#not because she literally had magic or whatever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kashverse · 3 months ago

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bedtime stories are essential for a child’s growth—they bring families together, foster creativity, and, occasionally, make your children dream a little too wildly. but when your husband is involved, bedtime stories become something else entirely.

sukuna, with his eyes gleaming under the dim nursery light, cleared his throat. babykuna, bundled up in a nest of plush blankets, stared up expectantly, little hands clutching a well-loved, slightly drooled-on copy of the little mermaid. the two feline overlords of the household, mr. pickles the maine coon and baby the orange tabby, sat at the foot of the bed like judgmental literature critics. “alright, brat, let’s get this over with,” sukuna grumbled, flipping the book open with unnecessary force.

“once upon a time, there was a little mermaid who was a total dumbass.”

babykuna giggled. sukuna smirked, feeling accomplished.

“she fell in love with some random guy she saved from drowning, which—let’s be honest—probably should’ve been a red flag for him. but, whatever, she went to a shady sea witch, literally signed away her voice, and—”

mr. pickles gave a loud, drawn-out meeooow. baby, not one to be outdone, stood up and began kneading at sukuna’s arm aggressively, a clear sign of feline displeasure. babykuna’s giggles faltered, little brows furrowing.

the great and mighty sukuna was being heckled. by a pair of cats. “what?” he scowled. “this is realism. the brat needs to know that—”

baby lunged. tiny paws, soft but full of silent rage, landed squarely on sukuna’s chest. mr. pickles followed, his sheer weight nearly knocking sukuna off balance. “oh, you read it then, you furry little dictators!” sukuna barked, trying to reclaim his spot, but it was too late—the feline coup had begun. babykuna, sensing an opportunity, reached out with tiny hands.

“mamaaaaaa!”

within seconds, you were summoned, the true ruler of bedtime stories. with a smug smile, you took the book, settled in beside babykuna, and began reading in a voice so soft and mesmerizing that even the cats curled up, content. sukuna, defeated, crossed his arms and sulked. “i was getting to the part where she turns into sea foam,” he muttered.

“and that,” you said, flipping a page gracefully, “is why you have been overthrown.”

meanwhile, in the nanami household, peace reigned. yuuji was already buried under his blanket, head resting on your shoulder as nanami turned a page in james and the giant peach. his voice was smooth, perfectly paced, as if he were personally trained by roald dahl himself.

“…and then, the peach broke free, rolling down the hill, gathering speed—”

you sniffled. nanami paused. “are you crying?” he asked, a single brow raised.

“it’s just… the way you narrate…” you wiped your eyes dramatically. “it’s so good.” yuuji, completely unbothered, snored into your arm.

nanami sighed, closing the book for the night. “if i recall correctly, you made me read matilda three times in a row last week just because you liked my narration.”

“and i regret nothing,” you declared. yuuji snored louder. nanami shook his head and leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, then to yuuji’s forehead. “alright, lights out.”

meanwhile, at the fushiguro household, bedtime negotiations were in full swing. “megumi, mama’s got an early mission tomorrow,” you reasoned, tucking him in. “so just one story tonight, okay?” megumi crossed his arms, unimpressed.

“papa’s not home yet.”

“he’s working.”

“so that means i get two stories when he’s back.”

you sighed. your son was already a little strategist. giving in, you started with your usual—a story about a brave princess who tamed a dragon with kindness, something soft and magical. by the time you finished, megumi’s eyes were drooping. perfect. he was almost asleep.

then, the door creaked open, and in walked toji. megumi perked up immediately. “papa, story!” toji groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t mama already—”

“two stories. it’s a rule,” megumi declared. toji gave you a look, and you simply shrugged. you weren’t the one who raised a bedtime tyrant. so, toji sat down at the edge of the bed, cracking his neck before launching into a very different kind of tale.

“aight, kid, so there was this guy—real nasty piece of work, always hid out in this old warehouse, right? well, guess what? i—uh, i mean, our hero, batman—had to take him out before sunrise.” your eyes narrowed.

“toji.”

“what?” he grinned. “i’m censoring it.”

megumi, already half-asleep, murmured, “what happened next?” toji smirked. “our hero dodged a knife, flipped over the bad guy, and bam—knocked him out cold. then he disappeared into the night.” megumi was completely out, breathing soft and even.

toji shot you a wink. “works like a charm every time.” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “you’re not supposed to use your assignments as bedtime stories.”

“why not?” toji smirked. “keeps him entertained.”

“you’re gonna turn him into a vigilante.”

he kissed your cheek, grinning. “well, at least he’ll be well-rested for it.”

in the gojo household, bedtime stories are a prime-time production. "alright, babytoru," gojo grinned, settling into bed beside his six-year-old daughter, who was vibrating with excitement. "where were we?"

“season six, episode four!” she announced. “princess toru and the forbidden candy kingdom!”

“aaahh, yes,” gojo smirked, flipping through an invisible script. “last time on bedtime stories, princess toru was betrayed by her most trusted royal advisor—sir mochi the talking panda.” babytoru gasped.

“mochi betrayed me?!”

“tragically,” gojo nodded. “but! fear not, for your knight in shining armor—sir papa—has infiltrated the candy kingdom’s fortress.”

"did he bring weapons?"

"no! he brought the power of love and charisma, obviously."

babytoru clapped. gojo, fully immersed, dramatically reenacted the entire rescue operation, throwing in last-minute plot twists, a villain redemption arc, and a musical number (he made up the lyrics on the spot). this bedtime story series started when babytoru was four, and now, at nearly six, they were six seasons in, complete with christmas specials, crossover episodes, and merchandising potential. if gojo played his cards right, he could sell the rights to a producer friend, get an animated series going, and dedicate it all to his little girl.

"alright, that’s a wrap for tonight!" gojo declared.

babytoru yawned, already half-asleep, mumbling, “next time, we need a new villain...”

gojo smirked, tucking her in. "leave that to me, princess."

little did she know, next episode was the mid-season finale.

geto believed bedtime stories should be meaningful. something with moral lessons. his twin girls? they did not share this belief.

"okay, papa, one more story!"

geto sighed. "fine. but this one comes with a lesson."

the twins, already suspicious, huddled under the covers. “once upon a time," geto began, voice deep and soothing, "there were two little girls—very much like you two—who forgot to brush their teeth before bed."

the twins gasped.

"they thought, 'what’s the worst that could happen?' but then... the tooth fairy came."

the room fell silent.

"but papa," one twin hesitated, "isn't the tooth fairy... nice?"

"ha! that's what they thought! but this tooth fairy? she didn't collect teeth under pillows. she took them straight from their mouths!"

the twins screamed, clutching their toothbrushes as if their lives depended on it. that night, they slept with their toothbrushes in hand. extreme? maybe. effective? absolutely.

the family dentist was thrilled.

choso’s approach to bedtime stories was simple: classics, classics, classics. his four kids—twin girls and twin boys—were raised on a steady diet of great literature. tonight, they were rereading the great gatsby. "papa," one of the girls yawned, “why does gatsby love daisy so much?” choso sighed deeply, looking out the window as if the tragedy of it all pained him personally.

"because, my little ones," he said, flipping a page, "gatsby believed in the green light, that orgastic future that year by year recedes before us."

one of the boys muttered sleepily, "papa... you read that every time."

"and yet," choso said solemnly, "you still do not understand."

by now, the kids could quote entire passages from memory. sometimes, at school, they would just casually drop lines like, "so we beat on, boats against the current—" and confuse their classmates. one time, during a parent-teacher meeting, their teacher had pulled choso aside and asked, “mr. kamo, why do your children know the complete works of f. scott fitzgerald?” choso had simply nodded in approval.

"good," he said. "their education is going well."

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sleepymarimo · 11 months ago

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❝𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐮𝐩!❞

synopsis: you're tasked with waking up zoro for dinner, but it's hard to make him budge.

pairing: zoro x gn!reader cw: more tooth rotting fluff for my favorite swordsman :) wc: ~1.6k an: i had a dream about this and added some even more fluff because why not. ty all i hope you enjoy <3 also i realized i have a decent chunk of zoro fics about napping lol maybe this is why im sleepymarimo i just love that sleepy lil guy

"Where the hell is that shitty swordsman?" Sanji grumbles, cigarette hanging from his lips as he sets a hefty plate of rice on the dining table.

Even though you're acutely aware that the marimo is missing, you pretend to peer over shoulders and swivel your head to give the impression that you're just as clueless as everyone else. You're already sat at the table, utensils neatly resting beside your plate.

Everyone else is already in the dining room, Luffy practically on the brink of perishing as the food is placed before him. Chopper and Usopp are close behind, their forks glinting in the light.

Robin is patient, smiling at the sight before her, the one she's grown to love. "I believe he said something about taking a nap," she reveals, her fingers wrapping around the stem of a wine glass. "He might be holed up in the boy's room."

"You mean the men's room?" Franky speaks up in an attempt to lighten the mood, the cola bottle in his hand hissing as he pops the cap.

Nami shakes her head, not in the mood to entertain the hooligans she calls her crewmates- her family. When Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper start to chant for their food, the navigator's last straw cracks into a million pieces.

Her chair slides back with a screech as she stands, planting her hands on the table. "Ugh, I can't believe that guy, sleeping through dinner!" The sigh she gives is intentionally dramatic, her charm working its magic as Sanji quickly offers to knock some sense into the green-haired swordsman.

It all comes to a halt when a pair of hands sprout from the table, tugging at the cook's shirt in a silent command to stay put. All eyes go to Robin, her knowing gaze easily hiding whatever ploy is running through her mind.

She calls your name and you immediately feel your cheeks warm, though you still feign obliviousness even if it seems like she's peeking right into your brain.

"Why don't you get Zoro?" she suggests, yet deep down you know you don't have an option.

Even if the thought of protesting crosses your mind, the chorus of growling stomachs and pleas for you to hurry have you standing and scampering up the stairs and to the deck.

Standing in front of the door to the boy's cabin, you feel your stomach drop a bit. You're quite literally entering a tiger's den, into the willing jaws of a beast who has been known to treasure booze, swords, and naps above all else.

The air inside the room is significantly more warm, heavy, compared to the cool breeze blowing outside. It's dark, your eyes adjusting to the lack of lighting as you carefully step over shoes and dirty clothes.

For a moment the beds seem empty and you wonder if he's even inside, yet the massive figure atop one of the bunks makes you quickly reconsider that thought.

His bare back rises and falls at a leisurely pace, his arms sprawled over the sides of the bed while he lays on his front. Cheek pressed comfortably into his pillow, Zoro naps away without much care for anything else.

After gawking for a second or two, you step toward the bunk, mentally cursing, and steel yourself for what feels like the millionth time. The wooden structure is a bit too tall for you to get a look at him, so with a small grunt you step onto the bottom bunk and grip onto the rails to hoist yourself up.

As soon as you take a glimpse over the top bunk's railing, you feel the warmth of his exhales across your nose and cheeks. It makes your face warm, your own breaths stalling as you take in the sight of him looking so… serene.

His face is softened, relaxed, a stark contrast to the pinched brows and scowls he usually wears.

Imagining the exasperated faces of your hungry crewmates, you get on with your small mission. Even though you're there to wake him, you're considerate enough to keep mindful of your tone. "Zoro?" comes his name from your lips, a murmur not quite suited for waking a beast.

The most you get out of him is the slight wrinkling of his nose, like a fly had perched there for a second before buzzing off. In a way it's expected given that he's slept through storms and whole marine attacks.

Your tone is louder the next time you call his name, more firm, his silhouette becoming pronounced as your eyes adjust to the dark room. "Zoro," you call again, arms starting to ache from how you're pulling yourself up to the top bunk.

Again, nothing. It's almost comical at this point, really.

You resist the urge to groan in frustration, your options becoming more limited. Time really isn't on your side here, not when the odds of a hungry pirate barging into the room increases by the second.

Taking a big breath, you decide that this is going to be the last try. This is going to be the one to wake the marimo, whether he likes it or not.

Unfortunately, the sea has other plans for you.

The ship hits a patch of rough water, the violent movement causing you to lose your grip on the railing tethering you to the top bunk. Your breath also catches when the sudden jolt makes your feet slip off the mattress belonging to the bottom bed, your heart skipping a beat when you feel yourself starting to fall back.

You're fully prepared to brace yourself against the harsh floor, your muscles tensing and jaw tightening, but you don't even have the chance to fall back a single inch.

A strong arm, previously hanging limp over the bed, curls around your waist and holds you steady. It supports all your weight, even as your legs kick out in an attempt to find solid ground. With your face suddenly squished into the junction of his neck, your own arms act on instinct and wrap around his shoulders.

Zoro's awake now, steel-grey eye open and aware as if he hadn't been knocked out cold just seconds ago. His senses have a unique threshold, not bothering to pick up on the calls of his name but always managing to be ready when his crewmates need him most- especially you.

His skin is warm, a tell tale sign that he'd probably been napping for hours. Tightening his grip on you, he sits up, pulling you with him. You're still disoriented, wondering why you haven't hit the floor, but he's as sharp as ever.

"The hell are you doin'?" he grumbles, voice still heavy from his rest, carrying that delightful rasp. His irritated tone is a facade, more of a light chide than anything. "You tryin' t'break your neck or something?"

You feel like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing a couple times while you're still dangling from the top bunk. It's hard to not get in a few mumbled apologies, not knowing if he's ticked from being stirred from his sleep.

"Dinner is ready," you reply, managing to find your words, your hold on him not letting up due to fear of falling once more. He feels so warm, the definition of a guilty pleasure, and you're left to exert as much self-control as possible.

He lets out a scoff, amused, then grunts as he finally realizes you're still hanging over the bed. His hand moves, sliding across your waist to grab at the back of your shirt. While Zoro's strength is known throughout all the seas, it always leaves you in awe. With nothing more than a bicep curl, he hoists you up and onto the top bunk with him.

A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you sink into the soft mattress, the bunk creaking with the added weight and how Zoro shifts into a seated position. Legs crossed over one another, he stretches his arms over head, unintentionally showing off his physical prowess.

Your eyes find the ceiling out of respect, but mostly because you're another second away from bursting into flames.

He yawns, then rubs at the back of his neck. "Dinner, huh?" he repeats, finding the answer satisfactory enough and shrugging his shoulders. "They sent the right person. I don't need that shitty cook hurling a kick my way."

You nod and even get out a laugh. "Yeah, I'm sure waking up to me almost falling is a lot better," you joke, looking over the bunk to see the drop to the floor.

"It's no problem," he assures, his gold earrings catching in the slivers of moonlight entering through the window as a lazy smirk grows on his face. "I got ya."

While you'd be willing to skip dinner to stay with the swordsman, your stomach protests with a hefty grumble. Zoro's stomach follows suit, making it's need for food known. The timing of it makes another laugh slide past your lips, a sound that makes his smirk soften into something more genuine.

With a small grunt, he hops off of the top bunk and lands on the floor with a solid thud. "Alright," he starts, stretching his back out a bit more before lifting his head to meet your gaze. "Let's go eat." His arms raise, ready to help you down from the bed. Whether you want to take the ladder or propel yourself into his embrace, he silently vows to be there to offer support. Although Zoro could be stubborn, gruff, and brash, he'd never let you fall, not ever.

#roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #one piece x reader #zoro fluff #zoro x you #zoro x y/n

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nereidprinc3ss · 7 months ago

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trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago.

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out.

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy.

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere.

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death.

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death.

Just… not yours.

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial.

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job.

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns.

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to.

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well.

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital.

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.”

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat.

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words.

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle.

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that.

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good.

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now.

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago.

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa.

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps.

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was.

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door.

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking.

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before.

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now.

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed.

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one.

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing.

The door closes as quietly as it opens.

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse.

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get.

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough.

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth.

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall.

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain.

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly.

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in.

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night.

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise.

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention.

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern.

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place.

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking.

“Hm?”

He hesitates.

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog.

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it.

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone.

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel.

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand.

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight.

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass.

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass.

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead.

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did.

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things.

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore.

And yet.

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful.

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever.

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour.

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now.

You doubt they ever could.

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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afterglowsainz · 6 months ago

Text

i wish i hated you | max verstappen

pairing: actress!reader x max verstappen

summary: max has an open relationship but he starts falling for you, compromising his relationship and your reputation

fc: havana rose liu

warnings: so i know this is not technically how open relationships work however for plot purposes this is how i will portray this one specifically

a/n: this fic shouldn’t have took me as long as it took me to write but whatever, max won in brazil after an incredible race and he deserves all the flowers 🥹

—

liked by redbullracing, danielricciardo and others

maxverstappen1 3 🦁🏆

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maxverstappen1 💙

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liked by maxverstappen1, kaiagerber and others

yourusername me and my doppelgängers

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username literally a face people would go to war for

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username i know that face card is never declining

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maxverstappen1 magical city

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username sir i was not familiar

username i’m so normal about max being in nyc i’m sooo normal about it

username out of all the places in the world new york was the last city i expect max to go to

username well deserved vacations?

username on his own might i add

username and his girlfriend?

username in paris

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yourusername favorite place in the world🍎

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username GORGEOUS

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username wait max liking this and he’s also in new york? ….

username lando liking also ….

username could be just a coincidence 🤷🏽‍♀️

username or could mean nothing

username yep he has a girlfriend too, hope this helps!

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f1gossip red bull driver max verstappen was seen with actress y/n y/l/n together in new york during the winter break

tagged maxverstappen1 and yourusername

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username uhmmmm guys ???

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username HE DOES

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username yeah because thats how you act with your friends

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yourusername petition to be your favorite bloody cheerleader🦧

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kaiagerber petition accepted!

username i need her biblically

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username like have some SHAME

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username omw to see this movie for the 372838 time

maxverstappen1 fun 😉

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maxverstappen1 always playing

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username who is he trying to soft launch here

username wait is that … y/n?

username there is simply no way

username i used to really like her but after this mess … idk

username if cheater why hot

username ughhh i’m angry at him rn but why does he have to look so good

username both his girlfriend and y/n liking this post 😭

username one of them has got to be delusional

liked by maxverstappen1, alexandrasaintmleux and others

yourusername very vogue 🌸

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username max in the likes AGAIN

username girl

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username the way she doesn’t even try to hide itttt

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username speechless

username men will really flirt with women on the internet and then post a picture kissing their girlfriend

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username alexa play that should be me

username well if his girlfriend forgave him for shamelessly flirting with y/n i can too

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gfusername love you💖

maxverstappen1 ❤️

username the way i would commit actual murder

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yourusername i’ll always have new york 🥨

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username baby…

username i’m sorry but i can’t stay mad at her look at her smile

username she was born to serve

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username she gagged me

username fyi she actually ditched that blonde man to date me

username ALLEGEDLY

username his loss 🤷🏽‍♀️

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planetherk · 29 days ago

Text

ENDLESS

two is always better than one, right?

jeong yunho x reader x song mingi

tw: poly relationship, smut, implied age gap between reader and the boys, unprotected sex (please be careful!!), this is written in third person, non idol au

wc: 3k

There’s something oddly domestic about the way she wakes up most mornings now—wrapped between two warm bodies, her cheek pressed to one bare chest while someone else’s hand is tangled in her hair.

Mingi’s deep voice is the first thing she hears, groggy and low. “You’re squishing her again, Yuyu.”

“I am not,” Yunho mumbles, his arm tightening instinctively around her waist.

She doesn’t open her eyes yet, just lets herself smile, because this is the way it always is. Her being the smallest, the youngest, somehow makes her the natural center of gravity in their trio—both literally and emotionally.

It started off simple. They were best friends. Friends who met in their early twenties through a mutual roommate situation that turned into a ride-or-die friendship. Movie nights turned into sleepovers. Sleepovers turned into her falling asleep on Mingi’s lap while Yunho played with her hair. Somewhere in between all the half-laughed jokes about being a “throuple,” things got blurry.

Because now, Yunho calls her “baby” in front of strangers without thinking twice. Mingi pulls her into his lap whenever she’s tired, and presses lazy kisses to her shoulder if she’s wearing an oversized tank top. They both call her "princess" and "sweetheart" and once, when she had a bad day, Mingi muttered a quiet “mine” while spooning her that left her too stunned to breathe for a full minute.

But nobody talks about it. Not really.

They flirt, they touch, they share everything from hot ramen to bedsheets—and yet there’s never been a conversation. Not one. And maybe that’s why she stays quiet, too. Because what if it breaks the magic?

She finally opens her eyes, blinking up into the golden light filtering through the apartment blinds. Yunho is lying on his side, facing her, still half-asleep but already watching her. Mingi’s on her other side, shirtless, sprawled like he owns the entire bed. One of his legs is tangled with hers under the blanket, his hand draped over her thigh.

“Morning, angel,” Yunho says softly, brushing hair off her face.

She hums. “Morning.”

“You hungry?” Mingi mutters, voice raspy from sleep, and leans forward to press a kiss to her temple. “We could order that dumb pancake stack you like.”

She smiles into the crook of Yunho’s arm. “The one with the strawberries?”

“Duh,” Mingi grins, finally cracking an eye open. “You’re our spoiled girl, remember?”

Yunho nods, nuzzling into her shoulder. “She gets whatever she wants.”

And just like that, the ache in her chest blooms again. That aching, aching question: What are we?

But she doesn’t ask. Not today.

Instead, she lets herself melt into their touch. Mingi starts scrolling through food delivery apps, lazily resting his hand on her bare knee like it's second nature. Yunho rubs soft circles into her back, humming some tune she doesn't recognize. The bed smells like their shared shampoo, warm skin, and something she can’t name.

It’s not quite a relationship. But it’s not just friendship either.

The pancakes arrived almost an hour later, lukewarm and dripping in chocolate. But none of them really cared. They were still in bed—barely clothed, limbs overlapping in that easy way they always seemed to find themselves in. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but one of Yunho’s oversized black t-shirts and a pair of Mingi’s boxers she’d stolen from the laundry pile. Her hair was a mess of waves and sleep, cheeks still pink from all the cuddling and lazy touches.

Yunho sat behind her, his knees bracketing her hips, arms wrapped around her waist as he fed her bites with a fork. “Open,” he said softly, voice teasing against the shell of her ear.

She laughed, turning her face slightly toward him. “I have hands, you know.”

“I like feeding you,” he murmured, fingers brushing her bottom lip a little too slow, too soft, like he was testing her reaction.

Mingi, sitting in front of her with the takeout box in his lap, smirked. “It’s true. He’s obsessed. Probably dreams about it.”

Yunho grinned against her hair. “Only when she makes that little sound after the strawberries.”

She went still for a second, eyes flicking between the two of them. Then she rolled her eyes, cheeks burning. “You two are impossible.”

“You love it,” Mingi said, reaching forward to tuck her hair behind her ear. His knuckles grazed her jaw in the process. “You looove when we spoil you, pretty girl.”

That nickname hit low in her stomach. She didn’t respond—just looked down at the sticky takeout box, pretending she didn’t feel the slow, smoldering heat creeping beneath her skin.

The room was quiet for a moment too long.

Yunho’s fingers were now tracing lazy circles on her thighs, slipping lower each time the loop completed. Mingi watched her like he was reading her—eyes sharp, knowing, like he could see all the questions she never asked.

“You’re quiet,” Yunho murmured near her neck, lips barely brushing her skin.

“I’m just…” she swallowed, shifting slightly in his lap. “Thinking.”

“What about?” Mingi tilted his head, gaze flickering down to her lips before settling back on her eyes.

“I dunno. Us.”

Another pause. This one felt heavier.

Yunho’s hand stilled. Mingi’s smile faltered, just for a second.

But then Yunho kissed the spot just behind her ear, slow and warm, and said, “We don’t need a label to keep doing this, angel.”

“Unless you want one,” Mingi added, voice dropping half an octave. “Because we’d give it to you. You know that, right?”

Her breath hitched. “I—no, I mean… I like this. I just don’t always know what this is.”

“Us taking care of you,” Yunho said simply.

“You being ours,” Mingi added, licking a bit of chocolate off his thumb, eyes locked on her.

The way he said ours made her thighs squeeze together instinctively. And Yunho noticed. Of course he did.

His voice was practically a purr now, right by her ear. “Do you like when we call you that?”

She turned, only enough to glance at him over her shoulder. “Call me what?”

“Ours,” Mingi said again, voice like honey and heat.

The silence stretched again—tension thick and humming in the small room.

She swallowed hard. “Yeah… I like it.”

Yunho’s arms tightened around her. Mingi’s eyes darkened, just a little.

“Good,” Yunho murmured. “Because you are.”

ღ⋆ღ⋆ღ⋆ღ⋆ღ

That night, it happened again. They were watching a movie—something dumb and loud—and she was sandwiched between them on the couch, like always. Her legs were draped over Mingi’s lap, Yunho’s arm thrown casually over her shoulders, hand resting dangerously close to her chest. It wasn’t weird. This was normal. But tonight, something was… different.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way Mingi’s hand had been slowly running up and down her calf for the past half hour. Maybe it was the way Yunho’s fingers had started playing with the hem of her shirt, brushing the soft skin of her waist in lazy, absent-minded strokes. Whatever it was, she was buzzing.

She shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable—but Yunho’s hand slid a little lower, settling warm and firm against her ribs. Mingi's fingers curled around her ankle, then higher, grazing her knee. No one said a word.

Her breath caught in her throat when Yunho leaned down and murmured, “You’re tense, baby. You okay?”

His voice was all silk and sleep and care—but the way he said baby made her squirm.

Mingi noticed. She knew because his hand moved higher.

He chuckled, low. “She likes when we talk to her like that.”

“I know,” Yunho whispered back, brushing a strand of hair from her neck and pressing a kiss there. “She gets so quiet when she does.”

“Am I not allowed to be quiet?” she asked, voice shaky.

“No,” Mingi said, eyes burning into hers. “Not when you’re thinking things and not telling us.”

She blinked, lips parting. “Like what?”

“Like how badly you want us to touch you right now.”

Silence.

Then Yunho’s lips grazed her ear. “Are we wrong?”

She couldn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Mingi leaned forward, cupping her cheek gently. “We can stop anytime, baby. Just say the word.”

But she didn’t. Her breath came shallow, her body tense but humming, curled between them like something sacred.

Mingi was still holding her ankle, fingers slowly sliding up to her thigh—his touch featherlight but certain, like he was memorizing her. Yunho’s lips hadn’t left her neck, each kiss growing slower, deeper, warmer. He nuzzled just behind her ear and whispered, “Still okay?”

She nodded, voice lost to the heat blooming low in her belly. But Yunho pulled back slightly, one hand coming up to cradle her jaw. “We need to hear you say it, angel.”

Her lips parted. “I’m okay. I… I want this.”

Mingi leaned in then, mouth brushing her knee as he looked up at her, eyes dark and hungry but still soft. “You sure, pretty girl?”

She met his gaze, something sparking behind her lashes. “I want you. Both of you.”

That was all it took.

Yunho leaned forward, kissing her full on the mouth—slow, firm, no hesitation. His lips were soft but demanding, tilting her head gently with his hand. She moaned into it, and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him. Mingi shifted closer, running his hand up her other thigh now, kneading gently. His lips found the space under her jaw as Yunho kissed her, and the sensation made her whole body tremble. They were touching her like she was something they’d waited for. Something they weren’t going to rush. Something they deserved to take their time with.

“Let us take care of you,” Yunho murmured against her lips.

Mingi’s hand dipped under the waistband of his own boxers she was wearing—his fingers brushing her pussy, slow and deliberate. Her back arched instinctively, a gasp escaping her lips.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Yunho smiled, pulling back just enough to press kisses along her cheek, her jaw, down her throat. “You’re already so wet, baby.”

Mingi slipped two fingers along her folds, barely dipping in, just teasing. “Fucking soaked.”

Her face flushed crimson, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel shy. Not with the way they were looking at her. Like she was the sun they revolved around. Yunho slipped a hand under her shirt, palming her breast through the thin fabric of her lacy bra. “Can I take this off?”

She nodded breathlessly, and he tugged the shirt over her head, slow and reverent. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and she flushed under their gaze.

“God,” Mingi muttered, eyes roaming over her like he was starved. “You’re so beautiful.”

Yunho unclasped her bra, letting it fall from her shoulders, her nipples hardening from the cold air and then his kisses were everywhere, her collarbone, her chest, her stomach. Mingi moved to her side, brushing her hair from her face before tilting her chin up to kiss her too. It was overwhelming. Perfect. Their mouths and hands exploring her like worship. Mingi’s fingers finally slid inside her, slow but deep, while Yunho sucked gently at one of her nipples, tongue flicking just right.

Her breath hitched, body arching between them.

“You’re doing so well, angel,” Yunho whispered, eyes locked on hers. “So perfect for us.”

Mingi curled his fingers inside her, and she let out a soft moan, grabbing at his wrist. “More, please…”

“Oh, we’ll give you more,” Mingi promised, voice thick and low. “We’re just getting started baby.”

They took turns touching her, teasing her, their mouths moving down her body in tandem—Yunho kissing her neck, leaving marks she would have to cover later, Mingi licking slow stripes along her inner thighs, their touches never overlapping but always in sync.

It felt like a dream. It felt like everything.

When Mingi finally replaced his fingers with his mouth, she cried out softly, one hand in his hair, the other gripping Yunho’s arm. Yunho held her close, kissing her temple, murmuring sweet praises while Mingi worked his tongue slow and deep over her sweet pussy, like he had nowhere else to be. “You taste so sweet baby. So sweet. ”

She came undone like that—shuddering between them, clinging, gasping and moaning their names like prayer.

But they didn’t stop there.

Yunho stood, pulling his shirt off slowly, eyes locked on hers the entire time. His chest was broad, golden in the dim light, muscles taut with restraint. “You want more, baby?” she nodded, eyes wide, dazed with pleasure. “Please…”

They lifted her gently—Yunho scooping her up bridal-style, both of them kissing her softly as they carried her to the bedroom.

Yunho laid her gently on the cool sheets like she was something precious—his hands never leaving her skin. He kissed her again, softer this time, slower, while Mingi knelt beside her on the bed and ran his palm along her stomach, up to cup her breast.

“Still with us, angel?” Yunho murmured against her lips.

She nodded, voice a breathy whisper. “Yeah… please don’t stop.”

Yunho leaned back to take in the sight of her—lips swollen, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded and trusting. His gaze darkened as he tugged off the rest of his clothes, revealing his toned, golden body in full. Her breath caught at the sight of him. Mingi was behind her again, one arm curled under her shoulders as he pressed hot kisses along her neck, dragging his tongue lightly across her pulse point. She whimpered softly, her body instinctively pressing back into him.

“Want you both,” she murmured, “please—”

Yunho knelt between her legs and kissed slowly up the inside of her thigh, his fingers teasing along the sensitive skin where Mingi’s mouth had just been. “We’re right here, baby. Gonna make you feel so good.”

He lined himself up with her slowly, watching her eyes, waiting for the smallest hesitation. But she opened for him like a flower, hand reaching for his wrist to tug him closer. Mingi whispered something into her neck—words like “beautiful,” and “you’re doing so well for us”—and Yunho pressed forward, sliding into her in one long, slow motion.

The moan that escaped her was sinful.

He moved slow at first, drawing out every inch, every gasp. Her hands clutched at his back, her legs wrapped around his waist. Yunho kissed her like he couldn't get enough of the taste of her moans. His rhythm built gradually, patient but deep—rolling his hips just right, pounding in her with a toe-curling force, filling her completely.

Mingi watched, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his hand brushing her hair from her sweaty forehead. Then he kissed her—soft but filthy, tongue slipping into her mouth like he already knew the rhythm of her breath. His hands traveled down to his painfully hard cock, the sight of his best friend fucking the girl he had the biggest crush on was the biggest turn on. She was theirs, and only theirs. And now they were proving it.

“I love watching you like this,” he whispered, lips brushing hers. “So fucking pretty.”

“More,” she gasped, arching her back between them. “I want—”

Yunho slowed down and looked at Mingi. No words passed, but something shifted—an understanding, a shared current between them.

Mingi leaned in, biting her ear gently. “You want both of us, princess?” His voice was thick with need. “Think you can take it?”

Her pussy clenched around Yunho’s cock at the thought, breath quickening.

Yunho stilled inside her, lowering his mouth to her ear. “We’ll be gentle. You trust us?”

She nodded without hesitation. “I trust you. I want it.”

They took their time preparing her, every touch laced with care. Mingi kissed down her spine while Yunho held her close, whispering reassurances as they coaxed her body open. By the time Mingi pressed against her, his fingers gripping her hips while Yunho kissed her breathless, she was already trembling. The stretch was intense—overwhelming—but she melted into it, gasping as Mingi slid in slowly behind her, his chest pressed to her back.

“Good girl,” Yunho whispered, stroking her hair, hips rocking into her in tandem. “You’re taking us so well.” Mingi’s breath was hot against her shoulder. “You feel like heaven.”

They moved slowly, in sync—deep, filling thrusts that made her toes curl and her head fall back onto Mingi’s shoulder. She was completely surrounded, completely theirs. Their hands were everywhere—trailing down her body, gripping her thighs, holding her steady. She felt full, both of her holes welcoming the boys. Her boys.

Yunho kissed her lips as she moaned, Mingi bit her neck and soothed it with his tongue. The sounds in the room were pure sin—skin against skin, breathy gasps, the occasional curse whispered against her cheek. And when she came again, it was like falling—her body clenching around them, the world dissolving into white-hot pleasure. She cried out their names, hips trembling, overwhelmed.

They didn’t last long after that. Yunho spilled inside her with a low groan, hips stuttering as he buried his face in her neck. Mingi followed moments later, moaning into her shoulder, arms wrapped tight around her waist as he collapsed against her back.

The three of them lay there in a tangled mess—panting, sweaty, warm. No one said anything for a long time.

Eventually, Yunho pulled her into his chest, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her face. “You okay, baby?”

She nodded sleepily, dazed and glowing. “That was… everything.”

Mingi chuckled softly, pulling the blanket over them all. “You’re everything.”

Yunho kissed her forehead, voice rough but gentle. “You’re ours.”

They would be the death of each other.

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blondeaxolotl · 4 months ago

Text

Finally dropping a ref sheet for my yuusona, say hi to Yuu/Ebi

undercut if you want to hear me yap about her a bit

Yuu, or Ebi is a giant monster shrimp (non-magic user). Where she came from or what her homeland is currently unknown. But it's safe to assume she comes from a place populated by mostly sea monsters like her.

Despite being a monster (maybe similar to Grim?), Ebi seems to have a more calming and sensible personality when compared to Grim, only reacting strongly when something seriously bad is going to happen (ex: someone almost fucking dying) or when she's over-exaggerating to just get a reaction out of someone. Surprisingly, when she arrived to NRC, she had a more irritated reaction knowing full well she was somewhere she didn't belong, and complained under her breath about "missing work and getting family worried for nothing". In other words she seemed to have known she wasn't in any true danger when she arrived, thankfully. Ebi also appears to be naturally caring for others, immediately taking in with living with Grim at Ramschackle (and eventually becoming his caretaker basically), and helping Ace and Deuce out with whatever issues they're having without hesitation (issues being either preventing them from almost being expelled or just help with simple homework). This soon enough became an on-going thing with majority of the students, and according to Ebi it's because;

"I grew up in a large family and have always taken care of my younger siblings. It's in my duty to help and take care of those who need a hand to come pick them up from the ground, even if they didn't ask for it."

It didn't help that Ebi was already older than most students there, being closer to Leona's age, she started to view and treat a lot of students as if they were her younger siblings. And like it was meant to be, this quickly made her earned the title of "Big Sis Ebi". Making it known that she was someone who the students could trust and come to for both help and comfort. This meant there were a lot of visits at Ramschackle, (especially from the ones who overblotted GULPS) but fortunately, this just made Ebi feel more at home as it reminded her of her actual siblings back at her homeland, so she doesn't mind these visits (Grim on the other hand not so much).

Also yes, just like any older sibling, this does mean Ebi started to mess and tease the ones she viewed as younger siblings a lot. It ain't a true sibling bond without at least a wee bit of sibling rivalry 👌 (Rip Ace he's the most common victim to this).

ANYWAY, okay enough yapping, when I first created Ebi she was just a silly gag I made when I first got into twst.

But when I actually started to put effort into her I at first didn't know what to do since most yuusonas I know of were shipped with other characters. But I didn't want Ebi to have anything romantic with any character, I decided what better way than to basically make her the older sister figure everyone comes to when they need help? I thought it's both funny that characters are looking for comfort from a literal giant fucking shrimp, but also twst characters genuine just seem to lack a lot of comfort because Jesus fucking Christ all of you need therapy and a hug, no matter if it's by a shrimp or not 😭.

Okay yeah, that's it for Ebi if anyone has any questions about her or her dynamics with other characters, feel free to send an ask in my inbox 🦐.

#Mono finally posts about their dumb monster shrimp yuu YIPPEEE #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland fanart #twst fanart #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #yuusona #twst monster shrimp yuu #big sis ebi 🦐#twst grim #twisted wonderland grim #ramshackle #monodukes art #ocs

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checkeredflagggs · 16 days ago

Text

Sick Day

Pairing: logan sargeant x sick!reader

summary: logan’s sick girlfriend is apparently on death’s door

a/n: Hope you feel better soon @sinofwriting

Masterlist | Taglist

Private Messages, Logan and y/n

ls2fans

liked by user, user, user, and 183,293 others

ls2fans: logan was so adorable today during the Team Torque episode!

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user1: i missed the live 😭😭 what happened?

↳user2: it was so cute! He kept checking his phone — apparently his girlfriend was supposed to be there today but couldn’t make it

↳user2: so he was just checking his phone constantly to see if she had texted him back yet

↳user2: and he literally lit up when she finally did — apparently she’s a little sick and she turns dramatic at the same time

↳user1: that is so me core 😂

user3: did he talk about her texts at all? He just kept laughing at his phone

↳user4: he mentioned it like once or twice but they’re apparently in the vein of “I’m dying. Death is here…”

↳user3: oh that’s a girl that gets it!

user5: my favorite part was Alex teasing him for laughing so much and logan admitting he kinda likes it when she’s sick (he clarified with a cold) because it was the only time he could spoil her

↳user6: man if I was her, I’d take getting spoiled by him every day…

↳user5: no but the way he went on to say she was really independent and didn’t like to ask for things to much from him…

↳user7: ok yeah they’ve definitely become my favorite f1 couple!

y/n posted 2 stories

[goodbye cruel world…][oh Nevermind logan got me my favorite!]

user8 replied that’s such a mood

user9 replied i too also wish for death because of a cold

logansargeant replied you’ll be fine you big baby

↳y/n you used to be so sweet to me when I was sick…

↳logansargeant you weren’t as dramatic back then…

↳y/n where has the magic gone…

↳logansargeant it’s currently at the front door

oscarpiastri replied what kind of flowers do you want at your funeral?

↳y/n lilies and poppies. Obviously

↳oscarpiastri obviously 🙄

↳oscarpiastri you know you have Logan panicking right?

↳y/n don’t lie to me — I’m watching the live stream and he’s just laughing at me 😭

user10 replied that’s really love right there

↳y/n right??

user11 replied man I wish my man would send me food…

user12 replied that looks so good!

logansargeant replied don’t say I don’t do anything for you

↳y/n you are literally the love of my life 💜💜

y/n posted a story, oscarpiastri posted a story

[he got me flowers 🥺🥺🥺][why did I agree to stay with them 😭]

user13 replied he’s setting standards for real

user14 replied you gotta get a guy that will do both — absolutely laugh at your dramatics and get you flowers and food

user15 replied if you don’t want him can I have him?

lilyzneimer replied I love it when osc gets me flowers

↳y/n especially when you don’t expect it — it just makes you feel loved 🥰

↳lilyzneimer it does

logansargeant replied of course I got you flowers — they make you smile even when you’re sick

↳y/n and dying! I’m wilting away here

↳logansargeant and dying 🙄

↳y/n stop rolling your eyes at me and come cuddle

↳logansargeant whatever you say babe

user16 replied they’re so cute ☺️

user17 replied I want what they have

lilyzneimer replied oh leave them alone and be thankful you don’t have to share a wall with Lando

↳oscarpiastri that is a plus — I don’t think I could deal with that this weekend…

alex_albon replied you’re a brave man 🫡

↳oscarpiastri it was them or Lando…

↳alex_albon you picked the right choice

↳oscarpiastri that’s what I’m repeating to myself

williamsracing

liked by y/n, logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 1,823,124 others

tagged: logansargeant

williamsracing: and in a dramatic and nail biting race — Logan came from behind to score 3rd! Congrats on your first f1 podium Sarge!

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user18: LOGAN POINTS!! LOGAN POINTS!!

↳user19: Logan PODIUM!! P3!!

y/n: my man! Congrats babe! Knew you had it in you

↳logansargeant: all thanks to you babe — had to race faster to get home to you faster!

↳y/n: well if that’s all it takes, I’ll be sure to get a cold every race weekend

↳williamsracing: we would really appreciate it Ms. L/N! liked by y/n, logansargeant, alex_albon

oscarpiastri: Congrats man! It’s about time

↳logansargeant: glad to be able to do it in front of the home town!

alex_albon: what a fantastic drive today Logan!

↳logansargeant: thanks man!

user20: I know my goat!

↳user21: he just needed a little extra motivation!

↳y/n: oh I’ll make sure he has ok the motivation he ever needs! 🥵😉

↳logansargeant: really??

↳user21: 😂😂

Taglist

Please interact with my taglist post if you want to join — I don’t always check the notes on the individual posts

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @evie-119 @sugarfreerbr @princessesgarden @tukes @mayax2o07 @teti-menchon0604 @galaxygurlll @star73807-blog @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @lilymaleshka @kuolonsyoja @allthings-fandom @mountainshuman @hannahmotors10 @moonypixel @nikfigueiredo @daisydaze111 @deephideoutmilkshake @loveyahachoo @mimisweetz @books-fangirl-books @woderfulkawaii @fastandcurious16 @lilyofthevalley-09 @theendofthematerialgworl @raizelchrysanderoctavius

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witchthewriter · 10 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐭'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ female, Valyrian blood (dragon rider), and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: APPARENTLY THIS IS A GUY NAMED DAVOS BLACKWOOD. But he literally IS Bloody Ben. So he's staying Bloody Ben.

P.s. I'm ageing Benjicot up so he's around 24 or whatever age you want him to be that's over 18 <3

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・It wasn't an arranged marriaged. No, not by any means.

・You had been sent by your Queen to remind the Houses of Westeros their pledge to her. And Rhaenyra had chosen you to go to the Blackwoods.

"I expect you will be welcomed warmly," her Grace said with a warm smile.

You bowed your head and returned the smile.

・You always felt safe around Rhaenyra, she was someone very close to you. Someone who you would fight to the death for.

・The first time Benji saw you, his heart stopped...which was a very fair reaction as you were atop your fearsome dragon, The Cannibal.

・You bonded with the wild dragon when you were 13 - it was the first day of your periods and you were sick and tired of being without a dragon.

・It was in your blood. And you were done waiting.

・Your first flight with Cannibal was difficult - although the blood magic seemed to be strong between the two of you.

・You were the exact person he was waiting for.

・So when your duty came to aid Queen Rhaenyra; she did asked for you to unite with a House through marriage

・That was heavy - a big duty that you did not think would need to happen, since you bonded with Cannibal. Wouldn't you be put on the front lines straight away? Her answer was no.

・But you knew the realities of war and faced your duty head on (you know Cannibal will always defend you)

・Your marriage was a significant one. All the Blackwoods were invited, and Rhaenyra was there to oversee the ceremony.

・However, having all of your family there would have been another Red Wedding, so only a few choice people from your side could be invited.

・Nonetheless, it was absolutely beautiful.

・Dragonfire lit the skies, chasing away the dark. Even Cannibal was having a good time. There were tributes made to him - sheep, cow, goats galore. You swore you saw him smiling.

・What you absolutely weren't expecting was Benji to INTERACT with Cannibal...

・He brought up a bull from the biggest hoard they had. Benji watched as the dragon practically gulped the animal down. However, he wasn't scared - he was impressed. And intrigued.

・You were absolutely moved by Benji's act. Truly. Because it showed his bravery. His daring. And of course his caring. You knew, you could feel the way Cannibal was feeling - and he trusted this Blackwood.

・So you decided to give him a wedding present. A fly.

・By doing so, you broke down every single one of Benji's walls and he knew you were the one for him. His wife. His firt and only one.

・After a tough day, and you both go to your chambers; he'll grab your arm and kiss your wrist. A physical way of saying "I'm so glad you're alive and mine."

・Learns High Valyrian for you. He wanted to surprise you with it. And surprise you he did.

・You call each other: Ñuha jorrāelagon (my love), Ñuha prūmia (my heart),

・ A very particular sentence that Benji says a lot is: Nyke pendagon nūmāzma ao everyday (I think about you everyday)

・Of course he knows you can protect yourself; but that doesn't stop him from defending you. You're his world now. You mean so much to him.

・No body thought this union would work as well as it had.

・So, Bloody Ben & The Rider of Cannibal became a formidabble pair that made men tremble wherever they went.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Like Calls To Like

The Gomez & Morticia Adams

"Think they'll try us?" x "Fuck I hope so."

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Unbreakable Bond

Growth through Adversity

Bickering and Banter

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter

The Politics & The Life by Daniel Pemberton

O Verona by The City of Prague Philharmonic Orchestra

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, makes me feel weird if you read it.

・Gives you complete and utter respect both in and out of the bedroom.

・Has never and will never push you to do anything you don't want to do

・The first time you were together, it felt like your bodies were on fire. Meant to burn together. The words kept replaying over and over in your head as he touched you. A deep yearning overtook you and suddenly time stopped.

・His lips were warm, his hands cold but when he took off his clothes, you couldn't help but grin.

・There's such desire between you two that even your mount can sense it.

・Your sex life is very active - at least once a day. Maybe you're in your Honeymoon period, but you cannot keep your hands off one another when you're alone

・And when you're at feasts, Benji's hands find their way down your thigh, and slowing inching inbetween them.

"Really, here? Now?" You asked n a hushed tone, trying not to draw any attention to either of you.

"Yes. Here, now. Or we can go into the hallway and I will ravish you there. Upto you, wife."

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the-real-timeloop-tourney · 9 days ago

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Best Character Stuck in a Timeloop

Propaganda for Chonny:

- From a musical album (Doubt any other characters will be from an album) - Said Album is really good. everyone should go listen to it - This one's a bit hard to characterized bc it's sort of three characters and sort of one. Just listen to the album and it still won't make sense but at least you'll have listened to one of my favorite albums - The album has a really compelling story about the division and unification of Heart, Soul, and Mind and idk if I've said this enough but it's a really good album ------------------------------------ -whole is going through a loop of events... Very often... Including the heart, mind and soul going through those with him.

-album... Very cool.

-yeah I can't make proper propaganda for him either

Propaganda for Homura:

you are 14 years old. after your first friends at your new school revealed they are Real Life Magical Girls, they die horribly against this super powerful monster witch. you make a wish to meet your best friend again so you can save her this time. every time you try to reach a golden ending where everyone lives goes horribly wrong so you resign yourself to letting your best friend's (and once your) friends die every time so you can save your best friend. you become colder, more efficient as the loops go on. you go through the same few months around a hundred times to try to save your best friend from her fate. this time you'll save her. she sacrifices herself for the every single magical girl and becomes a god and now you're the only one who remembers her. great! hooray! anyways a win for homura is a win for magical girls (and yuri). why relive a day or so when you can relive months am i right? ------------------------------------ "Poor girl relives the same 2 months 100 times just to prevent her doomed-by-the-narrative girlfriend from dying and becoming God ------------------------------------ - Was literally in the timeloop for 12 years - Did it all for yuri - Became like. the devil (also for yuri) - magical girl who's weapon is just normal ass guns and bombs and shit " ------------------------------------ When you go into a time loop to save your girlfriend from dying but she just keeps dying horribly in every universe so you slowly start to get sick of looping and start using more direct routes to try to save her to the point where she doesn’t even know you anymore as you’re just trying to save her but it gets to the point where you’ve looped so many times trying to save her that her soul has become so powerful that she can become god only then does she remember you. And she does to free you and all the other magical girls in history from their pain but because she did this she rewrote the rules of the universe and therefore became a non physical entity and you had to watch her rebuild the universe. No one else even remembers she existed except for her little brother who sees her more as an imaginary friend than anything else and the only thing you have to remember her by is the pink ribbon that she wore in her hair. Btw you and your friends still aren’t free from being magical girls but at least you can’t become horrible monsters who are but a shell of your former self when everything becomes to much so now the only risk is dying in combat horribly instead. ------------------------------------ There was a psp game once and I'm pretty sure the whole thing was just recurring nightmares of the timeloop. Like. This isn't canon. But it lines up to me. She went to catholic school once, also, like, she deserves a win. Not because of Christianity or whatever but in spite of it.

#timeloop #poll #Round 5 #Chonny Jash #Chonny's Charming Chaos Compendium #Homura Akemi #Puella Magi Madoka Magica #madoka magica #pmmm

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headkiss · 5 months ago

Text

it’s christmas (this is gonna be a nightmare)

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve puts a little too much pressure on himself to make this holiday a magical one. or: 4 times steve messes up your first christmas together, +1 time it's perfect.

word count: 7.4k

content: established relationship, one injury (no blood!), some kisses, a lot of steve's thoughts, and a love confession <3 fluff all around!!!

a/n: a full length fic!! it's a christmas miracle!! thank you to the anon who sent the ask that inspired this fic and to all of u for being here. i love u, happy holidays <3

⁺̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇⊛̇̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇

Steve Harrington doesn’t know too much about what exactly a perfect Christmas looks like. He has his parents to thank for that.

What he does know is that this year has to be just that: perfect. Because this year he has you.

Though you went to high school together, you and Steve properly met in the summer. Right at the beginning of it, where the evenings still have a chill of wind but the sun cuts through it with welcomed warmth. Robin convinced him to take her to the flower shop just outside of town, and you’d been behind the counter to greet them.

Robin recognized you, and she chatted your ear off while you helped her pick a bouquet with the sweetest smile Steve had ever seen and he felt like an absolute moron for never having noticed you before at school. But he noticed you then.

He’d forced Robin to wait for him in the car while he stayed back, bought you your own bouquet of flowers from the store as if you weren’t the one who’d made them, and asked you on a date. Steve fumbled the whole way through, pricking himself with a rose thorn and cussing mid-sentence, but you still said yes.

You’ve been together ever since, and Steve feels incredibly lucky for it. Lucky for how kind you are, how well you fit in with his friends, how much the kids (Max, especially, though he won’t call her out on it) like you. Lucky for being allowed to grab your hand, to kiss you whenever he wants.

And, on the nights you stay over that grow more frequent with each month, lucky to have you fill the space in the Harrington home that usually feels so cold and empty.

So, maybe the holidays make him extra sentimental, maybe he cares a little too much about making sure it’s the best damn Christmas you could have. Maybe, for once, he’s actually looking forward to it all.

Robin startles him into the present — leaning on the counter at Family Video — with a stiff poke to the cheek. “Dude, I can literally tell you’re thinking about her by the look on your face. It’s kinda gross.”

He scoffs at her, even though he probably was making a face. “Sounds like jealousy to me, Buckley.”

“Shut up, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know each other! I deserve compensation.”

Steve hangs his head dramatically. Robin is never letting that go. Ever.

“My friendship isn’t enough for you?” Steve says, placing a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”

“You annoy me,” she says, flicking his arm.

“Ow- whatever. You’ll be free of me in like five minutes.”

Steve checks his watch just to be sure. Robin’s closing by herself today, and while Steve would normally just stay and bother her anyways, he’s got plans that involve you and takeout and napping together on his couch.

As if the thought conjures it, you walk through the door, the bell jingling cheerily above your head, Steve’s car keys dangling from your fingertips. (Yes, he lets you drive the BMW.)

“Thank God,” Robin says when she sees it’s you. “Please get rid of him, he’s getting on my nerves.”

You smile and walk towards Steve, who immediately tosses an arm over your shoulders and pulls you in close, stamping a kiss to the side of your head.

You turn your head to the side and look at him, “What did you do?”

Steve gasps, “Me? Honey, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

You send him a wink, and Steve grins. He fucking loves having you with him, being able to speak without speaking. Your hand grabbing his and squeezing says I missed you, his squeezing back says me too.

“Okay, please remove your public displays of affection from the store and leave me alone with the overplayed Christmas song radio station, thank you.” Robin announces.

“Don’t miss me too much, Robs. I know it’ll be tough,” Steve says, guiding you forward.

“Good to see you, Robin!” you wave on your way out.

“You too!” And just before the door closes behind you, Robin’s voice rings out; “You’re my favourite half of the relationship!”

Your smile widens. Steve is the best thing that’s happened to you, and his friends becoming yours is one of the greatest bonuses you could ask for. It’s like his life made room for you as simply as the ocean’s tide pulls in and out. Gentle and certain.

He catches the keys when you toss them to him, and Steve’s mood just seems to lift and lift on the drive back to his place with you in the passenger seat, Christmas lights lining the streets glowing on your cheeks.

Yeah, he thinks, this Christmas is going to be perfect.

That weekend Steve calls you and tells you to be ready by noon and to dress warmly. He doesn’t tell you much else besides his usual ‘see you soon, honey’ or ‘miss you’ murmured sweetly through the phone.

As instructed, you’re dressed in a pair of jeans and one of your favourite knitted sweaters, your brown leather jacket overtop and socked feet stuffed into your Doc Martens. Though you feel plenty warm, Steve will probably fuss over you and hold you close for body heat anyways. And, well, you’d never be opposed to that.

Steve’s BMW rolls into your driveway exactly one minute past twelve, and by the time you walk outside to meet him, he’s already standing on the passenger side of the car waiting to open the door for you.

“Always a gentleman,” you say, kissing him quickly on the cheek.

You slide into the seat that’s become yours for the most part, and Steve ducks down to kiss you properly on the mouth before pulling back, “Mm maybe not always.”

He closes your door and you laugh lightly, your face a little warm even though he’s been your boyfriend for months now. You don’t think you’ll ever be unaffected by Steve Harrington’s charm, ever be used to it being aimed at you.

Of course, you knew of him in school, but knowing the real thing, the kind, caring boy who’d been buried under King Steve back then, is probably the greatest gift you’ve ever had.

Steve drives with one hand just above your knee, his thumb running back and forth over the stitching in your jeans. Still, he doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you, his only hint was to “pay attention to the radio station.”

It’s playing Christmas music. Like that narrows things down a whole bunch.

You chat the entire way. Steve asks you how the flower shop is doing (“Poinsettias are flying off the shelves”), you ask him who he got for the group’s secret Santa this year (“Max. I’m going to need your assistance”). It’s so easy to talk to him, to laugh and joke and not have to worry about what you say or how you come off.

You never knew being with someone could be so easy until Steve.

Eventually, he pulls into the long driveway of a farm. A Christmas tree farm, to be exact, if the wooden arch you drive through is to be trusted.

“What are you planning, Harrington?”

He shrugs, his hand squeezing your knee, “Thought we could pick out a tree together. Put it up at the house. My parents aren’t gonna be around — shocker, I know — I figured we’d do it together. Make it our own.”

Steve pats your leg before letting it go and putting the car in park, his palms dragging over his thighs like he’s suddenly nervous.

“Our first Christmas tree,” you say quietly, almost to yourself, a smile creeping onto your face. He really is sweet. “I love it. Let’s go adopt a tree, Stevie.”

He flashes you a smile before getting out and jogging around the hood to open your door for you. You’ve learned to wait for him to do it since you’ve been together. The last time you tried to open your own door he made you close it again just so he could be the one to open it.

Before, you’d never really cared about that sort of thing, but Steve has single-handedly raised your expectations.

He grabs your hand and leads you towards the classic red and white barn, following the signs painted simply with a tree and an arrow pointing you in that direction.

When you turn the corner and see the selection of trees, however, Steve pauses.

There are maybe seven trees left, none of which are very impressive upon first glance. Their branches are skinny and the pine needles leave a lot of space to see through them. It’s safe to say these aren’t the Christmas trees Steve was hoping to surprise you with.

He was sure there’d be something better left, at least. And he’d been wrong. Minus a point on that perfect Christmas, he supposes.

Still, he walks you to the selection, the farm’s employee greeting the two of you as you walk up; “Hey y’all. Good afternoon!”

“Hey man,” Steve starts, “you wouldn’t happen to have any more trees left, would you?”

“Sorry folks, this is all we’ve got. Most people like to get ‘em early.”

Steve’s hope dwindles, and you can see him deflate a little bit.

You, however, don’t mind one bit. You tug on his arm to get his attention, and Steve turns to look at you, brown eyes shining like honey in the sunlight. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “Even the little trees need homes, right?”

He shakes his head with a small smile. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you tend to talk about plants as if they have feelings. You do it when you tell him about the flowers you sell, too.

“Right as usual, honey,” he decides. “Pick your favorites.”

So, you wind up with two small Christmas trees rather than one full one, and there’s a small victory in it when you and Steve strap them both to the top of the BMW without too much of a struggle.

Another victory when you sing along to ‘Last Christmas’ and hold out your fist as if there’s a microphone in your grip to get him to join you. Admittedly, it isn’t a very good rendition, but Steve loves it all the same.

You have a way of turning things around for him, even without knowing it.

When you get back to Steve’s, he brings both of the trees inside and sets them up before bringing down the bins of ornaments and lights from the attic. He only shouted once when a spider crawled over his hand.

Having two trees makes it easy to turn decorating into a lighthearted competition. You both claim one as your own and decorate them with string lights and tinsel and ornaments. Steve’s mom would probably have an aneurysm seeing them used so haphazardly.

Though by the end, your tree is definitely prettier, Steve still feels like he’s won something as you lean your back against his chest and his arms cross over your own, keeping you there.

As a kid, he wasn’t even allowed to do the decorating. Mrs. Harrington had to make everything look picture perfect, and Steve’s hands didn’t help with that. Not according to her.

Today couldn’t feel more different from those memories of his childhood.

“Yours is better,” he tells you, chin perched on your shoulder, his voice low in your ear.

Objectively, it probably is better (your prior experience with arranging plants was an advantage), but you don’t actually care about that.

Today felt like a little glimpse into the future you and Steve could have. It’s easy to picture it: your own apartment, buying decorations you both actually like, setting it all up together every year.

“I think they’re both brilliant,” you say.

And while today wasn’t what he was picturing, wasn’t what he’d hoped for with his ideal holiday in mind, Steve finds that he can certainly live with that. Your adorable little clap when you’d finished decorating was enough to cement it.

It’s only one thing. He’s got plenty of chances to be perfect later, he guesses.

Steve dips his head and kisses the top of your shoulder over your sweater.

You stay over at Steve’s that weekend. You’re both off work, and you find yourself spending your days (and nights) off with Steve more and more.

In the morning, you blink your eyes open slowly, naturally. No alarm set, your boy wrapped around you. It’s how you’ll spend every morning someday.

The sunlight sneaks through a crack in the curtains, cutting a line across Steve’s blue bedding. You squint at it, shifting onto your back gently. Steve’s arm remains slung over your waist as you move, his knee against your leg. You roll your head to the side to look at him, a smile creeping over your mouth at the way his cheek is smushed into the pillow, his lips pouting and hair a mess over his forehead.

Mornings have easily become your favorite time to spend with Steve. He’s cuddling you in some way every single time without fail, even when he wakes up. His voice is all low and gravelly from sleep and it feels like an honor to get to be the one to hear it like that. Usually, you spend an hour in bed with him after waking up. Laying together, talking, kissing. Sometimes (often) more.

You’d stay put right now if you didn’t have to pee so bad.

Slipping out of bed without Steve noticing proves a challenge, his arm tightens over you in his sleep, his brows scrunching. You whisper a soft “I’ll be right back.” He mumbles something incoherent, but his arm relaxes and you’re able to sneak away.

On your way back from the bathroom, you pause and take a peek out the window. You gasp happily at what you see: snow. A bright, white layer blanketing the ground sparkling in the sunlight.

You turn back to the bed and let yourself fall to it with a bounce, earning another grumbled protest from Steve, but there’s no way you’re going back to sleep now. You trail a hand up his arm to his shoulder, giving it a small shake, “Stevie, wake up.”

“Hm?” his eyes scrunch before opening. “What happened, honey?”

“It snowed!”

“Yeah?” he huffs a laugh at your excitement, his hand searching for yours in the sheets.

“Yeah, and it’s so pretty. We should go out before it melts.”

“It’s winter, sweetheart. Not gonna melt that fast.”

“Steve.”

“Okay, okay,” his hand leaves yours in favor of wrapping itself around you again, and he uses it to tug you close again. “Just five more minutes.”

His nose is pressed to the top of your head, and he breathes you in, smiling to himself. Mornings are Steve’s favorite, too. Only when they’re spent with you.

Secretly, he’s also happy about the snow. He was hoping mother nature would be on his side so that he could check yet another holiday item off his list with you. Hopefully one that will turn out nicer than the tiny trees you’d ended up with.

It’s definitely more than five minutes by the time you get Steve to get up and out of bed. You attempt to get him outside right away. He stops you with a: “No snow-related activities on an empty stomach!”

So, it’s a rushed breakfast of bagels and coffee provided by Steve, and then you’re gearing up and heading into the back yard.

The cold bites at your cheeks, and the tip of Steve’s nose is pink within minutes, but you love it.

There’s a snowman built together, snow angels made that get ruined when Steve rolls himself on top of you and steals a kiss or five. Naturally, all there is left to do is have a snowball fight.

You start it when you’re still on the ground, a hand sneaking into the snow to grab a handful and pressing it to the back of Steve’s head. He gasps, and you take the opportunity to push him to the side and get up.

“No fair!” he calls. “I was distracted and you went for the hair.”

“Your fault for not wearing a hat, babe,” you laugh.

“Oh, you won’t be laughing for long, honey. You’re in for it.”

And just like that, you’re running around like kids in a schoolyard, hiding behind trees, slugging snowballs at each other and cheering when you manage to not miss.

Steve silently thanks mother nature or the universe or whatever made it snow for the wide smile on your face, your eyes shining with mirth.

At one point, you’re suddenly distracted by something in the trees, and the snowball is out of Steve’s hand before he sees you start to look towards him again.

It hits you square in the face.

A quick “Ow” comes out of your mouth, though it really doesn’t hurt that bad. Your first reaction is just to let it slip, but Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach.

“Shit, honey.” He runs over to you and cups your face in his hands, his mittens soft against your skin as he brushes the snow from your face. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to get you in the face.”

Minus another point, for sure. Perfect Christmas: -2.

“I know, don’t worry,” you tell him, because he clearly is worrying.

“You okay?” he checks. He literally winces when you sniffle, frowns when he sees the way your eyes water. “Honey. I’m sorry.”

“Honestly, Steve, I’m fine,” you reach up and grab his wrists, squeezing them over his jacket. “I’m only crying ‘cause it got my nose. It doesn’t actually hurt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you assure him. “Didn’t you used to play sports in school? Thought athletes had better aim.”

“I was a swimmer, baby. No projectiles involved.” He smiles softly when you laugh, but he can’t stop himself from asking one more time. “You’re really not hurt?”

“It’s just a bit of snow, Stevie.”

His eyes run over your face anyway before he nods. Then, he dips forwards and lightly kisses your cheek, the other, the tip of your nose, and your mouth.

“Well now I’m certainly all better,” you say against his lips.

Steve pulls back but doesn’t go far. “I think this snowball fight is over.”

“Buzzkill,” you tease.

He bends down and picks up a handful of snow before shoving it in his own face.

“Steve!” you laugh.

“There, now we’re even,” he says, snowflakes clinging to his lashes.

You let him lead you inside after that, his arm draping over your shoulders, yours hugging his middle as you walk across the yard.

Once you’ve both shed your layers of coats and boots and hats and mittens, Steve takes you upstairs and runs you a bath to warm you up. He apologizes another two times when he looks at your face for too long, and you have to kiss him to stop him uttering another ‘sorry.’

Hell, if it’s gonna make him this sweet on you, you’d probably take a snowball to the face any day.

Eventually, when the bathtub is full, a layer of bubbles over the surface, you coax Steve into joining you. He leans against the side with you between his knees, back settling into its home against his chest, his chin resting atop your head.

Steve runs his hands over your shoulders, presses kisses into your hair. All along he’s reminding himself that the next thing will go right. He won’t be throwing anything, at least.

The next weekend Steve calls you again. He asks you to be ready in the evening this time, but still keeps things vague other than the fact that you’ll be outside and need thick socks.

You have a pretty good idea of what he has in mind, but he’d called it a ‘redemption date’ over the phone and even though you truly don’t think he has anything to redeem himself for, you don’t want to spoil his plans, so you play along.

He comes to the front door when he picks you up this time, knocking gently as if you hadn’t been waiting for him by the windows.

“Hi, honey,” he drops a quick kiss to your lips, “had to come and approve your outfit. Don’t want you getting cold and stealing my jacket again.”

He’s lying, really. Steve fucking loves draping his own jacket over your shoulders and seeing you pull it tighter around you. When that happens, he braves the cold, but he figures that probably won’t be smart for spending hours outside.

“Aww, but yours is so much warmer than mine,” you pout jokingly.

Steve simply grabs your thickest jacket from a hook by the door and holds it out for you to slip your arms into.

As suspected, he drives you to a skating rink. He chose one a town over from Hawkins, where they have twinkle lights strung above the rink and rainbow Christmas lights lining the boards. Steve smiles when you gasp lightly in delight at the sight of it. The brightness cutting through the already dark night sky.

Steve guides you over to the skate rental booth first, bumping his hip into yours when you attempt to pay for the rentals. “As if. My idea, my wallet.”

“You don’t even let me pay when it’s my idea, either.”

“Well, that’s just chivalry, babe.”

You roll your eyes at him and thank the man behind the booth when he hands you both your skates. As you walk towards the lockers and cubbies set up nearby, you lean up and kiss Steve’s cheek, his light stubble scratching your lips.

“Thank you for this,” you say.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he tells you. “Though I should warn you that I’m not very good at this.”

“What? You, not good at something? Please.”

“No, seriously. I’m like bambi on ice.”

You laugh and shove his shoulder weakly, “Don’t worry. I’m probably even worse.”

Steve grins. So far, so good. This one will be perfect. Well, as perfect as it can be considering his skating skills.

You sit on one of the benches and Steve puts both of your shoes in one of the cubbies. He ties his own skates first before kneeling in front of you to help you with yours. He knows how to tie them, at the very least.

He helps you slip your feet into the skates first, then tightens the laces on one before peering up at you and checking, “Feel okay? Not too tight?”

“It’s good, Steve. I feel like Cinderella.”

“A perfect fit! She must be the one!”

“Dork.”

“That’s prince dork to you.”

Steve finishes up with your skates, squeezing your ankle before setting your foot down and standing back up.

On the ice, neither of you are very graceful. You hold onto the boards most of the time, and Steve stumbles and nearly falls every few strides, but you’re laughing and having fun, so who cares?

So what if you get lapped by multiple people on the rink, including children? So what if you get some side eyes for being too slow or in the way? Neither of you can bring yourselves to be bothered.

Best of all, Steve keeps a hold on your hand the entire time. He literally saves you from falling with his grip on your hand squeezing and pulling you up straight.

However, your hands being clasped also means that, inevitably, when one of you goes down, you both do.

It happens after a decent amount of laps; your toe pick catches on a dip in the ice and it’s all it takes for you to lose your balance. Steve somehow twists himself to catch the brunt of your fall.

He expected that to come with some pain, a couple bruises, maybe. Instead, his wrist twists painfully against the ice as he falls, as if he’d tried to catch himself with it, and he can’t help the hiss of pain that comes out when he lands.

“You okay, honey?” he asks you.

“Of course I am. I landed on you, Stevie. Are you okay?”

He tests his wrist out by flexing it, wiggling his fingers, and he tries to hide it but he winces when he does, a sharp pain shooting up his arm. “M’fine.”

“Bullshit, I saw that wince, Harrington.” You manage to get back up on your feet and hold out a hand for him to grab, “Up, I’m taking you to the ER.”

“No, no. I’m good.”

“Steve.”

“Baby.”

“Come on, you don’t want to make it worse, do you?” you urge him. “Plus, I’ll only keep worrying and bugging you about it until you let me take you to the doctor. Your wrist is already swelling, babe.”

Mostly because he doesn’t like the thought of you worrying about him, Steve agrees.

When both of your skates are off (your doing, this time) and given back to the booth, you reach into Steve’s coat pocket and grab the keys to the BMW. He doesn’t protest, and that alone tells you he must be hurting more than he’s letting on. You even manage to open your own door for once.

Steve’s quiet on the drive to the hospital, his hand resting limply on his leg. His brows are furrowed, his eyes squeezing shut every so often when a burst of pain comes. You do your best to avoid any pot holes or bumps along the way.

Once there, you make him sit in one of the waiting room chairs, “I’ll get the check in forms and everything. Stay put, yeah?”

“Your wish is my command,” he says, trying to joke. His voice wobbles a tiny bit, though.

It’s at least an hour of waiting before someone can see him (and that’s including your many pesterings to the front desk). You don’t mean to be a bother, but you’ve never seen Steve injured in any serious capacity, and it’s messing with your head.

He took the weight of that fall to make sure you wouldn’t get hurt. The way he pays attention to things like that is one of the many reasons you love him.

You love him. You haven’t said the words to each other yet, but you’ve felt them for a long time already. It’s hard not to love Steve Harrington.

Finally, the doctor takes him back, and you follow. After an x-ray and some prodding, he determines that it’s a sprained wrist and that he should keep it wrapped for a few weeks to make sure it heals. They give him a prescription for some mild painkillers, too, for the first couple of days.

You breathe a sigh of relief knowing it isn’t broken, but Steve’s shoulders are still slumped.

He’s in pain, sure, his wrist now wrapped up in a tensor bandage, but really he feels defeated at messing yet another thing up. Third strike.

Steve lets you guide him back to the car and drive back to his place. You’ve decided you’re staying the night to take care of him, and as much as he hates looking weak or feeling useless, he’s glad to have you around.

You dote on him back at home, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer after making sure he’s settled on the couch, throwing a frozen pizza in the oven, bringing him meds and water.

“Honey, it’s just a sprain. Please stop fussing and sit with me.”

His brown eyes shine a little, and you could never say no to him when he looks at you like that.

You sit beside him and he drops his head to your shoulder, your hand coming up to play with the strands at the nape of his neck, scratching his scalp gently. His uninjured hand rests on your thigh and squeezes.

“Best painkiller ever,” he says.

Steve has convinced himself that nothing could possibly go wrong this time around.

His plans for today involve staying at home, just you and him, no outside forces to deal with or avoid. So much less potential for failure. That’s what he thinks, at least.

Steve knows nearly every piece of you, so, obviously he knows you like to bake. You’d made him a cake for his birthday, and every so often you bring him other treats from home. Naturally, that meant that there was no way he was leaving out Christmas baking.

He’d considered doing gingerbread houses, and then remembered that the last time he tried that in a competition with the kids, his house was nothing more than a messy pile of gingerbread slabs. One with a bite taken out of it.

So, considering his past failures this holiday season, he’d settled on something that he thinks — hopes — is really hard to mess up: sugar cookies.

His mother’s collection of cookbooks had never been used for more than decoration until now. Steve searched through them until he found a recipe, wrote down the ingredients, and bought them at the grocery store to make sure he had everything.

In school, he never did much studying, but he reread the hell out of that recipe in order to get at least this one thing right.

The tensor bandage is still wrapped around his wrist, which is fucking annoying, really. He has to adjust it every day, and it’s hard to do with a single hand. He much prefers when you do it for him, sealing it with a featherlight kiss.

Worse, the thing still hurts, and you refused to let him drive and put more strain on it than necessary, so you took the bus and walked the rest of the way to his house.

He’s got all of the ingredients and tools laid out on the island when you ring the doorbell. “Hurry up, Harrington, it’s freezing!”

Hurry he does. He lets you in and helps you unwrap yourself from your bundle of a scarf and hat and mittens and jacket. Steve dips in to kiss your cheek, your skin cold against his lips. “Wouldn’t have to freeze if you let me come get you.”

“I don’t want you hurting yourself for no reason, I’m fine,” you grab his uninjured hand and kiss the pads of his fingers, “and I like these hands.”

He smiles at your words, smug, “Yeah, I know you do, honey.”

You shake your head at him, but you’re smiling all the same, “I take it back. Your ego is getting too big.”

“Nooo, it’s just the right size,” he winks.

“Don’t you have plans, Steve?” you ask, changing the subject. “Getting a little off track, aren’t we?”

“Later, then,” he says, taking your hand with his good one and leading you to the kitchen.

You pause at the entryway of the kitchen, scanning over the things on the island, two aprons Steve must’ve dug up from somewhere hanging from the knobs of the cabinets.

“Tada,” he says, “we’re making cookies.”

“This might be my favourite one yet, Stevie.” You walk over and grab one of the aprons, leaving the other (a pink floral number) for Steve. “I’m in charge, though.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says, taking the other apron without a complaint. “This is your kitchen today, chef.”

“Mm. That has a nice ring to it.”

“Chef honey,” he says, planting a kiss where your neck meets your shoulder, breath warm even through your shirt.

You get started after that. Predictably, you make a mess with flour on the island and mixing bowls strewn about the surface. You get distracted with a bit of a flour war somewhere in there, Steve smudging it onto your cheek, you onto the tip of his nose.

When it’s time to roll out the dough and cut out the cookies, Steve grabs a handful of cookie cutters from one of the drawers, setting them onto the counter with a small clang. They’re all holiday themed. Candy canes and snowmen and Christmas trees.

“Someone’s prepared,” you say, bumping your hip against his.

“I run a serious establishment here, baby.”

“I thought I was in charge.”

Soon enough, after sneaking bites of raw cookie dough and cutting out as many cookies as you could manage, they’re placed into the oven, the timer set.

You end up in the living room, a random channel playing on the TV while the cookies bake. It starts innocently enough, just sitting next to each other, shoulders and thighs pressed together.

Then, Steve’s good hand wanders, starting above your knee and moving up and up until he’s squeezing the top of your thigh, tracing patterns with his thumb. When he speaks a husky, “Come closer?” how could you ever say no?

So, somehow, you’ve ended up straddling Steve’s lap, his injured hand resting loosely on your waist, the other pressed in between your shoulder blades to keep you close. Yours are in his hair, running through the strands, tugging even.

It grows heated fast, and all of a sudden you’re making out like a pair of teenagers, Steve urging you to press further down in his lap, to writhe there while his mouth works yours until it’s all you can think about. All you can feel.

The room feels warmer, Steve’s jeans tighter over his lap, your chest bumping against his, hearts racing. Even just kissing him feels better than anything you’ve ever had in the past.

He kisses you like he’s starved everytime, sometimes a ravenous hunger, like now, or, when he’s gentler, something tender and soft. A sweet tooth.

The cookies are long forgotten. The timer sounds and nobody hears it. You would keep going forever, if you could. But then there’s the smell that hits your nostrils. The smell of something burning.

“Steve?” you say against his mouth.

“Uh-huh?” he breathes.

“Do you smell that?”

He pulls back, and it’s immediately after you say the words that the alarm goes off, piercing through the air, killing the mood, much to your dismay. Even more to Steve’s.

“Fuck,” he groans.

You’re both rushing to the kitchen then. You, fumbling off his lap, him beating you to the kitchen and frantically taking the baking sheet out of the oven and turning the thing off. You grab a towel from the counter and start fanning beneath the alarm to get it to go off, and when the cookies are dealt with, Steve joins the efforts.

Eventually the thing stops beeping, and you both rest your arms. The room still looks a little cloudy, the cookies black at the edges.

Steve doesn’t say anything, only rests his elbows on the island and slumps his head, defeated.

He’s so frustrated with himself. Not for kissing you. No, he could never be mad at that, but at the outcome of his final attempt at a holiday date going south again.

You frown at him, walking over and placing a hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles. “Steve? You okay?”

“I just- I messed it up again.”

“Hey, I’m as much to blame as you are. It takes two to tango, as they say.”

He huffs a weak laugh, picking his head up and twisting to look at you. Your pretty face, eyes nothing but kind. Fuck, he loves you, and he just wanted to show you that. To make Christmas as magical as it's supposed to be.

“I really wanted it to go well, you know?”

You realize then that he’s not only talking about today. That he’s been putting this pressure on himself all month to make plans and something has happened every time. You don’t blame him for that, if anything, it makes your heart ache with adoration.

“Steve, it doesn’t matter to me. Things happen, it’s okay,” you kiss his bicep lightly. “I’d rather things go a bit wrong with you than to have them go right with someone else. You are the best part.”

“I-” love you, he almost says. But he doesn’t want the first time to be like this, in a room that still stinks. “You’re the best part for me too, honey.”

You decide that next time, it’s your turn to do something for him.

Steve comes home from work on Christmas Eve, eyes tired and feet hurting despite having worn relatively comfortable shoes today.

He’d tried to get the day off, tried to be able to spend it with you in bed for hours and hours and not getting up until the afternoon. Keith had other plans for him.

He even tried to dramatize his wrist injury. Still, he was forced to go in.

Walking up the driveway, Steve sees the glow of lights inside filtering through the curtains. He’s fairly certain he hadn’t left any on, but he also knows he’s often wrong about these things, so he shrugs it off and goes inside.

There’s noise coming from the living room. Crackling of the fireplace that he barely ever uses, music playing quietly, and then he hears you humming along.

“Honey?”

“Yup, it’s me!”

You know where the spare key is, Steve’s the one who told you the information and encouraged you to use it, but you’ve often been too nervous to do so. Not today, it seems.

While Steve was at work, you’d set up your plan for him.

He follows the sound of your voice without much of a thought, a moth drawn to a flame. When he turns into the living room, he stills.

There are strings of warm white Christmas lights hung about, the fireplace is actually housing a fire, and in front of it is a fort made up of red and green and white blankets and pillows. Some plaid, some with snowflakes, all Christmas themed.

“Did you do all of this?” he asks, walking slowly to where you stand by the fort.

“Figured it was my turn to organize a date, don’t you think?”

“Baby. This is all really sweet, but wha-”

You cut him off, “Uh-uh. Let me explain.” You reach for Steve’s hands, and he meets you in the middle willingly. Suddenly nervous, you shift your weight on your feet. “I thought we could do presents a little early.”

His brows scrunch, “But Christmas is tomorrow.”

“Please?” you ask, squeezing his hands once.

And, really, Steve would never say no to you. Especially not when you’re saying ‘please’ all sweet and delicate like that.

“Okay,” he says. “Yours is in my room. I’ll go grab it. And change; I smell like Family Video.”

“‘Kay, Stevie.”

You kiss his cheek before he goes for good measure.

Steve is confused the entire time, wondering what it could be that you’re up to, but he does as he said he would. You’d been wearing a set of pyjamas (one he loves on you; a soft baby blue pair of shorts with a matching sweater), so he goes for one of his pairs of plaid pants and a plain t shirt before grabbing your messily wrapped gift bag from where he’d hidden it under his bed.

Back in the living room, he finds you now settled on the ground of the fort, which you’d lined with fuzzy blankets and the biggest of the pillows. His gift is sat beside you, a gift box wrapped in a lovely bow. Your skills of wrapping bouquets are transferable, he’s learned.

He joins you, sitting across from you, but close enough that your legs tangle and knees bump.

“You go first,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he scratches the back of his neck, handing you the gift bag. “Let me explain it before you say anything.”

That grabs your attention, but your plans aren’t about his present to you, really, and you know you’ll love it no matter what because Steve knows you better than anyone.

You lift out tissue paper first, uncovering multiple different things inside the bag, also wrapped. It pieces together as you go. A toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, your entire skincare routine, a couple of pyjama and underwear sets.

“It’s so you don’t have to bring an overnight bag every time you stay over now. I, um, cleared out a couple of drawers in my dresser and the bathroom.”

“Steve,” you look at him, heart squeezing. It’s so thoughtful, so him, and you surge forward you wrap your arms around his neck and breathe into his skin, “I love it. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Perfect.

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do,” you sit back into your spot. “You know I hate carrying things.”

“I never let you carry anything, honey.”

“Exactly,” you nod. Now, you hold out his gift for him to take, “Your turn.”

You watch Steve’s hands as he tugs the bow undone, then lifts the lid of the box.

Nestled inside are four delicate ornaments. A Christmas tree, a snowman, an ice skate, and a plate of cookies. One for every date he’d planned for you.

Steve frowns at them, not because he doesn’t like them, but because he doesn’t quite understand where you’re going with this.

“I thought it was time we started collecting our own ornaments. For our place, one day,” you tell him.

“They’re lovely, but honey you- you really wanna remember these things?“ he shakes his head, more at himself than you. “I messed ‘em all up.”

“There’s one more thing in there,” you say quietly.

The thing you're nervous about. A thing you’ve never said out loud before.

Steve finds it beneath one of the ornaments, a small piece of paper folded up. When he opens that, his heart stutters in his chest. Written in your handwriting are three words: I love you.

He blinks away from the paper to look at you, though his thumb continues to trace the words absentmindedly. “Honey-”

“I love you, Steve. Okay?” You shift closer, kneeling at his side, your hands coming up to frame his jaw, your fingers kind against his skin. “I don’t care that things didn’t go how you planned. I mean, I would rather you didn’t require an ER visit, but the point is that I don’t need things to be perfect. And I know you’ve been hard on yourself trying to make them so.”

He lets go of the paper and reaches up to grasp your wrists, his thumb finding your racing pulse. His uninjured hand holds on tighter than the other.

“Thank you for trying for me,” you continue, “for caring. But no matter what happens, things are perfect for me. Because I get to do them with you. Got that, Harrington? You’re perfect, and I love you, and-”

He shuts you up with a kiss. It’s a simple but firm press of his lips against yours, but it says enough.

“I fucking love you too, honey,” he says, his forehead against yours, lips only a breath apart. “You saying all of that it means — you mean a lot to me.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it.”

“I know you did,” he nods. Steve pulls back the tiniest bit to be able to see your face fully, his sweet brown eyes locked on yours. “I wanted our first Christmas to be perfect, and I didn’t wanna let you down, but you’re right. They were perfect, because you’re here. And I love you for bein’ here.”

“As long as you’ll have me,” you say. You push his hair off his forehead before letting go of his face and sitting back, “Why don’t you give those ornaments a try?”

“On those trees?” he asks, eyebrows lifted, voice joking.

“Steve.”

”Okay, okay.”

He picks up the skate first. Surprising, considering that one had ended in a physical injury for him, but you say nothing and watch him walk over to your little trees by the window. You join him, sitting on the arm of the couch nearby while he scans over the tree.

“Pick a spot, handsome,” you encourage. “There’s really no wrong answer here.”

He goes to hang the first ornament, hand wavering before setting on a branch.

“Well, maybe not-” Steve tackles you onto the couch before you can finish. You dissolve into giggles as he pokes at your ribs, his head on your chest.

Steve’s done keeping score.

Perfect Christmas. That’s it.

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