

"Should've brought yours, told you it'd be cold, ma." He'd mumble, the twitching of his lips and the glint in his eyes betraying his annoyed expression.

Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love because he's surly and standoffish, sort of like a cat. His physical affection comes slowly at first, he tests the waters, proves to himself that you want to touch him as much as he wants to touch you. An arm slung over the back of a couch, fingers grazing your shoulders, the back of your neck; or maybe a hand on your thigh in the car, his eyes on the road but his mind on you, heart beating so fast he could have sworn you heard it.

His touch comes hand in hand with his trust, and once he's assessed you can be trusted his hands are on you constantly, eyes wide and filled with love as he looks up at you from in between your thighs, presses kisses up your legs and down your stomach.

He thinks he doesn't know how to love, but he touches you like you're holy, like you're made to be worshipped. He is enthralled by the way you pant when he's knuckles deep inside you, the way you arch your back and let out whiny breaths and broken moans, the way you call his name like a siren.

Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love because he's clumsy, tripping over his own two feet for his girl, but he doesn't know that's what love is about. It's the clumsiness, the blushing cheeks and brushing hands, the kisses with too much teeth and drool, the awkwardness, the 'lights on or off?' conversations.

Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love but you know better.

tags: @cherrycolaheartss @xoxorory @laceyfaeryy

[megapteraurelia]

"you're doing it again."

kenma's voice was quiet, the soft tenor of his flat, but not quite annoyed. never really annoyed with you, sometimes unimpressed, other times confused, but mostly just observant. and he did, he noticed everything.

unlike you, it seemed. you hadn't even realised that your hand had crept under the hem of his hoodie, fingers sliding across the soft warmth of his stomach, the hair underneath his belly button tickling your fingertips like a cautious little kiss. you hadn't even touched him for any reason. you did just…because.

because he was warm, and you liked warm. you liked his warm.

innocently, you blinked up at him, your chin resting on his shoulders, legs tangled on the couch as some random video played in the background. you blew onto his neck and he shifted slightly, "doing what?"

"that thing," his eyes scurried over to you and back, the golden of his iris getting smaller, "your hand. my hoodie. sneaky."

you grinned and stole a kiss from his shoulder, "i'm not sneaky. you just never stop me."

kenma huffed, shaking his head slightly, the tips of his hair brushing your nose, yet — he never moved your hand. if anything, he leaned into you a little more, his body seeking the flush of your own close to him; there was a faint blush crawling across his cheeks, settling on his skin gorgeously. his thumb continued to scroll through his phone, but like a betrayal to his attitude, you could feel the way his chest expanded underneath your fingertips, breathing slowing under your palm like he'd started to relax the moment you touched him. his heart beat a cute melody against your head when you rested your cheek against his chest, fast and tripping.

"you're like a cat," he mumbled, warm air brushing your forehead.

"says you."

"i'm not a cat."

"yeah, you are."

"am not."

"are," you smiled against his hoodie, letting your hand rest there, fingers still splayed slightly over his skin, caressing his stomach and he squirmed a little underneath your touch. he wasn't ticklish, you knew that, but he fidgeted like he didn't know what to do with all the feelings of your hand on his abdomen, soft and full of affection. it was quiet for a moment and when you stopped teasing him, he finally settled, too.

then he spoke again, softer this time like he was hesitant to admit it: "…i like it."

he didn't look at you, refused to like always, too shy and too embarrassed; his ears flushed and burning.

"i like when you do that," he added, barely audible, "it— it feels nice. like you're there."

you squeezed him gently, cheek mushed against him, "i am here, dummy."

behind the curtain of his hair, kenma smiled too, the kind where it was all crooked, all soft, the one he only could with you. he shifted slightly again so he could press his cheek on top of yours, his voice disappearing between your hair, "then stay there a while."

and you did — hand under his hoodie.

TAGLIST | @takes1 @classicalelephant

[strangerexee]

ᴘʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ɪᴛ, ʙᴀʙʏ | ꜱᴀᴍᴍɪᴇ ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Set in Mississippi, 1932 Black!Fem!Reader x Sammie Moore (Smut | NSFW | 18+ | semi-public | oral (f!receiving) | praise kink | dirty talk (but soft and sweet) | preacher boy being filthy with his mouth | reader being shy but loving it | Sammie adoring her.) ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ : ᴀɴᴏɴ… ᴡᴄ : 1.9ᴋ

The barn was alive — music rolling like a river, laughter booming, stomps on the wooden floors in time with the beat.

It was damn near midnight but nobody had slowed down yet.

You’d been dancing for what felt like hours — sweaty, breathless, twirling under the hazy glow of the lights — and somewhere in the middle of the crowd, Sammie Moore had found you.

That voice — God, that voice — smooth like smoke, low like thunder, sweet enough to steal your good sense.

And now — now —

You were laughing against his chest, hands clutching the front of his jacket, as he half-dragged you toward the back of the barn.

Your shoes skidded on the rough wood, the hem of your dress twisting between your knees. Sammie was laughing too, that soft, breathless chuckle that made your heart flip.

"Where you takin' me, preacher boy?" you teased, grinning.

Sammie just shook his head — smiling wide, eyes burning — and pushed open a closet door.

Light dim inside.

Dusty.

Perfect.

You barely made it inside before his mouth was on yours — kissing you like he hadn't just seen you thirty seconds ago — like he’d been starving.

One hand grabbing his shoulder, the other going to the back of his neck to pull him closer if possible — and you gasped against his mouth, dizzy with how fast this was happening.

Somebody — Slim, from the sound of it — hollered out a laugh from the other side of the barn.

"Ain't no hidin', Sammie!" "Boy too loud!"

You laughed into Sammie’s kiss, breathless.

He laughed too — a low rumble in his chest — but he didn't pull away.

If anything, he kissed you harder.

Hands gripping your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

You pulled back just enough to breathe — your forehead bumping his.

"You sound real good up there," you mumbled, cheeks hot. "When you was singin’. Sound better than anybody else here."

Sammie huffed a soft, bashful sound — but the way his eyes darkened, you knew he liked hearing that.

"That right, pretty girl?" he said, voice dragging like silk across your skin. "You like my singin'?" "Mmhmm," you nodded, kissing on his jaw. "'Specially when you hit them notes."

You weren't thinking — not really — just talking and laughing and letting yourself get drunk off the heat of him.

So when he lifted you up and set you on the old table in the closet, your brain barely caught up.

Not even when he dropped to his knees.

Dropped to his knees.

You blinked — the sweat cooling on your skin — heart pounding as you felt his hands push up the hem of your dress.

"Sammie —" you gasped, pushing at his shoulders. "Wait, wait, wait — I walked here — I been dancin' all night — I ain't — I ain't even clean —"

You were babbling, mortified.

But Sammie just kissed the inside of your thigh — slow and hot — then smiled up at you, mouth glistening.

"Don't care," he said simply. "You beautiful just like this." "Sweaty, messy, mine."

You slapped a hand over your face, half in embarrassment, half because you couldn't believe this was happening.

You heard him laugh low.

Then he grabbed your wrist — firm but careful — and pulled your hand away from your face.

"Lay down for me, baby," he murmured, thumb stroking your wrist. "Let me take care of you." his voice, you were gonna die. Die because of the way he was distracting you, all while pulling down your panties, all the way down, and letting them fall from your ankles.

You swallowed thick.

Nodded.

And laid back — the old wood creaking under your weight — the barn lights flickering somewhere behind your shut eyelids, your whole body trembling with a mix of nerves and something deeper. Darker.

You felt Sammie’s hands sliding up your thighs, warm and calloused, felt the press of his palms as he gently eased your legs open, spreading you like something sacred — like he was about to pray at the altar of you.

Cool air brushed your inner thighs, kissed the heat between them — and then came the softest groan, deep from his chest.

“Damn…” he murmured, more to himself than to you. "So damn sweet."

His breath fanned over your wetness and you shivered, lips parted, eyes fluttering as your fingers gripped the table edge.

Then — his mouth was on you.

Hot. Slow. Focused.

His tongue slid through your folds, parting them with gentle precision, until he found your clit — and sealed his lips around it.

Sucked. Soft. Steady.

Your entire body jolted — hips twitching off the table in shock.

“Oh my God — Sammie —”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop.

He groaned into your pussy like he’d just tasted divinity, like the sound of your moan had gone straight through him.

His hands slid underneath your thighs, fingers curling tight over your hips, anchoring you down, so you couldn’t run, couldn’t flinch, couldn’t do anything but take it.

And you took it.

Your thighs shook around his head, your breath coming out in choked gasps —

you tried to be quiet — tried to bite down on the sounds spilling out of you — but he made it impossible.

The way his tongue worked — lapping, circling, flicking that sensitive spot again and again, so tender but so filthy — made your body rise with every pass.

Your hand slipped to the back of his neck, cradling him there.

He moaned against you like you fed him, like he needed this, like he was starving for it.

“Preacher boy —” you gasped, the nickname tumbling out on instinct.

He grinned against your pussy, let out a low, filthy hum that made your stomach clench.

And when he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Say it again,” his voice was so deep, so wrecked with lust — you thought you might fall apart from just that alone.

You could barely breathe.

Could barely think.

But you obeyed, barely above a whimper.

“P-Preacher boy…”

He hummed again — deeper this time — and then you felt him slide two thick fingers into you without warning.

You cried out, back arching off the table — as he filled you and stretched you slow, deliberate — his tongue still working your clit — his mouth soft while his fingers curled inside you, firm and sure.

He moved like he’d done this before — like he knew how to pull sounds from a woman’s chest. He licked you like it was Sunday service. He fucked you with his fingers like he meant to make you confess something.

“That’s it,” Sammie murmured, voice honey-slick and ruined. “C’mon now. Give it to me, baby. C’mon, let go for me.”

You came like the barn was shaking — like the wood beneath you would snap — like he’d stolen your soul from between your thighs.

And he didn’t stop. Not until you were trembling and leaking and gasping, his mouth dragging every last ounce of pleasure out of you like he needed it to breathe.

When he finally slowed — pressing a soft kiss to your swollen clit, then the inside of your thigh — you lay there stunned.

Eyes glassy. Breath gone. Heart stuttering against your ribs.

He rose to his feet slow — and when you looked up at him, you felt a flush run all the way down your chest.

His mouth was shiny with you. His lips swollen and damp.

His eyes? Wicked.

He leaned down — one hand cupping your cheek — and kissed you.

Deep. Slick. Sweet.

You tasted yourself on his tongue. You let him feed it to you like communion. And you swore you could still feel his moan in your mouth.

"Told you," Sammie whispered against your lips. "Ain't no hidin', baby. You mine now."

You only pushed him away with a scoff, still catching your breath.

You sat up slow — the old wood of the table creaking under you — your dress all bunched up around your hips, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from kissing.

Sammie was standing right in front of you — tall and breathing hard, eyes fixed on you like you were something holy.

You caught your breath — swallowed thick — and reached for him.

Reached for the buttons on his pants, fingers fumbling a little from how bad you still felt your climax rattling through you.

Sammie’s eyes darkened instantly.

"Baby —" he started, voice low and rough. "You sure?" "Mmhmm," you nodded, staring up at him with glassy, hungry eyes.

You slid your hands over the front of his pants — felt him already thick and hard underneath — and bit your lip.

"I want you," you whispered.

That was all Sammie needed.

He bent down — grabbed your face in both hands — and kissed you deep.

Hot and filthy, his mouth tasting like your own arousal.

You moaned into the kiss — grabbing onto the waistband of his pants — trying to pull him closer.

Sammie chuckled against your mouth — low and breathless — and let you work at his belt.

You popped it open — the soft snap loud in the tiny closet — and dragged the zipper down, your fingers shaking just a little.

He caught your hands for a second — squeezing them.

"Take your time, baby," he whispered. "Ain't no rush."

But you wanted him — wanted him so bad it hurt.

You kissed him again — desperate, messy — hands slipping under the waistband of his briefs, feeling the heavy, thick weight of him.

Sammie groaned into your mouth — deep and broken — his hips jerking forward when you wrapped your hand around him.

You stroked him slow — feeling the silky heat of him — and Sammie gripped the edge of the table like he might break it.

"F-Fuck, baby," he breathed, forehead pressing against yours. "You tryin' to kill me?"

You just smiled — shy but wicked — and kissed him again, tongue sliding slow against his.

You wanted more.

You needed more.

So you shifted — still trembling — and pulled him closer between your legs.

Sammie sucked in a sharp breath — one hand sliding up your thigh — pushing your dress higher, until he could feel how wet you still were for him.

"Damn," he muttered against your mouth. "Still so sweet for me."

You nodded — desperate — and guided him closer.

But Sammie pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes — his gaze hot and serious.

"Ain't fuckin' you on no damn splintery table," he growled. "You deserve better than that."

You whimpered — frustrated — but he kissed you slow, calming you.

"Next time," Sammie promised, voice low. "Next time, baby, I’m takin' you somewhere proper." "Where I can hear you scream without worryin' who hear us."

You shivered — God, you wanted him so bad — but you trusted him too.

You trusted him to mean it.

You trusted him to come back for you.

So instead — instead, you pulled him close again — and let him grind against you, thick and hard between your thighs, while you kissed him deep and dirty.

Sammie kissed you like he was carving your name into his soul — slow and aching and desperate — his hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that made you both moan.

It wasn't enough.

Not nearly.

But it was everything all at once.

And when you finally pulled back — cheeks burning, lips slick — Sammie rested his forehead against yours and smiled.

"You my girl now," he whispered. "Ain't lettin' you go, baby."

And you smiled too — still trembling — but more sure than you ever had been before.

"Good," you whispered back. "'Cause I ain't goin' nowhere."

A/N: brb - I need to go touch some grass...

[ivyues]

Cold Hands, Warm Hearts: Stray Kids’ reactions to their S/O always having cold hands

warm hands equivalent

Bang Chan

The soft hum of music played in the background as you sat back on your boyfriend’s bed, scrolling absentmindedly on your phone while he worked on his laptop beside you.

Chris reached out absentmindedly, his fingers brushing against the back of your hand. His hand paused. Then, he touched your hand again, this time with more intent.

His brows furrowed as he turned to look at you. “Are you cold? Do you want me to turn the AC down? Or do you need a hoodie?” He was already shifting like he was about to get up and grab something for you.

You felt your face get warm. “Chris, stopstop, it’s fine—” you stammered, covering your face with your sleeves. “I’m not even that cold.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned back, watching you with amusement. “You sure?”

“I’m sure!” You peeked at him through your fingers, only to see the teasing glint in his eyes. “My hands are just always cold.”

He reached out again, this time taking your hand properly and wrapping his fingers around it. His grip was warm, steady, and familiar. “Well, even if you won’t take a hoodie, at least let me warm your hands for a bit.”

Your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t even doing much – just holding your hand – but the way his thumb gently rubbed against your skin made it feel so much more intimate. You wanted to melt.

Trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped, you huffed. “You’re so annoying.”

Chan only grinned, his dimples appearing. “Yeah, yeah. But you love me.”

And, well… he wasn’t wrong.

Lee Know

“Tch.” Minho shook his head as he noticed you rubbing your hands together for warmth. But before you could defend yourself, he grabbed one of your hands, his warm fingers wrapping firmly around yours. Without a word, he shoved both of your hands into the pocket of his coat.

Surprised, you glanced up at him, but he was already looking ahead, a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “I swear, you’re a hassle,” he muttered, tugging you along with him as we walked.

“You’re the one who grabbed my hand,” you teased, enjoying the warmth that spread from where our hands were joined.

Minho scoffed, squeezing your fingers lightly. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to hear you complaining about having cold hands again.”

With that, he picked up the pace, his steps quicker than before. You stumbled slightly, trying to match his speed as he dragged you along.

“Minho, why are you walking so fast?!” you gasped, struggling to keep up.

“You were walking too slow before,” he said simply, glancing at me with a smirk. “And you're warming up this way.”

“I swear, you just like making me suffer,” you muttered under your breath as you tried to match his strides.

Minho let out an amused chuckle but didn’t slow down. If anything, he tugged you closer, ensuring that even as he sped up, our hands stayed firmly together in his pocket. The warmth of his hand, the way he stubbornly held onto me despite his teasing, made my heart race a bit faster.

Minho turned his head slightly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Nah,” he said, squeezing my fingers again, “I just like keeping you close.”

Changbin

“Binnie~” you cooed, snuggling closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He chuckled at your tone, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you even closer. “What is it, baby?” he asked, amused.

“I just love you so much,” you said sweetly, peppering his cheek with soft kisses. Your fingers traced small his arm as you sighed dreamily. “You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

Changbin’s heart melted at your sudden burst of affection. He adored how cuddly and cute you could be, and he wouldn’t trade these moments for anything. “Aww, what’s gotten into you?” he teased, though he was clearly enjoying the attention.

“I just wanna love you,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his torso. You nuzzled into his neck, your lips brushing against his skin as you whispered, “You’re so warm.”

And he was. That was the whole point. Because, unbeknownst to him, your hands were freezing.

You slowly slid your hands under his shirt, pressing your icy fingers against his warm back.

“AH—!” Changbin jolted, his entire body tensing as he let out a strangled yelp. “Y/N, what the—?!”

You burst into laughter, holding onto him as he squirmed. “I was cold!” you confessed between giggles. “And you’re so warm, Binnie~”

He whipped his head around to glare at you, but his pout only made you laugh harder. “Wah.. All that cuteness—just to attack me with your freezing hands?”

You pouted, batting your eyelashes innocently. “But I love you…”

Changbin groaned, but his ears were red, and you knew he secretly enjoyed your antics. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to warm you up without you sticking your hands up his shirt.

Hyunjin

The moment you stepped back into the room after washing your hands, you found Hyunjin sprawled across the couch, his limbs taking up the space. The soft glow of the room made his features look even more delicate. But the pout on his lips told you something’s up.

“Love,” he whined, stretching his arms. “Come here.”

You raised an eyebrow, walking closer. “What’s wrong?”

He let out a dramatic sigh and shifted to sit up, looking at you with those warm brown eyes that never fail to make your heart race. “My face feels puffy,” he mumbled. “And your hands are always cold. Can you put them on my face?”

A soft giggle escaped your lips as you shook your head at him, but your heart melted at the request. “You just want an excuse to be pampered, don’t you?”

Hyunjin grined but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he pat his cheeks with a finger. “Please?”

Rolling your eyes playfully, you stepped closer and placed your hands on either side of his face. The instant your cold fingers made contact with his warm skin, he shuddered dramatically, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Ohhh, that’s nice,” he murmured, leaning into your touch. His lashes fluttered shut, and for a moment, he looked completely at peace.

You couldn't help but smile, your thumbs gently brushing against his soft skin. “You’re so dramatic.”

Hyunjin cracked one eye open, smirking. “And yet, you love me for it.”

You laughed, but he’s not wrong. Leaning down, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, and his arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you onto his lap.

“Now you’re stuck,” he humed. “Gotta stay and keep my face cool.”

Han

Han had invited you out for a late-night stroll after practice, claiming he needed fresh air – and an excuse to see you, as he later admitted with a sheepish grin.

Walking beside him, you glanced at him curiously as he wordlessly pushed his sleeve down over his hand, wrapping it in the fabric until only his fingertips peeked out. Then, in an exaggeratedly careful manner, he reached his bundled-up hand out towards you.

You blinked. “What… are you doing?”

He didn’t meet your eyes, feigning nonchalance. “What do you mean? I’m just, y’know… offering my hand like a normal boyfriend.”

You stifled a giggle, eyes flickering to his sleeve-covered fingers. “Are you scared of my hands?”

“I am not scared,” he insisted immediately, though the slight pout on his lips told another story. “I’m just… preparing myself! Last time felt like grabbing an ice cube straight from the freezer. I have to take necessary precautions.”

Shaking your head fondly, you took his offered hand, feeling the warmth of his palm even through the fabric. Han let out a small, satisfied hum, as if proud of his clever solution. After a few moments of walking in silence, he finally glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“Not bad, right?” he murmured.

You squeezed his hand lightly, your cold fingers pressing against the soft material of his sleeve. “Not bad at all.”

Han grinned. “Good. Because I plan to keep holding your hand all night – and without dying.”

Felix

Felix had always been an affectionate person. But every time he tried to lace his fingers with yours, you always found a way to avoid it – adjusting your bag, fixing your sleeve, pretending to check your phone. At first, he thought it was a coincidence, but after months, he knew better.

And so, one evening, he decided to ask you.

"Baby… Can I ask you something?" His voice was soft, uncertain.

You turned to him, slightly caught off guard by his serious tone. "Of course."

"Why don’t you ever hold my hand?" He looked down, fiddling with the rings on his fingers. "I’ve tried so many times, but you always dodge it." His eyes flickered up to meet yours, warm and a little nervous. "If you don’t like it, you don’t have to, I promise. I just… wanted to know why."

Your stomach twisted with embarrassment. You hadn’t meant to make him feel rejected – it was the last thing you wanted.

"It’s not that I don’t want to," you admitted. "It’s just… my hands are always cold."

Felix blinked. "Cold?"

You nodded, rubbing your palms together. "Like, ridiculously cold. Ice cube levels. I just figured… it wouldn’t be pleasant for you." You hesitated before adding.

For a moment, Felix just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached for your hand.

"Felix—"

He took it in both of his, his warmth instantly wrapping around your fingers. He squeezed lightly, as if to reassure you.

"You weren’t making me uncomfortable," he said firmly. "I just want to hold your hand because it’s yours. I don’t care if it’s cold."

Seungmin

Seungmin lounged comfortably on the couch with you, his phone in one hand and a lazy smile tugging at his lips. Setting his phone down, he reached into his hoodie pocket.

“Ah, here,” he said simply, tossing something at you.

You barely managed to catch it, blinking down at the small, round object in your hands. It was a hand warmer, soft to the touch, with a cute puppy face printed on it. 

“Where did you—?”

“Just take it,” he interrupted, leaning his head back against the couch. “I swear, every time we go out, you’re always complaining about how cold your hands are. This way, I won’t have to hear it anymore.”

Despite his teasing tone, there was something undeniably fond in his expression, in the way he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, as if checking to see if you liked it.

Your heart did an embarrassing little flip. You turned the hand warmer over in your palm, unable to stop the small smile forming on your lips. “It’s a puppy,” you pointed out, amused.

“Yeah, well, you like cute things,” Seungmin shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “And you’re basically useless when your hands are cold, so it’s a win-win.”

You scoffed, tossing a cushion at him, which he dodged effortlessly. “You could’ve just admitted that you’re being nice to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.” But his voice was light, and the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was holding back a real smile. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Then, with a teasing glint in his eye, he added, “But don’t you dare forget it the next time we go out.”

I.N

It was freezing outside, and despite being bundled up, the cold still seeped through your fingers. Your boyfriend was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, scrolling through his phone, completely unaware of the mischievous plan forming in your mind.

A smirk crept onto your lips as you slowly inched closer. You knew he hated the cold, and his reactions were always priceless. Silently, you slipped behind him and pressed your freezing fingers against the warm skin of his neck.

“AHH!” Jeongin practically yelped, his whole body jerking as he scrambled forward. He whipped around with wide eyes, hand clapping over his neck as he stared at you in betrayal. “Yah! Why would you do that?!”

You burst into laughter, clutching your stomach. His pout deepened, and he crossed his arms. “That was so mean,” he whined.

Still giggling, you reached out, but he flinched away dramatically. “No! I don’t trust you anymore,” he huffed, scooting further from you.

“Aww, come on,” you teased. But before you could get any closer, Jeongin lunged at you, pinning you down as his fingers found your sides.

“No—AH! Stop!” you squealed, writhing under his relentless tickles. You kicked your legs, trying to escape, but he showed no mercy.

“If you get to mess with me, then I get to mess with you,” he laughed as you gasped for breath.

“Okay! Okay! I won’t do it again!” you cried between giggles, tears forming in your eyes.

Jeongin finally stopped, letting you catch your breath. He sat back with a triumphant smile

You glared at him playfully, rubbing your sides. “This isn’t over,” you muttered under your breath, already plotting your next move.

masterlist

[flwrstqr]

❛ COMPLETELY ◟ ⟡ WHEN THEY KISS YOUR POUTY LIPS

𖹭 【 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀 】 ｡ 𝗂'𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗉 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅.

' 𝒏. boyfriend!enha & fem!reader 9OO. ୨୧ established relationship fluff reaction ✶ petnames skinship kissing ◜ᯅ◝ 𝑙’ click

다니 ܃ thank you kimibubs for helping me find a song as a title & introducing me to a whole new song :0 and hope you enjoy as this is a remake of my old fic TT

HEESEUNG

heeseung leans in real close, close enough that his nose brushes yours, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he tilts his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “do you want me to kiss it better?” he whispers, voice low and warm, and your breath hitches at how close he is—how soft his gaze is even though he’s clearly enjoying how flustered you look. before you can answer, he’s already pressing his lips to yours, once, then again, then again. he kisses you over and over, lips brushing against yours in soft, fluttery pecks until you’re breathless and giggling. “there, better?” he murmurs, thumb stroking your jaw while his other hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer. “my pouty baby,” he teases. “can’t stand seeing you like that. guess i’ll just have to kiss you forever.”

JAY

jay sighs softly when he sees the pout on your lips, and before you can even say a word, he’s already reaching out, fingers tilting your chin up so you’re looking right at him. “don’t give me that look,” he mutters, but his voice is far too gentle to be scolding. his thumb traces the corner of your mouth, eyes flicking down to your lips like he’s already given in—and he has, because he always does when it comes to you. “you know i can’t resist you when you do that,” he whispers, then leans in and kisses you. his hand cradles the back of your head, the other resting lightly on your waist, keeping you close. “my pretty princess,” he murmurs against your lips, brushing another kiss there, “you always get what you want, don’t you?”

JAKE

“one more. i’m not done,” jake mumbles between kisses, his voice breathless as he chases your lips again, not even giving you a second to pull away. your pout had him the second you walked in and now he’s obsessed, holding you close. he kisses you once, twice, then again, over and over, but he doesn’t stop. “baby, your lips…” he whispers, eyes fluttering open to look at you with a smile, “you know that pout’s my weakness.” he brushes his nose against yours, pulling you even closer, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “i love your lips,” he says with a sheepish little grin, “but i love kissing you more.” then he’s leaning in again, completely smitten, and you're never escaping his arms.

SUNGHOON

you let out a sigh, loud on purpose, and before you can finish it, sunghoon’s already pulling you against his chest and kissing your pouty lips without warning. it’s quick, and it shuts you right up. “yeah, i knew that’d shut you up,” he mutters, trying to sound all nonchalant, like his heart isn’t beating stupidly fast just from the way you look at him. his arms stay wrapped around you though, his hand rubbing small circles into your back like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. “stop pouting,” he adds, avoiding your gaze as he presses another kiss to your lips—softer this time, like he’s afraid of how much he likes it. “it’s annoying.” but he doesn’t let you go. if anything, he holds you tighter, like he’s hoping you’ll never move. and when you smirk against his lips, he kisses you again, totally whipped and not even hiding it anymore.

SUNOO

sunoo stares at you for a second too long, completely frozen like—why is that the most kissable thing he’s ever seen? your lips are all pouty from being teased, brows slightly furrowed, arms crossed like you’re mad but he knows you’re not. “baby,” he coos, leaning in closer, voice all soft and playful. “don’t look at me like that.” that’s when he loses it. he giggles, before closing the distance, kissing you so sweetly you forget what you were pretending to be mad about. “you’re lucky you’re cute,” he whispers against your lips, eyes twinkling. “my pouty baby.”

JUNGWON

jungwon presses his lips against yours like it’s his personal mission to make you stop sulking, and honestly? it’s working. you’re sitting across from him, arms crossed and lips pouty because he was teasing you again—something about how cute you look when you're annoyed. and now he’s pulling you onto his lap, hands firm on your waist, eyes soft that makes your heart flip every time. “baby,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back with his fingers, “don’t be mad at me, yeah?” “you’re so cute, i can't stand it,” he grins against your lips, resting his forehead on yours. he’s so in love with you it’s ridiculous. and you? well, you’re not pouting anymore. not with him holding you like this.

RIKI

riki sees your pout and immediately mimics it, sticking his bottom lip out in the most exaggerated, mocking way possible. “wahhh, why’s my baby sulking like this?” he whines, voice teasing, eyes glinting with mischief. you roll your eyes, trying to stay annoyed, but it’s kind of impossible when he looks that amused. “don’t mock me,” you grumble, crossing your arms tighter, but he just laughs and cups your cheeks with warm hands. “you’re too cute, i had to,” he says, then without warning, he kisses you. not the quick peck you were expecting, but like he’s trying to make up for all the teasing in one go. when he pulls back, he rests his nose against yours, grinning. “i mess with you a lot, huh?” he whispers. “but i love you. like, a lot.” you sigh. how are you supposed to stay mad at him now?

[satoblue]

“A FOOL” — gojo satoru

prank gone… right? | wc: 0.8k

f!reader, established relationship (you are dating), a little angsty but there’s a happy ending i swear, satoru needs to find better jokes, may or may not be your not so typical proposal, he has the worst comedic timing (or timing in general) | dividers made by me

“i think we should break up.”

you turn your head to face him so fast that satoru could almost feel the whiplash you got from the action himself.

“what?”, you ask, genuine confusion written over your features.

he has to stifle a laugh.

this was always the fun part — the confusion. and little did you know what he had up his sleeve. he’s never made a joke to this extent before, but knowing what he has planned, he’s sure you’d have mercy on him this time.

folding his arms over his chest, he leans back on the couch. satoru shuts his eyes, tilting his head with a smirk. “you heard me. i think we should stop dating.”

this is the part where he should’ve stopped right away, noting how quiet it is — too quiet for comfort. as if the warmth within you was snuffed out.

when you speak up with a low “why..?”, so soft like a mouse that satoru could not pick up on the shakiness of your breath, he turns to you, leaning in with a close eyed smile.

“because… we should get married! april fools!”

his voice echoes throughout the room until it falls into dead silence. lips stuck in a grin, he waits for a reaction.

. . . nothing. eh?

when his eyes flutter open, it doesn’t take long for his smile to falter.

there you were, sitting in front of him with a frown, brows knit together and glassy eyed, a tear about to shed any second and run down your cheek.

not on his watch.

“oh, baby. no no no, d-don’t cry! it was just a prank.”

“that’s not funny…”, you sniffle, rubbing at your face and sockets with your fists to fight the onslaught of tears.

his eyes soften, lips downturned, the amusement of the situation gone. he forgets about the somewhat proposal entirely, only focused on you and your disheartened eyes as you cry.

“i know… and please don’t rub your face like that.” he whispers, as if to afraid to speak higher lest you shatter like delicate glass. “you’ll hurt yourself, my love.”

gently pulling your hands away by your wrists, both of his go to cup your wet cheeks, his touch warm and comforting as he wipes away the result of his foolishness.

how could he fix this? he almost broke your heart entirely, even though a small part of him is delighted at how much love you hold for him that you’d have a reaction like this instantaneously — now is not the time to gloat.

“i am a fool…”

“you are.” you pout up at him.

the clenching of his heart releases at the sight of you acting so cute, and he feels something inside his chest flutter. with a small smile, he apologizes.

“i’m sorry...”

he is a fool. a complete and utter fool — your fool. and you were stuck with him and his stupid pranks for infinity because it is ridiculous to think he’d ever leave you. never has the thought crossed his mind — and you weren’t allowed to walk out on him either. like he said, it will always be him in your life.

the both of you sit like that for a few more seconds, staring into each other’s eyes, enjoying the shared company and fleeting touches as satoru tucks your hair behind you ears after the tense moment.

“can i just say something..?”, you speak up.

with furrowed brows, he gives a concerned nod. “yes, of course.”

you grin, the picture perfect definition of the devil incarnate.

“april fools, satoru...”, and your boyfriend feels shivers run down his spine.

silence.

and then another beat of silence.

it takes a while to register in his head. but then, with a hand over his heart, a sound rings out from his mouth, a squawk — one of absolute betrayal and disbelief.

he stares down at your evil smirk with wide, blue eyes as you clean off the residual salty tears with the back of your hand.

the tables have turned, and you have bested him at his own game. but he expects nothing less from the (maybe — if you are not mad at him) future mrs. gojo.

extra:

“you’re so cruel! what happened to my sweet and innocent angel?”

“what can i say? i was tired of being pranked all the time that i turned evil.”

satoru pouts.

“i hope this is a lesson learned to not mess with your queen, joker.”

he sighs, “yeah, you’re right.”

“i know.” you huff proudly. “also, baby, april fools day isn’t today — it was yesterday.”

“…”

“might want to buy a calendar before a ring so you don’t mix up our wedding date too.”

he blinks, suddenly remembering his semi-proposal. “wait, so is that a yes?!”

p.s. — last minute, you thought to say april fools to make it seem like you had the upper hand the whole time because there is no way you’ll ever let satoru know you genuinely cried over this. oh, to be gullible… but now, satoru will never mess with the true master of him, his home, and this day ever again. you won.

[matt-murdockk]

Time

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

words: 2.8k

summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)

warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)

a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.

That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.

“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”

Wife.

The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.

He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”

“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”

He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.

And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.

He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.

“I think I’m going to cry.”

“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”

She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”

They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.

But then-

She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.

“Matt?”

He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“I feel... weird.”

He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”

Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”

She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”

She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.

“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”

“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.

“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”

She staggered.

Her balance tipped.

Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”

She didn’t answer.

Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.

He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”

She looked up at him.

Confused.

Scared.

“M-Matt, I...”

And then her voice just- cut out.

His arms were suddenly empty.

He blinked.

No sound. No step. No breath.

Just... gone.

The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.

“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”

His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-

No. No, that wasn’t right.

He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.

“(Y/n)?”

He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”

No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.

“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”

His foot bumped something.

Her ring.

Her wedding ring.

Lying on the floor.

His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”

He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.

“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”

Still nothing.

Just the flicker of the candles.

Just the soft sound of ash settling.

“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.

“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”

He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.

Foggy.

It rang once. Twice-

Pick up.

The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.

Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.

He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”

Click.

“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”

“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”

There was a pause.

“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”

Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”

Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.

“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”

Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”

Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”

“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”

The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.

Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.

The TV flicked on.

"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."

Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.

“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”

The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.

“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.

“She was right here.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

five years later

She came back mid-step.

One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.

The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.

The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.

“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.

Silence.

She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.

“Matt-?”

And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”

She stopped cold.

“Matt-”

He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”

“What…?” she breathed.

“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”

Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”

“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”

“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”

(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”

“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Matt?”

Nothing.

She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.

“Don’t do this to me again.”

Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”

“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”

“Matt, I don’t- ”

“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”

She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”

“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”

“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”

“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”

Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.

“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”

He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.

“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”

(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.

“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”

He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.

“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”

“Matt-”

“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”

“Matt-”

“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”

“Matt.”

She said it once.

Quietly.

And then she reached for him.

He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.

To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”

Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.

His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”

Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”

He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”

It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.

“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.

She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”

He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”

And then he kissed her.

Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head

A few days later

She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.

She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.

She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”

Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”

She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”

“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”

He scoffed. “Grizzled?”

“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”

“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”

She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.

“Oh no. I married an older man.”

Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”

He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”

Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”

Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”

She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.

“Still married me,” she said, smug.

“Still would,” he replied, without hesitation.

And that shut her up for a minute.