#something about the christmas tree one like

[quantomeno]

I typically prefer the past tense. I consider it as a 'neutral' tense: the reader is unperturbed by it and it makes sense since most of the time you're retelling an event. But the last book I read was written in present tense and I had this distinct 'there's something off here' feeling until I realised it was the tense.

Also there's a bit in The Great Gatsby where Fitzgerald switches from past to present:

At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. ... By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived .... The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive ... The bar is in full swing and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside until the air is alive with chatter and laughter and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names.

As you can see, it goes from absolute past (came, crowded) to present perfect (has arrived, have come) to present (is, permeate). It evokes a sense of energy: "the air is alive" and it feels alive because it is in the now.

The past tense is the natural tense because that's how we talk about our personal stories. But you'll notice sometimes you'll use the present tense when recounting: "So I'm walking down the street when I bump into Marie and she keeps me there talking for half an hour, and I'm standing there with my shopping bags digging into my hands and she just yaps away."

The present tense tends to make the reader feel more involved in the situation, it makes the story feel more immediate and more real because it's not relegated to the past. A perfect example would be Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore (If on a Winter's Night a Traveller) by Italo Calvino, which not only uses the present tense but the second person ('you') to make the reader a character in the story.

There are also times where the present tense is used in recounting history. I've seen it done. I think it has a similar enlivening effect as it does in fiction.

Personally, I think the present tense is strongest when you use it sparingly. Too much of it can grow tiring. Partly by virtue of being a less commonly used tense it has a more exciting edge.

One last thing though, and as a final reason for the present, is that it makes the reader think the story is playing out now and thus what will happen next is still variable. In the case of the past tense, it's implied that the full story is over and the reader feels the narrator knows how it will end. In the case of the present, it feels more like no one knows what's going on.

Also the past tense is comforting. It is the tense of old tales and sitting by the fireplace, the tense of legends and rumour. It igves things a sense of fixity and truth. Brideshead Revisited, for example, needs to be written in the past tense because it is all about a reminiscence of the halcyon days of youth. Dracula should be written in the past tense since it is a collection of supposedly real diary entries and so it needs to look like things were being recorded properly and fully. The present tense can feel rushed, fleeting, but the past is always there and gives you time to set things down.

As a bonus: the future tense is an odd tense because it implies a degree of certainty, but can also have the feeling things could change still. It is incredibly disorienting and weird and should be only used if you really think it helps the idea you're trying to convey. Don't do things for shock value or o be cool. Like, a future tense horror/thriller story about an impending disaster to evoke a sense of helplessness in the reader might be interesting. Also consider context, because if the story is set in the past, future tense would be really off-putting (that might be the goal, or perhaps it's because a character in the past is predicting the future, there are times I'd say it's justified).

(also obviously I mean this as 'the whole book or a significant section is written in this tense, you can of course have bits where there's a bit of future tense, like that present tense passage in Gatsby. I just mean reading a whole novel in the future would be annoying)

I am thinking about fan fiction writers, but anyone who writes any kind of fiction can answer. (As far as I’m aware, non-fiction is usually written in the past tense - but if I’m wrong do let me know!)

If you like, explain why in the tags!

When I was young I gathered that all serious works of fiction were written in the past tense (past tense third person to be precise) so that is what i did when I started writing. However my mind was blown by the power and immediacy of Margaret Atwood writing in the present tense so I started to experiment with it myself, and now i strongly favour it. I get the impression that past is still the most commonly used, but I’m prepared to be surprised!

Please share!

[sturnioz]

shy!reader gets caught under the mistletoe.

you remain pliant and still on the bathroom counter, the cool surface pressing against your thighs through your sheer tights as kitty's fingers gently cup your jaw, tilting your face as the other hand carefully applies the red lipstick to your lips to match the colour of your sweater and the ribbon tied neatly in your hair.

"there we go," kitty murmurs as she leans back to assess her work. "now rub your lips together, like this." she demonstrates for you, her own lips pursing and pressing together, the glossy sheen of her own dark lipstick catching the light.

your gaze lingers on her as you follow her instructions, mimicking the motion before your glittery eyes flick to the mirror, staring at your reflection. you look a little different—a good different—and you lean forward slightly to take a better look at yourself, studying your face like it belongs to someone else, finding something surreal about the way you look.

"you look pretty," kitty compliments, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she slides the cap back onto the lipstick tube with a quiet click. her words make your cheeks feel hot, and your lips curve into a shy smile, your eyes dropping to the floor for a moment as you let out a soft, sheepish laugh.

she playfully swats your knee for you to get down, and you push yourself off the counter, your mary-janes landing with a soft tap against the tile floor. you smooth out the creases in your black skirt, tugging at the hem until it lies just right before brushing your fingers over the soft fabric of your sweater, making sure you look presentable enough.

as you step out of the bathroom and into the hallway, the hum of chatter and christmas music fills your ears, growing louder and louder with each step as you walk down the stairs.

you're a lot more comfortable with this frat party. it feels better — filled with just the frat brothers instead of being packed with strangers that usually leave you feeling so overwhelmed and overstimulated.

a gentle smile spreads across your face once you reach the bottom step, taking in the christmas decorations — the multi-coloured christmas lights, the bows and garlands draped over the doorways, and a tinsel and ornamented tree towering in the corner (which has been knocked down more times than you liked to admit).

you glance around as you walk across the floor, giggling at the sight of everyone's festive-ish outfits — some wearing red and green coloured fits, others wearing santa hats and elf ears with fuzzy christmas sweaters.

you're happy. really happy. the faint scent of cinnamon and nutmeg leads you into the kitchen, where the island is filled with snacks and drinks. you read for the ladle in the eggnog bowl, pouring the creamy mixture into a red plastic cup, and you're about to bring it up to your lips for a sip until you hear bee.

"be careful with that," she warns you, eyeing you from where she leans against the counter. you pause mid-sip, lowering the cup slightly, a confused hum slipping past your lips as your gaze flits up to meet hers.

"why?"

bee gestures toward the bowl, "nate ended up pouring all kinds of alcohol into that thing."

"hey!" nate's voice shouts from behind before you can reply, and you feel his shoulder bump into yours as he steps into the space beside you, leaning down to peer into the bowl with a playful pout. "i read the recipe wrong, okay? when the thing said whiskey, rum 'n brandy, i thought it meant add all of it in. not pick which fuckin' one."

for a moment, you just blink at him, your mouth parting in surprise as you slowly lower the cup to put it down. "you.. you added all?"

"yes."

"do.. the others know?" you ask, glancing toward the door leading back into the living-room before looking back at him.

"course they do," nate grins as he takes a cup for himself, moving around you to throw his arm around bee's shoulder. "merry christmas!"

he raises his cup in a mock taost before leaning in to press an exaggeratedly loud, wet smooch to bee's cheek who whines and smacks at his chest, a grin playing on her lips as he steers her away.

"merry christmas.." you murmur softly, your voice drowned out by the chatter and christmas music as you watch nate and bee disappear into the living-room. you glance back at the eggnog bowl, your lips twitching into a small, amused smile before opting for something less strong.

with a fresh drink in hand, you slowly make your way out of the kitchen, weaving through the crowd of people scattered across the room. your eyes scan the space before landing on chris, standing by the christmas tree—a joint dangling lazily between his lips as he takes slow, deep drags while fiddling with his phone, his thumb swiping across the screen.

you make your way over, a small smile tugging at your lips as you take him in. he's wearing an oversized red sweater, the soft fabric hanging loose over his frame, paired with black jeans and a backwards cap on his head, messy strands of dark hair peeking out from beneath the brim.

"we're matching.." you state softly as you reach him, extending your arm out a little to show off the same shade of red you're both wearing.

chris doesn't react immediately, he just lifts his head from his phone to stare at your sweater with dark, unamused eyes before flicking his gaze to your face. smoke wafts from his lips as he exhales, his attention dropping down to your lips before he finally speaks.

"you got lipstick on your teeth, kid."

your eyes widen in utter embarrassment, and you pull your arm back to raise your hand and cover your mouth. panic flares in your chest as your tongue darts out, running over your teeth in a frantic attempt to remove any traces of lipstick.

chris watches you as you do this, his lips twitching as he leans back slightly, balancing his joint between two fingers as his own tongue prods against the side of his cheek in subtle amusement.

"m'jokin'.." he says finally, taking another drag and letting the smoke curl from his lips as he exhales.

you slowly drop your hand from your face with a pout and a glare, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you try to recover from the humiliation. "not funny.."

chris opens his mouth, probably to fire off another remark, but before he can, a voice from a frat brother interrupts as he drunkenly stumbles over. he cheeks are flushed, and his grin is wide and sloppy as he holds something up above your heads—mistletoe.

your heart skips a beat, and you instinctively glance up at the dangling mistletoe before flicking your gaze back to chris. a nervous laugh bubbles in your throat, but it simmers the moment you take in his expression—chris is glaring at the frat brother, his jaw tight and his lips pressed into a thin line, clearly not happy.

"c'mon, it's tradition," the frat brother slurs his words, oblivious to the tension as he waves the mistletoe around clumsily, nearly dropping it as he stumbles again. "it's christmas, man. just kiss her already, those are the rules."

your cheeks heat up, and you glance nervously at chris who still hasn't moved or said a word. his gaze remains locked on the frat brother, his shoulders tense and his fists clenching at his sides. the silence feels suffocating, and your stomach twists as you shift uncomfortably.

"seriously.. you're makin' this weird," the frat brother pesters, his drunken grin faltering slightly. "what's the big deal? s'just a kiss... you shy or somethin'? scared?"

that's when you see it—barely noticeable but impossible to ignore.

chris' chest rises sharply, his breathing quickening ever so slightly. his jaw twitches, knuckles flex, and his fingers curl into tight fists at his sides. he doesn't spare you a look, and he doesn't even flinch as the frat brother sways closer, still holding the mistletoe.

"it's not that deep, man," the frat brother presses, his voice louder now, and it makes your stomach churn. his lips curl into a genuine smile, trying to make a joke. "you don't know how? need me to show you how it's done?"

chris doesn't laugh. he doesn't smirk or roll his eyes like you expected. instead, his breathing gets harsher, his chest rising and falling faster now, and his fists clench to tightly his knuckles turn white, his entire body looks like a spring ready to snap.

is... chris panicking?

"get that fuckin' thing out of my face," chris growls through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. "or m'gonna—"

"jesus, dude... chill," the frat brother mutters, a frown tugging at his lips. "you're actin' like i'm askin' you to marry her or somethin'. s'just one little kiss, like—"

"hey. hey," matt's voice cuts in suddenly, stepping in chris' personal space to grip his shoulder, stopping him from moving forward when it looks like he's seconds away from snapping. "that's enough, yeah?"

the frat brother blinks at matt, "what? it's just—"

"did you hear me? said that's enough," matt interrupts, his tone sharper now with an edge that makes the frat brother pause, especially when matt glares at him. "go find someone else."

for a moment, the frat brother looks like he's considering staying, but he ends up muttering something incoherently under his breath as he stumbles away, the mistletoe swinging loosely in his hands.

the tension in the room doesn't disappear immediately though, you can still feel it, thick and heavy. you remain silent, chewing on your bottom lip as you watch matt with chris, barely making out their quiet conversation.

"hey.." matt speaks a lot softer now, moving his hand from chris' shoulder to his chest, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. "it's alright, yeah? breathe, man.."

chris exhales sharply through his nose, his fists loosening as he nods subtly, not sparing either of you a glance as he turns his head away, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly, his expression unreadable.

you stand frozen, unsure of what to say or do. your chest feels tight, and your earlier embarrassment for not being kissed has been replaced with something closer to unease.

matt glances at you briefly, his expression somewhat apologetic before turning his attention back to chris, "y'good?" he asks quietly.

chris nods his head once, muttering something under his breath before taking the cap off his head to run his fingers through his hair. you swallow hard, throat dry as you observe his tense posture and distant stare, making your stomach twist.

something is wrong—something is very wrong.

you're not sure what comes over you, but before you can think twice, you take a slow step forward. maybe you want to comfort him, or maybe you're planning to ask if he's okay—you're not even 100% sure yourself.

but just as quickly as the thought forms, you stop in your tracks when chris finally looks at you. his expression is blank, but his eyes are filled with something you can't quite understand that freezes you in place.

"don't." he says flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument, and you nod your head slowly, swallowing back the lump rising in your throat.

chris doesn't look at you again. instead, he adjusts the cap back onto his head, his jaw clenched tightly as he turns away from you, leaving you standing alone next to the christmas tree.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

© STURNIOZ

[stellasdrafts]

The Light in His Eyes (Vendetta! Leon)

Summary: you have each other’s backs (Vendetta! Leon x DSO!Reader)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: alcoholism (on Leon’s part), some vendetta leon comfort because that man needs it :(, no official relationship but mutual feelings are implied, pining…

Notes: a small Christmas-ish one-shot in january because it’s my blog and i make the rules (i forgot to post in december whoops). also sorry this one is christmas specific but christmas lights are very special to me and i wanted to write a little something about them <3

One of these days, these missions are going to kill you. You’re sure of it. You find yourself sitting on a rooftop overlooking the city, needing some fresh air after almost getting your head bitten off on call today. Being a D.S.O. agent isn’t for the faint-hearted and truth be told, sometimes you aren’t sure how you got this far in the first place. You close your eyes, deeply breathing in the cold, stuffy city air and listening to the night traffic below. What would it be like to live a normal, quiet life? For your only burden to be being stuck in the traffic below on your way home from your safe nine to five? Your heart aches when you have thoughts like these…

You’re snapped out of your mournful contemplation when someone clears their throat behind you. You whip your head around, startled. You barely register your fists clenching and muscles tensing up, ready to throw a punch or something, your tired brain registering the sound as the grunt of an infected.

“S’just me.” Leon lifts his hands, traipsing toward you. “Can I join?”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Truth be told, you wanted to spend time alone tonight, but Leon happens to be the one who saved your life today and you figure you owe him this much. “Mhm.” You nod and pat the freezing concrete beside you.

He takes the offered seat and leans back, propping himself on his arms. His warmth carries through the cold wind and seeps through your jeans. He’s only an inch or two away, after all. Despite your previous sentiment, his presence is oddly soothing. You’ve never met anyone as good as him in your field of work. He makes you feel safe, like somehow, you’re immortal in his presence because he always looks out for his team. It’s impossible, really. You know it’s a childish and dangerous mindset to have in this line of work, but there’s just something about him. You wonder how much that selflessness is destroying him from the inside….

Actually, the habituality of the liquor on his breath may already give you an idea.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” You look up at him, noticing how his eyes are fixed on the sea of tall buildings before you. “Oh, yeah… I like the lights. I’ve always liked lights.”

A grin tugs at his lips. “Oh yeah?” He shifts to rest on one knee to get a better look at you.

You feel yourself melt under the older agent’s gaze. “Yeah. All kinds of lights…”

He just watches you for a moment and you find yourself silently cursing the extensive psychology training the government’s had you D.S.O. agents do. You’re sure he can read you like a book, seeing through the façade you’ve been tirelessly trying to keep up. He has his own, after all.

He looks out at the few festive lights wrapped around balcony railings and trees standing proudly in windows. “Like… Christmas lights?”

That reaches you. You turn your head to look at him with a dopey smile. “Especially Christmas lights. I miss them a lot.”

Your nostalgia must be contagious because he smiles at you too. You never see him smile anymore. In your few years of working together, you’ve never known him to be an extraordinarily sunny man, but it had worsened recently. Little to your knowledge, he likes seeing you smile, especially when it’s directed at him. “I didn’t know you liked Christmas so much. Maybe I should buy you a tree and some lights this year,” he jokes lightly.

You shrug, your smile fading a bit. “We never stay in one place long enough… And people don’t celebrate as much as when we were kids. It wouldn’t be the same.”

His expression softens considerably when he notices the shift in your demeanour. His lips pull into a much more familiar tight frown, his shoulders dropping a bit as well. “Yeah, I guess so…” he pauses for a moment, debating his next words. “We could make our own tradition, you know?”

You tilt your head, your smile fully sarcastic and sour now. “Sure. If we’re both still alive by holiday break.”

He grimaces, evidently not liking the sudden grim attitude, even if it carries truth. Ironic, you find yourself thinking, for a man with his attitude. “Don’t talk like that,” he chides softly, wrapping an arm behind you and dragging you a twinge closer. “I’m not letting you die anytime soon.”

And you know that coming from his lips, that’s a vow, not a weak promise. You lean into his warmth, the cold wind hitting you again now that you’re no longer in your cozy bubble of colourful lights and denial. “Right. Sorry…”

“It’s alright.” He gives your side a reassuring squeeze and resumes staring out at the dark skyline.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two, admiring (perhaps longingly) the people going about their lives in their apartments and offices. Parents putting their children to bed, couples cooking together, families watching what you self-indulgingly believe to be holiday movies in their decorated living rooms… Even the young man working alone at this hour of the night seems to sit with some sense of serenity. All possibilities of the lives you and Leon could have had if you hadn’t been pushed into the claws of the genius Division of Security Operations. He sighs – if in soul-crushing envy or in momentary peacefulness, you can’t tell. But his whiskey-ridden breath is warm and a welcome contrast to the cool winter night air.

You chew at your lip, getting a bit nervous. “You smell like booze,” you remark quietly.

“I know.” He chuckles and you know it’s a piss-poor attempt to cover how uncomfortable the topic of his drinking makes him feel. “You got a problem with that?” He scratches his neglected stubble.

You know a slightly hostile question is the best outcome for you. If it were anyone else starting an intervention, he would’ve raised his voice already. You’ve seen it first-hand with some other people on the team. “You’ve got a problem with that, Leon.” You stare blankly at the buildings ahead, your previous fascination and warmth for the sight dampened.

You feel Leon’s body stiffen beside you and his demeanour shifts. You look, and like you, he no longer seems as placated as he was a mere minute ago. His brows tug down and his gaze darkens. “Don’t do that. Not you,” his tone is surprisingly tender for being paired with his current expression.

He knows you mean well. He knows you’re worried about him. But he can’t bear having you look at him like everyone else does, like you have to tiptoe around him or like he’s always incompetent and inebriated. He looks away out of shame. He knows you’re right, but he’s stubborn and also knows that’s led to his downfall more than once.

“Are you even going to remember this tomorrow?”

Leon looks back up, his gaze stormy. His defensiveness gets the best of him, as it usually does in these situations. He’s angry, or at least he’s trying to be. But you’re sitting close enough to spot the gleam of self-hatred in those beloved blue eyes. “Why does it matter if I do or not?”

“Because believe it or not, our conversations actually mean a lot to me.” The weight of your words hangs between the pair of you for a moment. “And it’s dangerous to day drink with a job like ours. We never know when we’ll get called out. It’ll get you killed,” you add to try and save face as if you don’t care more about him than you do the other agents.

He cringes a bit more at that, and his anger falters in favour of discomfort. He sighs and leans an elbow on his knee, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

You tuck your knees up to your chest, even his body heat isn’t enough to cancel out the cold between you now. “That’s what worries me. You act like it’s fine, it’s normal. You don’t even act drunk anymore. You don’t… slur your words or stumble around or vomit everywhere. Apart from being angrier… depressed… you behave normally when you’re drunk.” You turn your body in his direction, trying desperately to get through to him. “You’re not even you anymore. Isn’t that scary?”

He exhales again, letting his hand drop from his face. He knows you’re right. Damn it, you’re always right, but he can never bring himself to admit it. “I… I don’t get what the big deal is. I do my job – well, if I might add. I don’t get into bar fights with random civilians… unless they ask for it. I supply my own drinks and keep to myself. So why’re you worrying?”

You take his face in your hands, your expression softening. Maybe he won’t lie to your face if he’s looking right at it. “Leon, drop the act, please.” From what you hear, he’s a shell of the person he used to be.

His eyes widen with surprise. He doesn’t answer anything for a few moments, your gentle touch making his mind go blank for a second. He can’t remember the last time anyone was gentle with him. He knows he can’t argue when you use that tone or when you have that look in your eye. “Fuck…”

He practically sags onto you as he lets himself feel everything he’s been drowning in alcohol for months. You have an agonizing way of making the tension in his body disappear with nothing but a few words in that honeyed tone of yours.

You support his weight. Like you always do, as he always does yours. Because it’s just Leon. You’d never let him fall, in any sense of the word. “You know, how are you supposed to put up that tree and the lights you offered me if you’re too drunk to make sense of anything? I’m not letting you in my room at HQ if the drinks are making you a grouch, either.”

He does want to give you that, a tree grand and worth being yours, pretty lights you can stare at while you doze off in the evenings, Christmas itself… More than anything, he wants to make you happy. The thought alone makes him happy. He huffs and looks away to hide his smile. “Yeah, yeah. Damn you.”

You let out a breath and a smile of your own, feeling relieved that you got to him at least a little bit. “Try again, please… At least to cut back. We can do it this time.”

He tenses again at your request. It’s not an easy one, and he’s reluctant to agree, not sure if he can even will himself to cut back so easily. But you’re too close, too warm, and you’re using that damn tone in your voice that always gets to him. He wants better for you. For himself, too. A shot at a better life. “I’ll try. Try. For you, alright?”

You hum. “That’s all I ask.” You bring up a delicate hand and brush some of that pesky hair out of his face.

He practically melts into your touch, too tired to bother hiding the effect you have on him. You both know something has been lingering between you for a while, anyway. “Anything else you want from me?” he mutters in a teasing tone, trying to lift the atmosphere he feels he ruined.

You chuckle lightly. “Probably, but we’ll work towards those things later on.”

He perks up at that, a smug smirk toying at his lips as he picks up on the implications of your words. “Y’gotta be a little more specific than that.”

Your eyes soften. Not now. Not like this. “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.” Your timbre isn’t unkind – it’s careful, genuine… You’re trying to encourage him more than anything, knowing he always fares well with a challenge or an end goal.

The muscles in his face ease as well. He gives a small nod. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You feel a spark in your chest of something you haven’t felt in a long time – hope. “So will I.”

You’re more determined than ever to bring back that light to his eyes.

[wendichester]

hi! can i request an imagine where it’s sam x reader, the reader is more like dean personality wise (same music taste, clothing, humour, food etc) and sam has a huge crush but won’t admit it and dean tries to egg him on to admit that he likes her?

not sure if you do OC type of imagines but could you include that the reader has a lot of tattoos and dyed red hair please? and she’s also british? thank you so much if you do!!

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ a crush,

summary. sam has a crush and dean is being your typical annoying older brother.

pairing. sam winchester x reader

wordcount. 661

notes. oc is so badass, i think i have a crush on her 🤭

The bunker is quiet, save for the faint echo of music coming from the common room. As Sam approaches, he realizes the sound is coming from your headphones—blaring Led Zeppelin so loudly he can hear every riff and beat.

When he turns the corner, he spots you sprawled across the couch, boots kicked up on the coffee table, completely absorbed in the journal you’re flipping through. Your head bobs to the beat, red hair catching the light, vibrant and impossible to miss. Tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves of your leather jacket, inked stories Sam’s been dying to know more about.

Dean is sitting at the table, nursing a beer and smirking at Sam like he knows something he doesn’t.

“You’re staring, dude,” Dean says, his voice low enough not to carry over your music but loud enough to jolt Sam out of his daze.

“I’m not staring,” Sam says quickly, adjusting his laptop and walking to the table, though his eyes betray him with one last glance in your direction.

“Uh-huh,” Dean replies, taking a sip of his beer. “You’re about as subtle as a sledgehammer.”

Sam sets his laptop down and ignores his brother, but Dean leans closer, his smirk widening. “Why don’t you just tell her?”

“Tell her what?” Sam mutters, though his ears are tinged with red.

“That you’ve got a massive crush,” Dean says, gesturing toward you with his bottle.

Sam shoots him a warning glare. “I don’t have a crush.”

“Sure, you don’t,” Dean says, leaning back in his chair. “You just get all fidgety and awkward every time she’s in the room because, what, she intimidates you?”

Sam sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. “She’s not intimidating.”

“Really? She’s got more tattoos than I can count, listens to music louder than you’d think humanly possible, and can out-snark me on a good day. That doesn’t throw you even a little?” Dean teases, clearly enjoying himself.

Sam opens his mouth to retort but freezes when you suddenly pull your headphones down around your neck and grin at him.

“Oi, Sam!” you call out in your British accent, the lilt of your voice making his chest tighten. “C’mere. Found somethin’ in this journal that you might find interesting.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam, silently daring him to make a move. Sam glares at his brother before standing and walking over to you, his heart hammering in his chest.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice steady despite the nervous energy coursing through him.

You hold up the journal, pointing to a passage. “It’s about that curse we were talkin’ about earlier. Looks like the spell’s origin might actually be Mesopotamian, not Egyptian. Thought you’d wanna have a look.”

Sam takes the journal, his fingers brushing yours briefly. He can feel Dean’s eyes on his back and prays you can’t see how red his face is.

“You’re always so serious,” you say with a teasing grin, leaning back on the couch. “Relax a bit, Sammy. We’ve got time before we head out.”

Sam clears his throat, forcing himself to focus on the journal, but your words linger.

As he walks back to the table, Dean smirks. “You’re so obvious, it’s painful.”

“She’s not my type,” Sam says, though his voice lacks conviction.

Dean chuckles. “Right. Because you totally didn’t light up like a Christmas tree when she called you ‘Sammy.’”

Sam groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Just ask her out already,” Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder. “What’s the worst that could happen? She says no? Doubt it. She’s into you too, you know.”

Sam peeks through his fingers. “How do you know?”

Dean shrugs, grinning. “I’m observant.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean’s words stick with him. Maybe, just maybe, Dean is right.

Across the room, you catch Sam’s eye again and wink, your grin playful. And for the first time, Sam thinks he might actually have a shot.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @hauntedrose555

[caffedrine]

Clavis and Matias - Christmas Special: The Beasts' Drink - Event Translation

Thank you to @otomehoneyybearr for providing the script for this event.

This is a poor attempt at a fan translation, so take everything with a grain of salt. For a better translation, buy this when it comes out on the ENG server.

On a winter day as Christmas approaches, at the Rhodolite Castle—

Matias: At Rhodolite’s Christmas, the tree is decorated with roses, huh?

Matias: It’s truly beautiful. I hope to visit here someday with my bride. Ah, I’m looking forward to that day.

Matias: In a romantic atmosphere filled with the rich fragrance of roses, as I sit closely with my bride and suddenly—…

Clavis: Still as much of a pervert as ever, huh? I’m relieved, Matias.

Clavis: If that fantasy were to somehow become a reality—

Clavis: As your friend, I’d arrange an exciting, heart-pounding Christmas date in Rhodolite for you.

Matias: I am not a pervert… However, I appreciate that offer.

Matias: I wonder if you could create a scenario where just a touch of our fingertips would make our shy couple draw closer together.

Clavis: Haha, your detailed setting just makes you even more of a pervert. So, in other words, you just want to be lovey-dovey?

Matias: To put it bluntly, that’s exactly right.

Clavis: Then leave it to me.

Clavis: I will set up all sorts of love traps in the rose garden of this castle to physically bring you and your bride closer together.

Clavis: After that, I’ll personally cook up some exquisite dishes that you won’t be able to resist.

Clavis: Because it’s for an important guest and a friend, I won’t hold back. I’ll provide you with delights worthy of a perfect Christmas.

Matias: …You’re going to do it yourself, huh… I appreciate the offer.

Clavis: What’s wrong?

Matias: There’s a huge difference between your idea of the perfect Christmas and mine.

Matias: For instance, that special Christmas candle you once made…

Clavis: Ah, you mean that masterpiece I made during our student days?

Matias: A few years ago, the students who found it stored in the dormitory’s warehouse used it for the candlelight event.

Matias: That’s right, at the largest royal school candle night event held by Acroite.

Clavis: That must have been quite a lively event. It was a genius creation, if I may say so myself.

Matias: ...It was indeed lively.

Matias: When it was lit, the rainbow-colored smoke shot up extraordinarily.

Matias: No one could stop laughing to the point of collapse.

Matias: And just when we thought the smoke was clearing, there was a strange creature resembling Santa drawn on the snow.

Matias: It sparked a detective show among everyone present, wondering if it was some code…

Matias: In any case, the scene was tumultuous.

Clavis: That sounds like a delightful Christmas, right?

Matias: It’d be fine for a party among men, but a date with my bride calls for something more romantic.

Clavis: Is that so? Just imagine. In front of the rising rainbow smoke, your bride shouts, ‘Kyaa, Prince Matias!’

Clavis: What do you say to protect her?

Matias: ‘It’s okay. No matter what happens, I will protect you. So, would it be alright if I held your hand to make you feel safe?’

Matias: ...Nodding, my bride's warm hand touches mine…

Clavis: Successfully holding hands naturally, and suddenly, as the smoke clears, you see her smiling face, right?

Matias: Seeing her adorable smile, I would say, ‘Your smile is truly lovely.’ To which she replies, ‘I’m so happy!’

Matias: The two of us smiling at each other, a bit of tension melts away-

Clavis: And then Santa appears.

Matias: ‘This happy holy night, where the distance between us has shrunk, might be a gift from Santa.’

Matias: As I whisper this, my bride shyly says, ‘I want to get even closer…’ Ah, it’s wonderful!

Matias: You truly are a genius, Clavis.

Clavis: Right? Right?

Matias: Oh, there’s no doubt about it. I definitely want to entrust my Christmas date to you.

Matias: And when you enjoy Christmas in Acroite with me and my bride, please leave it to me!

Clavis: In that case, prepare the finest shovel for me!

Matias: Understood. Now, let’s toast to our unchanging friendship.

Clavis: Ah, cheers with the most delicious juice!

[dc418writes]

If You Can’t Stand the Heat…

✨Pairing✨: Brendan “Mid-Size Sedan”xblack!reader

Summary🪄: Your first Christmas with your boyfriend’s parents. What could go wrong?

🚨: allusion to a deceased parent, language, pretty much all fluff💕 (aside from an overbearing mother👀)

A/N🎤: Happy New Year and belated holidays🥂✨! So clearly this did not come out when I originally planned, but I still hope yall enjoy! Also stating the other obvious in the room, for those who have seen Old were ignoring the end this character saw and in my mind he is in fact alive and well🥰 (for those who haven’t seen, sorry for the spoiler lol)

*DISCLAIMER!: I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP of pictures used as they were found via Pinterest and Google*

“My baby boy!”

Brendan’s practically tackled by his own mother as she hurries into the brightly lit foyer hugging him tight while gently swaying back and forth. Her usual floral scent instantly takes him back to his childhood dancing around the living room and helping her in the kitchen - until his playful, mischievous ways would get the best of him that is.

“Hey ma,” he chuckles hugging her just as tight. Being away for most of the year, he admittedly missed her nearly crushing hugs.

“Cmon now Kat let the boy breathe.” Both arms attempting to carry all their luggage, his father, Devon, manages to close the door behind them using his foot. Not without needing to quickly rebalance himself from the shift of weight though. “So he can help with this luggage.”

“Oh, I got it!”

Both his parents seem to freeze at the new unfamiliar voice, quickly peeking past their son to the figure waving and moving closer. “Now who in the hell..?,” his mother thinks watching the black curls atop your head bounce with every step until you stop beside her son.

“Nah, it’s okay baby imma get it.”

And when he pecks your temple - making that sweet smile on your glossy lips brighten like the shimmering lights on the miniature Christmas tree in the corner - Devon can already see the flames and chaos swirling in his wife’s mind. “Oh lord, here we go.”

“Brendan,” although smiling herself, Katherine’s is clearly one mixed with confusion looking between the both of you, “w-who is your uh..little guest here?”

“This is my girl-,”

Everything muted after hearing that. Girlfriend? When did this happen? And why did she not know until now? Being his mother, she should’ve been the first to know! God knows what this little girl had planned up her sleeve for her innocent baby boy.

“It’s nice to finally meet you!” Katherine manages to snap out of her trance just in time to watch you move towards her with arm extended after shaking Devon’s hand. “Brendan’s told me so much about both of you.”

“Aw that’s so nice. Sadly I’ve heard nothing of you though sweetheart.” That hit you just as she expected, making your smile falter and dim as her son nervously rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Not that I wasn’t plannin’ to,” he quickly tries to rectify. “But from the interviews and studio sessions-,”

“The other week you sent me that beat you were working on. Sounds like a perfect time to me.”

Devon could read his boy just as well as his mother, and he might as well have ‘SOS’ tattooed on his forehead right about now. This ship was sinking faster than a boat made of Swiss cheese in the middle of summer, and he couldn’t just let him drown.

Quickly clearing his throat, he successfully gains everyone’s attention - for now at least, “B why don’t you uh show us around this place.”

-

Sat in the middle of the California king bed - white comforter and sheet just as pristine as fresh snow blanketing your newly washed and moisturized legs - you can’t stop replaying the events from dinner in your head. Overall you’d say it was nice, all of you talking and laughing while enjoying your homemade chicken pot pie. Brendan’s dad even complimented you saying it reminded him of something his own grandmother would’ve made.

Katherine, however, didn’t appear too impressed. About a few things besides the food really.

“It’s good sweetheart, a tad bit salty, but alright,” she curtly smiled. And maybe it was just you, but you wondered if that was just a teaser for things to come.

“Does your mom like me?,” you ask as soon as your boyfriend exits the bathroom with black, satin durag in hand.

“Course she does. Why? She say somethin?”

“No, I just…” you frustratedly sigh partly regretting bringing it up as you toy with the sterling silver chain around your wrist. Specifically the one that matched Brendan’s. “I dunno I get this feeling.”

Fingers securing the last knot, his hand reaches for yours pulling you closer into his side as he slides into bed himself. The mint from his lips prickling against your temple as he places two kisses there. “Bae everything’s fine, alright? If my ma had an issue, trust she’ll say it.”

•

“I don’t like her.”

Since closing the door to their hotel-like suite of a guest room, Katherine hadn’t stopped complaining and running her mouth about you.

“I bet she invited herself tryin to squeeze her way in.”

“I dunno where she got that recipe from but it ain’t all that. And you heard how she call herself decorating everything? Tuh, Ray Charles could do better.”

Devon just wanted to watch his Lakers in peace.

“Kat just give the girl a chance. You don’t even know her.”

“And I don’t want to,” she answers walking out the bathroom rubbing some sort of cream on her arms. “Brendan‘s soon gonna be over her like all the rest.”

“You never know,” her husband simply sighs, adjusting the pillow under his chin. To anyone else, it would just be a menial statement, however Katherine could sense there was something more her dear husband might be hiding.

Turning off the flatscreen and crossing her arms across her chest, Devon’s now equally as frustrated as his wife throwing his hands out with an “Aye!,” and silently wishing he snuck to the theater room while she was in the shower.

“You knew she was gonna be here didn’t you?”

“No!”

“But you knew about her,” she states pointing a signature red manicured finger.

He might as well forget about the game. She was gonna be at this all night. “Did he outright say something? No, but from what he asked I figured there was somebody.”

“Andd?,” she asks twisting her wrist, urging Devon to come out with the rest already. “What’d he ask?”

“Father son confidentiality,” he smirks holding his hands up in surrender.

“Bullshit, I carried that big headed boy for almost 10 months you better start talking Dee.”

He chuckles knowing she’d say that. “Stuff about our relationship: how I knew you were the one, being long distance, marriage-,”

“Marriage?! They just met!”

“We don’t know-,”

“Oh lord,” she gasps beginning to pace, “she’s pregnant!”

“Nah, I don’t think-,”

“That’s why he’s thinking of marriage, meanwhile jezebel thinking she’s gettin a free ride. And the baby might not even be his!”

His wife really needed to stop watching those made for tv movies. Moving to sit on the edge of the bed, he can easily reach out and gently grip Katherine’s elbow guiding his worried wife to sit beside him.

“Relax alright? You gettin all worked up for potentially nothing,” he states pecking her temple.

“But-,”

“Get to know the girl, please. For the sake of Brendan.” Kat’s little huff is enough of an acceptable answer that he’s turning the tv back on hoping to finish the remainder of the game.

Katherine’s mind was already made up though, and this girl wasn’t about to mess with her baby and ruin everything he had. A mother’s intuition was never wrong, and she knew what needed to be done.

-

It had only been three days and you were sure you’d somehow been transported to hell at some point in your sleep. If it wasn’t her little comments about you, Katherine was either squeezing her way in your alone time with Brendan or finding a way to exclude you.

The movie night you and Brendan planned in the theater room when his parents were asleep? Crashed by her claiming she couldn’t sleep. The trip to a local tree farm to see all the Christmas lights that was supposed to be all four of you? She swears you told her you weren’t ‘feeling great’ before you went to the restroom, prompting them to leave you home.

“Maybe we can go again after Christmas?,” she suggested when they returned.

“Yea maybe,” you replied with your most saccharine smile similar to the one on her own lips.

With everyone still asleep upstairs, you took advantage of your alone time to bake your signature molasses cookies passed down to you from your mother. Like her, baking always brought you peace and filled you with fond memories of big laughs, messy hands, and flour in your hair and mysteriously on the ceiling.

“Momma I really need you right now,” you quietly speak to the open air as you mix your ingredients together finalizing your dough.

The sound of the hand mixer covers Katherine’s footsteps causing you to jump when you feel her presence over your shoulder.

“Sorry sweetheart, didn’t mean to scare you.” You really hated that nickname. Especially when it came from her mouth and would then usually come with some snide comment. “Thought you heard me when I said good mornin.”

“It’s okay and no, my mind’s uh somewhere else.”

“Yea these cookies,” she smiles watching you cutout various holiday themed shapes. “Looks like you got a good mess here too.”

Here we go. Luckily your back was towards her as she readied her coffee, giving you freedom to roll your eyes without getting caught. “Yea, I know,” you nervously chuckle. “I’m almost done though so I’ll get to them in a minute.”

“S’why you should really clean as you go. Less to do in the end.”

“True, but I get so wrapped up with-,”

“Brown and regular sugar?,” she asks noticing both containers on the counter. “They’ll be too sweet.”

Was she really trying to tell you how to make something you’ve done since you were able to walk? “No, they’ll be fine. I’ve made it plenty times before.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be tweaked though,” she innocently shrugs.

“Also true,” you forcibly smile feeling your skin begin to heat with frustration, “but this one is fine. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right sweetheart.” And at that, you snapped unable to take anymore. You left your mess, your tools, and dough just needing to get away before your mouth and anger made you do something you’d regret.

You didn’t even speak to Devon as you rushed past making his brows furrow not used to you in an unpleasant mood. Seeing his wife also in the kitchen - calmly drinking out of a mug - he can guess what might’ve been the cause though. “What did you do?”

“Nothin,” Katherine answers nonchalantly before dipping a spoon into the leftover dough for a taste. “Hm, not too sweet like she said. Girl a little Miss Betty Crocker.”

“You know who you actin like right?”

“I know you betta not say who I think.”

“And because you thinking it means it’s true,” he retorts. “Bein’ just like my momma.”

“Aht, take it back!,” she points her spoon placing her mug down. “That woman never liked me from the start and let me know it. Shoot I think she still don’t like me.”

“And you not doing the same thing? That girl’s been nothing but nice and respectful to you when anybody else would’ve been said something.

His words clearly have some affect how her once stubborn expression turns soft. Her previous actions and words now all she can think of reminding her of the woman she swore she’d never be like when she had kids.

“You know you wrong Kat.”

•

“Where you goin?,” Brendan asks watching you throw your clothes in your suitcase unzipped and wide open on the floor of his walk in closet.

“Home.”

“Home? Why you-,”

“Look I know you wanted all of us to be together for Christmas, but this ain’t working B,” you answer with watery eyes still focused on the task in front of you.

“What do you mean? Aye, stop and look at me.” Gently gripping your wrists, he manages to halt your frantic packing so you’ll meet his worried eyes turning a bluish hue. “Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t with your mom and her little comments anymore,” you quietly admit. “She clearly doesn’t like me and I’m not staying somewhere I’m not wanted.”

“You are wanted. This is my house and I say you stay, alright? My ma just…takes some getting used to. And once she warms up to you-,”

Such a momma’s boy answer. “You mean if she wants to warm up to me,” you retort slipping out of his grip to return to your packing.

“I get it,” Brendan sighs, “she can be a lot. It’s just how she is though.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to deal with or accept it for the sake of your comfort.”

“Hold up, you calling me weak now?,” he asks stepping closer to you.

Slamming your suitcase shut, your arms cross over your chest looking up at the 6’3 man in front of you not daring to stand down. “No, I’m saying you’re a loyal son, which I love. But that loyalty is putting me in an environment I don’t feel safe or protected in.” You hope his silence means he’s finally taking in your words. “So I think it’s best I leave.”

He tries once more to clutch your arm as you pass, softly calling out your name, but you move just out of reach. “I’ll text when I get to my place.”

-

At the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, Katherine quickly stands to see you with your suitcase and Brendan on your heels trying to get your attention.

“Bae I’ll handle it, just stay. Please,” he whispers.

“My Uber’s already on the way,” you reply sniffling.

“You can’t leave!,” she states making you pause just as the both of you finish your decent. One look at your reddened, tired eyes from crying and she can feel her heart break knowing she was the cause. “Listen I-,”

“Ma I don’t know what the problem is, but you need to relax,” Brendan interrupts standing in between the two most important women in his life.

“Brendan-,”

“Look I love you ma, but I can’t have you mistreating the other woman I love.” His head turns towards you - twists swishing back and forth - so you can see the sincerity and deep love behind those hypnotizing eyes. Their intensity making you breath catch in your throat and more tears ready to run. “My future wife and mother of my kids.

Even Katherine’s ready to sob at her son’s words. Anyone could see the love between you two, and at the end of the day she knew you were good for Brendan - bringing out the best in him and making him happier than she’s seen in a while - but her protective, mothering nature just couldn’t accept she might not be needed anymore.

“Thank you,” you mouth reaching for his hand to peck his knuckles.

“So whatever issue you got, handle it now or else don’t worry about coming back,” Brendan finishes with you under his arm.

“Excuse me?,” Katherine asks with an amused tilt to her lips and hands on her hips. He could feel everyone looking at him as if he’d lost his mind with that last statement, and while it felt good he admittedly might’ve gone too far.

“R-Respectfully I mean,” he quickly corrects.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” she says jokingly smacking his shoulder. “You’re right though. This whole trip I haven’t given your lovely girlfriend a chance and I’m sorry. I’ve had that happen to me and know how much it hurts, so I should’ve known better. That mama bear decided to rear her head and got the best of me.

She sighs wiping away the couple tears that managed to fall on her cheeks, “You two really do make a beautiful couple and I’m glad my boy met someone truly good for him. I’m so sorry again and know it’ll take some time, but hope you can eventually forgive me.”

“Thank you for apologizing,” you softly smile, “and hey, can’t have the holidays without some drama right?”

“I guess not,” she giggles along with Brendan and Devon. “But from here on out no more.”

Holding out her arms, she’s a bit surprised when you immediately accept her hug. Both of you holding each other tight as if the morning’s earlier events never happened. “To new beginnings and starting over.”

[cailinsblog]

Juraj Slafkovský and His Little Star | juraj slafkovsky

Slafkovsky x reader

The snow fell gently outside the window of the cozy apartment Juraj Slafkovský and Y/N shared. It was their first Christmas together, and the space was filled with warmth and cheer. The scent of freshly baked gingerbread cookies wafted through the air, and soft Christmas music played in the background.

Y/N was standing on her tiptoes, attempting to string the last bit of lights around the top of the tree. “This thing is so tall,” she muttered, stretching as far as she could.

Juraj, who was sitting on the couch watching her with an amused smile, stood up and walked over. “Need some help, malá hviezda?” he teased, using his Slovak nickname for her, which meant "little star."

“Yes, please,” Y/N said with a laugh, turning to him. “You’re like, what, a foot taller than me? Make yourself useful!”

Juraj chuckled, taking the string of lights from her and easily reaching the top of the tree. “See? Easy,” he said, flashing her a grin.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “Okay, big guy, don’t get too cocky. We still have to put the star on top.”

Juraj’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “I think I know how we can do that.”

Before Y/N could respond, Juraj bent down and scooped her up effortlessly, holding her in his strong arms. “Juraj!” she squealed, laughing as he lifted her higher.

“You’re the one who said I should make myself useful,” he said with a smirk, steadying her as she held the star in her hands. “Go ahead, put it on.”

Y/N leaned forward, carefully placing the gold star on the top of the tree. Once it was secure, she looked down at him with a triumphant smile. “Done!”

Juraj grinned up at her. “Perfect. Now you’re my little Christmas star, too.”

Y/N blushed, her heart melting at his sweet words. “Put me down before you drop me, you sap.”

“I would never drop you,” he said, setting her gently back on the ground. “You’re too precious to me.”

They stood back to admire their handiwork, the tree glowing with twinkling lights and colorful ornaments they’d picked out together.

“It’s perfect,” Y/N said softly, leaning into Juraj’s side.

“Almost,” he replied, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small ornament—a glass heart with their initials and the year engraved on it. “I got this for us.”

Y/N’s eyes widened as she took the ornament from him, her fingers tracing over the delicate glass. “Juraj… it’s beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I wanted something to remember our first Christmas together.”

Tears pricked Y/N’s eyes as she looked up at him. “I love it. And I love you.”

Juraj smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. “I love you, too.”

They hung the ornament together, placing it front and center on the tree.

The rest of the evening was spent curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and sipping hot cocoa as the snow continued to fall outside. They exchanged gifts, laughed at each other’s silly wrapping jobs, and talked about their favorite Christmas memories from childhood.

As the night wore on, Y/N rested her head on Juraj’s shoulder, feeling completely at peace.

“This is the best Christmas ever,” she said quietly.

Juraj kissed the top of her head, his voice soft. “It’s only the beginning, láska. There are so many more to come.”

And as the glow of the tree filled the room, they both knew that this Christmas was the start of a lifetime of beautiful memories together.

[thehereticdiaries]

A (Not So) Meet Cute: Chapter Six

Summary: You go on your first date with Seungmin! Afterwards, you get some good news from the detective

Warnings: It gets suggestive toward the end but not much else.

Series Masterlist

You returned to the studio, hoping that your blush faded enough that the XDH boys wouldn’t notice. Jiseok, being the main gossip of the group, immediately saw right through you. 

“Sooooo,” he teased, placing his guitar on his stand so he could invade your personal space. He seemed to have a habit of doing that. You had gotten used to it by the second week working with them. “How did your little chat with Kim Seungmin go?”

“It was delightful.” You narrowed your eyes at the guitarist. 

“Oh, I’m sure it was.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Especially since O.de was saying how Seungmin was heavily eye-fucking y-”

“Jiseok!” O.de shouted from the door of the booth. “I did not say that.”

“Okay, fine, he didn’t say it outright. But it was implied!”

“No it wasn’t! All I said was that Seungmin looked kind of jealous.” Leave it to Jiseok to make such a massive leap. 

“You’re right, though. He scared you away on purpose cus he was jealous of how close we were,” you admitted, brushing past both boys to enter the booth.

“Who’s jealous?” Jooyeon asked, suddenly interested in the conversation. You rolled your eyes when the other members perked up.

“You guys are so nosy.”

“And you aren’t?” Jungsu sarcastically asked with a sly grin.

“Touché. But to answer your question, Seungmin from Stray Kids was jealous. Great news though! He asked me on a date, so thank you O.de,” you snickered at the chorus of shouts from the members.

“Dude, fucking finally,” Jiseok gushed, smacking your shoulder affectionately. “You’re both so oblivious. I was about to put a sign on your back.”

“You’re a little shit, just be happy for me!”

The rest of the week passed by in a blur. Seungmin refused to give you any hints other than ‘wear warm clothes’. It annoyed you to no end, because what if you pick something totally inappropriate for the venue?! Since it was almost December, you settled on fleece-lined jeans, a crewneck sweatshirt, and your favorite parka. You figured it would be outdoors, so you also grabbed a beanie and gloves. 

“Do I have to wear this? I have my own mask,” Seungmin complained while Dohyun drove the two of you to the mystery destination. 

“Yes!” You insisted on having matching masks since he wouldn’t give you any hints about the date. They were simple black fabric masks with a cute cartoon puppy nose and mouth printed on the front. After a few minutes, the car came to a stop by Seoul Plaza. Seungmin opened the door for you before leaning back in to address your favorite driver.

“You’ll be back in two hours?” The elder nodded once. “And you’ll bring what we talked about?”

“Yes, I have everything set up. Go have fun,” Dohyun gently shooed the idol away. Seungmin joined you on the sidewalk, grabbing your hand to tug you into the plaza. 

“Oh, wow,” your mouth dropped behind your mask. The lawn of the plaza was transformed into an enormous ice skating rink. A large Christmas tree made of twinkling fairy lights sat at one end of the rink, even though it was currently turned off in the bright afternoon sun. 

“You’ve never seen the plaza like this?” You shook your head, glancing up at Seungmin. His eyes crinkled, indicating a hidden smile. 

“I don’t know how to ice skate,” you told him while he led you to the skate rentals. 

“I’m not the best, but I can show you the basics.” The employee handed you two pairs of skates, and you moved to the benches and lockers. You stood on wobbly legs, carefully following Seungmin to lock up your shoes and purse. He took your hand again and the two of you made your way to the rink. Seungmin stepped on the ice first, turning to hold your elbows while you tightly gripped his biceps. 

“Easy, I’ve got you,” he encouraged when your breathing grew heavier after slipping slightly. 

“‘Show me the basics’ my ass! You’re skating backwards right now,” you grumbled, refusing to tear your eyes away from your feet. 

“Yeah, cus I’m making sure you don’t fall,” he chuckled at your intense concentration. “Y/N, you have to look up. It’ll be much easier if you have your shoulders and hips lined up.” 

“O-okay,” you took a deep breath before standing up straight. Your knees shook, partially from nerves and partially from supporting your weight on the blades.

“That’s it, just look at me. We’ll go slow, okay?” Seungmin guided you over the ice, gradually increasing your speed so you were keeping up with the other skaters. He kept your mind off your anxious thoughts with constant questions about Xdinary Heroes and your job. 

“No, I’m telling you! Jiseok can find out anything about anyone. I swear he’s secretly an NIS agent,” you grinned, your eyes scrunching up into crescents. Seungmin has never hated a mask more in his life.

“Remind me not to piss him off,” he snickered, glancing quickly at the clock on the edge of the rink. Dohyun would be back in an hour. “Do you want to try skating on your own? I’ll stay right next to you.”

“Yeah. I think I got it.” Your anxiety swelled when the warmth of his hands left your arms. “Wait! Hold my hand, still. Please?”

“Of course.” Seungmin twisted around to skate forward for the first time today, lacing your fingers with his. You continued circling the rink, and with every passing minute your confidence on the ice grew. You glided effortlessly, and by the time you had to leave, you found yourself reluctant to step off the ice. 

“You did great, especially for your first time,” Seungmin praised while you changed back into your street shoes. 

“Thanks, I had a lot of fun.” Dohyun always had impeccable timing and today was no different. He pulled up right as you left the plaza. Seungmin sighed, ripping off his mask as soon as he shut the door. 

“Close your eyes,” he instructed. You raised a brow, but did as he asked. You heard him shift around for a few moments. “Okay, open.”

“Seungmin,” you cooed. Two cups of hot chocolate sat in the cupholders in the center console. 

“I have to put the lids on while we drive, but I wanted you to see the marshmallows and peppermint shavings first.” He popped the lids on and Dohyun began the drive to the dorms. 

“Who knew you were such a romantic?” You teased, making the idol roll his eyes. 

“I have one more surprise.” He handed you a small glass container with a wooden lid. You tilted your head before removing the lid with a gasp.

“No way! Is this a Mississippi mud pie?” 

“Yup. I remember you saying it was the only thing you missed from the states, so I had Felix help me make it.” Your eyes snapped to him.

“You remember that?” You asked quietly, feeling a little overwhelmed by the affection in his eyes.

“I remember everything that makes you happy.” Seungmin rendered you completely speechless. The last time you could remember someone putting in that kind of effort for you was your final foster father. You stayed with him throughout high school and he always made it a priority to let you have a normal teenage experience. With words failing you, you decided to let your actions speak instead. In a bold rush of confidence, you tugged Seungmin toward you, leaning up to meet halfway and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you.” Seungmin stared at you with a wide smile growing on his face. You blushed, rushing to change the topic. “Do you want to share the pie?” He smirked, clearly aware of what you were doing, but played along anyway. The ever-prepared Dohyun tossed two plastic spoons into the backseat, landing on the middle of the backseat bench. You giggled, handing one to Seungmin and digging into the pie.

The dorm was strangely quiet when you returned. Of course there were times when all of the boys had schedules, but normally almost everyone was home on Saturdays.

“Where is everyone?” You asked while changing into slippers and hanging your jacket in the hall closet. 

“Hm, Jisung said that 3Racha was recording today. I’m not sure about everyone else, though.” You both flopped onto the couch, putting on Kitchen Nightmares reruns as background noise for your doomscrolling. You barely got three posts down when a call from Detective Keng came in. 

“Mute the TV! Mute the TV!” You sat up immediately, smacking Seungmin on the shoulder for emphasis. His eyebrows raised in a ‘what the fuck’ kind of expression, but complied nonetheless. “Detective! Hello!”

“Good afternoon, Ms. L/N,” she sounded as serious as ever. “I have an update for you. My team and I have successfully identified all of Mr. Cho’s associates that know about you.”

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“It’s good progress, but now we need to locate them all. Some of these individuals are very skilled at hiding. Rest assured, we will find them.” You nodded, momentarily forgetting that she couldn’t see you. Seungmin tapped your thigh repeatedly. He was nosy and wanted to know what the detective was saying.

“I understand. Thank you for all of your hard work.” You silently shushed Seungmin, who was now shaking your shoulder and asking what was going on in a whisper.

“It’s no trouble at all. Your court date will likely proceed before we locate all of Mr. Cho’s associates. Be careful, they may try to sabotage you. Good luck.” You exchanged a curt goodbye with the detective.

“Was that Keng? What did she say? Did they find that asshole’s friends?”

“Seungmin, please, one question at a time. Yes, that was Detective Keng. Her team knows who his friends are, it’s just a matter of arresting them now. She said to be careful around the courthouse, since they might show up there.” He nodded along with your explanation.

“I’ll ask Chan and our manager if we can get security to escort you when you go in.” You opened your mouth to protest, but- “Don’t argue with me on this, your safety is important.”

“Fine.”

“Good girl.” Your brain short-circuited. “Did she say anything else?”

“Huh?” He smirked, tilting his head to the side so his eyes could rake over your form, lingering on your denim-clad thighs. “S-she didn’t say much more than that. Just that, uh, t-they’re good at hiding.”

“Y/N.” You peeked at Seungmin from the corner of your eye. “You’re blushing, sweetheart.” 

“I-I’m, uh. I d-don’t-” The sudden pet names stole every coherent thought from your mind. 

“You’re cute.” He hooked a finger under your chin to turn you to face him. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” Seungmin grinned at the lack of hesitation. He started gently, almost like he was trying not to scare you away. It was short but the intensity behind it had your mind reeling. He pulled back, nose-to-nose with you to give you a chance to back out. Your hands on his shoulders and a tiny whimper escaping your throat broke down the last of his resolve. 

“Fuck, you’re killin’ me,” he swore under his breath. He pushed you down to lay flat on the couch, planting his hands next to your head. One of his knees settled in between your thighs and you inhaled sharply, staring at his chain dangling over you. He crashed his lips back into yours, moving one hand down to rest on your hip. Your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. His tongue darted out to brush against your lower lip and you instantly allowed him to lick into your mouth. His hand slid under the hem of your shirt, trailing higher while he dragged his tongue along yours, until-

“OH HOLY SHIT!” Your head snapped back, gaping at Hyunjin’s shocked face.

“What’s going on- oh!” Jeongin appeared next, followed quickly by Felix and Changbin. The room fell to silence as they processed exactly how you and Seungmin were currently positioned. A snort from the youngest member broke the stupor, causing you to squeak and hide your face in Seungmin’s neck. He still hovered over you, glaring heavily at his members. 

“Come on, leave them alone,” Minho corralled the other further into the dorm, hands full of grocery bags. Whines of protest were cut off by a sharp look from the second eldest. With the living room empty once again, you sighed in relief, dropping back onto the cushion. 

“Sorry,” Seungmin huffed, rolling his eyes and helping you sit up. 

“It’s o-”

“No fucking on the couch!” Minho called as he passed from the kitchen to his room. Seungmin groaned loudly.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“I’ll put you in the fucking air fryer!” You cackled, clutching your stomach and leaning into Seungmin’s side. He clicked his tongue, wrapping an arm around your waist and unmuting the TV.

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[lilmisssona]

｡𖦹° Brownie Battle ｡𖦹°

｡𖦹° Pairing - Felix × Fem Reader

｡𖦹° Plot - Felix is running late, leaving the kids quietly waiting for their dad. Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you attempt to bake brownies before he arrives, despite knowing nothing about baking. Chaos ensues as you quickly realize this might not go as planned.

｡𖦹° Genre - Comedy, Hurt, Fluff

｡𖦹° Warnings - Comedy, husband! Felix, dad! Felix, established relationship, mentions of control, hurt to comfort, fluff ,idol au

｡𖦹° Word Count - 6.7 K ｡𖦹° Screenshot Count - 1

｡𖦹° A/N - The fifth episode of Staymas is here with a mix of laughter, cozy moments, and lingering pain. Can this battle with the brownies be ever won ? Read to find out! ( This story is slightly proofread , so apologiez for any mistake 🙂‍↕️)

｡𖦹° SKZ Masterlist ｡𖦹° STAYMAS Masterlist

The clock on the wall struck 10:30 PM, its hands moving with an almost mocking slowness. Felix still wasn’t home, and worse, he hadn’t answered your texts. You glanced at your phone for the hundredth time, reopening the message thread filled with unanswered texts and a lone photo you had sent earlier of the kids, their faces bright with anticipation.

Nothing. Not even the faintest hint of “typing…” appeared beneath your last message. The screen stayed stubbornly blank, and you locked your phone with a frustrated sigh. Your fingers hovered over it again, tempted to call, but you stopped yourself. You didn’t want to seem pushy,or worse, distract him if he was still working. A new, darker thought crept into your mind, twisting your stomach. What if he was caught up in something he couldn’t control?

You pushed the phone away and leaned against the counter, gripping its edge as you forced yourself to stay calm. Felix had to be okay. He had to be. He never forgot this night. He loved it just as much as you and the kids did. He wouldn’t miss this on purpose, you repeated silently, holding on to the thought like a lifeline. But despite your efforts, the quiet ache of longing was settling deeper as you stared at the scene in front of you.

The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a festive explosion - flour dusted the countertop like fresh snow, cocoa powder smudged the edge of the recipe book, and eggs sat perilously close to tumbling over. Every ingredient you needed for your special Christmas brownies was there, waiting to be transformed into something magical. Yet, the most crucial part was missing: Felix.

His warmth, his laughter, his way of turning the most mundane moments into cherished memories, it was all absent. This tradition, the annual brownie-baking session, had started years ago when it was just the two of you in a tiny apartment with a second-hand oven that barely worked. What began as a simple attempt to add sweetness to your holidays became a ritual, a symbol of the love and joy that defined your family. Now, with two little ones running around, the tradition had grown even more special.

But tonight, the air felt heavier. The kitchen wasn’t as lively without Felix humming along to Christmas carols or playfully swiping flour onto your nose when he thought you weren’t looking. The silence stretched longer with each tick of the clock, broken only by the occasional squeals and giggles of your children, still brimming with energy despite the late hour.

“Is Daddy here yet?” your youngest asked for the fifth, or maybe sixth, time, tugging at the hem of your sweater. Their tiny voice was filled with hope, their wide eyes shimmering like ornaments on the Christmas tree.

“No, baby, not yet,” you said softly, crouching to meet their gaze. You brushed a strand of hair from their forehead, forcing a smile even as your heart tightened. “But he’ll be home soon. You know how much Daddy loves this night. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your words felt more like a mantra to calm yourself than a promise. You knew Felix’s schedule was grueling, rehearsals that stretched into the early hours, endless performances, interviews, and the heavy weight of being an idol. You reminded yourself of everything he was doing for your family, for the life you had built together, but it didn’t make the waiting any easier. Tonight, all you wanted was for him to walk through the door and light up the room the way he always did.

You tried to be patient. You really did. But as the minutes crawled by, the waiting felt unbearable. The house was too quiet without Felix’s laughter echoing through the halls or the sound of his footsteps rushing to join you in the kitchen. The silence became deafening, broken only by the ticking clock and the occasional giggles of the kids, oblivious to the tension simmering beneath your calm exterior.

The nagging voice in your head, the one you tried so hard to silence, began to whisper, sharp and relentless.

He doesn’t prioritize you anymore

You’re just sitting around, waiting. Again

Why can’t you ever handle this on your own?

Your fists clenched tightly, nails digging into your palms as you struggled to shove the thoughts away. They weren’t true. They couldn’t be true. Felix loved you. He loved the kids. He would never miss this night on purpose. Yet the doubts crept in like shadows, growing harder to ignore.

The kids were watching you now, their bright eyes filled with unspoken questions. They didn’t understand why Daddy wasn’t home yet or why you kept glancing at the door every few minutes. Their innocence only deepened the ache in your chest. You couldn’t let them see your frustration. You couldn’t let them feel your disappointment.

“Okay,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting through the heavy silence. You stood up abruptly, brushing your hands on your apron as if to shake off your hesitation. The sudden movement startled the kids, who looked up at you with wide, curious eyes. “We’re not waiting anymore. Let’s make the brownies ourselves!”

The kids froze for a moment, exchanging surprised glances before their faces lit up with excitement. “Really, Mommy? Can we?”

“Yes,” you said, forcing a smile that you hoped looked genuine. “How hard can it be?” You grabbed the recipe card from the counter, clutching it tightly like it was your secret weapon.

The kids exchanged wary looks, their expressions a mix of skepticism and mild horror. “But you don’t bake,” one of them pointed out, crossing their arms like a miniature food critic.

“Don’t need to,” you shot back confidently, planting your hands on your hips like you were about to conquer the Great British Bake Off. “How hard can it be?”

Famous. Last. Words.

----------------------------------------------------------

The first obstacle? Felix’s so-called baking notebook. It wasn’t a notebook, it was a chaotic, butter-smudged relic of culinary madness. The cover looked like it had survived a battlefield, and the pages were a disorganized mess of dog-eared corners, scribbles, and stains. Half the recipes were in Korean, the other half a confusing blend of shorthand, doodles, and what suspiciously resembled advanced calculus. You stared at the entry labeled Ultimate Fudgy Brownies, squinting at what might have been a measurement or a phone number.

“Whatever,” you muttered, snapping the book shut with a decisive thud. “We’ll wing it.”

“Wing it?!” The kids’ collective gasp could have been heard from space. They gawked at you as if you’d just suggested setting the Christmas tree on fire.

“Relax,” you said with a nonchalant wave, trying to mask your own rising panic. “It’s just brownies. How bad could it be?”

The kids, unfazed by your misplaced confidence, sprang into action, dragging stools and chairs to the counter. Their laughter bubbled through the room, and for a fleeting moment, the warmth of their joy muted the gnawing worry in your chest.

It can't be that bad, you thought.

Five minutes later, the kitchen resembled a chocolate-coated war zone. Flour floated through the air like confetti at a poorly planned party, cocoa powder smudged every visible surface, and sugar coated the floor like fresh snow. Even the cat, who’d foolishly wandered in, was now speckled with evidence of your culinary ambition.

The kids, who were supposed to be your helpful sous chefs, had gone rogue. A rolling pin and a spatula had been repurposed into makeshift lightsabers, and an intense Jedi duel raged in the middle of the disaster zone.

“Guys, focus!” you yelled, lunging to confiscate the rolling pin mid-swing before someone lost an eye. “This is serious business!”

One of them blinked at you, tilting their head. “You’re acting like you’re on MasterChef.”

“Maybe I am,” you shot back, slamming a mixing bowl onto the counter with dramatic flair. The clang silenced even the imaginary lightsaber sound effects. “And Gordon Ramsay would totally approve.”

Your youngest raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Pretty sure he’d say it’s raw.”

“Pretty sure you’re grounded,” you muttered, pointing a spatula at them like a teacher issuing detention.

With a deep breath, you turned to the recipe, or what little you could decipher of it. Flour? Check. Cocoa powder? Check. Eggs? Check.

“Alright, crack two eggs into the bowl,” you announced, trying to channel an air of competence.

Simple enough. Or so you thought.

You grabbed an egg and tapped it against the bowl’s edge. Nothing. You tapped harder. Still nothing. Finally, with a decisive whack, the egg shattered, sending yolk flying... directly into the sugar canister.

The kids collapsed in laughter as you stared at the sugary mess, stunned. “It’s fine,” you said, scooping out the yolk with a spoon like it was all part of the plan. “It’s all going to the same place anyway.”

The second egg fared slightly better, though you did spend an embarrassing amount of time fishing out bits of shell. Cracking eggs, you realized, was apparently a skill you’d taken for granted.

When it came time for the chocolate chips, the pantry betrayed you. The bag was empty, save for a few pitiful crumbs. Undeterred, you marched to the fridge and retrieved Felix’s prized dark chocolate, the one he treated like a sacred artifact.

“That’s Dad’s special chocolate,” your youngest whispered, their voice trembling with the gravity of the situation.

“Well,” you said, unwrapping the bar with exaggerated flair, “it’s special brownies now.”

The kids watched in stunned silence as you aggressively chopped the chocolate, the rhythmic thunk thunk thunk filling the room.

“Mom’s... kind of scary right now,” your eldest muttered under their breath.

“I heard that!” you snapped, pointing the knife in their direction before returning to your overly enthusiastic chopping.

With the chocolate finally added to the batter, you poured the wet ingredients into the dry, and the kids took turns stirring. Their initial excitement quickly gave way to complaints.

“It’s too thick!”

“My arm hurts!”

“Why does it look like cement?”

“It’s supposed to look like that,” you lied, wrestling the spoon from their tiny hands. The batter was dense enough to be classified as a construction material, but you pressed on, determined not to let this defeat you.

Next step: preheat the oven. Simple, right?

Except Felix’s high-tech oven seemed designed by NASA. The digital display was a labyrinth of buttons, bake, broil, convection, mystery symbols that could’ve been hieroglyphs. You pressed a few experimentally, only to accidentally activate the broiler. A wave of scorching heat blasted your face.

“What’s that smell?” one of the kids asked, wrinkling their nose.

“It’s... ambiance,” you said, waving a dish towel at the faint tendrils of smoke.

After a solid five minutes of trial and error (and muttered threats at the oven), the preheat function finally activated.

“Victory!” you declared, raising your arms in triumph.

The kids burst into applause, their small hands clapping as if you’d just climbed Everest. It was almost enough to make you feel accomplished, almost.

----------------------------------------------------------

Finally, with a deep breath and a prayer to the dessert gods, you poured the lumpy, suspiciously mud-like batter into the pan. You gave it a determined shake, hoping to even it out, but it just glared back at you, stubbornly refusing to cooperate. Whatever. Perfection was overrated.

With oven mitts on both hands because safety first, you flung open Felix’s unnecessarily fancy oven like a warrior storming into battle. The pan slid in with a satisfying clunk, and you slammed the door shut as if sealing a vault. “There,” you declared, brushing flour off your shirt like a pro. “Now we wait.”

“Wait how long?” one of the kids asked, peering at the oven as if it might explode.

“Until it’s done,” you replied confidently, snatching the recipe card for reassurance. But Felix’s handwriting was as cryptic as ever, and you couldn’t tell if it said bake for 25 minutes or bake at 52 minutes.

“Uh... we’ll just... check on it,” you said, tossing the card aside with faux authority.

As the oven hummed and the rich smell of chocolate filled the air, an unwelcome memory surfaced: your ex, standing in your old kitchen, smirking as you botched dinner yet again.

“This is why I always cook,” he’d said with a smug shake of his head. “You’re hopeless in the kitchen.”

The memory hit like a slap, sharp and uninvited. You clenched your fists. Hopeless without me? Not today. Not ever.

"Not today, Satan," you muttered, aggressively adjusting the oven mitts like a general preparing for war.

But watching over the brownies turned out to be harder than expected.

First, the timer on Felix’s unnecessarily high-tech oven decided to rebel, blinking “Err” at you like it was judging your life choices. Then, as if on cue, the smell of something burning began to creep through the air. You whipped open the oven door, only to find the batter bubbling over the sides of the pan like molten lava.

“Why is it doing that?!” one of the kids shrieked, diving behind a chair like the brownies were about to explode.

“Because... science,” you answered vaguely, grabbing a baking sheet in a desperate attempt to save the day. But in your rush, you elbowed a bottle of vanilla extract off the counter. It shattered spectacularly on the floor, filling the room with a sharp, sugary scent that did nothing to soothe your frazzled nerves.

“It’s fine,” you said through gritted teeth, snatching up a broom like you were ready to duel the broken glass. “Everything’s fine.”

The kids exchanged wide-eyed glances, clearly questioning your sanity. “Should we call Dad?” your eldest asked cautiously.

“No!” you snapped, your voice a little too loud. “We don’t need him. We’ve got this. We are perfectly capable of making brownies without your dad swooping in like some culinary superhero.”

The kids didn’t look convinced, but they wisely stayed quiet as you swept up the shards, checked on the brownies again, and willed the universe to cut you some slack.

For a brief, glorious moment, it seemed like everything might turn out okay. The batter had miraculously stabilized, and though the edges looked a little crispy, you convinced yourself they’d just be “extra chewy.”

And then the smoke alarm went off.

“NOT AGAIN!” you yelled, grabbing the oven mitts as the shrill wail of the alarm echoed through the house.

The kids screamed in unison, “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!”

“It’s NOT on fire!” you bellowed, yanking the oven door open to reveal... chaos. Smoke poured out in thick, accusatory tendrils. The batter had rebelled, overflowing the pan, dripping onto the oven floor, and transforming into a blackened crust that smelled like a mix of burned chocolate and despair.

The kids clutched each other, their faces pale with horror. The cat, wisely staying far from the action, watched from the doorway with a look that clearly said, I told you so.

“We’re gonna die!”

“We are NOT going to die!”

“Then why is there SMOKE EVERYWHERE?”

“It’s just a tiny mishap!” you yelled, though at this point, you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince the kids or yourself. “Open the windows!”

The kids, officially in full-on disaster mode, scattered like startled pigeons. One yanked a window open so hard it nearly came off its hinges, while the other grabbed a water gun and aimed it at the oven as if preparing to face a raging volcano.

“Put that down!” you barked, snatching the water gun before they could turn your kitchen into a baking-themed waterpark.

And then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, the doorbell rang.

“Now?!” you groaned, storming toward the door, smoke trailing behind you like an ominous cloud. You flung it open, fully expecting Felix,or, worst case, the fire department. But no. Of course not. It was Mrs. Kim.

There she stood, the epitome of suburban perfection, holding a Tupperware container that undoubtedly contained her legendary snickerdoodles. Her immaculate hair didn’t dare move, and her lips twitched into a saccharine smile as her eyes narrowed, taking in the chaos.

“Do you... need help?” she asked, her voice as sweet as the cookies in her hand, though her tone carried the kind of judgment that could curdle milk.

“Nope! All good!” you chirped, your smile stretched so tight it could snap.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, leaning ever so slightly to peer past you. “It smells a bit... smoky.”

“It’s just a new recipe we’re trying!” you said, inching forward to block her view, the kitchen carnage visible in your peripheral vision.

Mrs. Kim tilted her head, her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching. “Well, if you’d like, I could share my snickerdoodle recipe. It’s very foolproof....”

“Thanks, but we’ve got it covered!” you interrupted, your voice a pitch too high, slamming the door with a polite-but-firm force that sent a satisfying clunk reverberating through the frame.

Leaning against the door, you took a moment to catch your breath, or rather, cough violently as the lingering smoke reminded you there was still a crisis at hand.

“Mom! The smoke alarm’s still going off!” one of the kids shouted, their panic palpable.

You sprinted back into the kitchen, brandishing the dish towel like a makeshift weapon. The smoke alarm screeched its relentless siren, mocking you as you flailed at the ceiling. When waving proved ineffective, you grabbed a broom and jabbed the reset button with the precision of someone vanquishing an enemy. With a final beep, the alarm went silent.

The kids stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you’d just performed some ancient, mystical ritual. “So... are the brownies ruined?”

You glanced at the oven, where the batter had transformed into a bubbling, blackened mess. With a deep sigh, you grabbed the pan and pulled it out, setting it on the counter like a defeated warrior laying down their sword.

“They’re... extra crispy,” you said, trying to sound optimistic.

“Mom, they look like lava.”

“Well, some people like lava cakes!” you shot back, clinging to a shred of pride.

The kids exchanged skeptical glances, silently questioning whether your culinary skills had ever been a thing. Honestly? You had your doubts too....

--------------------------------------------------------

Just as you were about to surrender to the inevitable disaster, the front door swung open.

It was Felix.

“What’s going on?” Felix’s voice rang out, panic threading through his words as he stepped into the room.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway, still in his stage outfit, eyes widening at the chaotic scene before him. The kitchen was clouded in smoke, the kids were armed with water guns, and you looked like you’d been in a battle with a recipe that had no mercy.

“Oh, you know,” you said, forcing an overly cheerful tone that barely masked your frustration, gesturing grandly at the mess. “Just another successful baking night.”

Felix blinked, his eyes darting between the burnt remnants of what was once your "brownies," overturned chairs, and the water gun still gripped in your youngest’s hand. “This... this looks like a scene from Survivor. What happened?”

“Well,” you began, adopting an unnervingly chipper tone that teetered on the edge of hysteria, “I decided to give baking a try, since someone decided to disappear for hours without so much as a check-in.”

Felix winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was stuck at rehearsal! My phone died....”

“Your phone always dies!” you snapped, crossing your arms tightly. “Ever heard of a charger? It’s this magical little device that prevents disasters like this!” You gestured dramatically to the smoke still wafting from the oven and the faint scorch marks now decorating the counters.

The kids, sensing the brewing storm, exchanged worried glances before hastily retreating from the kitchen. One of them placed the water gun on the counter with what could only be described as an offering to the gods, then quickly scampered away.

Felix sighed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay love, I get it. I should’ve been here. But...” He stepped closer, peering into the baking pan. His face contorted in something that was equal parts sympathy and barely-contained amusement. “What is... this?”

“Brownies,” you bit out through clenched teeth.

“They look like meteorites.”

“I know!” you shouted, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Do you think I don’t know that? I followed your stupid recipe! Well, mostly. I had to improvise because someone insists on hoarding fancy chocolate instead of keeping normal chocolate chips like a normal person!”

Felix bit his lip, fighting a laugh that was clearly winning. “You used the dark chocolate?”

“Yes!” you nearly shouted, throwing your arms wide as if it was a revelation. “Because the pantry was empty!”

“That’s 85% cacao. It’s for special occasions,” Felix said, his voice dripping with disbelief.

“Oh, well, congratulations, because this is officially a special occasion!” You grabbed the pan and shoved it toward him like an offering. “Go ahead, taste it. Tell me how your precious chocolate turned out.”

Felix hesitated, glancing at the charred edges and the rock-like texture of the “brownies.” “I’m not sure this is edible.”

“Coward,” you muttered, turning away to begin the painful process of cleaning up the wreckage.

Felix sighed again, stepping closer. His voice softened, more sincere now. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” you said, scrubbing the counter so forcefully you thought you might burn a hole through it.

“You’re scrubbing like the counter insulted your ancestors. You’re definitely upset.”

You turned to glare at him, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes. “I tried, okay? I tried to do something nice for the kids, to step out of my comfort zone for once, and it completely backfired. Now the kitchen’s a disaster, the brownies are ruined, and Mrs. Kim probably thinks I’m a lunatic!”

Felix’s face softened, his eyes filled with something close to tenderness as he reached for your wrist, gently stopping your frantic scrubbing. “You’re not a lunatic. You’re just... a little dramatic.”

“Excuse me?”

“In a good way!” he added quickly, his hands raised defensively. “Look, the kids had fun, didn’t they?”

“They think I’m incapable of basic survival skills.”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips and earning a scowl from you. “But seriously, you tried, and that’s what matters. You stepped up for them, and that’s what counts.”

You turned away, jaw clenched, as you grabbed another dish towel. You didn’t want him to see the tears that were threatening to fall, the overwhelming mix of frustration and exhaustion that had built up all night....

---------------------------------------------------------

Together, the two of you worked quietly to restore order in the kitchen. Felix tackled the dishes, sleeves rolled up, his movements precise despite the weariness in his posture. You swept the floor, gathering the flour, crumbs, and shattered remnants of your baking ambitions. The silence between you was heavy, not uncomfortable but weighted with everything left unsaid. Your glances brushed against each other like passing shadows, each one carrying more than words could convey.

By the time the kitchen was spotless, the clock had ticked its way toward two in the morning. Felix, despite his obvious exhaustion, didn’t hesitate. He pulled out a pan, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables the only sound breaking the quiet. Soon, the sizzle of stir-fry filled the kitchen, mingling with the warm, savory scent of soy and sesame oil. It was a simple meal, but it felt like a salve to the night’s chaos.

When the four of you finally sat down at the table, the earlier disaster already felt like a distant memory. The kids were animated, reenacting the night’s events with dramatic flair. Their “water gun heroics” and vivid descriptions of the “Great Brownie Disaster” spilled out in waves of laughter, their joy contagious.

You found yourself smiling despite the lingering weight in your chest. The guilt clung stubbornly, a quiet voice whispering that you had tried and failed, that your effort hadn’t been enough.

After dinner, the kids’ energy waned. Their sleepy goodnights and tight hugs soothed some of the sting of the evening, though it didn’t completely fade. Felix stayed behind in the kitchen, humming softly as he tackled the last of the dishes. His voice, low and soothing, filled the quiet house with a comforting presence.

But as the stillness settled in, the emotions you’d held back all night began to press harder. It wasn’t just the brownies. It was the memories of your ex, the relentless doubts in your head, and the crushing pressure you placed on yourself, to be better, to prove you were enough for the kids, for Felix, for yourself.

You slipped outside, needing air and space to clear your thoughts. The winter chill nipped at your cheeks, sharp and biting, as you wrapped your coat tighter around yourself. Your breath puffed out in visible clouds, curling upward into the silent night. Beneath your boots, the snow crunched softly, the sound amplifying the stillness around you.

The silence should have been calming, but it wasn’t. It only gave your thoughts more room to unravel.

The doubts crept in first, unwelcome but familiar, rising like a tide. Maybe the kids deserved better. Maybe Felix did too. Maybe...

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, willing the icy air to steady you. But the ache in your chest only swelled, tightening like a vice.

Then, the sound of soft footsteps broke through the silence behind you. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Felix.

He stepped onto the balcony quietly, his presence warm and grounding despite the chill in the air. He stopped beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours lightly. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet between you stretching but not uncomfortable. It felt like he was giving you space, waiting for you to speak first.

“I knew I’d find you out here,” Felix finally said, his voice low, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

You didn’t meet his gaze, your eyes fixed on the frosty horizon. “Just needed some air,” you murmured, though you both knew it wasn’t just that.

Felix glanced at you, studying your profile in the dim light. “Rough night,” he said simply, his tone understanding rather than probing.

A small, humorless laugh escaped you. “You could say that.”

“Want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice gentle, inviting but not pushing.

You hesitated, the lump in your throat tightening painfully. “It’s stupid,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“It’s not stupid,” Felix said firmly, turning slightly toward you. “Talk to me. Tell me everything.”

His words, so soft yet so steady, broke something in you. The dam you’d been holding back all night cracked, the weight of your emotions spilling over before you could stop them.

“Y/N…” Felix started gently, his voice laced with concern as he reached for your hand. But you couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“I feel like such a failure,” you blurted out, tears spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them. “I couldn’t even bake brownies, Felix. Something so simple, and I messed it up. And the voice…” You paused, your voice breaking. “It keeps telling me I’m not enough. That I’m too dependent on you, that I’ll never be enough for anyone. My ex! He won tonight. He’s still in my head, making me feel worthless.”

Felix’s expression softened, and without hesitation, he closed the gap between you, wrapping his arms around you in a warm, steady embrace. The crisp cold of the winter night melted against the solid warmth of his chest. “Shh, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice gentle but resolute. “Don’t let his voice live rent-free in your head. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“But I...” you started, but Felix cut you off.

“No buts,” he said, pulling back just enough to look into your tear-streaked face. His gaze was unwavering, filled with sincerity. “You’re perfect for me just the way you are. You don’t need to be good at everything. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Especially not to him.”

The walls you’d been holding up all night crumbled, and the sobs you’d been suppressing finally escaped. You clung to him like a lifeline, burying your face in his coat as your shoulders shook. “I just wanted to make tonight special for the kids,” you whispered, your voice muffled.

“And you did,” Felix said softly, his hand stroking your hair in slow, soothing motions. “They’ll remember this night, not because of some brownies, but because you tried. Because you love them. And because you’re their mom, their safe place, the most important person in their lives.”

You pulled back slightly, your watery eyes searching his face for any sign of doubt. Instead, you found only unwavering truth in his expression. His words struck something deep within you, something raw and fragile but also comforting.

“Do you really think that?” you asked, your voice trembling, thick with emotion.

Felix cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears staining your cheeks. “I don’t just think it, I know it,” he said with quiet conviction. “You’re an incredible parent, Y/N. And honestly? I couldn’t care less if the brownies turned out like bricks. The fact that you even tried says more about you than you realize.”

Despite yourself, a small, watery laugh escaped your lips. Felix’s smile widened, his dimples appearing like tiny constellations in the starlit night.

“And for the record,” he added with a teasing lilt, “I think you’re amazing. Even if you can’t cook.”

You playfully swatted his arm, a hint of warmth breaking through the lingering weight in your chest. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to spark a faint ember of hope.

As the two of you stood there beneath the glittering stars, the snow sparkling softly around you, Felix reached for your hand, his fingers threading through yours. He gave it a gentle squeeze, grounding you in the moment.

“Next year, we’ll bake the brownies together,” he promised, his voice steady with determination. “No matter what.”

You nodded, the corners of your lips curving into a small, genuine smile. “Deal.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tight knot in your chest began to unravel, replaced by something softer, lighter. Maybe you weren’t perfect. Maybe you didn’t have everything figured out. But in that moment, surrounded by Felix’s unwavering love and support, you realized something important.

You didn’t have to be perfect. You didn’t have to have it all together.

You were enough, just as you were. And that was more than enough....

----------------------------------------------------------

The next morning was Christmas. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the kitchen, as if the day itself was offering a fresh start. You were already awake, sitting at the counter with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. Spread before you was a fresh brownie recipe Felix had printed out and placed by the stove. His handwriting sprawled across the top in a slightly messy but unmistakably affectionate scrawl:

"We’ve got this. Fighting! – Felix"

A small smile tugged at your lips as you traced the words with your fingertips. It was such a simple gesture, but it filled your heart with a warmth that matched the cozy glow of the room.

The soft creak of the door broke the quiet, and Felix shuffled into the kitchen, his hair sticking up in every direction and his face still creased from the pillow. He yawned, rubbing his eyes, and gave you a sleepy but radiant grin.

“Good morning love,” he mumbled, his voice low and raspy. His gaze fell on the recipe in your hands, and his grin widened. “Already planning your redemption arc?”

“Maybe,” you replied, holding up the recipe like a badge of honor. “Figured I’d give it another shot... with some professional supervision this time.”

Felix chuckled, ambling over to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Lucky for you, I just so happen to be the best brownie coach in town.”

Just then, the kids burst into the room, their small feet thudding against the floor as they raced in, their pajamas rumpled but festive. One of them wore a Santa hat that was slightly too big, while the youngest carried a stuffed reindeer clutched tightly to her chest.

“Merry Christmas!” they shouted in unison, their voices filled with the kind of unfiltered joy that only children seem to have.

“Merry Christmas!” Felix and you chimed back, laughing at their enthusiasm.

“Can we open presents now?” the youngest asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Presents after breakfast,” Felix said, his tone firm but playful. “But first, we’re baking round two of the brownies.”

The kids’ excitement only grew as they realized they were about to help. “Again? Yay!” they cheered, bouncing in place.

The kitchen soon came alive with a mix of festive chaos and warm holiday spirit. Christmas carols played softly from a speaker in the corner, filling the air with cheerful melodies. Felix measured out the ingredients with exaggerated precision, earning giggles from the kids as he declared himself the “official flour master.”

The kids took turns cracking eggs and stirring the batter, their small hands dusted with flour and smudged with cocoa powder. The youngest even tried to draw a reindeer in the flour that had spilled on the counter, her giggles echoing through the room when Felix joined in, attempting his own (terrible) drawing of a snowman.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him, a streak of chocolate on his cheek and his Santa pajama bottoms looking hilariously out of place on a “professional brownie coach.”

“This already looks better than yesterday,” Felix said as he peered into the mixing bowl.

“That’s because I’m not using your special occasion chocolate this time,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

He leaned in closer, his grin playful. “See? Teamwork. Who knew we’d make such a great power duo?”

The batter was poured smoothly into the pan, no lumps, no panic, just a perfect mix of holiday cheer and lighthearted banter. Felix slid it into the preheated oven with a dramatic bow, earning a round of applause from the kids.

As the brownies baked, the youngest dragged you all to the living room, where a stack of presents waited under the glowing Christmas tree. The kids’ eyes lit up as Felix handed out the gifts one by one, their laughter filling the air as they unwrapped toys, books, and clothes.

When the timer dinged, everyone rushed back to the kitchen, Felix leading the charge like an overgrown child himself. He carefully pulled the pan from the oven, and the rich, chocolatey aroma enveloped the room. The brownies emerged perfectly baked, their tops shiny and crackled just enough to promise the perfect texture.

“They’re... beautiful,” you said, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“Told you we’ve got this,” Felix said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing gently.

The kids cheered as the brownies cooled, bouncing with excitement until they were finally cut into neat squares. Felix handed out the first pieces, grinning as the youngest took a bite and her eyes widened in delight.

“These are amazing!” she exclaimed, her mouth full.

“Better than Mrs. Kim’s?” Felix asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Way better,” the eldest said confidently, already reaching for a second piece.

Felix turned to you, his smile soft but proud. “See? You’re a brownie master now.”

“Team effort,” you corrected with a laugh, nudging him lightly.

The rest of the morning was spent in a haze of sugary treats and warm moments. The kids insisted on a “snowball” fight with the leftover flour, and Felix somehow ended up wearing half of it. You couldn’t stop laughing as he tried to shake it off, his dimples deepening with every giggle.

Later, as the four of you gathered around the table with mugs of hot cocoa and the plate of brownies nearly empty, you felt an overwhelming sense of peace. The tree lights twinkled in the background, and the soft hum of carols filled the air.

Felix caught your eye, chocolate still smudged on his cheek, and gave you a smile so full of love and contentment that it made your heart swell.

This wasn’t about perfection or proving anything, it was about these messy, magical moments of love, laughter, and togetherness. And as you sat there, surrounded by the people who mattered most, you realized you wouldn’t trade this for anything. This Christmas, with all its imperfections, was perfect....

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｡𖦹° ENDNOTE - Everything Here is a work of fiction and my own imagination. This does not represent the real life characteristics of Stray Kids. Make sure to like, reblog comment, and follow me for new updates!

[siena-sevenwits]

(Written yesterday) Well, it’s Epiphany, and the end of Christmas proper. I know many continue to celebrate Christmastide all the way until Candlemas, but our tree came down today and I don’t really do much to observe the extended season. So it seems to me that if I’m going to finally revisit Elystan’s point of view in the Christmas chapters, now that I know a little more of his history, I’d best do it before Epiphany is out. Here we go!

[Turns on “Denn es is tuns ein Kind geboren” from “Der Messias.” Since this is Elystan’s pov I really ought to listen in English (tangent: aren’t we Anglophones blessed Handel was in Ireland when he wrote it?) but I thought I’d listen in German as a nod to the Liennese in the room.]

I love the fact that although Elystan’s good with classics when it comes to languages, German is not his forte. This isn’t something you see so often in fiction – that an aptitude for a language, or even languages, doesn’t necessarily apply across the board. (And of course it has the story layer that he and Josiah don’t understand each other, even though they technically speak each others’ languages. Boys, there is so much you’re hiding from others – and so much you don’t see in yourselves.)

Ha. Even here in Corege, Tamett’s Noriberreanness (sp?) is still a point against him in the eyes of the masters.

“[H]e needs to invest in a copy of Bellwell’s Guide for the Traveller in Corege. All good bookstores have it. Changed my life.” Heaven help me, Elystan thinks his jokes are so funny – and I’m smirking despite myself.

“And that distracted Josiah’s attention from the depths of the literary gem he was composing…” Oh that you knew the systematic and painful stuffing down of grief you’re witnessing from outside, Elystan. [I should really be listening to Satie’s Gnossiennes or something equally sombre for Josiah’s composition, but we are not in his head.]

“I’ll leave a box of chocolates in the empty chair in the King’s box, in your memory.” OOF –  the joke’s aimed at disgusting Josiah, but yeah, let’s make a joke about an empty chair in the King’s Box right now, Elystan. That’s certainly a good joke for you to make. (I doubt he’s actually thinking along the lines I am, but still.)

Oh, Elystan, your mother would love to take you to the movies if you would let her… And she writes to him faithfully even though she never gets any back. I understand why there’s such an enormous rift between them, and she’s certainly not blameless – but this must be a hard time for her, having realized at least some of the damage she’s caused, how broad the gulf is, spent the summer trying to mend their relationship among many other things, then had to send him away for his own sake. And she never hears from him. That would be hard. These stories have such huge themes of attachment and how hurt to that attachment ripples into so many seemingly unrelated areas of life. My heart goes out to both Elystan and Bethira.

Oh gosh, he almost asked Josiah was he was going to do with his Mother for Christmas. The anniversary of his mother’s December death is almost here, and right this moment he’s writing a paper about how above grief a real man needs to be. Josiah heard that pause loud and clear.

The way schoolboy culture won’t let them just say “family.” (It’s the heart of all this, it’s all about family, and they can’t say it, they can’t say it. They’re not even consciously thinking about it – they’re all just copying each other – but they haven’t got families anymore. They’ve got [airy wave of the hand] people.”

Josiah wrinkled his nose. “How about the rest of the year?” If he had not been such an overgrown lump, Elystan would have knocked him out of his seat. – Oh boy. Knowing what Elystan’s rest of the year has been like this past year, that one smarts even more.

I am eternally amused by Elystan’s ongoing crocodilianess.

He misspelled “grievous.” No undertones there.

Love these boys so much. Since this is a revisit in light of what I know of their previous lives, these comments are likely to all tend to the “oh no” direction, but also I am smiling so lovingly at all of them.

A Christmas Chapter: Elystan’s POV

Last year I wrote two versions of this story, from Tamett’s and Josiah’s POVs. I had intended to leave it there, but a friend wanted Elystan’s POV, so after a long struggle of trying to find a story I’d never really planned between the lines of the existing pieces, here is the third and final version.

This one runs very long, nearly 17000 words. It’s not perfect, probably has wording issues right and left, and it feels a bit more like a series of random events than a cohesive whole, but I’m sick of fussing with it for now, and you’re very welcome to tell me (politely) what could be improved.

In case you’re unfamiliar with these characters, Elystan is the thirteen-year-old son of a disgraced former king of Corege (one of several nations in this  Edwardianesque world). After circumstances that have resulted in his having a massive grudge against his mother and his half-brother Delclis (the current King), he has been sent to Hollingham, an elite boarding school, where he rooms with Josiah, Crown Prince of Lienne, and has befriended Josiah’s paid companion Tamett. They’re about to reach the end of their first term, and Elystan is faced with the daunting prospect of having to spend the Christmas holidays with his dearly beloathed family.

Keep reading

[brofightiscancelled]

i'll never get over how perfectly suburban american the matsumusical set looks like i dont know how they got it so perfect it cracks me up so much every time

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Happy holidays <3

They are fine. Probably

[sesamenom]

a partridge in a pear tree

well, more or less

[morgan-the-lonely-brick]

personal tag rant.

[bunnyboy-juice]

ok my annoyances aside: its the time of year my city changes out all the potted plants for mini trees with decorations and string lights and (hopefully soon) wreaths with pretty big bows and lights on the light poles and the sun is setting so early so everyday i go home i see the pretty pretty lights and i just. (:

[mildmayfoxe]

made banana chocolate chip pancake & slathered em in butter & my mom’s homemade red currant jelly & also homemade smoked maple syrup