#this took me hours but it was SO worth it

[dior-luxury]

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: This series like my 'Kiss And Make-out' series was heavily request so... Part two, here we go!! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

[cruel-seduction]

Not So Golden Now, Are You? (2) 

Summary - Where in your not-quite-friendship with James Potter thrives on mutual mockery—you call him daddy’s babygirl for living off his pureblood trust fund, he calls you whatever gets under your skin fastest. It’s never serious… until he parrots back a joke you made about your looks, the kind of joke people only make after crying over it alone. What he thought was harmless banter turns out to be your breaking point, and while everyone else laughs it off, you don’t. Not this time. And now James—cocky, clueless, James—is stuck trying to fix a crack he didn’t mean to make, humiliating himself in ways no Marauder ever has… all in the hopes of earning a single, goddamn, laugh from you again.

Tone: Gritty, emotional, enemies-to-lovers like kinda (idk I am confused myself. What do you mean just cause I wrote it I should know what it means) with heavy hurt/comfort and a golden boy begging for forgiveness.

Part -1

The courtyard was buzzing. Breaktime at Hogwarts always was—students spread across stone benches and patches of sun-warmed grass, laughter echoing, owls swooping overhead. It was the kind of day where everything felt too bright.

And then you saw him.

James Potter.

Striding through the middle of it like he owned the light, only this time… something was off. His shoulders weren’t cocky. His grin wasn’t smug. And in his hands—clutched awkwardly, like it might bite him—was a mug. Ceramic. White. Painted with messy little Quidditch doodles and a crooked heart.

He spotted you across the courtyard. You didn’t move.

You hadn’t planned on talking to him again. Not yet. Not like this.

Especially not after what you’d heard that morning. The Marauders had cursed a Slytherin so bad he spent an hour puking slugs and crying.  Supposedly, it was James’s idea. Supposedly, he said it was “for a laugh.” Your stomach turned.

Cruel.

Heartless.

Classic Marauder bullshit.

And after everything? After that night in the Astronomy Tower where you bled your heart raw—he went right back to it. 

You stood up the moment he neared. Jaw tight.

“Hey,” James said, breathless, that dumb hopeful glint in his eyes. “Thought maybe we could, you know… start over.” He extended the mug toward you. “Cold coffee.”

You took it. Smiled. Sweet. And without a word— Threw it directly in his face.

Gasps echoed.

The courtyard went dead quiet. The splash of coffee dripped from his curls and chin, soaking his collar. He blinked against it, stunned. A little broken. Then, slowly—he wiped a hand down his cheek.

“Alright,” he coughed. “Deserved that.”

You didn’t wait. You turned on your heel and stormed off before he could see the rage brewing behind your eyes—no, worse—before he could see the pain.

You didn’t look back once.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You hid in the library after that.

Sat behind rows of thick tomes, clutching a copy of Advanced Hex Theory you weren’t reading. Your face still burned, your heart pounding as you replayed the whole thing again.

You shouldn’t feel bad. He deserved it.

Except… then came the whisper. The real reason behind that Slytherin prank.

“Did you hear? That bloke called lily mudblood yesterday. Loud. Didn’t even flinch. And not only that he also tried to degrade her with other words too”

“Bloody scum. I think it was Sirius who heard it first—lost his mind.”

“Yeah, but James is the one who hexed him. Said, ‘you talk like that again, you won’t have a tongue left to use.’”

“Serves him right.”

You stared at the words on the page, unmoving. He wasn’t being cruel. He was defending someone. And that someone was none other than your bestfriend. You were so consumed with your feelings that you forgot to see her pain.

You cursed under your breath and leaned back, rubbing your hands over your face. Now you were the asshole.

Still—you crossed your arms, hugged your ribs tight, and whispered to yourself, “He was mean to me first.”

That was true, wasn’t it?

He was.

He hurt you.

He joked about your worth like it was nothing. So what if you threw a coffee in his face?

Still. The image of him, standing there soaked, blinking through the coffee with zero anger in his expression—just quiet acceptance—it clawed at you.

Because the worst part wasn’t what you did.

The worst part was that..... he was fine with it. Fuck. He smiled when you did that. That makes you wanna punch him and kiss him at the same time. Wait..? Kiss? Where did that come from? You don't wanna kiss him. Or at least your ego is too big to admit that you do.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Just because James was right to hex that Slytherin didn’t mean you owed him forgiveness. Being right about one thing didn’t erase being so wrong about you.

Because this—this wasn’t about just James.

It was about every time you looked in the mirror and thought, If I could just lose five more pounds, maybe then… Every time you starved yourself through breakfast. Chewed mint leaves between classes to kill the hunger. Every time you stood next to Lily Evans and felt like a dull, washed-out background character. A placeholder. Contrast.

 The "funny one." The "smart one.”  The "you’re so cool to hang out with but I’d never date you" one.

You weren't just mad at James.

You were mad at everything. The boys who flirted with your friends and didn’t see you. The girls who batted lashes and got everything you wanted. The body that never looked like the ones in Witch Weekly. The voice in your head that whispered, you’re nothing special, just learn to be okay with it.

And maybe it was wrong—projecting all of that onto James Potter. But God, you were just so tired. Too tired to uncoil all the layers. Too tired to explain why the joke hit different. Too tired to tell him: You took the last thread I was hanging on and yanked.

So you stayed mad. Silent. Cold. Distant. And James Potter?

James fucking Potter took that as a challenge.

At first, it was subtle.

A few too many glances your way during meals. A quiet “hi” when you passed in the corridor. Holding the door for you with awkward stiff limbs like he was scared you'd hex him just for existing.

You ignored it all. But then came…

The Violin.

It started on a Monday morning outside your Arithmancy class. A screech. A very broken-sounding screech. Like someone was strangling a cat while dragging their nails down a chalkboard.

You flinched. Everyone flinched.

And then—James Potter turned the corner, standing there with a violin tucked under his chin, a determined sparkle in his eye, and murder in his fingers. “(Y/N)!” he called brightly, eyes locking on yours. “This one’s for you.”

You blinked. “The hell it is—”

He sawed at the strings like he was trying to kill the instrument with sound alone. “I’m soooooorryyyyyyy—!” he sang off-key, not even trying to follow the right notes. “I’m an aaasssssholeeeee—!” Students around you began to whisper. One girl laughed so hard she snorted. A Ravenclaw boy dropped his quill and muttered, “What the actual f—”

You stood there. Mortified. Speechless. He ended the "serenade" with a dramatic bow and winked at you. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You hexed the violin into a pile of wood chips the next day before he even got through the second verse. James, picking up the splinters, grinned at you like you handed him a bouquet. “Thanks,” he said, completely sincere. “I think it wanted to die anyway.”

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t walk away either. You just stand there watching James get scolded by your professor while he was giving you wink. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor dorms:

James flopped face-first onto his bed, groaning into his pillow. “She hates me.” “No shit,” Sirius muttered, tossing a Bertie Bott’s bean into his mouth. “You publicly compared her to beige wallpaper.”

Remus looked up from his book. “Well, actually, you implied she was the reason the wallpaper looked better. Still cruel. But poetic.”

“I’m trying,” James whined. “I’m playing music! I’m serenading her!” “You’re torturing her eardrums,” Peter said. James rolled onto his back. “You think she’ll ever forgive me?”

Remus didn’t even blink. “Not if you keep murdering instruments.” James groaned again and stared at the ceiling. “I just—I want her to smile at me again. Not that sarcastic one. The real one. The one where her nose scrunches and her eyes do that squinty-shiny thing.”

Sirius gagged. “Dude.” 

“She used to laugh at my dumbest jokes.”

“You made her cry, James.”

James flinched. Visibly. “I know.”

There was a beat of silence. Then James whispered, “I wanna make her laugh again. Then make her fall in love with me. Then maybe after Hogwarts, we’ll get a flat together. Something small. Near a garden. With a stupid ugly cat she insists on naming after a pastry—like Croissant or some shit.” Sirius stared at him. “You good, Romeo?”

Remus snorted. “Man’s already planning the wedding and she just hexed his violin.” “Small steps,” Peter muttered. James sighed dreamily. “Yeah. Small steps.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t sleep the night before.

Every time you shut your eyes, you saw your younger self staring into the mirror with fingers digging into soft skin, begging it to look different. You remembered the silence in crowded hallways. The ache of always being there, but never chosen.  You remembered the words James said, the ones that weren't meant to cut—but found the scar anyway.

So when Professor McGonagall handed you detention with a sigh and an apology in her eyes—parchment copying, of course—you welcomed it. Monotonous. Mind-numbing. Perfect distraction.

But when you got to the classroom early the next morning, head pounding from lack of sleep and soul heavy like wet stone, your desk wasn’t empty. It was stacked.

Neatly. Organized. All two hundred lines already written. Every word in your handwriting. Every letter perfectly charmed to look like it came from your hand. You froze. Stared at it.

Your fingers curled around the parchment. Your eyes lifted. And there he was—James Potter, across the room, watching you like a kicked puppy pretending he didn’t deserve the bruises.

He looked too bright. Too hopeful. Too guilty. Your stomach twisted. You hated that it made your eyes sting again.

Later, when class was over, you walked past him without a word. You dropped the parchment into his lap with the last page folded. Inside, scribbled in black ink:

"Try harder."

You didn’t look back. But he smiled. That stupid, soft smile like you'd just given him an entire galaxy.

That afternoon, you were sitting on the ledge behind the courtyard wall again—the spot nobody noticed unless they were looking. Your knees drawn to your chest, your heart somewhere between furious and numb.

And then… A presence. A familiar rustle of too-long Gryffindor robes and the sound of someone hesitating a few steps away. James Potter.

He didn't speak. Just stood there for a second. Then held something out in his hand. A piece of folded parchment—small, aged, and trembling ever so slightly between his fingers.

You stared at it but didn’t move. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “If you ever want to hide again,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours, “until you're ready...”

A pause. He didn’t say what it was. Didn’t say how it would help.But it didn’t matter.Because you knew. The damn boy was trying to give you the Marauder’s Map. He was trying to give you the one thing they never gave anyone. 

Your fingers twitched. You didn’t take it. But you stared at him. Long. Quiet. Endless. He looked different under the sunlight. His jaw clenched. “I was an idiot.”

You raised a brow, voice hoarse. “You’re still an idiot.” He exhaled a broken laugh. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. Or—I want to be. Eventually. When you let me.”

You didn’t respond.

He shifted on his feet. Then, quieter, more real: “I thought you were untouchable. I thought… if I made you laugh, if we tore each other to shreds for fun, that meant I could keep you close. And then I used the wrong words and realized…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard. “I realized you were already bleeding before I ever opened my mouth.”

The silence after that was cruel.You didn't take the parchment. But you didn’t leave either.

He tucked it into your bag anyway. Gently. As if he was afraid he’d break something else.

Then turned and walked away.

And for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure who was hurting more—you or him.

James walked back to the dorm in silence, his hands trembling slightly, his throat burning. He’d made you laugh a hundred times. He’d seen you shine.nBut that day, in the sunlight, with your pain all but carved into your bones, he realized something devastating. He didn’t just want to fix it. He wanted to be there for it. For all of it.

He wanted to be the reason you smiled in the morning. The arms you could fall apart in. The idiot who stayed even when it got ugly.

He wanted… a life. With you in it. He wanted things he didn’t think he’d ever say out loud.

And just as he was about to spiral fully into a James-style mental breakdown about it, Remus lobbed a pillow at his head. “Before you plan your future wedding and children’s names,” Remus deadpanned, “maybe try just not making her cry again.”

James sighed. “Fuck you. I know that.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James Potter had done a lot of dumb things in his life. But this? This might top the list.

The wool itched. His fingers cramped. And he was positive he’d stabbed himself with the knitting needles at least thirteen times—but he didn’t stop. Not when Sirius made fun of him, not when Peter tried to help and tangled half the yarn into a hopeless knot, and especially not when Remus muttered under his breath, “You know, flowers are a traditional apology, mate.”

But James wasn’t going for traditional. He wanted to show he was willing to bleed a little. Suffer a bit. Do something ugly and real and not smooth for once.

So he knit you a jumper.

Maroon, because he remembered you once wore it and said it made you feel safe. The letters across the front—“I’m Sorry”—were crooked. Lopsided. One ‘R’ looked like it was trying to escape.

It was hideous. And he was proud of it.

So, of course, he walked into the common room with it in his arms like it was the crown jewels. Students stared. Murmured. Whispered.

You were curled in your usual corner, books scattered around you like a shield, pretending you weren’t waiting for him. But you looked up when his shadow fell across the page.

James held the jumper out with both hands. Like an offering. Like an apology carved into yarn and regret.

His voice barely broke above the chatter. “I made this. For you.” You blinked. Slowly. Then looked at it. Really looked.

The way the letters leaned awkwardly. The loose thread at the sleeve. The stitch in the neckline that looked like it’d unravel the whole thing if you pulled too hard.

And before you could stop yourself, your fingers curled into a fist around your own anger. You stood. Took the jumper. Walked to the nearest bin. And dropped it in. 

The room went silent. James didn’t say a word. He didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just looked down. Then walked away. His back tense, his head low, the usual bounce in his step long gone. You sat back down like your bones had turned to concrete. Pretended to read. Pretended not to care. Pretended like your throat didn’t burn.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

That night, the tower was quiet. The fire had burned low. Everyone else was asleep.

You stood in front of the bin for a full ten minutes. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for. Permission? Clarity? Something. Eventually, you reached in. Pulled it out.

The wool was soft. He’d actually tried.

You could practically see him stabbing himself with the needles. Tongue sticking out in concentration. Cursing every time a stitch went wrong. You swallowed.

And with a quiet flick of your wand, you straightened the letters. Fixed the loose threads. Tightened the neckline. It still looked ridiculous. But it looked like him. So you folded it. Neatly.  And shoved it under your pillow like a secret. Like a confession you weren’t ready to make.

You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. Because this wasn’t just about James. This was about you. About every time you felt like the last choice.  About starving yourself just to feel worthy.  About screaming into pillows because you hated your body and hated your mind for caring so much.

You weren’t just angry at him. You were angry at every version of yourself that begged to be enough. Was it fair to throw all of that on one stupid boy with messy hair and a heart too big?

No.

But maybe, just maybe, he was willing to carry some of it anyway. You weren’t breaking yet.

But something in you cracked that night. And it whispered, quietly:  Maybe he means it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Maybe James Potter was tired now.

Not just of the grand gestures, or the rejection, or the confusion—but of waiting. Waiting for the world to fall back into place. Waiting for you to look at him the way you used to, even if it was only to glare. Waiting for a moment where he could just breathe near you without it hurting. Still—he hadn’t lost that ridiculous, unkillable determination.

He’d already written five plans in his head before breakfast.

Plan A: Let you punch him square in the jaw and call it even. Plan B: Buy you that overpriced French silk dress you once stared at in a magazine for ten full minutes. Plan C: Cry. Publicly. Plan D: Make Sirius pretend to be dying just so he could dramatically say, “But first, make up with James.”

It was selfish, wanting you after everything. After not listening. After hurting you in ways he hadn’t even understood at the time. But James Potter had always been selfish when it came to you.

He didn’t want almost. He didn’t want eventually. He wanted all of you. The broken parts, the jagged edges, the terrifying, beautiful chaos. And he wanted to be the one who stayed.

He was spiraling over it again, as usual, legs dangling off the edge of the Astronomy Tower, eyes blurry with too much sky and not enough of you— When he heard soft footsteps. Then, silence.

Then... you.

You sat beside him.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him. Just sat, spine straight, hands folded in your lap like it was any other night. Not because you were ready to forgive him. But because you were tired.

So fucking tired of being alone in your head. Sometimes, just sitting beside the person you’re mad at is easier than sitting with your own thoughts. James looked at you. Just—looked.

Like his soul had been drowning and you were the first breath of air. You didn’t even turn your head. “If you don’t stop staring at me like some deranged romance novel idiot, I swear I’ll jump off this tower.”

“Right, right,” he mumbled, turning his gaze dramatically to the moon. “Nothing romantic about the moon. Ugly, lifeless ball.” You huffed. That half-smile tried to sneak up, but you fought it down like a soldier.

James let the quiet stretch a little longer. Then he said—softly, not grand, not loud—just real, “Look, I know you hate me and all. I don’t think you understand what you do to me. You walk into a room and suddenly I’m breathing like I haven’t in years—like my lungs remember what they’re for only because you exist. You smile, and it’s not just sunlight—it’s whole galaxies cracking open inside me, and I swear I’d burn just to keep you warm. I look at you and it’s like the universe finally made sense and said, “Here, this one. She’s the reason.” You could scream, you could shatter, and I’d still hold the pieces like they were sacred. I don’t want some neat little fairytale—I want your chaos, your quiet, your bruised edges and bright mornings. I’d take every storm you’ve ever carried and call it a privilege. You think you’re hard to love, but baby, loving you is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. I’d ruin myself a thousand times just to hear you laugh without flinching. You don’t need to be anything more than what you already are—because you, just as you are, you’re everything. And I mean that like I mean air. Like I mean survival.” 

You didn’t reply for a long time.

Then finally, you exhaled—like you were letting go of something that had been rotting inside you for far too long. “Please don’t say things like that, James. Not when I’ve spent so long teaching myself not to hope. You come in with all this love—too much of it—and part of me wants to fall right into it, let it wrap around me and forget everything that came before. But the rest of me is screaming. I don’t want to be a project you pour yourself into to fix what you broke. I don’t want your heart if it’s just your guilt dressed up in poetry. I’m not some fragile thing to be saved, and I don’t want to be seen as something you owe love to. I’ve spent nights convincing myself that being invisible was safer, because at least then, no one could decide I wasn’t enough. And now you’re here, saying all these beautiful, terrifying things, and I can’t tell if you see me or just the girl you hurt. I want to believe you mean it. I want to let you in. But what if you stop meaning it when the weight of what happened fades? What if I let you matter and then you forget how to hold me when I’m not glowing under your guilt? I can’t survive being seen just long enough for you to feel better. And the worst part? I think I’d still take it. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it ruins me. That’s how much I want this. But wanting isn’t the same as trusting. And right now, I don’t know if I can give you both. And maybe—God, maybe I’m dragging this out, this apology thing, because I like the way you look at me now. I like the attention. I like feeling seen. And I’m scared that the moment I forgive you, you’ll stop looking at me like that. But I can’t say that out loud. My pride’s too loud. My ego won’t let me ask you to stay, to keep seeing me, to not stop. I don’t even know if this makes sense. I just... I don’t know how to trust this. Or you. Or myself.”

The world was quiet. Even the wind dared not move. James Potter, Quidditch star, loudmouth, born showman—he didn’t try to make a joke. Didn’t reach for dramatics. He just smiled. And it wasn’t a smirk, or a grin, or a flirtatious flash. It was soft. Like worship. Like you were a sunrise he had no right to witness but never missed a single morning of. And he finally said something “Then let me say this—really say this, because you need to hear it, every word of it, like it’s the truth carved into the bones of the world:

It was never pity. Not a second of it. Don’t you dare shrink what I feel for you into something so small. I didn’t start caring after what happened—I just got loud about it, finally. I’d been loving you in silence long before the world gave me an excuse to say it out loud. You think I see you now because I’m trying to make up for something? No. I’ve always seen you. You were never invisible to me—not once, not even in the chaos of everything else. You were the constant. You were the steady, quiet hum in the back of my mind, like the world was just a frame for you to move in. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to fall for you out of guilt. I fell for you the way people fall asleep—slowly, then all at once. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re frustrated. The way you laugh when you think no one’s listening. The way you argue when you care too much. You made my whole world sharper, better, realer. And it wasn’t because you forgave me, or because I felt bad—it was because you’re you. You’re everything. Not just some placeholder until something easier comes along.

And I get it—you’re scared I’ll stop. That I’ll stop looking at you like you’re the sun cracking through a storm. But love like this doesn’t just fade. It doesn’t wear off like guilt. It burns. It lives. You think I don’t know the risk you’d be taking by trusting me again? I do. And I don’t expect you to dive in without fear—but I’ll be here, every damn day, proving to you that this isn’t obligation. It’s not guilt. It’s worship. And you want to talk about violin music? That horrible mess I tried to play for you? That wasn’t the first time I thought of you like a song—it’s just the first time I dared to try. Because when I look at you, it’s not silence. It’s symphony. It’s this soft, aching melody the world plays just for me when you walk into a room. And no one else hears it. Just me. You said you don’t know how to trust this. Or me. Or yourself. And that’s okay. I’ll be here while you figure it out. I’ll wait. I’ll keep seeing you. Really seeing you. Not just as something beautiful—but as something irreplaceable. You’ve always been more than enough. You don’t even have to try.”  You didn’t say anything. Didn’t kiss him. Didn’t touch him. But you looked at him—really looked. And for the first time, you didn’t flinch from how he looked back. Like you were the only girl in the world. Like he’d known it forever.

You stayed in the Astronomy Tower longer than expected.

After his confession, after the way James bared his heart like he didn’t care how much of a fool he looked, silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was soft. Like a blanket you could crawl under, finally warm.

He glanced at you sideways, still hesitant—still unsure if that emotional striptease had been enough. Then came his voice, a little hoarse, a little vulnerable.

“What can I do to make this right? For you to give us a chance?”

And you tilted your head slowly toward him, a deceptively sweet smile curving your lips. The kind that meant you were about to be a menace.

“Admit, publicly, that Severus Snape is better than you.” James choked. Literally. The boy went pale, like you’d asked him to snog Filch or shave his head bald.

“Come again?” You leaned closer, innocently batting your lashes. “Louder this time. So the whole school can hear.”

“Oh hell no.” His voice cracked into a squeak. He looked genuinely betrayed, like you’d just kicked his Firebolt and insulted his mum.

You only shrugged, still grinning, and didn’t say another word. He stared at you like you had just announced your plan to marry a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But the challenge had been issued—and he’d heard it loud and clear.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Next morning at breakfast.

The Gryffindor table was as loud as ever—toast flying, owls dropping packages, Sirius balancing arguing with Lily over something. . Normal chaos. Until James Potter stood up.

The entire table paused mid-chew, forks halfway to mouths. Even the Hufflepuffs looked over. He cleared his throat and announced, very seriously:

“I, James Fleamont Potter, publicly declare that Severus Snape is a better wizard than me.”

Audible gasps. One girl dropped her pumpkin juice. But James wasn’t done. No—he sold it.

“In every way. His hair is shinier. His spells are stronger. He... he has depth.” He sounded like he was reading his own eulogy. Like each word carved a new piece out of his pride. His soul practically levitated out of his body in protest.

Across the hall, Sirius dropped his toast, jaw hanging open. “You traitor! You swore an oath—” Remus spat out his tea. Peter was half-under the table from laughter.

And you? You were just standing there, arms folded, laughing. That laugh—the one James always secretly adored. The one that made him feel like he'd done something right in the world. Because it wasn’t about Snape. Not really.

It was about being seen. Not as a second choice. Not as the invisible one. For once, you were standing there, centre of attention, without shame. Finally being seen by the right person. Maybe you didn’t feel this years ago because fate had a sick sense of humor. Because it was waiting for James to grow the fuck up. And maybe, just maybe... it was worth the wait.

He came toward you, face beet-red, Sirius hissing “traitor” in the background. He stopped right in front of you, running a hand through his already tragic hair. You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed his cheek. It was quick. But it was everything. James froze. Red. Redder. Red as a goddamn Gryffindor tie. Hell, you were surprised he didn’t combust.

And for a moment, all the noise in the Great Hall vanished. Because maybe you weren’t “pretty” in the textbook sense—maybe your skirt wasn’t perfectly pressed, maybe your eyeliner smudged at the corners, and maybe your laugh was too loud, too sharp.

But fuck beauty standards.

You were hot. You were confident. You were yours. And James Potter?He was a dumbass. But he was your dumbass now.

[y3sterdaysproblem]

bed chem - m.s.

summary: a goofy fic of matt based off of the song bed chem by sabrina carpenter

warnings: suggestive

wc: 3.5k

-

Going out to parties wasn’t something you did all the time, but it wasn’t something you were completely a stranger to, either. You were used to the excitement of getting ready, finding the perfect outfit and putting on your makeup, and it made it infinitely more fun knowing your best friend would be alongside you for the night.

Except when she nagged.

“Come on, love, we gotta go. Our ride’s here and we’re already an hour late.” She tells you, standing behind your vanity with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised as she watches you apply lipstick. “We have two parties to get to, remember? So the faster we get to this one, the faster we get to the next one, and the faster we get home.”

“I’m going as fast as I can, but you making me talk is making me take longer!” You retort, staring at her in the mirror. She huffs and goes to your bed, grabbing her purse off of it and slinging it over her shoulder.

“I’m going out to the car, you have two minutes.” She tells you before leaving your room and eventually your house.

You roll your eyes at her dramatics before finally finishing up your makeup and spraying your hair and face so everything stays in place, getting up to head outside to join her in the uber.

“Damn,” she mutters, eyes raking over your form next to her. “You look hot as fuck.”

You smile and turn your head to look at her. “I know, that’s why I take so long.”

Your body was adorned in a black, sheer dress, a black, lace lingerie set visible underneath it, hair flowing over your shoulders perfectly, makeup looking the most flawless it has in a while. It was worth the time it took since you know everyone would be taking photos.

It hasn’t been a long time that you’ve been in this scene, seemingly blowing up over just a few months on social media, but you had to admit, you were enjoying the life of having followers more than you cared to admit. The attention, the parties, the relationships, the edits. It was all a little bit addicting and you hoped it wouldn’t stop any time soon.

Tonight’s party felt different, though. You knew it was going to be bigger and there were going to be some popular influencers that you had looked up to for years, so you wanted to make an impression, make sure people wouldn’t forget you and had an urge to come up and speak to you, and hopefully tonight you looked good enough for that to happen.

“Have a good night,” your driver turns to smile at you both when you arrive, not so subtly letting his eyes trail over both of your bodies, causing you to let out a groan at him, getting out as quickly as possible.

“He was gross,” you mumble, pulling your dress down your thighs.

Your friend laughs, looping her arm in yours. “At least he thinks we’re hot.”

-

The night progresses as parties typically do; dancing, photos, introducing yourself to people you’ve seen online but never met, a few drinks being consumed over the course of a couple hours. It was exhilarating and you felt like you could’ve stayed until everything died out, but you were interrupted by your friend gently grabbing your arm, smiling up at you. “Hey, I ordered an uber so we could head out,” she tells you and you pout, not wanting to leave yet but knowing you had to.

“Sounds good, let me know when it’s here.” You apologize to the person you’re speaking to before turning to make your rounds and bid farewell to the host.

It’s then that you’re walking through the halls in an attempt to find who you’re looking for when your eyes land on a boy you’ve never seen before, instantly feeling captivated. He wore a white jacket, seemingly just arriving, along with jeans, keys hanging from his belt loop. His bright blue eyes felt like they cut through the room when they looked up and locked on yours, the people around you turning blurry as you focused on him. Normally you’d feel too nervous to keep eye contact with somebody like this, but you couldn’t stop watching as he excused himself from his conversation and started walking towards you, slipping between people while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

Once he’s in front of you, you can’t help the way your ears heat up, grateful for your hair covering them otherwise you’d be exposed in seconds to how your body was reacting to him so quickly. He smiled wide at you and you’re blown away at how beautiful he is so up close, all of his features fitting together so perfectly.

“Hi,” he says, loudly enough to cut through the music.

You laugh at his volume, hand coming up to cover your mouth momentarily until you’re done laughing, dropping it back to your side. “Hey,” you yell back, leaning in a bit closer.

He takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies, leaning his face down so he’s close to your ear, hand coming up to rest on your hip gently. “I’m Matt,” he tells you, hand running up your waist as he pulls away to look at you again.

Your breath hitches at his touch, wanting nothing more than to lean into him but having to remind yourself that you don’t even know him, even though he feels so familiar. You introduce yourself to him and feel lightheaded at the smile he shoots you, eyes admiring his perfectly aligned teeth that fit his face so well. He repeats your name lowly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he tells you sweetly, and despite just meeting him, you believed him wholeheartedly. “Hey, would you want to-.”

You’re ripped from your bubble with Matt when your friend suddenly appears and slips her arm around your waist, clearing her throat loudly. “Ride’s here! Time to go!” She exclaims, trying to pull you away from Matt, much to both of your dismay.

“No, wait-!” You try to tell her but she only pulls harder, Matt’s hand falling off of your waist as distance grows between you.

“Nope, gotta go!” She tells you again. You turn around as you’re walking, seeing Matt laughing at the two of you as he watches you leave, still standing where you left him. He waves his hand at you and you groan, turning back to look at your friend.

“You just cock-blocked me!” You screech as you guys barrel through the door and outside, ripping yourself away from her. “We were so into each other, I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

She groans, walking towards the car waiting for you. “I’m sure you’ll see each other again, he looks familiar.”

You get in the opposite side of her and turn to glare in her direction. “I’ve never seen him before and I’ll probably never see him again, thanks to you.”

She laughs, amused at how desperate you sounded. “Dude, you’ll live. He’s probably just looking for someone to fuck. If anything, I just saved you from shitty sex.”

You huff and sit back in your seat, knowing there’s nothing you can do about it now except wait for another event that you might see him at.

-

It’s late, or early depending on how you look at it, and you and your friend were cooped up in bed together, ready to sleep after a long night of socializing, talking about some of the things that happened that night when your phone dinged from your bedside table. Confused, you grab it and stare at the screen, seeing a text on your lockscreen staring back at you.

3:52am

unknown number

hey

Your brows furrow and you show it to your friend. “Do you recognize this number?” You ask. She turns and looks at it before shaking her head.

“No, I don’t even recognize the area code.” She says, looking up to meet your gaze.

You hum, shrugging your shoulders. “Weird.”

You stare at it for another minute, trying to see if they say anything else, and just as you’re about to close it and set your phone down, the bubbles indicating the other person is typing pop up and your brow raises in curiosity.

3:54am

unknown number

it’s matt btw

You gasp, spinning back towards your friend. “It’s him! The guy from earlier that you dragged me away from! He got my number! How’d he get my number? Oh my god, he wants me so bad.” You’re squealing and reaching out to grip her arm, which earned you a groan of pain.

“Chill, please, you’re way too loud.” She huffs. But then her mood shifts and she laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. “He must be thirsty.”

You roll your eyes, letting go of her. “He’s not thirsty, why can’t you just admit we might have some chemistry? I wish you could’ve felt it, dude, it was like… like everyone around us literally disappeared and it was just us. I feel like my legs almost gave out when he touched me. It feels like he’s the type of guy I’ve been looking for.”

Your friend agrees half heartedly, turning away from you to finally drift off to sleep after the long night you’ve had. You’re looking at the screen trying to figure out how to respond without sounding too desperate when you let out a little giggle, not being able to help your dirty thoughts.

“I hope he’s big.”

“Ew!”

-

“So where are you from? I like your accent.”

“I’m from Boston,” the voice on the other end of the line laughs softly. “I’m actually there right now.”

You grin to yourself, sitting cross legged on your bed and staring down at your nails like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “What, did you leave the day we met or something?”

Matt hums. “The next day, yeah. It’s been a while since we’ve been back so we wanted to head home for a bit.”

You’re quiet for a few beats, trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going, when you feel a surge of confidence boost through you. “We should see each other when you come back.” You tell him, biting your lip nervously as you await his response.

You can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “I’d love that. Are you free next week?” You celebrate silently, pumping your fist in the air a couple times before you compose yourself, clearing your throat.

“Yes!” You clear your throat, embarrassed. “Yes, I’m free.” You tone down your excitement, a blush covering your cheeks. “Just pick any day and you can come over if you want. I have my own place.”

Matt’s nervous, too, even though he was across the country. His hands nervously picked at his jeans, unable to contain the smile on his face. “Sounds good, I’ll let you know as soon as I’m back.” He replies. “Hey, I gotta go but I’ll text you, okay?”

You’re sad at this, but you don’t want to seem too clingy. Not yet. “Okay. I’ll talk to you soon, Matt.”

“Talk to you soon. Bye, sweetheart.”

You hang up and immediately flop back on your bed, covering your mouth as you scream loudly. Sweetheart? Oh yeah, he was definitely getting head.

-

“He’s literally on his way and I feel like I’m about to shit myself.”

“Did you clean?”

“Yes, but-“

“Did you put on deodorant and perfume?”

“Yes! But-“

“Did you shave?”

Your cheeks darken at the question your friend asks over the phone. “Dude…” you start seriously, then laugh like you couldn’t believe yourself. “I got a wax.”

She gasps loudly. “You little slut! A wax?!” You giggle at her response. “Wow, you really are into him, huh?”

“So into him,” you groan out. You and Matt had spoke on the phone almost every day that he was gone, texting every hour you both were awake. You hadn’t had a crush like this in years, and the way he talked to you made you feel like maybe he felt the same way. You always woke up to a good morning text since he was three hours ahead and he was usually still awake by the time you went to sleep, so there really was barely any time when you guys weren’t texting. “Hey, I think he’s here, I gotta go!” You hang up before she even answers, checking yourself in the mirror by the door one more time before you pull the door open, seeing Matt standing on the other side with a smile on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“Hi,” he says shyly, staying put on the doorstep.

“Hey,” you breathe out, stepping aside so he could walk in, but he doesn’t move, seemingly captivated by the sight of you. “Come in,” you say with a giggle, waving him in gently.

“Right,” Matt replies, stepping inside your apartment, eyes moving from your face to look around. “Wow, cute place. Very… girly.”

You laugh and shut the door, walking up behind him. “Well, I am a girl.” You guide him into the kitchen and find a vase in the cupboards, filling it with water in the sink. “You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

Matt looks down at the flowers, then back up at you. “Oh, these? These aren’t for you, I just found them on the side of the road on my way here.”

You laugh and turn to meet his eyes, raising an eyebrow at them. “Oh, so I definitely shouldn’t put these in a vase then?”

Matt purses his lips and shakes his head, setting the flowers on the table. “Nah,” he says seriously, then lets out a laugh, starting to walk towards you. His hands wrap around you from behind, head tucking into your neck to place his lips on your skin, making your breath catch at the contact, your heart picking up speed uncontrollably.

“Can I tell you something?” He whispers against your shoulder. All you can do is nod in response. “I’m normally not a sex on the first date kind of guy, but I can’t even put into words how badly I’ve wanted you from the second I saw you at that party and I spend so much of my time hoping you feel the same.”

You reach to turn the water off, hands shaking as you set the vase down in the sink before turning around in Matt’s arms, sliding your hands up his chest until they loop around his neck, holding him close. Your eyes trail from his eyes down to his pink, plump lips, getting a good look at them and the way he bites his lip nervously before meeting his eyes again, feeling entranced once more. “I do,” you tell him in a whisper.

He smiles and slides a hand up between your bodies, resting it on your jaw before he closes the gap between you both, lips meshing together flawlessly. You release a small breath of relief through your nose, pulling him closer with your arms wrapped around him, arching your body into his hungrily.

You’ve thought about this since the moment you met, how he’d feel kissing you, if he’d be gentle or rough, what he would taste like, what he would smell like so close. It was all surpassing your expectations in the best way and you already felt yourself getting worked up while you both kissed, knowing that he now had you completely wrapped around his finger. You were completely and utterly fucked, and you were also more okay with that than you ever had been.

You pull away from the kiss and smile up at Matt, him having the same expression towards you. “I, uh, cleaned my room, you wanna see?” You ask him timidly, knowing he understands the implications behind your question. He chuckles, squeezing your waist gently before nodding. “Yeah, I’d love to see your room.”

You grin, trying to hide your excitement by biting on your bottom lip, but it’s no use, you’re exuding anticipation through every pore in your body and hoping to god he feels the same way. You slip out from where you’re pinned between him and the counter, sliding your hand down his arm until your fingers are laced together, pulling him behind you. “Come on then, I’ll show you.”

You drag him behind you and towards your room, pausing when you hear him laughing, wondering what’s so funny. You stop and turn around, seeing him staring at the wall where a pink post-it note was stuck above your thermostat that read ‘do not touch!’

“Picky about your temperature, huh?” He teases, making you huff.

“Sixty-nine is the perfect temperature! Not too hot, not too cold!” You defend yourself loudly, watching as Matt just laughs more at your outburst.

“I’m not hating, just think the note’s cute, that’s all,” he rests his hand that’s not in yours on your hip, nodding towards your room. “C’mon, you didn’t clean for nothing, did you?”

-

“Fuck, Matt!”

“Mm, that’s right, who’s your daddy?”

“No!”

“Fuck yes, get fucked!”

Matt stands up from the edge of your bed and flexes at you, sweatpants slung low on his hips, revealing his briefs underneath, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor long ago, switch controller gripped in his right hand. “I told you not to fuck with me and Mario Kart.”

You groan and flop back on the bed, arms flung above your head. “That’s the third fucking game,” you whine, turning your head to look at him. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to let the women finish first?”

Matt’s jaw drops open and he moves to stand between your knees that are hanging off the bed. “Are you serious right now?” He asks, placing his hands on the bed on either side of you, lips coming down to meet your bare hip. You were clad in only your panties and an oversized pajama tee now that rode up when you brought your hands up on the bed. “I think I let you finish first enough today.”

You blush and push yourself onto your elbows, watching him kiss your skin gently. “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about,” you tell him, smiling sweetly.

Matt laughs, but it’s not a humorous laugh, it’s one that sends tingles down your spine. It’s one that says ‘you have no idea what’s coming to you’. “Oh, you don’t?” He taunts, and you shake your head. He stands up straight again and pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, wasting no time in pulling your panties back off of you. “I guess I’ll have to remind you.”

-

You’re both laying in bed under the covers, naked now since it was no use putting your clothes back on after every round of sex when they’d just end up on your floor again. “Hey, Matt?” You break the silence, turning your head from where you’re laid next to him to look at his face, smiling when he turns his head to meet your eyes. He hums, letting you know he’s waiting for you to speak again. “You’re like… really good in bed.”

Matt laughs at this, completely taken aback by the words you said, expecting you to ask him a question and instead being met with a compliment. “Thanks,” he replies, still laughing. He turns his body on his side and pulls you close to him. “You’re really good, too.”

You smile and turn to face him as well, slinging a leg over his waist. “You’re also super hot,” you continue.

He laughs again, rolling his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m average at best. You, though… my god.”

Your eyes widen, mouth opening in shock. “Average?! Matt, you’re… wow, you must be blind, jesus christ.”

“You should see my brother,” Matt smirks. “Man thinks he’s god’s gift to women.”

“Well if he looks anything like you he just might be.” You’re teasing him, and you think it’s clear in your voice, but Matt’s smile fades and he just looks at you with a confused expression.

“Yeah, we… didn’t I tell you we’re triplets? Didn’t you see him at the party?” He questions, pushing himself up on an elbow to look down at you.

You quirk an eyebrow at him and let out a shocked laugh. “Yeah, Matt, that’s the joke. That you look the same and if he’s god’s gift to women then so are you.”

Matt clamps his mouth shut and his cheeks darken slightly, realizing the joke went right over his head. “Right,” he clears his throat. “So you think my brother is hot is what you’re saying?”

You shrug, trailing a finger down his chest. “Maybe. But he doesn’t have the bed chem we do.” You waggle your eyebrows teasingly, making Matt laugh at your expression.

“Our bed chem is unmatched. Should we practice again?”

“Fuck yes.”

a/n: this has been in my drafts since like january and i think it was a request but i gotta dig for the ask!!

[divadepreshawn]

𝑨𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader ×popstar

Okay, maybe I exaggerated a little, I don't know if this story makes sense because I've read and reread it a thousand times - and honestly at this point words and languages ​��seem like a distant concept. I swear I try not to write notes, but they are so cute. Aaron is secretly a big gossip, period. wc: 3 592 Omg😭😭 I took three exams worth 1,000 points. I got full marks in two and 950 (in math). CHAMPAGNE POP🍾 Continuation

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You had a date.

Romantic? Just friends?

It doesn’t matter because it was with him, and you would be whatever he needed right now. Talking to him was good, not just because he was handsome – that certainly didn’t hurt the eyes. But because you could be yourself. Not the star. Not the phenomenon. Not the face in the campaigns, on the covers, on the playlists of the whole world. And best of all? He sees you, appreciates your humor without the intention of adjusting it, accepts your excesses, your intensity, your clumsy way of expressing affection disguised as sarcasm.

This is so rare it hurts.

He’s not the kind of person who lies to please. You realized that the first time you met him, when he made no effort to pretend he knew who you were. And his frankness in admitting it was almost disconcerting. But more than that, there was a silent certainty – one that grew inside you every time he looked at you in silence.

He’s not going to expose you.

You just know. Even if everything goes wrong, he won’t turn memories into ammunition. He won’t rush to the first interview or podcast with twisted stories and empty words. Maybe this will all go up in smoke when the tour starts, when you’re crossing time zones and your schedule eats up everything. But for now, it’s worth a try.

You adjusted your dress one more time in front of the mirror, twisting your body from side to side to make sure it was exactly how you wanted it: elegant, sexy, but simple – as if you hadn’t spent a lot of time choosing it.

Were you looking forward to seeing Aaron again? Of course not, why would you be? Just because he’s gorgeous, smart, polite – and extremely hot? No, of course not. You’d just spent an hour on makeup, half an hour choosing the perfect dress, twenty minutes fixing your hair, and at least ten minutes applying your lotion and perfume. A self-esteem ritual that you followed to the letter.

But this has nothing to do with him, it’s about feeling good about yourself. Totally about that.

“Wow,” Lisa’s voice snapped you out of your trance. You blinked slowly, trying to absorb your own image in the mirror.

“Did I overdo it?” you asked, adjusting your diamond necklace as you watched her in the mirror.

She looked you up and down. “I wouldn’t say it was overdone…” she replied with an amused smile on her lips. “That outfit and that perfume. Do you want this man to survive dinner or are you trying to cause a breakdown in his nervous system?”

You let out a low laugh – which came out more nervous than you’d like to admit. “So, he could have run when I sent flowers to his office, but he didn’t. So I think he can handle this.”

She looked down at your body again, pointing to your ass. She looked back up at your eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, I don’t think this man has ever seen an ass like that.”

“Lisa!” You scolded her with an incredulous laugh.

She just raises her arms in false surrender, her smile full of provocation. “Are you sure you’re not trying to give me a heart attack?”

“I’m not going to answer that.” You go to the closet to look for an oversized jacket that matches the dress.

“Cinderella, your Prince Charming is at the door-” Chris walks in with his cell phone in his hand, his sentence trailing off halfway. His eyes run up and down you, he stops, leaning against the doorframe. “Wow… I was going to make a joke,” he continues, still dazed. “Something like ‘don’t come back after midnight or I’ll turn you into a pumpkin’… but honestly? If this man has two brain cells working, he’ll propose to you before dessert.”

“I told you,” Lisa adds in the background, her arms crossed and a smug smile on her lips.

“You guys are a constant attack on my humility.” You stop in front of the mirror, taking one last look at your appearance, applying lip gloss with precision. Taking a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “Okay, wish me luck.”

“We know you, you’re not the one who needs luck. I just hope he doesn’t have a family history of heart disease.”

“Christopher,” you hummed in warning as you walked to the door. He held his hands up in surrender—clearly enjoying himself.

When you opened the door, for a full second you forgot how to breathe. There he was—standing just inside the entryway, in the soft light of the garden.

Aaron Hotchner.

His casual attire said more than any expensive suit ever could. The lack of a tie, the slight crease in his shirt sleeves, the perfectly tailored dark jeans—everything about him screamed carefully unpretentious elegance.

“You need to step up the—” the sentence trailed off in your throat as his eyes met yours.

You smile, frowning slightly. “I need to emphasize what exactly?”

“I… I was going to say something, but right now I can’t remember,” he confesses, almost in a whisper, his eyes still locked on you. “You look beautiful.”

Your smile grows. For a second, you forget the nervousness you’ve been feeling all afternoon. Everything feels so… light.

He swallows hard, trying to compose himself as he holds out the bouquet to you. “I… I got this for you.” The sound of your laughter as you accept the bouquet makes something bubble in his chest—had he really noticed how beautiful you are already?

“You’re officially forgiven,” you say, looking up at him over the petals. “But only because I brought flowers… and these jeans.”

He arches an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” you continue, your tone soft. “But I feel like I’m at a disadvantage. I might need to fill your office with flowers just to balance things out.”

He chuckles softly, opening the car door for you. “While I appreciate the thought, it would raise a lot of questions that I wouldn’t have the answers to. And consequently, my phone would be hacked before the third delivery.”

You nod slightly, settling into the seat. “Delivery before eight o’clock, noted.”

He gets in on the other side with a slight smile on his lips. “If I may ask, what’s the deal with the flowers?”

You smile, looking at the bouquet for a moment before turning your eyes back to him.

"They're pretty, they smell nice… they have this way of accompanying people on both good and bad days." You pause for a moment, looking away at the road ahead. "I usually send flowers when I want to thank or congratulate someone… Sometimes, just to let them know I'm thinking of them." An amused smile plays on your lips. "There's this crazy conspiracy theory that says I 'silence' my competitors. My fans like to joke that I send them flowers just so they know I know where they live."

He lets out a short laugh, looking at you as he keeps his hands firmly on the steering wheel. "Well, now I'm wondering why you want to fill my office with flowers."

"I can send one to thank you for picking me up, one to congratulate you on being so handsome, and one just to let you know I'm thinking of you." You shrug, your eyes turning to him with mock innocence. "You can interpret it however you want."

Aaron turns his head slightly, a smile playing on his lips. “I have to give credit to your quick wit, the way you combine conversation with flirting is admirable.”

You laugh, bowing. “It’s a gift, thank you.”

The rest of the ride was quiet, the silence between you comfortable. The restaurant was beautiful. The tables were dark wood, with crisp white tablecloths and fresh flowers in the center. The walls were adorned with subtle artwork and pendant lights that reflected a golden hue into the room, giving it a soft, cozy glow.

But the place felt… deserted.

You let Aaron guide you to a table, murmuring a “thank you” as he pulls out the chair for you to sit, still silently scanning the room, a little confused. He sits across from you and just watches you for a moment, as if trying to figure out what you were thinking before you have to put it into words.

“Um…” He clears his throat, hesitating a bit before continuing. “I… asked my friend if I could bring you here after they closed.”

Your jaw drops before you can stop it, surprise written all over your face. He notices it instantly. His gaze changes—almost alert.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says quickly, leaning forward slightly. “I still remember how big the crowd was that day. I just wanted to make sure you felt comfortable.”

You blink in surprise. The revelation hits you like a warm wave—unexpected, but gentle.

Your gaze softens as you watch him silently, absorbing the warmth behind the gesture.

“That’s…very kind, Aaron. Thank you.”

He looks away, unsure what to make of your thanks. But you notice the way his shoulders relax. The slight twitch at the corners of his mouth—and the way he tilts his head slightly downward to try to hide it.

“I haven’t told you this yet, but I recently found out that someone on my team is a fan of yours.”

“Really?” You raise your eyebrows, genuinely curious. “How did you find out?”

“Remember that gala event you showed up at unannounced?”

You hum in response, tearing off a piece of bread the waiter had just brought to the table.

“So… Events like this usually don’t require the entire staff to be present, one representative is enough – in this case, the boss. As usual, everyone came up with some crazy excuse to leave.”

“Wait.” You hand him half of the slice. “I get that these events can be kind of… boring. But giving away free food and drinks? That’s almost a crime. Do they really try so hard not to go?”

Aaron smiles, accepting the piece of bread with a slight nod. "You have no idea. Morgan once said he couldn't come because he had an appointment to get his hair cut."

You frown, chewing slowly. "That sounds pretty plausible to me," you mutter in confusion. "How exactly does that fall into the category of lame excuses?"

Aaron raises an eyebrow, his smirk slowly widening. "Morgan is bald."

You stop mid-chew, your eyes widening—and then you burst out laughing, putting your hand in front of your lips, trying not to spit out the bread you just put in your mouth.

"You've got to be kidding," you say, still laughing, biting your lower lip—in an attempt to maintain your composure.

"I wish it was." He shakes his head with a feigned tired expression. "He even tried to explain that it was specifically 'keeping up with the finishing touches.'"

Your laughter intensifies—this time uncontrollably. You lean back slightly in your chair, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye with the tip of your finger.

“Keep up with the polish?” you repeat, panting between laughs. “That’s brilliant. Absurd, but brilliant.”

Aaron smiles, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You have no idea how hard it was to keep your composure at that moment.”

“And what did you say?”

“I couldn’t answer at the time, I just stared at him trying not to laugh. It was one of those moments where you have to look away, as if you were breaking the fourth wall, it was so absurd.”

You fan yourself with your hand and take a deep breath, trying to stop laughing. “Okay, I understand the level of commitment, I can get back to the main topic.”

“Well, the other day, Penelope was waiting for me at the elevator door. As soon as I got on the floor, she bombarded me with questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

"Was it true, was she there? Did you see her up close? Is she pretty? Oh my god wait, did you talk to her? Did you get close enough to smell her perfume? If so, was it good?" He counts on his fingers as he speaks. "When I said you stayed a while after the presentation and talked to whoever came near, I thought she was going to cry."

You let out a low laugh, raising your hands in surrender. "Okay, you convinced me, now I have to meet her in person."

"Just let me know, she would sort out that office if she didn't take a sedative first."

"Imagine if she found out who took me home."

You notice how your shoulders tense at the comment, quickly correcting yourself. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, if my flowers bother you you can tell me, I won't be upset."

He seems to hesitate before lifting the glass of whiskey to his lips. “I don’t want to seem disinterested – believe me, that’s not the case. You’re so beautiful, smart and funny, it would be a sin not to notice you. I just…” He avoids your eyes, focusing on the glass of wine on the table. “I just have to be honest, I’m at least ten years older than you, I’m divorced with a child, my work takes up practically all of my time.”

You smile, the uncertainty in your voice so palpable that you want to walk around the table and hug him. “Well, if it comforts you in any way, I already knew all of this and I still chose to be here.”

“I don’t really know how to deal with this,” he admits, a little embarrassed. “I mean… I’ve been with Haley since college. That was twenty years ago.” He lets out a laugh "And I found that I could handle it all. Work, marriage, being a father. I thought the silence between us was so tired. Part of the routine. But deep down, I knew. I knew she was pulling away… And yet, I stood still. I didn't get closer, I didn't try to stop her." His eyes lower, looking at the glass in his hands. "And now, every time I think about opening up again, it feels like I'm leading you into a minefield. That at any moment, something will happen. I don't want to hurt anyone again. Especially you."

He pauses, still avoiding your eyes "That's what I have to offer you. I don't want to start something I can't sustain. You deserve more than halves."

You stay silent for a few seconds, absorbing the weight of his words, trying to find the right words to react to his sudden confession.

"Well, since we're talking about it…" you begin with a small smile. "My life is chaotic, I can't do anything outdoors without some crazy guy with a camera following me around - and that's been the case since I was twenty. I'm barely at home, when I'm not traveling on tour I'm in the studio recording, or in the warehouse rehearsing, or doing interviews and performing at festivals."

He raises his eyebrows gently, turning his gaze to you.

“I’m a huge perfectionist, and it interferes with pretty much every aspect of my life. I know I seem confident, with the flirting and all, but I went to therapy for a few years and realized that I have a tendency to sabotage my relationships. I figured out that it was because, deep down, I don’t think I’m good enough.” You pause, laughing humorlessly, absently fiddling with the napkin next to your glass.

He watches your monologue in silence.

“Oh, I can be a bitch too when I’m focused on my work and it’s not working out as it should. You have your demons, I have mine.” You rest your face on your hand. “For now, just tell me what’s good.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just keeps looking at you with a small smile. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

You were getting ready to leave when a tall man came out of the kitchen. He approached, drying his hands on a kitchen towel as his eyes went from you to Aaron, and then back to you.

“No way,” he said, narrowing his eyes at you. When recognition dawned on him, he looked directly at Aaron with an expression that was a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Man… there’s no way you pulled that off.”

Aaron looked away with a low sigh, a slight blush appearing on his face. “James…”

“Sorry, it’s just that when you asked to bring someone here after hours I thought it was a serial killer, like dinner with Hannibal. It didn’t cross my mind for a second that you’d come here with what? The third most famous person in the world, behind only Jesus Christ and Michael Jackson?”

You let out an amused laugh, partly at his audacity in comparing you to Jesus and Michael, partly at the way Aaron closed his eyes—almost as if he was praying for the ground to open up and swallow him.

The man continued, addressing you with genuine enthusiasm. “I know you probably hear this all the time, but… my wife is a huge fan. Like, a huge fan. She has all your CDs, vinyls, even a limited edition that I don’t even know how she got. She’s been to all your shows. All of them. And just last night she spent the whole night trying to buy tickets for your new tour. She almost cried because the digital queue froze. She screamed when she got it. I thought some room in the house had caught on fire.” James continued, now pulling a pen out of his pocket with an almost shy expression. “So… if it’s not too much to ask, could you sign something? Anything. A napkin, my arm, the restaurant bill—she’ll frame it anyway.”

You smiled, grabbing the nearest napkin with the restaurant’s gold logo on it. "Sure. What's her name?"

"Helena, with an H." He stares at Aaron for a few seconds before turning to you. "Look, with all due respect, I don't know what's more impressive… You managing to drag Hotchner out of that office or the fact that Mr. "nobody-knows-about-my-life" is meeting a pop culture icon. It's like watching a shooting star leave with a comet. If I tell anyone about this, they'll think I hit my head."

Aaron blushed slightly, his stoic expression crumbling for a moment. "I'm starting to think that being chased and possibly trampled isn't such a bad option."

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as you wrote carefully.

“Dear Helena Knowing that you appreciate my art enough to be with me for these fourteen years leaves me speechless. It is an immense honor to know that my music has touched your life in some way. Now, between you and me: how lucky you are, my friend. The food here is some of the best I have ever tasted in my life — I hope it tastes as good to you as it does to the spices. I can’t wait to see you at my show. With love, Miss Honey”

James held the piece of paper like it was a sacred artifact. “Thank you. She’s going to make an altar, probably put candles around it.” You smiled as he walked away, protecting the napkin with the palm of your hand as if it were made of thin glass.

Aaron opened the door for you, and as you left, he muttered under his breath, “I’m sorry about him. Apparently, there’s no hiding from all the fans.”

You smiled, glancing at him sideways. “It’s okay, and honestly, he was adorable.”

On the way back, he seemed quieter than usual. You could feel his gaze, disguised by quick sideways glances, as if he was studying you.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

The corners of his mouth lifted in a tight smile. “I’m trying to figure out how someone like you would be interested in someone like me.”

You frowned, tilting your head slightly. “I thought we talked about this already.”

“We talked,” he nodded slowly. “But sometimes, even when someone says the right words… it’s hard to believe them. You’re the kind of person you double-check to make sure they’re real.”

You laughed awkwardly, looking away to the window, trying to hide the blush that was rising in your cheeks. “Okay, stop it, you’re embarrassing me.”

He tilted his head, his eyes shining with amusement. “What? Did I manage to embarrass you? Should I go back and order some champagne to celebrate?”

“I could double your teasing, but I’ll spare you, as an act of kindness.”

“Oh really?” He parked in front of your house, turning slightly to look at you, a cocky smile playing on his lips. “And how would you do that?”

You didn’t answer, instead, you took off your belt and leaned towards him, pressing your lips against his. He stood still for a second, stunned by your boldness, but soon he kissed you back, his lips moving against yours with the same intensity.

When you pulled away, still a few inches away from him, both of you were breathing quickly, his eyes fixed on yours, trying to process what had just happened.

“Goodnight, Aaron.” You said softly with a smile, before opening the car door and getting out.

He stood there, motionless, his eyes still fixed on you as you walked away. The scent of your perfume was still in every corner of the car.

He had just crossed the line.

And he didn’t regret it at all.

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English is not my first language are sorry for any mistake

If you have any ideas to contribute to the sequel I will be happy to receive them :)

tag: @duchesz @midnghtprentiss @jazzimac1967 @queenofnothng @leathynn @camihotchner @yourallaround-simp @pastelpinkflowerlife @padlockedheartsreading @tomhiddlestonforever-blog @michasia24 @sweetpianoxoxo

[wrongbodies]

One Night Only

"So this will let me switch bodies?" I asked.

"Yes, it will. But you must be careful. The effects are irreversible after three hours." The elderly man said. He sat on a stool behind a cluttered counter in the junk-filled shop.

I stood there, all 350 pounds of sweating bulk, stuffed into a tight hoodie and even tighter sweatpants. My pale skin was streaked with stretch marks, and my messy hair was greasy from not washing recently. Even the glasses I peered through were greasy, smudged, and gross.

"How does it work exactly?" I asked, breath coming out raggedly, whether from excitement or exertion was anybodys guess.

"The potion is a soul salve. When you drink it, your soul absorbs it. Until the third hour is finished, anyone you touch will swap souls with you. Anyone, mind you. And until the potion wears off, everyone will remain swapped until you are 'sealed' into your last body at the time." The old man explained.

"So, I'll swap back at the end? That doesn't sound like it is worth it." I said, disappointed.

"You misunderstand, boy. You will remain in the last body permanently. Everyone swapped in between goes back to their original body. And your final victim? They get trapped in your body forever. Whether for cruelty, or for revenge, or your own benefit I care not. So long as you understand the consequences." The man warned.

"I see... well, in that case. I'll take it!" I said excitedly.

"Very good. Enjoy your evening, boy." The man said, and took my cash. I grasped the bottle tightly, and departed the store.

I knew the perfect place to use this. There was a party tonight, something I would never be invited to, but I knew how to get in. My roommate happened to be invited. He's a jackass, and not my type at all. He's a lot more fit than I am, for sure, but he was still nowhere near as hot as any of my targets.

You see, I didn't just want to get a smaller, healthier body. I wanted the cream of the crop. The best body I knew of on campus. And that was the baseball team. I knew exactly what I was after. I went to their games just to see their tight, supple asses through those uniform pants. Their toned chests and arms just hidden beneath their jerseys, but still as tantalizingly exciting for me to imagine.

I see them on campus, in classes, at the dining hall, and elsewhere and I want it. I want what they have. Beautiful bodies that don't get winded walking from one class to the other. And the guys I could score with one of their bodies? Lord, I could cum just from the thought.

In particular there was one guy I wanted bad. He was a junior just like me. Peter Whitt. He was the one for me. Skin with just a nice tan, minimal hair. His hair was short and styled, and he even had a mustache, giving him a slight dad-vibe that made me swoon. I never saw his abs clearly, but it was obvious he was in peak condition.

And he was going to be at the party. So I knew I had to be there too. I looked down at the bottle in my hand as I sat in the chair by my desk. I was clad in pajamas, snacks and drinks around me as if I was going to have another gaming session alone tonight. My dickhead roommate, Jake, was changing and spraying a noxious cloud of axe all over himself. He was short, with a stupid blocky-hair cut that made his head look like a square. He was pale, but I guess because he was on the wrestling team he counted as "cool" somehow.

Well, I'd see how it felt in a moment to be cool, I guess. I tossed back the bottle, swallowing the contents quickly, only briefly tasting a bitter taste, almost like brussel sprouts liquified. But as it settled in my gut, I felt a sensation spread through my body. It was like a warmth blooming until it filled my entire being. I smirked, and looked at Jake.

He might have heard me from behind, but he was used to disregarding me. He definitely didn't expect me to poke him in the back.

A flash, pops of light across my vision, and then I was settled. I felt so different. My mouth had the taste of cotton candy. Yuck. Jake loved his cotton candy vape. But I looked down and saw a much leaner body below. I was wearing his stupid clothes. I may be a fat slob, but I'm still aware that he has a poor sense of style.

I spun around to see my body staring at me in shock.

"What the fuck is happening?!" My voice screeched. I ducked backwards.

"Look Jake, you can sit tonight out. Play some video games. Have some snacks. I'm taking this body for a spin. But I promise you this. You will get your life back. Don't fuck with me. And if you do, you won't like what happens." I threaten.

"Wha-what? Where are you going?" He asked, tears starting to form in my former eyes.

"To the party, of course!" I said, and grabbed his jacket before slipping out the door. I didn't care I was wearing his stupid face and body like an outfit. I was actually able to move much faster, which was good because I'd like to get to the party soon. It would have already started, and I didn't want to chance getting stuck in Jake's body forever.

I could have taken Jake's car, but it seemed pointless. The party was just off campus on the other side of the gym. I was able to speed walk there and arrive in less than 20 minutes. Besides, I wasn't exactly concerned about returning Jake to our room. I just needed to body hop until I got Pete.

The party was in full swing when I walked up. People called out their hellos to me, and something happened that I should have immediately expected. Some guy with buzzed hair, and as wide as a truck came up and clapped a welcoming slap into my hand. Of course, the touch immediately swapped us.

I blinked the pops of light out of my eyes again, and found myself feeling like an ox. I was massive, but in a muscly way. Jakes face was flushed with surprise, but I turned and swept into the house party before he could trap me or make a big scene. Inside, I realized this was going to get hairy.

The house was old, and the halls were quite narrow. People milled about, sat on any surface they could find, or were just standing and chatting. And this current body, while threaded with muscle, was not lithe or slender to avoid bumping anyone. And sure enough, within a minute of making that realization a tall, slender girl knocked into my arm. I was suddenly staring down at the top of two breasts poking from a top and just beyond them was the studly man I just was staring at me in shock.

I again moved past and tried to dodge into the kitchen to find Pete, but when I came through, I walked right into a group of friends play-wrestling each other. Suddenly I was in some soccer boys body, and then I blinked and I was in some chicks body who they tumbled into. I slipped off the counter she had been sitting on and wove my through the mess and stepped into the backyard.

I was scanning for the baseball boys when someone came up and pinched my ass. I was about to turn but the swap already took place. I was now in some guys body I didn't even see before swapping. I just knew I had a dick again. And then I was pushed to the ground but before I hit the deck I was swapped again, this time I was in some black guys powerful frame. I was about to walk away when the calamity caught up. Panic was sweeping through the party as people started to realize how swapped up everyone was getting.

I started to regret choosing to do this at a party, and this was just minutes into being here. I couldn't get a clear sight, but in the scuffle of bodies and panic, I was swapped several more times. Each time, more voices screamed and yelled in fear. Just by swapping, I had moved from the middle of the chaos to the side. When I came to the final time, I was in some scrawny boy's body and I was able to back away.

And that's when I saw him. Pete! He was standing with some friends looking at the chaos in confusion. I started to walk towards him, hoping he wouldn't suspect a thing. Right as I was about to put a hand on him, he got spooked by sirens blaring from the front of the house.

Fuck! The cops were already here. Someone must have called, whether it was someone here or a neighbor. I sprinted after him, as he was dashing through the backyard and over a fence. I may have been in a much leaner body than my own, this was obviously not a very athletic guy. I was wheezing, and barely managed to toss myself over the fence too. Damn, he was fast! The guy was already across the street and seemed to be headed towards campus.

Just then I heard someone else rushing up, and panicked - was it a cop?! No, the shape was tall and well built, but it was just another student. In his haste and probably due to the dark, he collided with me and we swapped. I took this as serendipity, because now I had someone with power and speed. I took this body to max speed, leaving the kid in my body behind to squeal in terror.

I ran full-tilt, and was able to get Pete back in sight. He had no idea someone was following him, and because he thought he was in the clear, he had dropped to a walking pace. I figured running at him now would just cause him to get spooked, and I didn't want to get into some drawn out chase. Instead, I slowed to a walk, trying to keep my pace just a bit faster than his own.

I realized from pulling the wallet of the guy I currently inhabited that I was someone named Juan currently. From the feel of his torso this wasn't a bad body. I just didn't want to lose sight of my objective. And I had also lost track of time. Looking at the phone, I realized I was about halfway through the three hour limit. I didn't worry too much. I felt like a predator, and my prey was in reach of my lunging attack.

Luck turned against me though when Pete suddenly entered a dorm I wasn't familiar with. I jogged up when he passed through the door to try and catch it but no dice. I waited for a while, and finally, thankfully, someone came out and I was able to slip in. I scanned the lobby, lounge, and even the common bathroom on the first floor. I couldn't find anyone, let alone Pete.

I heard voices and other tell-tale signs that people were in their rooms, and such, but that hardly helped me in the moment. Then it occurred to me... the building was fairly tall. The elevator! Sure enough, I went to the elevator and saw the floor indicator was still on "5th Floor." I had no other lead, maybe Pete had gone up to that floor.

As the elevator was summoned down, I tapped my foot, this was getting stressful. The time was running down, now. I had somehow taken another half hour just to get in and then search the first floor. By the time I got to the 5th floor, I was down to about 50 minutes until the potion effects ended. Again, decent body, but I had my eyes on the prize.

When the doors opened, I immediately began combing all the common areas. The lounge and study rooms didn't turn up anything aside from a few assorted students working or watching TV. Then, I tried listening at each door. There weren't that many, I figured. Maybe I'd get lucky.

Some doors were silent, and then others were loud, but most were fairly muffled and didn't offer me much information.

Finally, 8 minutes on the clock. I was panicked. I didn't want to be Juan. I really wanted Pete. And as if to answer my prayer, I heard a distinctly loud "Pete!" cry out. Was it my Pete? I didn't have a better lead. I approached the door, and knocked.

"Who is it?" That was definitely Pete's voice.

"RA! Open up!" I cried through the door. That would make them move. RA's could usually scare people out of their rooms. Sure enough, I heard the bed creaking inside, and some shuffling and muted conversation. Finally, with just 3 minutes to spare, the door opened. I didn't wait, I just reached through and grabbed the forearm of the person standing there.

Fuck.

Fuuuuuck.

That wasn't Pete. Even as I was still blinded with the popping and flashes of light, I could tell that this was most definitely not Pete the baseball star, with the body I imagined was chiseled by the gods. Instead, I had grabbed the arm of some waifish boy, probably a freshman or sophomore, but someone who looked positively cherubic and twinkish. The torso I looked down at had a borrowed baseball sweatshirt on, the sleeves too long for my arms, and the waist going down past my torsos natural waistline.

I looked up at the face of Juan, who currently had someone elses soul residing within it. For a moment he just stared at me in shock, horror, absolute disbelief. Pete approached from behind, and before I could spin to grab him, a similar sensation from when I drank the potion rushed through me. I looked into Juan's face, and he blinked.

"What am I doing here?" He asked, confusion rippling through his voice.

"Uhhh... you knocked on our door, dude?" Pete said. His hand came to rest on my tiny shoulder.

"Oh, weird. I just remember being at that house party... then the cops came? Then somehow I was here. I feel a little sick." Juan explained, hesitation present in his voice.

"Ok then, maybe you should go back to your dorm, Juan." Pete said, and shooed him out the door.

As Pete closed the door on Juan, he glanced at me with an awkward look, like he felt bad but wanted nothing to do with it.

I was freaking out internally. I had gotten so fucking close. Now I was stuck as some random friend of Pete's, probably some waterboy or loser he was tutoring.

That notion came to a screaming halt, however, when he came back to me and slid his arms gingerly around my thin waist.

"Are you ok, babe?" He whispered into my ear. He lowered his perfect face to my neck, and kissed me gently.

"Uh-uh I- yes." I stammered.

"You sure? Maybe I can finish what we started?" He asked, coyly.

"Of course!" I piped. I didn't know what else to do. It then occurred to me... my cock was rock hard.

Pete then tightened his grip, heaving me up into his arms, and then he dropped me into the bed. He ripped off the tight briefs I had on, and similarly removed his clothes. I was then turned roughly over. He dragged my bottom half off the bed, and before I knew it he was inside me. There seemed to already be lube in my ass, as it clicked what had been happening from before when I heard Pete's name cried out.

Pete was secretly fucking this twink. This twink that I now was. Damn.

The next few weeks were an oddly satisfying, yet frequently confusing time. Firstly, my old body came forward and attempted to coerce me to swap us back. When that didn't work, he began threatening to out Pete. I almost caved to that, but I incorrectly wagered people wouldn't listen to a fat loser who was claiming that his body was stolen from him.

Pete was outed, and for a moment he was devastated. But I was there for him. As the twink, whose name is Corey, I could lavish him with attention and affection. After a while though, the community rallied around him, and collectively the former Corey, trapped in my old corpulent body, was rebuked and further ostracized. Realizing he had failed to get me cooperating, he gave up and seemed to fall into a deep depression, and dropped out before the end of the second semester.

As for me, living in Corey's body was not what I had wanted, but I came to love it. Sure, I had become my dream body's femme twink cocksleeve, but I didn't mind. Pete seemed genuinely interested in me, and when he was outed we were able to date properly. I even met his family a few times, and they adored me. My grades were amazing, and I was involved in a number of volunteer initiatives.

Learning how to be Corey wasn't too bad, if just fraught with chances to make a fool of myself or cause some minor concern over forgotten details and such. But overall, it seemed like I was able to assimilate into this new life. And honestly, being this thin and cute was still a massive upgrade to my old sweaty life.

Lastly, no one but the real Corey and I ever knew about the body swap chaos. It seems the magic caused everyone else who got returned to their proper bodies to forget the events of the party in a dazed haze. This worked for me, I often thought. My only chance to be exposed was an exiled wretch, and my target body was my loving, boyfriend... who also fucked me good. I was living life to the fullest now.

[theonlyonesora]

What Wakes Us

Lando Norris x Reader

The walls of Lando’s Monaco flat were quiet, breathing only the hush of the late hour and the occasional ripple of waves beyond the windows. The Mediterranean air was warm, even at night, curling through the open balcony doors like a secret.

You were sleeping in the guest room—if you could call tossing and turning in the softest sheets money could buy “sleeping.” Something kept you restless. The heat, maybe. Or the memory of his laugh echoing in the kitchen earlier, when he’d offered you the last slice of pizza and called you trouble with a glint in his eyes.

Friendship had always been the rule. The safe line neither of you ever dared to cross. Until tonight.

The moment you padded softly out into the hallway, barefoot and curious, something pulled you toward his door. It was cracked slightly. Enough to see the glow of a lamp, and enough to hear the faintest shift of movement inside.

You knew you should look away. You should turn around. Go back to bed and pretend you never saw—

But you didn’t.

There he was.

Lando. Shirtless. Sheets tangled around his hips. Hand moving in a rhythm that made your stomach twist and your skin burn. His eyes fluttered closed, his brows furrowed, his jaw tight with restraint. He looked beautiful. Achingly so.

And then—his voice. Soft. Whispering your name like a prayer, like something he couldn’t stop himself from saying.

Your breath hitched. Your heart knocked against your ribs like a secret trying to escape.

You knocked gently—three soft taps against the wood.

He startled, eyes wide. “Shit—” he breathed, scrambling to cover himself. “I—God, I thought you were asleep—”

You stepped in slowly, letting the door close behind you. The room smelled like his cologne and heat and something else—something primal.

“Don’t stop,” you said quietly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

His eyes searched your face, reading between the lines of what you were offering. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” You took another step closer. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Silence stretched between you, taut as a bowstring.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, voice low, torn.

You nodded. “Then let me take care of you.”

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. And then, his hand reached for yours, tentative, warm. He pulled you gently to the bed, lips parted, eyes flicking to your mouth, then your throat, then your eyes again.

“We can stop if you change your mind,” he whispered, voice thick with hesitation and something else—desperation barely held back.

But you didn’t. You shook your head slowly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, and leaned in.

His breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Not like a friend. Not like someone who had hesitated for years. But like a man starved of something he didn’t know he needed until it was in his hands.

Your bodies melted into one another as if they had always known how to fit. His hands found your waist, your thighs, the warm curve of your spine. You let out a soft gasp when his mouth wandered lower, open-mouthed kisses pressing hot trails along your collarbone.

Clothes were tugged, slipped, dropped to the floor like secrets no longer worth keeping. The air between you shifted—heavy, intimate. Every brush of skin against skin made you ache, made him groan low in the back of his throat.

“Are you sure?” he asked again, breathless, forehead pressed to yours, pupils dark and wide. “Because if we do this—”

“I want you,” you said, your voice nothing but a whisper. “All of you.”

His hands trembled slightly as he pulled you into his lap, lips finding yours again with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. The tension had always been there, unspoken, coiled between you like a spring. And now it unraveled—slow, sacred.

You moved together in quiet sync, as if you'd been here before in some other lifetime. You felt him everywhere—hands gripping your hips, mouth trailing kisses along the swell of your breast, your breath hitching as he filled you inch by inch, slow and reverent.

A moan escaped your lips—soft, surprised by the intimacy, the way it felt more like being known than simply being touched.

He didn’t rush. Neither of you did. You made space for the emotion, the weight of all the moments that had led here. His mouth found yours again as he moved inside you, steady, grounding, like he didn’t want to let you go.

“God, you feel…” he began, but couldn’t finish the thought. Instead, he pressed his lips to your neck and whispered your name like a vow.

After, the room was filled with nothing but the soft rise and fall of breath, the tangled sheets, the moonlight spilling onto bare skin.

You laid across his chest, your fingers idly tracing the line of a faint scar near his ribs, while his hand settled on your hip, thumb brushing lazy circles.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice quieter now, vulnerable.

You nodded against his skin, pressing a kiss just below his collarbone. “Yeah. But maybe it’s time.”

And for the first time since you arrived in Monaco, the silence between you wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful. The kind that followed the truth finally being spoken.

[trashytracktales]

lowkey feel like an overprotective bf who always asks their gf "where are u now" every hour every time you don't post anything 😭😭 LMFAO that's bc i really enjoy your blog and fics so much and it's kinda killin me if i don't read a single thing from you 🥺 but i hope you always have a good day and everything goes well for you #keepwriting #loveeeee ❤

NOTE: I AM IN ACTUAL TEARS. I appreciate you so much, genuinely ♥︎

First of all, know that I have multiple requests waiting in my drafts to be posted. I see every single one of you and your brilliant ideas, it’s just that I am one (1) person, and as I’m posting this, there are over 100 asks chilling in my inbox. I am so extremely sorry for getting to you so late. I, unfortunately, am not a robot nor a writing machine 😔

Second, for the people that are familiar with this blog, you guys know this is not my usual type of content. Honestly, I’m not planning on making a habit out of it, but I do think I owe you a reason why I took such a sudden step back without giving you something.

Sometimes, being in my own head isn’t easy. I know a lot of people are struggling with mental health, and I’ve been battling mine for ages now. Every now and then, the mind wins. It’s not a pretty view when that happens, and the hate I give myself in those moments is unmatched. It’s sad and unfortunately, I’ve never learned how to be kind to myself. I overthink, I overwork my body, and I always forget that I need rest in order to be at my full capacity. When I do forget, my body is reminding me in the most brutal ways.

I know my triggers, I am constantly working on myself, and I am very careful of what external factors I surround myself with. Yet, somehow, I end up in the same vicious cycle. You would think that, by now, I would be better at handling it, but healing isn’t linear. It has many twists and turns, and sometimes a wrong turn leads into a deserted nothingness. Suddenly, you’re all alone and you have to map your way out of there, but it’s dark, you’re tired, and you ran out of gas.

I am not sharing this for pity, but to remind you that we all carry things others can’t always see. Everyone is fighting their own quiet battles, and sometimes just being gentle, patient, and kind can mean the world to someone. I know it does to me, that’s why I am so overwhelmed by your words. If me being open can make one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

Writing has saved me more than once. And now, through this blog, I am so grateful for everyone who has ever read me, liked, reblogged, commented and left their thoughts in my inbox. I value you all and this lil chaotic community you’ve helped me build. I miss you a hundred times more, and I can’t wait to be back on schedule aka annoying all of you with 173 posts a day 😌

Thank you so much for (still) being here.

Love you, always ♥︎

– T

[jeonqquek]

2AM Ramen Runs

Pairing : SEUNGMIN X READER ( lover, fluff, late night snack )

Summary : Seungmin and Y/N head out in the middle of the night after Y/N wakes up hungry. What was supposed to be a quick snack run turns into a soft, quiet moment just for the two of them.

♡

The world was silent. Dark. Still.

Except for your stomach, which decided 2:47 AM was the perfect time to wage war.

You groaned softly, eyes squinting at the ceiling in the dim glow from outside. You turned to your side, hoping maybe sleep would drown it out, but no—your stomach was relentless. It grumbled again, louder this time, like it had something to prove.

Next to you, Seungmin was sleeping peacefully, mouth slightly open, hoodie half-off his shoulder like usual. Completely unaware that your body was turning against you.

You reached over and poked him. “Babe…”

Nothing.

You poked again, more insistent. “Min…”

He stirred with a grunt, face buried deeper into the pillow.

You scooted closer and whispered dramatically into his ear, “I’m starving.”

He let out another half-sigh, half-groan. “Tell your stomach to go back to sleep.”

“I tried. It’s being so rude.” You pouted. “I want ramen. And honey butter chips. And maybe a Chilsung Cider. Please.”

He cracked one eye open, squinting at you. “You’re serious?”

You nodded solemnly. “Dead serious.”

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling like he was questioning all his life decisions. “It’s almost 3AM.”

“You love me,” you whispered sweetly.

He groaned again but dragged a hand across his face. “Give me five minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, after fighting over which hoodie matched your 'middle-of-the-night hunger crisis energy,' you were walking through the cold, quiet street, hands buried in your sleeves, steps light on the pavement.

The world was asleep except for the two of you.

The convenience store was glowing like a tiny oasis. Its automatic door slid open with a soft ding, and the rush of fluorescent light hit your tired eyes.

You made a beeline for the ramen aisle. “Do I want spicy, or like… emotional comfort?”

Seungmin yawned behind you, already grabbing a basket. “Just get both. I’m not about to talk you down from a noodle breakdown.”

You grinned. “See? Boyfriend of the year.”

“Tell the judges to send my trophy,” he said, tossing your favorite chips into the basket without you even asking.

You grabbed two ramens, a drink, and a questionable dessert. “You know, this could be our thing.”

“Chaos snacking at ungodly hours?”

“Exactly.”

You both paid, then sat at the tiny table in the corner near the hot water machine. The cups were steaming, snacks already opened, and drinks halfway gone before you even started eating.

You passed him chopsticks with a soft “cheers,” and tapped yours against his.

You immediately took a huge slurp and regretted it.

“Hot, hot, hot—why is it always lava at first?” you whined, fanning your mouth.

He smirked. “Because your greedy little goblin self never waits.”

You glared at him, cheeks full of noodles. “Worth it.”

He blew on his noodles before taking a calm, careful bite. “Mmm. Okay, yeah. This hits.”

You watched him eat for a second, eyes soft. “You look so serious right now.”

“I’m focusing,” he said between bites. “This is important. This is life.”

You stole a fishcake from his cup without warning.

“Hey!” he said, eyes wide. “That was mine.”

“Finder’s keepers,” you teased.

He gave you a deadpan look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am lucky. You came with me to the convenience stores at 3AM.”

He leaned his chin into his hand, eyes fixed on you. “You always drag me into the weirdest stuff.”

“But you always come,” you said, voice softer now.

“I always will.”

For a moment, the room faded. Just the two of you, sharing instant noodles in a quiet convenience store under way-too-bright lights, while the rest of the world stayed asleep. It felt weirdly special.

You took a chip and tossed it at him. “I’m gonna marry you.”

He laughed, catching it with his mouth. “You say that every time I feed you.”

“Because food is love. And waking up for my cravings? That’s soulmate behavior.”

“Remind me to propose in the ramen aisle,” he said, smiling. “You’d say yes on the spot.”

You nodded, noodles hanging from your mouth. “Honestly? Probably.”

He reached across the table and wiped a bit of broth from your lip with his thumb, then left his hand there for a second too long—fingers gently brushing your jaw.

“You’re cute,” he said softly.

“I’m a mess,” you muttered.

“A cute mess,” he corrected.

You leaned in, resting your hand on top of his. “I really like this.”

“Burning our mouths at 3AM?”

“No,” you said. “Just… being here. With you. Like this.”

His smile faltered a little, in that way it does when he’s feeling something for real. “Me too.”

You sat there for a while longer, trading bites and talking about nothing—ranking chip flavors, joking about the weirdest drink names, wondering who else was awake at this hour. You teased each other between sips of soda and stole snacks until your stomachs were full and your eyes were heavy.

Eventually, Seungmin stood up and stretched. “Okay, before we both fall asleep in aisle three, let’s go home.”

The walk back was even quieter, the kind of peaceful where you didn’t need words. He tugged your sleeve and laced your fingers together halfway down the block, glancing at you with that sleepy little smirk.

Back home, you both collapsed into bed fully dressed, too tired to even brush your teeth.

You curled up into him, hoodie against hoodie, breath syncing with his.

“Still hungry?” he mumbled, half-asleep.

You giggled. “Nope. Just happy.”

He hummed, kissed your temple, and whispered, “Next time I’m setting a snack trap under the bed.”

“And I’ll fall for it on purpose,” you replied, already fading.

“Goblin,” he muttered.

“Love you too,” you said

[insomniaccorner]

Hello ! Could you write a story about a Bruce become infant ? And the children take care of him please ! Have a good day 🥰

Title: “Batbaby”

Summary: When a mission goes sideways, Bruce Wayne is temporarily de-aged into a toddler. The Batkids are not prepared.

The mission had been simple.

In, secure the artifact, out. But when Zatanna warned them not to touch the glowing runes? Bruce touched the glowing runes.

Now he was sitting in the Batcave. All three feet of him. Arms crossed. Little scowl on his tiny face. Wearing an emergency Wayne Enterprises onesie because none of them had toddler clothes on standby.

Damian stared at him, horrified. “He’s... small.”

Tim was trying not to laugh. “He’s tiny, you mean. That’s Baby Batman.”

“I am not a baby,” Bruce snapped—except it came out in a high-pitched voice and a pout that ruined the effect.

Jason collapsed on the couch, cackling. “This is the best day of my life.”

“I still have my mind,” Bruce insisted, glaring at his now-gigantic children. “This is temporary. I’m still in charge.”

Dick crouched beside him with a smile. “Sure, sure. You’re totally the boss. But until Zatanna finds the reversal spell? You’re three, B.”

“I’m three and a half,” Bruce corrected sharply.

Damian groaned. “He’s regressing by the second.”

Hour One:

Bruce tried to sit at the Batcomputer. Couldn’t reach the keyboard. Sulked for ten minutes straight.

Tim gave him juice in a sippy cup. Bruce threw it at him. Missed. Demanded coffee. Was denied.

Jason tried teaching him to say “Red Hood.” Bruce said “Red Head.” Jason didn't even mind.

Hour Four:

Dick had wrapped Bruce in a little hoodie with bat ears and was carrying him around on his hip like a dad at a farmer’s market.

Bruce was not happy about it.

“This is humiliating,” he grumbled into Dick’s shoulder.

“Aw, you’re doing so good, buddy,” Dick cooed, bouncing him slightly.

“Put me down or I will fire you.”

“You don’t even pay me.”

Hour Six:

Bruce fell asleep on Alfred’s lap during story time. The book was about logistics. No one was surprised.

Damian stood nearby, arms crossed. “I... don’t hate him like this.”

Tim nodded. “It’s kind of peaceful. He’s only barked two orders since nap time.”

Jason took a picture. “He’s gonna murder us when he’s back to normal.”

Dick just smiled, tucking a baby blanket around Bruce. “Worth it.”

The next morning, the spell wore off. Bruce returned to normal. Full height. Full grump.

No one said anything.

Until Jason walked into the Cave wearing a shirt with Baby Bruce’s face on it.

Bruce stared.

Jason grinned. “I made merch.”

Bruce walked away.

“You can’t fire me if I don’t work here!”

[hailthegodsong]

BETTER

One-shot ~ Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 5.6k +

Summary: When you come down with a sickness at work, Jake picks you up and (mother hens) takes care of you at home. Sick fic comfort!!

A/N: this one shot was requested and I loved writing it so so much! I did also do the temperature reading in fahrenheit because I know most of my readers don't use celcius so theres that. Hopefully this makes you feel better anon!

Content Warnings: illness, cough, fever, sweat, restlessness, nausea, caretaking, so so much fluff it’s rotting my teeth

You’d woken up with a dry mouth and a slight tickle in your throat— nothing serious. Nothing that screamed cancel everything, you’re coming down with something. Just a mild scratchiness that had made you pause while brushing your teeth and frown at your reflection.

Jake noticed. “You okay?” he asked, half through a yawn, sleep still dragging at his voice as he leaned on the bathroom doorway, hair messy and shirt wrinkled from tossing in the night.

You shrugged and spit your toothpaste out before speaking, “Yeah. Just… throat’s kinda weird this morning.”

He tilted his head, arms folding across his chest. “Weird like how?”

You rinsed out your mouth and then smiled at him in the mirror. “Like I shouldn't've let you talk me into sitting with you on the balcony for two hours last night.”

Jake grinned, then stepped behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. He kissed your temple, lips warm and soft. “Worth it, though.”

You leaned into him for a second longer than you meant to, a quiet hum catching in your throat. That dull fatigue from last night was still hanging on. Not quite tired, not quite awake. You figured you just needed caffeine.

“Yeah, worth it. ,” you smiled at his sleepy reflection in the mirror. 

“Let me know if your throat gets worse though, okay?”

You nodded, pulling your hair into a ponytail. “Promise.”

—

It got worse.

By noon, your head felt too heavy for your neck. You’d stared at your screen for twenty minutes before realizing you hadn’t processed a word of the email open in front of you. Your body ached. Cold one second, flushed the next. And despite the hoodie you’d thrown on during your break, you couldn’t stop shivering.

You tried to tough it out. You really did. If you left work early, Jake would fuss, and you’d feel dramatic, and there was a meeting at two that were supposed to take notes for.

But by your lunch break, you began to feel dizzy. And nauseous.

You stood too fast from your chair and the room tilted sideways. You had to grip the edge of the desk to stay upright, teeth clenched together as you tried to breath through the rolling of your stomach. Everything felt just slightly wrong, like your body was a half-second behind your brain. An ache had crawled into your joints and you could feel heat rising under your skin and up your neck. You didn’t want to acknowledge it for what it was— but it was unmistakably a fever.

You didn’t even remember sitting down on the break room couch. You only realised you were curled up there when your phone buzzed in your hand, Jake’s contact photo lighting up your screen.

You squinted against the brightness as another unexpected wave of nausea washed over you.

Attached to your text chain was a blurry photo of a tiny frog sitting on the edge of a sidewalk, back legs stretched out like he was sunbathing. You smiled faintly, chest squeezing at the way Jake always shared the smallest, most random things with you just to feel close during the day.

Before you could respond, another text came through.

Jake: How are you feeling? That throat thing any better?

Your smile faded.

You typed slowly, thumbs heavy.

You: Actually I’m not feeling great. Thinking I might head home from work early

It took all of five seconds for his typing dots to appear.

Jake: Oh no. What’s wrong

You sniffled, trying to sit up straighter on the break room couch. It didn’t help. Your back throbbed and the world still tilted slightly when you moved, like your body wasn’t sure which direction was up anymore.

You began to type your response.

You: Dizzy achy nauseous cold. Might be coming down with something

The phone started ringing before you could even finished reading your own message let alone send it. 

You exhaled and slid your thumb across the screen. “Hi.”

Jake’s voice was deep and laced with panic. “You still at work? I’m coming to pick you up.”

“No, no, it’s fine—” You tried to sit forward again and stopped when your ribs twinged, a deep cough scraping up from your chest. You couldn’t hold it in and it broke through you with a force that made your head throb. It left you breathless and slumped, blinking at nothing.

He didn’t say anything for a second. You could practically hear the way his brow raised as if to say ‘you sure about that?’

“I’m coming to get you,” he said again, firmer now. “You can’t drive if you’re dizzy. And you sound like death. I’ll get Sam to drop me off and I’ll drive your car home.”

You let your eyes close. The fight went out of you in one slow breath. “Okay.”

“Text me when you’re in the lobby, alright? I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Okay,” you murmured, voice cracking. You stood slowly, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, heavy and lagging behind your thoughts

Thankfully, your boss didn’t ask too many questions when you approached her desk, voice scratchy and eyes a little glassy. Maybe you looked as awful as you felt, because the moment you murmured that you weren’t feeling well and might need to head home early, she nodded and said, “Get some rest. Feel better soon.” 

You packed up slowly, hands trembling as you zipped your bag. The room tilted ever so slightly when you stood, like the ground didn’t quite want to stay put beneath you. You pulled your coat tighter around your aching frame, wincing as the zipper caught for a second, then began the sluggish walk to the elevator.

The lobby was quiet this time of day. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning vents and the click of your shoes against the floor. You sank into the small couch near the windows, tucking your arms tightly around your middle as a shiver worked its way up your spine. Your head tipped back against the cushion, eyelids heavy, stomach hollow and churning. The light from outside blurred in your vision, soft and unfocused, as you tried to breathe through the dizzy haze.

Now all you had to do was wait.

God, your skin hurt. That strange, restless ache was everywhere— your knees, your spine, even the muscles in your jaw. Your head was pounding from the inside out, temple throbbing every time you moved your eyes. Your face was hot, but the chill running through your limbs had you tucked into yourself like it was the middle of winter. You kept trying to get warm but couldn’t.

You felt embarrassed for being picked up like this. Too sick to function. Too weak to get yourself home. You hated asking for help.

But you weren’t the one who called— Jake had known. Had sensed that you needed him before you even said the words.

A minute passed. Maybe five.

Then you heard the automatic doors slide open, and through your half-lidded eyes, you saw him.

Jake stepped in with a determined eye, already scanning the lobby. His brows lifted when he spotted you, and the look on his face was something between heartbreak and relief.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, crouching in front of you.

You blinked at him, dazed. “Hi.”

He reached up and brushed the back of his fingers along your cheek, frowning at how warm you were.

“Shit, honey, you’re really not well,” he muttered.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, which might’ve had more weight if you didn’t sound like you’d been swallowing gravel.

Jake gave you the softest smile. “Sure you are.”

He helped you to your feet slowly, one hand bracing your lower back, the other slipping under your arm. When you wobbled, he pulled you in against him and held you there for a moment.

“Alright,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “Let’s get you home.”

Jake didn’t let you walk more than a few steps on your own.

He guided you out of the building with one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand covering yours where it clutched your coat closed. You leaned into him without thinking . Your legs felt unsteady, and your body was too heavy, your skin prickling with cold despite the fever baking beneath it.

When the wind hit your face outside, you shivered so hard it knocked the breath out of you. Jake stopped instantly.

He looked down at you with that furrowed brow, the one he got when something was wrong and he couldn’t fix it fast enough. Without a word, he shrugged out of his black corduroy jacket— the one he pretended not to know that you often stole off the back of his chair— and wrapped it around your shoulders like a blanket. His hands smoothed it over your arms gently, tucking it in, like you were something fragile.

“Better?” he murmured.

You nodded weakly. “Smells like you.”

He smiled and kissed your forehead. “Lucky for you, I smell amazing.”

Apparently you were too sick to appreciate the joke, as you merely hummed and continued sluggishly walking towards the car parked a few feet away. He helped you into the passenger seat, closing the door carefully once you were in. By the time he got in on the driver’s side, you were already curled up as tightly as the seat belt would allow, trying not to make your shivering too obvious.

Jake didn’t waste a second before the engine started and the heater was blasting within moments.

You leaned toward the vent, clutching his jacket tighter around you like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The warmth stung at first as your skin was so sensitive, but you sighed with relief as it finally started to thaw the chill in your bones.

Jake drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up between you on the console, waiting in case you reached for it. You did.

The heat rose until it was thick and heavy, making your eyelids droop, and Jake pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, visibly sweating but still not turning it down.

“I’m good,” he said quickly, noticing the way you peeked at him. “Don’t worry about me.”

You must’ve drifted off, because when the car stopped, Jake was already leaning over you to unbuckle your seatbelt. You blinked at him, disoriented, your head pounding behind your eyes.

“We’re home,” he said gently. “I’m gonna carry your stuff in. Can you walk if I hold you?”

“Mmhm.”

He helped you inside with slow, steady steps, and you clung to him without shame now. Your body just didn’t have the strength to do anything else.

Once you were inside, he guided you to the edge of the bed and crouched in front of you.

“Okay, don’t move,” he said softly, brushing your knee with his hand. “Let me get your pajamas.”

You watched through heavy eyes as he opened your dresser drawers with an easy familiarity, pulling out your favorite sleep shirt— the worn, oversized one you always wore when you needed comforting. He even found the fuzzy socks with the tiny suns on them that you always kept in the back of your drawer.

He turned down the blankets, fluffed the pillows, and added the heating pad to your side of the bed without a word. The care in every motion made your chest ache.

“Alright,” he said, coming back to you. “Arms up, sweet girl.”

You managed it, and he helped you out of your work clothes with gentle, efficient hands, always keeping you covered, never letting you feel exposed to him or the cold air. He tugged the pajama shirt down over your head and knelt to help you into your socks, smoothing them over your feet like you were the most delicate thing in the world.

Once you were finally bundled under the covers, he sat down on the edge of the bed and ran the backs of his fingers down your flushed cheek. His eyes moved slowly over your face, frowning softly at how pale you looked beneath the flush of your fever.

You leaned into the touch without meaning to.

“You’re still too warm,” he whispered, thumb trailing lightly along your temple. “Way too warm.”

He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the thermometer he’d grabbed earlier— waited for you to open your mouth before slipping it under your tongue. When it beeped, he didn’t hide his reaction.

“102.8,” he said under his breath, and then met your eyes again. “No wonder you feel like hell.”

He reached into the drawer where he knew you kept a small stash of meds— the way he navigated your space made it so clear how often he was here, how well he knew the rhythm of your home. He popped the cap on the bottle of tylenol and shook out two pills, then grabbed the glass of water that had been sitting on the nightstand from this morning.

“Here,” he murmured, sitting you up gently with one arm behind your back. “Take these, sweetheart. We’ve gotta get that fever down.”

You swallowed them obediently, the water barely touching your dry throat.

He eased you back down again, smoothing the blankets around you and tucking them in tight under your arms. You were already drifting, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, but you watched as he looked around the room searching for something.

A second later, he let out a quiet sigh and bent down beside the bed, fishing around beneath it.

When he came back up, he was holding your tiny, raggedy teddy bear you always slept with tucked under your arm. The one Jake always rolled his eyes at. The one he used to grumble about stealing his spot in the crook of your neck.

He tucked it carefully under your arm, smoothing your hand around it like it was the most precious thing in the world— not some beat-up childhood toy. You were barely conscious, but the gesture registered somewhere through the fog.

When he looked back at you, his eyes were soft. Completely gone for you. He leaned over again, kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “Just need some rest.”

His hand lingered, brushing back the damp edges of your hair, feeling along your forehead again, then down the slope of your jaw, over your collarbone, like he couldn’t stop reassuring himself that you were still there, still breathing. Still burning up, but safe.

Finally, he pulled away slowly, like it hurt to leave you even for a second.

“I’m gonna make you something warm, baby,” he said. “Soup or broth or something. You just rest. I’ll come check on you in a few.”

He turned down the light, making the room soft and quiet, and padded barefoot into the hallway, the sound of cabinets opening faintly drifting back as he moved through your kitchen like it belonged to him too.

You didn’t hear the soft clatter of the knife on the cutting board, or the bubbling that began on the stove as Jake stirred together a pot of broth, vegetables, herbs, and a few cloves of garlic he crushed with the flat of his hand. You didn’t notice the way he leaned over the pot, tasting, adding a pinch of turmeric, squeezing half a lemon in like his mom always did when someone had a fever. He kept the burner low and the lid slightly askew, letting the steam fill the kitchen with something rich and healing.

He checked on you every five minutes. Barely got through peeling a carrot without standing at the doorframe to your room, arms crossed, watching the way your chest rose and fell beneath the blankets. You were curled in a loose ball, one leg half-tangled in the sheets, hugging that teddy bear like it was his stand-in.

After a while, he let the soup simmer, set out a bowl, and set it on the counter to cool just enough not to burn your tongue.

You stirred in bed with a faint rustle, a slow groan that carried into the hallway. Jake was already there before your eyes were fully open. He came to your side, crouched down, fingers brushing your forehead again. Still hot, still too hot.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said gently. “You waking up?”

You nodded, but your face scrunched up almost instantly, like the act of opening your eyes had split your skull in two. You groaned again, pressing the heel of your hand to your temple.

“Hurts,” you whispered, barely audible.

Jake leaned in closer, smoothing your hair back. “I know, baby. I know. That fever’s a real nasty one.”

You winced, eyes barely open. “Feels like I got hit by a train. Or… a bus,” you grumbled. “Or both,” you added, groaning dramatically.

You blinked at him, eyelids heavy, throat dry and tight. You didn’t even feel thirsty, but your mouth was like paper, your lips tacky. Still, when Jake brought the glass to your lips, one hand steady at the back of your head, you drank slowly, just to please him.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

His fingers brushed a bit of hair from your cheek, lingering there like he couldn’t help himself. You swore his thumb had memorized the shape of your face by now— always tracing, always checking. Temperature, texture, tension.

“Think you can eat a little?” he asked, nodding to the bowl on the nightstand. Steam still curled lazily from the broth, fragrant and comforting.

You nodded faintly. “Yeah… I think so.”

Jake slipped an arm around your back, gently lifting you upright and propping pillows behind you until you were supported.

“Here.” He settled beside you, balancing the bowl and spoon. “Let’s go slow.”

Your voice was a rough whisper when you looked at the soup and managed, “Thank you.”

Jake’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to thank me. What else can I do, my love? I hate seeing you like this.”

You frowned, scooping up a spoonful. The warmth was good, heaty and comforting.

“Just need you to hold me,” you murmured between sips. Your voice was terrible— hoarse and cracked in the middle. Jake visibly winced at the sound of it, heart twisting.

Something in his face crumpled sweetly, his shoulders dropping as if your words cracked his chest open.

“Oh, my love…” he whispered, already shifting behind you on the bed. “C’mere.”

He shifted carefully, and gathered you into his arms cautiously as not to spill your bowl of soup, letting your weight melt back against his chest as you leaned into him. “Better?” he whispered into your hair.

“Mm,” you hummed sleepily, nodding as you lifted another spoonful.

His hands began to rub slow, soothing circles against your spine as you ate slowly, making your way through the broth.

When you were down to the last bit, Jake reached around, gently took the bowl and spoon from your hands, and set them aside. His arms came back around you at once, pulling you in close.

You sighed, shaky and pained, and leaned back against him, letting your aching body melt into the soft, bare skin of his chest. Your legs curled in beneath the blankets, your forehead resting against his shoulder.

He held you like that, whispering nothing words, just soft sounds and kisses to your temple. He rubbed your arm with the pads of his fingers, soothing your shivers away with the warmth of his body.

And finally, cocooned in his arms, you slipped under again, your last thought the feel of his lips against your burning skin.

You slept almost the entire afternoon. Jake never left the apartment.

He moved quietly through your space, cleaning up dishes from earlier, folding a bit of laundry that had been forgotten in the dryer, and wiping down the counters like he couldn’t sit still. Every few minutes, he checked in on you— just peeking through the door, watching your chest rise and fall beneath the covers, or feeling your forehead to make sure your fever hadn’t climbed any higher.

At one point, he pressed a fresh glass of water onto your nightstand and adjusted the curtains to let in a little golden light, just soft enough to keep the rom warm without hurting your aching eyes when you did wake.

When his stomach started growling, he made himself a quick dinner and sat quietly at the kitchen table, poking at the food like his heart was still in the bedroom beside you.

The apartment was quiet. Just the sound of a clock ticking above the sink, the hum of the refrigerator, and you, sniffling lightly in your sleep from down the hall.

Jake barely touched his plate.

Later, after the soup on the stove was cooled and packed into containers, Jake slipped into the dark of your room again, quiet as ever.

You were still curled in the same spot— tangled around that ridiculous teddy bear, your hair a little damp at the edges from the fever.

Jake sighed. He knelt beside the bed again, reaching out to press the back of his hand to your cheek, then your forehead, then your neck. You were still too warm— not dangerous, not worse, but hot enough to make him frown in the dark.

With a soft breath, he stripped off his shirt and slid in behind you.

You didn’t stir much, but your body instinctively turned into his, seeking the comfort. His arms wrapped around you immediately, hand splaying over your belly as he tucked your head beneath his chin.

He held you close, letting his cooler skin draw some of the heat from yours, wishing he could take more of it from you, just to make you rest easier.

Eventually, his eyes closed. His breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of yours. He drifted off like that, one hand gently tracing shapes against your side.

It was hours later when he woke again.

You were shifting in his arms, restlessly tossing, pulling at the blankets, breathing unevenly. Jake opened his eyes to find you awake, face creased with discomfort, your body radiating heat again like a furnace.

“Hey,” he whispered, instantly more alert. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You groaned softly, curling tighter. “Everything hurts. Can’t sleep.”

Jake rubbed your back slowly, his other hand finding yours beneath the blanket. “Where?”

“My head. My back. My legs. I can’t get comfortable,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Feel nauseous again too.”

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Jake sat up and leaned over you, brushing the sweaty hair from your face. He pressed his hand gently to your forehead again, then down along the side of your throat, as if he could ease the ache away with his fingertips alone.

“You’re burning up again,” he said softly. “Hang on.”

He got out of bed, disappearing into the dark for only a moment. You heard the sound of water running, cabinets opening. He returned with a cool, damp cloth in one hand and a pot of pills in the other.

You barely resisted as he dabbed your face and neck with the cool cloth, whispering soft things. They weren’t even words half the time, just the sound of his voice, steady and low. You wondered if he was just that tired that he wasn't making sense, or if his voice intended no more than to be a lullaby meant to soothe.

Jake helped you sit up slowly, tucking pillows around your back, guiding the pills to your lips with a glass of cool water. You grimaced as you swallowed. Your throat was raw, but he praised you like you’d run a marathon.

“There you go, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “Good job. Try to get some more sleep now. I’m right here.”

Jake climbed back into bed beside you, immediately reaching for you, easing you back against his chest tenderly. His palm settled between your shoulder blades, warm and grounding, then began its slow path down your spine. He pressed long, steady strokes, just the right pressure over the muscles you’d told him ached the most.

His touch never left you. Up and down, slow circles at the base of your neck, gentle thumbs pressed beneath your shoulder blades, the kind of love you didn’t have to earn, but was just given, because you needed it, and he wanted to give it to you.

He adjusted the pillows behind you carefully, then tucked your head beneath his chin, pressing the softest kiss to your temple.

You shifted faintly, body heavy, but your fingers curled against his arm like you were trying to stay awake.

Jake caught it. He dipped his head a little, brushing his nose against your hair.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispered. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

You made a tiny sound in reply, but your grip loosened. And just like that, you let go.

You fell asleep in his arms, breath softening against his collarbone, but Jake didn’t stop. Even with your body slack and still, he kept rubbing slow, rhythmic circles along your back, his hand gliding over your spine like a balm, like a promise. He massaged your shoulder where you always carried tension, pressed gently against the sore spots down your sides, careful not to wake you.

He didn't leave, not even for a second. Because if you were hurting, then Jake was staying. Just like he said he would.

– 

Jake eventually passed out, hands still pressed against your back as sleep claimed him. Morning came quickly, and you found yourself stirring in an empty bed.

And you felt... like absolute shit.

But maybe a different kind of shit.

The kind where your head still throbbed and your throat still felt like gravel and your whole body was sore— but you weren’t on fire anymore. Your brain felt foggy but no longer boiling in your skull.

You stirred under the covers and winced immediately at your aching body.

From the doorway of the room, you heard footsteps. Jake was beside you in seconds.

“Goodmorning beautiful,” he whispered, crouching at the side of the bed. “How’re you feeling? You need anything? How's your head?” He was already reaching for your face, pressing his hands against your cheeks to feel your temperature.

You blinked at him blearily. “Jake, I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine, you’re sick,” he corrected. “Fever’s down a little though. You’re not sweating anymore.”

“I feel gross,” you mumbled, voice cracking like dry leaves. “But less… death-y.”

Jake’s eyes softened. “I’ll take that.”

He smoothed your hair back again and tucked the blanket around your shoulders even though you were already half-buried in it.

“Don’t get up. I’ll bring you tea and toast. Then I’ll run a bath if you feel up for it. And I washed all your towels, by the way. The soft one’s on top.”

You blinked again. “You washed my towels?”

“Baby, I washed everything,” he said, giving you a look. “Been housewifing it up in here. I even wiped down your light switches.”

You let out the tiniest laugh and buried your face in the pillow.

“I could look after you sick for the rest of our lives and I’d still think you’re perfect.” Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your hair. “But please don’t. I like you better healthy,” he added.

You gave him a sleepy, crooked smile. “Weirdest love confession I’ve ever received.”

He grinned, but only for a moment— his brows pulled together again as he cupped your cheek, just feeling the temperature under your skin.

“Still too warm,” he said under his breath. “I’ll get the tea. And maybe some fruit. You need some food in your system. Don’t move.”

“It’s not like I’m inclined to run away right now.”

He narrowed his eyes at you playfully, like you might rebel at any second, then stood and kissed your temple, again, before leaving the room. You could hear him in the kitchen within moments— opening drawers, pouring water into the kettle, pacing like you were on the verge of collapse and he had to be ready.

You smiled faintly into the pillow. Your body still ached, and your sinuses were stuffed, and you couldn’t imagine doing anything but staying in bed for another twelve hours.

But you had Jake.

And even if he hovered like a worried grandmother, and whispered about your too-high-fever under his breath like it was haunting him, he was yours.

And he was there.

Jake returned to the bedroom with a fresh mug of tea and a cautious expression. His hair was pulled back messily, like he’d been running his hands through it too many times while pacing the hallway, and he had that boyish furrow in his brow he got when he was trying not to concentrate.

He handed you the mug gently, watching you sip like it might shatter in your hands. “Alright. Be honest with me, how are we feeling?”

You gave a tired shrug. “Still shitty. But less of the delirious kind.”

“That’s not exactly a raving review,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face.

You were about to say something cheeky, but he cut in, already crouching beside the bed, one hand brushing hair from your forehead with exaggerated care.

“I was thinking maybe a bath,” he offered softly. “Something warm, not too hot. Steam might help your sinuses, and your muscles are probably screaming. I put the magnesium salts in already.”

You blinked. “You ran the bath?”

“Well, yeah. I knew if I waited to ask, you’d tell me not to bother,” he said, trying for a light tone, but his eyes were serious. “I’ll come sit with you. Just in case you feel dizzy again.”

“I’ll be fine,” you murmured, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “It’s not like I’m gonna faint in the tub.”

Jake’s lips pressed into a line.

“Let me come with you. I’ll keep you upright and feed you grapes if necessary.”

You smiled faintly, sinking back into the pillows. “Only if you join me.”

That made him pause. “Join you? In the bath?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed again. “I just… I want you close.”

There was a beat of silence, then the soft sound of Jake exhaling through his nose.

“Alright,” he said, already smoothing the blanket down. “But only ‘cause you asked. And also ‘cause I was planning to anyway.”

He helped you up with extreme care, hands steady at your waist, arm around your back, and moving like you were made of glass. You leaned against him as he led you into the bathroom, warm air curling around your legs as you stepped inside.

The tub was full, the water tinted slightly from the salts he must have added, and the lights were just a soft glow, dimmed to a warm hum.

He helped you out of your clothes, whispering little reassurances the whole time, before lowering you slowly into the bath. The moment your body hit the warmth, a full body sigh slipped from your mouth.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “That’s perfect.”

Jake smiled, then stripped down beside you and climbed in behind you, his chest to your back, thighs bracketing yours beneath the water. The moment he got settled, his hands found your shoulders, thumbs pressing slow, gentle circles into the muscles there, working downward..

You melted into him, your head lolling slightly to the side.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just kissed your damp hair and kept massaging, letting the water do half the work, and his touch do the rest. Every now and then he whispered little murmurs like "You're okay, I've got you,"  though his hands never stilled.

Finally, through the haze of steam and comfort and warmth, you whispered, “I love you.”

Jake’s hands paused. Then moved again, slower, steadier.

You turned your head just enough to glance up at him, eyes heavy but sincere. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Jake’s heart clenched like a fist in his chest. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone, then your temple, then your shoulder, his palms smoothing up and down the skin on your arms.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Every time. Whether you want me to or not.”

You smiled weakly and let your head fall back against his shoulder again. He held you tighter, your back to his chest, arms around your waist, the two of you surrounded by a world slowed down.

You stayed like that until the water began to cool, and even then, Jake didn’t move until you whispered you were ready. He dried you off carefully, like you were something precious, dressed you in your softest pajamas, then helped you back into bed.

He even tucked the infamous teddy bear under your arm again, muttering some dramatic annoyance at the small, ragged thing, before kissing your forehead and climbing into bed behind you.

Wrapped in Jake’s arms, the worst of the aches still lingering but your body finally starting to relax, you let your eyes fall shut. His warmth at your back, the quiet sound of him breathing behind you, made everything begin to feel a little less heavy.

You were still sick, still wiped out, but you didn’t have to do anything else right now. 

Jake adjusted the blanket over your legs, then rested his chin lightly against your shoulder.

After a long pause, he whispered, “I love you.”

You hummed faintly, barely a sound, your eyes already closing.

His hand smoothed over your arm once, slow and careful. “Get some sleep.”

And you did. Tag List: @frogkiszka @hailtheaeon @allof--mylove @scarabsinthestardust @musicislove3389 @lightsofthe-living-gvf

[dandelionflowery]

I don't really do my homework lol, so when I get home I have some time; and sleep is overrated anyways /hj (i mean if I got 5 hours of sleep last night i'm impressed lol)

When I do do homework, usually i do some time management where I pop on tumblr as a little break

Actually rn I'm technically attempting to do homework, I have to "find a question for the 'big oral' (yes it's called that) at the end of the year" actually 2 questions but 1 would already be nice and i either need one on biology (or geology but no way lol) and one on art, or 2 that mix both biology and art

And the thing is, you prepare two of these things just so they can make sure you worked, but you'll only present one, and honestly for most normal students, yeah, this is worth 10% of the final grade, but for me it's something like 10/160 instead of 10/100

If you want me to rant way more about this stupid fucking thing, I am more than capable lol

Anyways

i lived an hour away by bus and i was not about to stay when i had no lessons and i also had no friends to do ts with --> oh yeah that's not at all encouraging to do extracurriculars

Honestly I wouldn't actually mind doing stuff, but I don't really have the time to lol

Philosophy is absolutely up to personal opinion, but they also grade your ability to talk fancy, and the thing is I'm (most likely) autistic so I just write plain and simple things without really bullshitting my way through SEVEN FUCKING PAGES (I tend to do like 3 max) and they aren't happy

My teacher is absolutely terrible cause throughout the year my best grade was 14/20 (don't ask why our grades [in france, not just in philosophy] are out of 20, I have no idea lol), usually I got more 5/20 lol. And if I got 5/20 but with a bunch of comments saying, "oh, maybe do this", or "you could mention this", I'd be like 'ok so i have an idea of how to improve now ty'

but no, we got a test back today and I got 5/20 and he wrote: "Insufficient" at the top of my test, he quoted the methodology at me, he circled a reference I put without adding any comments, and he signed the paper like he did all the others. Useful dude.

[I mentioned harry potter because LITERALLY ALL THE PEOPLE with better teachers I TALKED TO said that drawing on personal knowledge and/or pop culture is a good way to go (one of my friends who has a different teacher literally got recommended a book on philosophy through a harry potter lens BY HER TEACHER), however my incompetent teacher apparently hates that]

in a modicum of fairness to him, I haven't listened to most of the classes since like september, but that's because in September I listened, took notes, and understood nothing; and I chose to write smut in class instead, or do homework, or sew stuff because at least that's more useful.

(we often have strike days where our absences are justified, so you can get away with not going to class [they do tell your parents though]; and one strike day, I was planning on going home anyways cause my back hurt, and a friend and I went to a café down the street instead of going to philosophy, and we got a lot more work done than if we'd gone to the philosophy class.)

(he teaches as if we were students in higher education who all chose to do philosophy and already know a bunch of things, and all he has to do is encourage us to think of some things and to offer some more authors; I believe at the beginning of the year he was like "oh yeah so you should do about an hour or two of reading [philosophical books] per week" and there is no way I'm reading in french [despite having lived here my whole life, I generally abhor reading in french lol] about topics I don't understand in the slightest, written in overcomplicated language by dudes who died centuries ago every week)

(he forgets most of us encountered philosophy with him)

very quick drawing lol

okay very important question did you take history or geography in school?

nope😓😓 French, art, and food tech

[dear-indies]

hi!! im back again w another fc help question... do you know any fc lists/directories of dark skinned black women?? ive been struggling to find a black fc for my oc... somehow. (shes very bright & bubbly & energetic and dresses like the disco era; heavily inspired by naomi/trinity fatu but my oc is younger than naomi (the oc is in her 20s) so i cant use her 😭😭)

hi, cat!! can you please help me find a young (early - mid 20s) dark skinned black female fc? i can find a lot of black women, but i would prefer one with darker skin!

Hey there! Since I got two similar asks I'm going to list every darkskinned and darker skinned black woman I know of so everybody has a list and put an emoji on the ones that best work for excalumbras' ask!

✨Bree Runway (1992) Ghanaian - is queer.

Birgundi Baker (1992) African-American.

✨Nyakim Gatwech (1993) South Sudanese.

✨Moonbear (1994) African-American - is queer.

Keeya King (1994) Black Canadian.

Karen Obilom (1994) Igbo Nigerian.

Simona Brown (1994) Jamaican.

✨Little Simz (1994) Yoruba Nigerian - has spoken up for Palestine!

Duckie Thot (1995) South Sudanese.

Mouna Traoré (1995) Afro Haitian and Malian.

Ryan Destiny (1995) African-American, 1/4 White.

✨Tkay Maidza (1996) Zimbabwean.

Khoudia Diop (1996) Senegalese.

Assa Sylla (1996) Soninke Mauritanian.

✨Joy Sunday (1996) Nigerian.

Vivian Oparah (1996) Nigerian.

Chinenye Ezeudu (1996) Black British.

✨Zuri Reed (1996) African-American.

Precious Mustapha (1997) Nigerian.

Anok Yai (1997) South Sudanese.

Nia Sondaya (1997) African-American.

Shanelle Nyasiase (1997) South Sudanese.

CHIKA (1997) Igbo Nigerian - is bisexual.

Jayme Lawson (1997) African-American.

Coco Jones (1998) African-American.

Yandeh Sallah (1998) Black Swedish.

Aweng Chuol (1998) South Sudanese.

Lovie Simone (1998) Ghanaian / African-American.

Ama Qamata (1998) Black South African.

Corinna Brown (1998) Black British.

Laura Kariuki (1998) Kenyan.

✨Rachel Chinouriri (1998) Zimbabwean - after educating herself quit SXSW in solidarity with the people of Palestine!

Imani Lewis (1999) African-American

Samara Joy (1999) African-American - has spoken up for Palestine!.

Adut Akech (1999) South Sudanese.

Lauryn Ajufo (2000) Nigerian.

Angelina Adhel Bol (2000) South Sudanese.

Nyadollie (2000) Sudanese - instagram does mention weight loss for anybody who finds that triggering.

Cat Burns (2000) Liberian - is queer, autistic and has ADHD - has spoken up for Palestine!

Lyric Ross (2003) African-American.

I hope this helps and please give me any suggestions to add!

[hinamie]

inflict

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Learning to celebrate the little wins!

[c0exiist]

Nazli’s words caught him off guard as he didn’t think of it that way, Desmond was simply being transparent, especially in a place where everyone had their own secrets. However, as she pointed out what he did for her, he nodded confidently as that was exactly what he wanted to do for her. “Without a doubt, you deserve the space. I don’t want to rush or force you, you’ve been through a lot and I want to go at your own pace. Besides, this is all new to me, so I feel like we’re figuring things out as we go and I don’t mind that.” 

Her honesty put him at ease as he leaned into her touch, “Good…Good…We’re on the same page.” Desmond felt relieved to know that Nazli was all in as he looked forward to seeing where their relationship would take them. He chuckled softly while taking her hand and walking her over to the passenger seat of his car. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” he reassured her before leaning down to kiss her forehead and then opening up the door to help her in. “I won’t let you down, ma'am.” Closing the door behind her, he then texted the security team that he was stepping out for a few and will return back within the hour after dropping Naz off. Once he got into the driver seat, he took one last look at her and smiled, “Thanks for spending time with me by the way, you made the night worth it." And with that, he drove off to take her home.

[ END. ]

Nazli let herself sink into the warmth of his touch, the circles he drew on her back grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. Her eyes searched his face as he spoke, listening not just to the words but to everything unspoken—his hesitation, his hope, the way his heart was already halfway in without needing her permission. His promise—however messy and real—made something in her chest loosen. “You say you’ve got learning to do, but you’re already showing up in ways most people wouldn’t even bother trying,” she murmured, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric of his shirt near his collarbone. “You make space for me. You listen. You’re patient with my hesitation, even when I’m still figuring it all out.”

She drew back just enough to meet his eyes fully. “And Des? I feel the same. I’m scared too. Not of you—but of what it means to want something this much, after everything.” Her thumb skimmed across his jaw. “But I want this. I want you. Even if the timing’s wild and the whole world around us is laced in secrets and danger and whatever the hell Devil’s Junction likes to throw at us next.” Her lips curled into a small smile as she echoed softly, “Fuck it… let’s do it.” And when he kissed her again—really kissed her—Nazli leaned into it completely, letting herself believe just a little more that maybe, just maybe, something good could grow from this chaos.

She let out a quiet groan when his phone buzzed and pulled away with a reluctant, “Ugh, your job is so rude.” But she softened quickly, her expression amused as she brushed a bit of lint from his jacket. “Yes, you can take me home. Yes, I’d love a proper date. And yes, I will absolutely make you plan it because if I have to choose a restaurant, we’ll end up eating toast at my shop counter surrounded by unfinished pieces.” His nerves were too cute and she found it rather endearing that a man who looked like him, gave off that impression of being stoic and strong was actually seeming nervous around her. "I'm putting some hope on you Des, don't let me down okay?" Her voice dropped a few octaves as she murmured that last sentence.

[minhosblr]

Minho smiling compilation!

Happy belated birthday Ana (@acebytaemin) ♡