#vintage hand held games

[chasedbybuildings]

Further to my previous post about my Game & Watch handheld, I've since rediscovered the name of the other one I owned. Turns out it was called Monster Panic and I thought it was kind of rework of Donkey Kong, but after seeing this 1981 advert for it I then remembered that there was a bit more to it. I don't remember mine being yellow - I thought mine was white - but perhaps there were various colours available. Or I'm just remembering it wrong.

I love the little images of different bits of the game, especially the fight with the skeleton.

[machetelanding]

[noonecareslol]

࣪˖ ִ ೀ 𝐀 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

Hwang In-ho x Fem! Reader

Summary: When the games aren’t in session, and In-ho is lonely, he finds himself in the first row at the ballet. Watching you. Suddenly he's falling in love.

TW: Channeling my love for older men. Injury. Reader lowkey gets sad for a sec. Age gap (reader is 25 In-ho is 49). Just FLUFF! In-ho learning how to love someone again. Quite literally head over heels for you. Allusions to masturbation. Size kink if you squint.

WC! 5k Part 2! -> here!

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It is quite obvious that In-ho is an old soul.

He enjoys old films, old clothing, old theatre, and old music. The little jazz set that plays, “Fly Me To The Moon�� is a cherished possession of his, along with his vintage whiskey decanter.

He wears a musky cologne he’d been gifted by his late wife, and his closet is lined with leather dress shoes and perfectly pressed slacks. His dimly lit room on the island is vastly similar to the one in his Seoul apartment, everything perfectly neat and clean.

Yes, In-ho is an old soul.

And in between the games, when he would return to Seoul, he’d find himself bored. Especially during the night. He’d miss his wife, the whispered hope of a promised future.

Often he would distract himself by putting his whiskey decanter to good use, pouring the aged whiskey into his glass over and over again. He would linger by his shelf full of movies he’d seen hundreds of times, tracing his fingers along the cases until he landed on a title. A small smile would play on his lips before popping it into the DVD player and taking a seat next to his beloved cat.

He would find himself mumbling the lines as the actors spoke them on screen, his hand absentmindedly petting his cat. When the movie is over, and the quiet resumes, he’d move to his bedroom.

He’d ensure his cat followed before changing into his expensive pajamas and climbing into the king-sized bed. His cat would join him and he would drift to sleep, dreaming of, well, nothing.

He would close his eyes and wake up without any dream having occupied his mind.

This routine became comfortable. Each night he would get home from whatever he’d been doing before, drink, watch a movie, play with his cat, and sleep without any dreams.

But this night, this night was different.

It was a cold night. And all In-ho wanted to do was drown in glasses of whiskey and watch “Dial ‘M’ For Murder” with his cat.

But as he walked past a line of people waiting to enter a theatre, a poster caught his attention. He blinked once, twice, before walking toward the lit-up frame.

A strikingly beautiful ballerina caught his attention first. She held her arms elegantly above her head, her leg pointed behind her, her other leg resting on pointe as she looked to the side. She was breathtaking.

The Seoul Ballet Company Presents: Swan Lake

Opening Night November 1st

Suddenly the thought of whiskey and Alfred Hitchcock left his mind as he joined the line. I mean, who would miss out on opening night?

Especially when the lead was so pretty.

“We have one ticket left in the front row.” The woman behind the ticket booth clicked her pen unenthusiastically as she watched In-ho pull his leather vintage wallet out of his coat pocket.

A grin rested plainly on his lips as he fiddled with his cash, “That’s perfect. How much?”

The woman slowly turned and punched a few numbers into her register before turning back to him, “80,000 won.” She clicked her pen again.

“Do you have change for 100,000?” He held the two 50,000 won in front of him, watching as she stared at him blankly.

She blinked once before snatching the bills from his hands, “Nope!” In-ho sighed. For someone so slow she took those bills awfully fast.

In-ho drew his lips into a thin line before taking the ticket and placing it in his wallet, “Thanks.”

“Yeah enjoy the show or, like, whatever.” The woman took out her phone and began to text as he walked away, obviously not giving a shit about her job.

But as In-ho walked through the double doors, his breath caught in his throat. The theatre certainly did not disappoint his love for old architecture.

The large barrel vaulted ceilings were beautifully ornamented and adorned with intricately painted designs. Gorgeous crown molding edged the ceiling and stretched to the floor. And a large crystal chandelier rested as the centerpiece, warmly lit and inviting.

In-ho took his seat, a smile evident on his lips as he sighed contently. However, he hoped his cat wasn’t too worried about his whereabouts. Maybe she could come along next time? She is a very sophisticated cat, after all.

As the chandelier and house lights began to dim, the crowd became quiet with anticipation and excitement. And it would be dishonest to say that In-ho wasn’t a little excited as well.

He looked to his left at the woman sitting next to him. She was a small elderly lady with a pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her eyes were filled with excitement as she scanned through the pamphlet, a wide smile plastered on her face.

She wore a vintage necklace around her neck, layered with pearls. In-ho smiled, it was nice to see someone who also had a knack for old taste.

The soft notes of Swan Lake began to play, and In-ho watched as the curtains opened, revealing the beautifully decorated stage. Large trees with hanging vines arched over the set, greenery and flowers blending into the painted backdrop.

A foggy mist flooded the stage as dancers began to move elegantly across. But the lead had yet to make an appearance.

In-ho watched rather impatiently, and failed to notice the woman next to him lean in, “Right now, the prince is going hunting with his crossbow. But he will find that the white swan has turned into a beautiful woman, and has fallen under a curse.” The old woman pointed slightly to the prince, her voice whispering just loud enough for him to hear.

His eyes trained on the prince as he danced with his crossbow, “Thank you. I must look confused.”

The old lady gave a small laugh, “I used to dance for this company, i’ll never miss an opportunity to explain the ballet.”

In-ho watches as she subtly mimics the prince's moves, her hands moving elegantly in front of her. Her eyes were closed, the sound of the music bringing emotion to her face.

Her eyes flick open as the music changes softly, “Look.” Her eyes lighting up as she nods slightly to the stage.

In-ho watches as you finally take the stage, fluttering your feet as you move elegantly toward the prince. Your hands held high above your head, moving gracefully as you bourrée.

He watched as your back muscles contracted, moving as if you had wings. His eyes trained down to your legs and to your pointe shoes, watching as you danced with ease.

Your white feathered skirt moved along with you, the bodice elegantly framing you perfectly. The feathered piece in your hair catches In-ho’s attention, causing him to study your face.

That poster was nothing compared to your beauty.

You held a soft look, but In-ho didn’t fail to notice the focus that caused your eyebrows to furrow slightly. Your movements were soft and graceful, your demeanor innocent and melancholic.

You were perfect as the white swan.

You were perfect.

He wondered if you were just as innocent as you portray yourself to be, “God, she’s beautiful.”

The elderly woman hummed in agreement as she watched In-ho’s gaze remain sharp on the white swan, an all-knowing smile spread across her lips.

As the ballet continued it seemed that the rest of the audience had disappeared. In-ho felt as if you were only dancing for him. No one else.

He swore you looked at him a few times, him being the focus point of your graceful turns.

And when you transitioned into the black swan, all thoughts in In-ho’s head became dark.

Oh, how he liked this side of you.

Your movements were sharp, determined, and seductive. And he found himself adjusting in his seat as his slacks became increasingly tight. You were so close to him. Just a few feet from his touch as you danced on stage. He could take you right now. He could fuck you, make you feel things you’ve never felt before.

And as you leaped on the stage, the white swan jumping to her death, In-ho felt a tear slip from his eye. You were magnificent.

The audience filed out of the theatre, fanning themselves with their pamphlets and discussing the ballet. You had received a standing ovation, and In-ho took pride in being the first one to stand and clap.

He had finally caught your attention. And when you locked eyes with him as you bowed, you felt your brain turn to mush.

He was handsome. Like, extremely handsome.

His face was perfectly chiseled. His eyes crinkled as he flashed a perfect smile, his hair slightly falling in front of his face and covering his dark eyes.

You didn’t blink once as you remained under his gaze, and it wasn’t until another dancer pulled you up that you realized you were bowing for far too long.

You avoided his eye contact as you walked off, embarrassed he had made you turn into putty just by his stare.

And as In-ho exited the theatre, he took his time lingering by the lamp post. He’d secretly hoped to see you leave.

He doesn’t know what he would say if he did see you. Maybe he would compliment you, or ask you a meaningless question. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d push you against the lamppost, and let his desire consume you.

He’d just wait a little bit longer.

10 minutes.

15 minutes.

30 minutes.

The woman from behind the ticket booth locked the door as she brought down the metal gate, “Excuse me, did the woman who danced as the white swan leave yet?”

She turned around smacking her gum, “Yeah. Why?” She sized him up, placing a hand on her hip as she cocked an eyebrow.

In-ho felt his face flush, “I was just going to compliment her.” He put his cold hands in the pockets of his coat, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

“Yeah well,” The woman smacks her gum as she walks up towards In-ho, handing him a flier, “They have open practice every Friday. Tickets are only 10,000 won.”

He took the flier from her hand, folding it and sliding it into his pocket, “Thanks.” She nodded her head and walked past him, slipping into her jacket.

In-ho turned and started his walk to his apartment only a block away. When he arrived, he heard the familiar sound of meowing by his front door.

And as he opened the door, he came face to face with his cat waiting on the couch, “I’m sorry Elisabeth, but I’m too tired for a movie tonight.”

She gave an annoyed meow before reluctantly following him into his room, hopping onto the pillow beside his. In-ho got dressed in his pajamas, ready for another dreamless night as he slipped into the sheets next to Elisabeth.

But this time, it wasn't dreamless.

In fact, he had dreamed a very vivid dream.

He had dreamt of you.

And as In-ho woke up the next morning, his hand immediately went to his nightstand, picking up the flier.

It seems that the pretty ballerina has stolen his heart.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Plié! Ron de jambe, retiré! Good!" You held your arms in front of you, your right leg coming up at a bend, "Pas de chat, écarté! Don't rush it, Fiona!"

Your ballet teacher weaved between you and the other students, her tight bun sitting perfectly on her pointed head, "Développé, demi-pointe! No! Not pointe, demi pointe!"

Her thick French accent bellowed throughout the theatre, "Good y/n! Très bien!" A wide smile painted your lips as you continued your dance, your friend Fiona rolling her eyes at your praise. You giggled as you went into second, your arms outstretched to the side.

"Well done! Take a water break and stretch, we'll take five." You brought your hands to your knees, leaning over slightly as you caught your breath.

Fiona dramatically flopped on her back, a hand coming to her forehead as she breathed heavily, "I've died, she's killed me." You tossed her water bottle into her hand with a laugh as you sat next to her, your eyes scanning the theatre.

Familiar faces met your eyes. Elderly couples, former dancers, and little kids with their moms. Oh! And the man who you haven't stopped thinking about.

Wait.

You hit Fiona's shoulder hard, not taking your eyes off him, "Fiona. Fiona, look." She sat up, holding her shoulder as her eyes trailed to where you were subtly pointing.

"Oh, it's the hot dilf." Fiona took a drink from her bottle, watching as In-ho looked around while taking in the architecture.

You slapped her shoulder again, "Shut up! What if he hears you?" You get up from the ground, pulling Fiona up with you and tossing your water bottle back into your bag.

She followed suit, taking one last drink before tossing it in her own, "First off, stop hitting me. It's abuse." You rolled your eyes as you both took your spot by the barre, "Second, he's in the back corner of the theatre, he's not hearing shit. Except for our teacher's constant yelling."

You didn't respond, instead, you continued looking at him. His black turtle neck sweater hugged his biceps perfectly, and you didn't fail to notice his empty finger where a ring would sit.

"Okay! Lets continue! Tendu, plié! Ron de jambe, plié!"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It had been two months since In-ho first started spending his Fridays pining over you.

Each Friday, he would come home, change into an outfit he had dry-cleaned and pressed, feed Elisabeth, and head to the Theatre. He would take his spot in the far left corner, and watch as you danced and laughed with your friends.

He found himself looking forward to Fridays. Which is strange, because he's never looked forward to anything before. Well, besides the games. But he had been so focused on you, that he had fallen behind on his work. Something he'd never done before.

You plagued his mind.

He dreams of you. When he's asleep and awake. He'd find himself walking by the Theatre on other days when you were practicing, hoping to see a glimpse of you.

He found himself listening to Etta James and Nat King Cole more often than not. 'A Sunday Kind Of Love' and 'Unforgettable' filing his apartment as he cooked his dinners. 'My Fair Lady' and 'Gone With The Wind' replacing his classic mystery movies.

He even found himself stopping by flower boutiques, smelling the tulips and Orchids. He wonders what your favorite flower is. Perhaps it is Lilies, the flower that represents innocence and purity.

He wondered a lot if you were a virgin. Often imagining the feeling of your body under his large one late at night when he can't sleep, and when his hand finds itself under his pants.

You had him wrapped around your pretty little finger and you didn't even know it.

Vice Versa, you found yourself looking forward to Fridays as well.

It was the only day you could see the stranger who you had been thinking about constantly.

You liked his style, the way he carried himself with a confidence that intimidated you. His large frame towered over everyone, and he stood out from the crowd. He was perfect. It was as if god himself sculpted him with his own hands.

And oh my god.

You were down bad.

Fiona constantly teased you about it. Making fun of how you stopped wearing your loose cover-up, "Im just hot, that's all Fiona. It's warm in here." You lied. And Fiona was obviously aware of that.

You started offering to stay late with your teacher and help clean up, hoping to catch the stranger before he left. But your teacher always insisted you should go home and rest, and who were you to disobey her.

You've always been perfect. At school, at dance, at everything. When auditions came for Swan Lake, there was no question in anyone's mind about who would get the lead.

But since opening night, things have been slightly different. You often got distracted during practice, your eyes always finding the man in the back corner. You started falling out of your turns, forgetting to bring your pointe shoes, and, worse of all, you had been forgetting to point your toes.

And here you were. Walking to the center of the stage, ready to run through your variation in front of everyone. It was an easy variation, but the end was complicated. You had to do several pirouettes, which you have always been good at. But today you decided to test yourself.

You knew your teacher was becoming increasingly disappointed in you, it plagued your every thought. So, as you spun perfectly, you decided to see how many pirouettes you could perform.

17, 18, 19, 20.

Your leg is wobbling, but you choose to ignore it.

21, 22, 23-

You hear Fiona call your name as your foot slips out of pointe, twisting as you fall on top of it, "Oh my god!" The sickening sound of your ankle cracking causes your heart to drop. The stinging feeling of tears replaced by the overwhelming pain that was now shooting up your leg.

Everyone huddles around you as the teacher runs to call an ambulance, but Fiona kneels at your side, "I know this isn't the right time but, the dilf is running over here right now."

You close your eyes, trying to control your rapid breathing. You wished the stage would open around you and swallow you whole, just put you out of your misery.

In-ho jumps with ease onto the stage, his sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbow, "Move." He pushes past the dancers huddling over you and grabs your face.

Your eyes flick open at the feeling of warm hands pressed against your cheeks. Oh my god, he was holding your face. Your heart fluttered but you didn't notice, you were too worried about the fact that your ankle was bent the wrong way.

In-ho's hand softly brushes over your ankle, causing you to wince. At first, he's skeptical about touching you. Was it too fast? Too sudden? Too bold?

But he didn't have time to think it over as he put his strong arms under you, lifting you gently as he stood. Fiona watched with a smirk on her face as she saw shock fill your eyes, his biceps flexing as he pulled you close to his chest.

Without a word, In-ho steps down from the stage and carries you through the exit, "I have an ambulance coming!" Your teacher ran after him yelling, her typically neat bun somewhat loose and frizzy now.

In-ho motions to his pocket and Fiona responds, grabbing his car key and unlocking his Mercedez-benz, "It will take too long. I'll drive her."

For a split second, you catch his eye, and you could've sworn to god your pain disappeared for a moment. And if it were a different circumstance, In-ho would kiss you. He would kiss you right here with you in his arms.

But the shared look was short-lived as he very carefully sets you in the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt gently. Your ballet teacher leans down to the window, "Don't worry! Fiona can dance for you!"

Your heart shattered.

And tears began to flood. You ignored In-ho's words of reassurance as he took off, speeding to the hospital. The drive was quiet except for your soft cries. And In-ho wanted nothing more than to cradle you and whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

"Im sorry im getting your car dirty." You looked at the tear-stained headrest you laid against, wiping your sore eyes with the back of your hand.

In-ho cuts a car off as he turns, ignoring the beeps from the angry driver, "It's okay. I have another one." The subtle money brag wasn't missed by you. In-ho just wanted to impress you.

"What are you? Like a CEO or something?" You turned to face him, giving a pitiful sniffle as he gave another sharp turn.

He chuckled, and you felt your heart beat faster. Was it because of the adrenaline? Or was it because the man whom you've become obsessed with is quite literally acting like your night in shining armor, "Im... Im a game show host."

You nodded, an impressive smile growing on your face, "That's cool. Im y/n by the way."

He flashes a smile, the same smile from the night you first saw him, and a blush creeps up on your tear-stained cheeks, "You're sitting there, with a fucked up ankle, and you're making small talk?"

You suddenly feel embarrassed. He's just some random guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time, nothing more. "Sorry. Just trying to distract myself."

In-ho frowns. Did he say the wrong thing? His grip tightens on the steering wheel, "No! Don't be sorry. If I'm being honest, I've been dying to know your name."

His eyes flick to you before looking back in front of him, "Im Hwang In-ho." A small smile creeps onto his lips as he pulls to a stop in front of the ER.

"Well, Mr. Hwang, it's nice to meet you."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Well, it looks like you have a fracture." You give a long exasperated sigh as the Doctor holds up the X-rays, "The fibula is fractured below the level of the syndesmosis, which is the joint between the tibia and fibula."

You look at In-ho, who, for some reason, seems more stressed than you do, "What's the healing process like? Will she need surgery?" Your head snapped to the doctor at the mention of surgery. Surgery for dancers is like a death sentence.

No. More. Dancing.

"Fractures like these are considered stable, meaning that they are unlikely to worsen with correct treatment and management. You'll just need to wear a boot for a while." The doctor noticed how your concerned look didn't falter, and gave a sigh before placing a hand on your shoulder, "You can still dance."

The breath you were holding escapes your lips as you feel a heavy weight fall off your shoulders, "Thank you so much." The doctor rubs your shoulder before leaving, instructing the nurse to fit you for a boot.

In-ho watches as you close your eyes, a smile resting on your face. He cocked his head, how could you be so beautiful in a moment like this? His eyes take a minute to trail down your body, taking you in, something he's grown fond of doing.

Your hair is a mess, your cheeks are red and tear-stained, your ankle looks like a snapped twig, and you're picking at your cuticles. But god.

You are perfect.

Just as beautiful now as you were months ago.

An unfamiliar feeling has taken over his chest ever since he saw you. A tightening, warm feeling that he hasn't felt in years. At first, he ignored it. Maybe it was just heartburn? But as it progressed, he got worried. The next thing you know a doctor is laughing in his face.

Calling it 'love'.

In-ho immediately left after he heard that, making sure to write a very passive-aggressive review on Yelp. What doctor diagnosed a patient with 'being in love'?

In-ho was not in love.

...

...

Right?

It wasn't until he watched 'Funny Face' that he realized the estranged doctor was correct. The moment Fred Astaire saw Aubrey Hepburn and was immediately captivated by her beauty, he knew it was true.

He didn't care that he was more than twenty years older than you, or that he had bigger things to worry about, all he cared about was you.

And that made him so confused.

You had managed to captivate his heart, soul, and body. And he felt like a teenager with his first crush all over again. So as he saw you look up at him with those big doe eyes of yours, he couldn't help what happened next.

He stood from his chair, taking large steps towards your frame. You furrowed your eyebrows as you watched him stand between your legs, careful not to hit your ankle.

His big hands reach down and grab your face, slamming your lips into his own. Your eyes grow wide, confusion flashing across your face before slowly giving in, pulling his head down lower.

His touch was gentle, the opposite of his kiss. His hands softly caressed your red cheeks, while his lips hungrily chased after your own.

You tugged at the baby hairs that rested on the back of his neck, desire and hunger feeding off you as he slipped his tongue into your pretty mouth. A low growl escaped his swollen lips, and you felt arousal begin to pool between your thighs.

You whine as he removes his hand from your face and steps back, crossing his arms. His gaze has always been intimidating. But now that he's seen you fall on your ass, cry, and melt under his touch all in one day, it is much more intimidating.

You've been vulnerable in front of him. Something you could never do before. But you didn't care if he saw your flaws, you were perfect to him.

He saw a future when he looked at you. He saw a family, something he had longed for many years ago. He saw hope, love, and promise.

He saw you.

Beautiful, perfect, irresistible you.

And as he looked at you, only one question entered his mind.

"Do you want to meet my cat?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

a/n: chat. its 2 am. but i am DETERMINED to post this. i just love you guys sm mwah mwah. also, wasn't in a smut mood. still getting used to writing smut LMAO.

also random disclaimer: i have never done ballet. so if any terms are wrong or if my spelling is trash PLS LMK!

@bohemiandelilah @menabuser16 @verouys @speedymagazinewhispers @metalbaby2 @nellabear @marymun @orihime188 @nanascupid @fnl9zer @chasinghxran @crystalizia @auspicious-lilana @machipyun @cdej6 @namelesslosers

[ninibeingdelulu]

Calmness ✧

Plot: Ken and you have a real daughter.

A/N: kinda short :(

Soft evening light filtered through the den, casting everything in that warm, nostalgic glow you'd come to associate with pure contentment over these past few blissful years together.

Ken's attention remained transfixed on that vintage baseball game rerun flickering across the flatscreen.

Body settled deep into those overstuffed couch cushions with one leg casually crossed over the other in peak middle-aged dad repose.

But it was the tiny, swaddled bundle cradled against his barrel chest that held your rapt fascination from the archway.

Soaking in every precious detail of their serene tableau with an overflow of maternal adoration swelling in your breast.

At just three months old, your newborn daughter remained utterly oblivious to her surroundings - cherubic features smoothed into perfect repose while bronzed lashes fanned over porcelain cheeks.

One little fist tucked up beneath her chin while the other tiny starfish hand rested atop Ken's broad pec, rising and falling with each of his steady rumbles.

Her doting father absently brushed the pad of his thumb in soothing circles over the minuscule knuckles. Never once taking those transfixed mahogany pools off your slumbering miracle's face as if committing every microscopic shift to eternal memory.

That singular worshipful reverie you'd immediately recognized and fallen hopelessly in love with all over again these past few weeks.

The exact same soul-deep look Ken once bestowed solely upon the orphaned kaiju he'd raised before watching her depart for greener pastures - now magnified tenfold through his unbreakable connection to your shared offspring.

A permanent reminder of the family you created together from that cosmic loneliness.

"She's not at all like Emi was , is she?" You murmured, footsteps barely audible across the plush carpet until dropping onto the open cushion space beside him.

Ken responded with only a low rumbling hum from his broad chest while immediately unfurling that sheltering arm around your shoulders.

Cocooning you into his solid, familiar warmth until your cheek smooshed comfortably against the firmness of his shoulder. Close enough to press a wandering caress across your tiny miracle's silken crown.

"No - she's not. She's ours." A meaningful pause preceded Ken's soft, gravelly rasp ghosting across your hairline. "Our daughter...our real baby that you gave me, sweetheart. One I'll guard with my life the same way I do for you always."

Melting into the tender, possessive squeeze encircling your trim waist, you craned your chin up against his collarbone to receive that lingering brush over your puckered lips.

Ken's soulful gaze locked onto yours - swimming depths of protective ferocity tamed only through utter reverence for the two solitary souls anchoring his universe now.

The unspoken mantra of doing anything to safeguard the loves of his life until extinction itself.

"You've already given me more than enough happiness to last a trillion lifetimes, babe. Thank you," he whispered hoarsely against your skin.

"For being everything I could've dreamed during those cold, empty decades..."

You stifled the tiny sniffle by reclaiming his questing mouth in a searing, needful communion - conveying through satin caresses alone just how desperately you treasured this man and the profound sanctuary of family he'd bestowed upon you.

Your Ultraman, protector, partner, and living legacy of insurmountable love all in one. Cradling you both to his gallant hero's heart for eternity.

[amourquinn]

( short fic ) everything

pairing : boyfriend!quinn x fem!reader wc. 1.2k

genre : extreme fluff no warnings

summary : you and quinn spend christmas eve together and it ends with a beautiful surprise

the apartment smelled like sugar and cinnamon, warm and inviting. the faint hum of a christmas playlist played in the background, filling the air with soft jingles and cheerful tunes. it was december 24, and your favorite tradition with quinn hughes was in full swing: decorating cookies.

you sat cross-legged at the kitchen island, armed with piping bags filled with brightly colored icing, sprinkles scattered across the counter. quinn stood across from you, wearing an apron he’d claimed he didn’t need—though his flour-dusted hands and icing-streaked cheek suggested otherwise.

“alright, quinn-casso,” you teased, pointing at the lopsided tree he’d just decorated. the green icing was uneven, and the star looked more like a blob.

he held it up, feigning offense. “what? this is art. you just don’t get it.”

you laughed, snapping a picture with your polaroid camera. the flash caught him mid-eye-roll, flour still smudged on his cheek.

“add it to the collection,” you said, shaking the photo and setting it on the counter to develop.

the collection was an assortment of candid photos you’d been taking all month—quinn tangled in christmas lights, the two of you picking out a tree, him wearing the santa hat you’d forced on him. the pictures were scattered on the fridge, a chaotic but charming timeline of your holiday season together.

“fine,” quinn said, grabbing another cookie. “but if you’re going to document this, i’m going to make the best-looking snowman you’ve ever seen.”

you leaned on your elbow, watching him carefully pipe white icing onto the cookie. his tongue poked out slightly in concentration, a detail that made your heart swell.

“not bad,” you admitted as he added tiny sprinkle buttons.

“‘not bad’? that’s perfection,” he said, placing it on the tray with a satisfied grin.

you shook your head, laughing softly. “i guess i’ll give you that one.”

the two of you worked through the tray of cookies, decorating everything from candy canes to reindeer. you captured moments on your polaroid as you went: quinn sticking sprinkles on his nose to make you laugh, you holding up a cookie shaped like a heart, and the tray of finished cookies, a chaotic mix of skill and whimsy.

when the cookies were done, you both collapsed onto the couch with mugs of hot chocolate. the christmas tree twinkled softly in the corner, the ornaments catching the glow of the lights.

“i think we outdid ourselves this year,” quinn said, holding up a cookie shaped like a stocking.

“speak for yourself,” you teased, holding up one of your own. “mine are way better.”

he rolled his eyes, nudging your shoulder with his. “you’re lucky i love you.”

you smiled, leaning into him. “i know.”

⋆˙⟡

as the night wore on, the stack of polaroids grew. quinn had taken over the camera at some point, snapping pictures of you mid-laugh or caught off guard. one photo in particular made you laugh—a close-up of your face, icing smeared on your cheek.

“quinn! i wasn’t ready for that one!”

“that’s the point,” he said, smirking.

eventually, it was time for the part of the evening you both looked forward to the most: exchanging gifts.

“okay,” you said, hopping off the couch and grabbing a small, neatly wrapped box from under the tree. “you first.”

quinn set his mug down, his eyes lighting up as he took the box. “you know you didn’t have to get me anything, right?”

“yeah, yeah,” you said, waving him off. “just open it.”

he carefully unwrapped the box, lifting the lid to reveal a vintage hockey puck encased in glass. his jaw dropped.

“is this…”

you nodded, grinning. “it’s from your first-ever college game. i found it online, and the guy who had it was willing to sell. i thought you’d want to have it.”

he stared at it for a moment, his fingers brushing the glass. “this is amazing. thank you.”

his voice was soft, and when he looked up at you, his expression was full of gratitude. he set the puck down and leaned over to kiss you, his lips warm and lingering against yours.

“alright,” he said, pulling back. “your turn.”

he stood and grabbed a box from behind the tree. it was big, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a perfectly tied bow.

“wow,” you said, taking it from him. “someone went all out.”

“just open it,” he said, his grin mischievous.

you tore into the paper, lifting the lid to reveal… a polaroid camera. not just any camera, though—it was a custom design, your initials etched into the side, and the strap was embroidered with tiny snowflakes.

“quinn,” you breathed, running your fingers over the details.

“i know how much you love taking pictures,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “so i thought you’d like something a little more special.”

you set the box aside and threw your arms around him, holding him tightly. “it’s perfect. thank you.”

for a moment, the two of you just stood there, wrapped in each other. the night felt perfect, like something out of a storybook.

“actually…” quinn pulled back slightly, a nervous edge to his voice.

“what?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

he reached into his pocket, and he took out a neatly wrapped box. it wasn’t the biggest gift, but there was something about the way he held it, his expression a mix of nerves and excitement, that made your heart race.

“quinn…” you started, but he cut you off with a small smile.

“here.”

you unwrapped the box carefully, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate silver ring. It wasn’t flashy, but it was beautiful, a small diamond set into the band, understated and perfect. your breath caught in your throat.

“it’s not what you think,” quinn said quickly, rubbing his left arm. it’s not… you know, that ring. not yet, anyway.”

you looked up at him, your heart pounding. “so it’s—”

“it’s a promise ring,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “i know we’re not there yet, but i wanted you to know how serious i am about us. that i want this—you—for the long haul. this is my way of saying i’m all in, even if we’re not at the finish line yet.”

tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you stared at him, at the boyish grin on his face and the sincerity in his eyes.

“quinny…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“i love you,” he said, reaching for your hand. “and i just wanted you to know that.”

you nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek as you let him slide the ring onto your finger. “i love you too. so much.”

he let out a breath, relief washing over his face as he pulled you into his arms. for a moment, the world outside disappeared, leaving just the two of you wrapped in each other.

when you finally pulled back, you held up your hand, admiring the ring. “this is perfect. you’re perfect.”

quinn smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “i wouldn’t say perfect. my cookies were… mediocre.”

you laughed, swatting his arm. “hey, don’t ruin the moment.”

the night went on, filled with more moments that you knew you’d treasure forever. and as you sat there, leaning against quinn with the soft glow of the tree around you, you couldn’t help but think that this christmas was everything you’d ever wanted—and more.

© amourquinn

[psformybss]

ohh same anon abt secret fiancé amd queer cast! idea just came up to me maybe add another part where they do an interview and the cast gush about her just like the obx cast did:))

How Well Do We Know Each Other?

series masterlist

warnings: teasing, chaos, one obsessed husband, supportive besties

an: i lowkey feel like this is more teasing than gushing but there is some gushing sprinkled in

︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

The Variety studio looked like a Pinterest board come to life—warm lighting, slatted wood backdrops, and three vintage armchairs that screamed cool grandma energy. Omar Apollo, Daniel Craig, and Drew Starkey were lounged across them like they’d done this a dozen times before. Between them sat a coffee table with buzzers, whiteboards, and a half-empty bowl of red licorice that Omar had already hit twice.

A slate clapped. A producer called, “We’re live in three, two—”

“Hi, I’m Omar Apollo.”

“I’m Daniel Craig.”

“And I’m Drew Starkey.”

“And this—” Omar kicked a foot onto Drew’s knee, grinning at the camera, “—is How Well Do We Know Each Other?”

Cue the game-show jingle. All three cracked up.

“First question,” the producer called from off-camera. “Drew—who was the first person you told when you got the role in Queer?”

Drew’s answer came fast—head ducked, marker flying across his whiteboard like he already knew this was going to be a thing.

Omar leaned toward Daniel with the subtlety of a foghorn. “It’s his wife. Obviously.”

Daniel snorted. “Do I even need to write that down?”

“Yes,” Omar insisted, already scribbling Y/N in looping letters and underlining it like a middle school crush. “And I’m betting he cried.”

“Absolutely cried,” Daniel said. “He probably called her like baby, I got the part, and then sobbed into a couch cushion.”

Drew just laughed, cheeks pink, shaking his head with that soft, fond look—the kind that sneaks up and settles behind your ribs.

“Alright, reveal your answers,” the producer called.

Daniel held up his board: Y/N (duh)

Omar flipped his dramatically: Y/N (and he SOBBED)

Drew turned his around last: Y/N. I did not cry.

“Liar,” Omar said, throwing a red licorice at him.

“Rom-com lead behavior,” Daniel said, popping another into his mouth. “But to be fair—she is the sweetest.”

“She really is,” Omar nodded. “Remember when she visited set in Rome? And brought snacks for everyone ‘cause we had to shoot that night scene late?”

Daniel smiled. “She didn’t just bring snacks. She brought, like, a full buffet. Handed it out with little napkins and everything. I thought she was someone’s assistant.”

“And she still looked better than any of us,” Omar added. “Like, she was just chillin’, handing out pasta, looking like an off-duty Vogue model.”

“You married way up,” Daniel deadpanned, pointing at Drew with a red licorice.

“Painfully aware,” Drew muttered, grinning as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“If you’re watching this, Y/N,” Omar leaned toward the lens, “please drop the skincare routine. And also? I’m free for adoption.”

The next few questions moved fast—favorite songs, set habits, who breaks character most (spoiler: Drew). But twenty minutes in, chaos struck again.

“Okay,” the producer said with a sly smile. “This one’s for all three of you. How long did Drew and Y/N date for before getting married?”

Immediate groans.

“She’s going to see this,” Daniel said, dragging a hand over his face. “And judge us.”

“She won’t,” Drew insisted.

Omar squinted into the distance. “Wait… didn’t y’all start dating in high school?”

Daniel frowned. “Sophomore year?”

“Junior.”

“Bloody hell,” Daniel muttered, writing anyway.

“Okay—three, two, one,” the producer called.

Omar flipped his board: 8 years (and some change)

Daniel’s said: 8.5 years???

Drew revealed: dated for 9 years, married for 4 years 3 months 8 days (but who’s counting)

Omar dropped his marker. “Bro.”

Daniel leaned back in his chair. “You counted down to the day?”

“You’re a walking Hallmark card,” Omar said. “She’s got you whipped.”

“I’m happily whipped,” Drew said without hesitation, like the words didn’t embarrass him at all. Like they were just the truth.

And maybe that’s what got them—not the words, but the way he said them. Steady. Sure. Like even in this buzzy studio, with cameras on and jokes flying, a piece of him was somewhere else. Probably picturing her at home, in their kitchen, wearing one of his sweatshirts and telling their golden retriever about her day.

Daniel clapped him on the back. “I’ll say it again—married up.”

Drew smiled. “She makes it easy.”

“That’s what you said at the wrap party,” Omar said, snapping his fingers. “When someone asked what being married’s like. You said it’s like finally exhaling after holding your breath for years.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “Jesus. Get this man a poetry book.”

“Let him live,” Omar said, leaning on Drew’s shoulder.

They wrapped a few questions later—one about who’d go method (everyone pointed at Daniel), another about worst on-set habits (Omar: “Pickles between takes”), and a lightning round that devolved into absolute chaos.

The cameras cut. Crew scattered to pack gear. But the three actors stayed seated, stretched out, a little more slouched now, like guys who’d known each other longer than they actually had.

“You really don’t mind all the teasing?” Daniel asked, more sincere this time.

Drew leaned back. “Not even a little. She’s part of all of this—even when she’s not in front of the camera. Everything I do… it’s got her in it somewhere.”

Omar lobbed a licorice at him. “Okay, yeah. You win. That’s the realest thing I’ve heard all day.”

Drew caught it mid-air, grinning. “Told you. Whipped.”

And the laughter that followed was different this time. Softer. Realer. The kind of laughter that lives underneath everything else—respect, affection, something like family.

[starsinthesky5]

how did they celebrate their first birthday together? like Joe’s birthday 🥹

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

their first birthday together was one of those days that felt soft around the edges, golden and warm in the way you remember certain mornings from childhood—the ones that felt safe and sweet and entirely yours.

joe had the day off from football, which felt like a tiny miracle in itself. no meetings, no calls, no obligations. just him and her. just them. the morning was quiet and slow. he woke up to the smell of cinnamon and pumpkin drifting from the kitchen, the sheets still warm beside him, and when he rolled over to find her gone, he smiled. he already knew what she was doing.

he padded downstairs, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep, and was met with a scene that made his chest ache in the best way. the entire downstairs was decorated—not in some pinterest-perfect way, but in her way. playful, charming, a little chaotic. balloons taped to the ceiling, a “happy birthday baby” banner slightly crooked across the wall, confetti scattered across the kitchen counter even though she hates cleaning it up. a little note stuck to the smoothie machine in her handwriting: “don’t look in the fridge, your pie’s not ready yet.”

she appeared a second later, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies and holding a mug of coffee like she’d been waiting to surprise him all morning. and he just melted. picked her up and kissed her like it had been days instead of hours since he’d last held her.

they spent the morning wrapped in each other—sitting cross-legged on the living room floor eating pumpkin pie before noon, her singing a dumb birthday song in a fake voice just to make him laugh. she gave him his presents one by one, each more thoughtful and niche than the last: a first edition copy of a book he loved in high school, a vintage spongebob sweatshirt she found online, a little scrapbook she’d made of their first few months together—photos, texts, ticket stubs, even napkins she’d stolen from their first dinner out. and he couldn’t stop smiling. couldn’t stop kissing her between each gift. he kept saying, “you know me too well,” and she’d just shrug, trying to play it cool, but her eyes were gleaming.

for lunch, they didn’t bother going anywhere. she let him pick the place and they ordered in, eating on the couch while a movie played quietly in the background—not even watching, just laughing, just talking, her legs stretched across his lap while he absentmindedly rubbed her calf.

that evening, she told him to go shower and “put on something cute” while she set the table. and when he came back downstairs, the house was filled with a few of his closest friends—guys from college, a few teammates, his hometown friends. they hugged him, teased him, toasted to him. she made sure his favorite drink was stocked and his playlist was on, even made a few appetizers by hand, despite insisting she wasn’t cooking today. it wasn’t a party—it was something better. warm. familiar. like home.

they all watched the thursday night game together, piled onto couches and chairs, laughing, drinking, passing food around. and joe just kept looking at her. every time she got up to grab something or laughed too loud at someone’s joke, his eyes would follow. like he couldn’t believe she’d done all this for him. like he couldn’t believe he’d found someone who saw him so clearly.

later, when everyone was gone and the lights were low and the house was quiet again, he pulled her in, wrapped his arms around her, kissed the top of her head and whispered, “you made this the best birthday i’ve ever had,”.

and that night ended the way the best birthdays should—softly, slowly, and deeply intimately. tangled in sheets, her hands in his hair, his mouth on her neck, nothing rushed, just gratitude and love and quiet moans that tasted like “thank you,” and “you’re everything,” and “you’re mine,”.

they fell asleep like that—bodies warm, legs intertwined, the faint scent of pumpkin and her perfume still lingering in the air. she gave him space to breathe and feel celebrated at the same time, and it wasn’t flashy or loud or over-the-top—it was just right. all he could think was that this had been the best birthday he’d had in years. maybe ever. because she saw him—not the version of him the world sees, but him—and cater for him so well it almost brought tears to his eyes.

and he couldn’t stop thinking, even as his eyes drifted shut, this is what it feels like to be known. to be loved.

[verstappensrealwife]

Casual (Part 2 of 2) - Max Verstappen x Reader

[max verstappen masterlist / lando norris masterlist / f1 masterlist]

ʚɞ in which... lando can't give her what she wants, but max can. ʚɞ fluff, smut  ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 3200 words ʚɞ warnings: ex!fwb!lando x reader (Part1), Austria GP '24, crash into lando, small smut at the end.

PART ONE HERE

Previously…

“Maxverstappen1 has requested to follow you.” “Maxverstappen1 has requested to message you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Max, with his quiet confidence and genuine smiles, was a stark contrast to Lando’s fleeting attentions. You thought back to the brief conversations in stores, the way Max's eyes seemed to hold a depth of understanding, a kindness that Lando never showed. He had always treated you with respect, even in those short interactions, and now he was reaching out.

Curiosity and a spark of something you hadn’t felt in a long time—hope—bubbled up inside you. You hesitated for only a moment before accepting his follow request and opening his message.

“Hey, I hope you’re doing well. I was wondering if you’d like to grab a coffee sometime?”

The simplicity and sincerity of his message were refreshing. Max wasn’t playing games; he wasn’t hiding you or keeping you at arm’s length. As you read his words, you realized how much you craved that kind of straightforward, genuine connection.

In that moment, you knew you’d rather be with someone like Max—someone who saw you as more than just a fleeting distraction. You typed out a response, feeling a sense of anticipation and relief wash over you.

“Hi Max, I’d love to. When are you free?”

...

You continued to ignore Lando for a week before your date with Max.

Was it a date? You weren’t exactly sure.

Max looked incredibly handsome sitting across from you in the cozy corner of a cafe in Monaco. Outside, the rain poured down, casting the sky in a grey and gloomy shroud, while the warm lighting inside gave him a soft, inviting glow. You sipped from the mug in your hands, savoring the comforting warmth as you stole glances at him.

The cafe was a charming little place, filled with the comforting aromas of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries. The walls were adorned with vintage art and photographs of Monaco’s picturesque coastline, while soft jazz played in the background, mingling with the quiet murmur of other patrons. The rain outside added a rhythmic percussion, making the inside feel even more like a warm, intimate refuge from the world.

Max's eyes, a striking shade of blue, seemed to reflect the dim light, making them look almost ethereal. You couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers drummed nervously against the table, a small but endearing gesture that made your heart flutter.

“So, uhm, does your boyfriend know we’re here?” Max asked, breaking the silence. You almost choked on your drink at his question, frowning in confusion.

“B-boyfriend?” you repeated, setting the mug down and staring into his eyes.

He shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. God, you were pretty. “Lando? Is he not your boyfriend?”

You shook your head quickly, almost too quickly. Max hummed thoughtfully, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Is that a good thing?" you asked, your curiosity piqued.

“Well, I’m glad, so I suppose it is,” he replied, his smile widening slightly.

“Oh, so you asked out a woman you believed was taken, Max?” you teased, a laugh escaping your lips.

Max chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I guess I just couldn’t resist,” he said, his voice low and sincere. The sound of the rain pattering against the windows created a soothing backdrop to your conversation, the world outside forgotten as you both basked in the warm glow of the moment.

Conversation flowed effortlessly between the two of you, each word drawing you closer. Max listened intently as you spoke, his eyes never leaving your face, and when it was his turn, his stories and laughter held you spellbound. Time seemed to slip away unnoticed in the warm, inviting glow of the café.

By the end of the evening, around 5 pm, the rain had eased to a gentle drizzle, casting a magical shimmer on the streets. Max walked you back to your house, the quiet of the evening amplifying the lingering tension between you. The city felt almost enchanted in the soft twilight, the air fresh and clean after the rain.

When you reached your door, you turned to face him, your cheeks tinged with a soft blush. “Thanks for, uhm, walking me home,” you said sincerely, your eyes meeting his.

Max nodded, waving off your thanks as if it was nothing. “It’s fine. It’s on the way to my apartment anyway,” he said. You knew it was a lie—his apartment was in the complete opposite direction—but you didn’t call him out on it, appreciating the gesture. “This was nice…” he added, clearly reluctant to let the evening end and searching for a way to extend the moment.

“Yeah, it was,” you agreed, your lips curving into a grin. “We should do it again?” Your voice lifted at the end, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

“Yes! Ahem—yeah, totally,” he coughed, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry—erm—you could come to a race… if you’d want that—obviously no pressure but—”

“I’d love to,” you interrupted, placing your hand on his chest to stop his nervous rambling. The feel of his firm, muscular chest beneath your fingers sent a thrill through you. “Just text me any details, and I’ll be there.”

He nodded hurriedly, his excitement barely contained. “Of course, I’ll send you everything. The next race is in Austria,” he managed to say, his words tumbling over each other.

“See you later, Max,” you said, leaning in to kiss his cheek gently. His skin was warm under your lips, and he immediately went bright red, his flustered expression making you smirk. “Text me,” you repeated softly.

With one last smile, you turned and disappeared into your apartment building, leaving Max standing there, staring at the spot where you had been. His cheek tingled from where your lips had touched, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how he wanted that feeling every day, forever, with you. As he walked back to his apartment, his mind raced with thoughts of you, replaying every moment of the evening and imagining the possibilities of what could come next.

— AUSTRIA, RED BULL RING.    SUNDAY, 30 JUNE 2024.

Race day had finally arrived. You’d just gotten to the paddock that morning, the familiar roar of engines and the scent of burning rubber filling the air. It felt strange being back, especially without someone rushing you away from prying eyes, trying to hide the fact you were there with Lando. This time, you walked freely down the pit lane, no longer shadowed by secrecy.

You caught a glimpse of the back of Max’s head up ahead, his distinct figure standing out among the flurry of activity. But before you could call out to him, you heard your name being shouted from behind. Startled, you spun around to see Lando jogging toward you, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“You got my texts?” Lando asked, slightly breathless as he stopped in front of you. “I thought you wouldn’t come, but… anyway, do you wanna go away from here? Talk?”

For a moment, you just stared at him, processing the unexpected encounter. No, you didn’t have feelings for him anymore, but seeing him again like this, especially in such a familiar setting, was still a bit of a shock. His presence stirred memories you thought you’d left behind.

“I—uhm,” you stuttered, searching for the right words to tell him to leave you alone, to fuck off, really, but the words tangled on your tongue. “Well—”

“Come on,” Lando urged, his voice softer, almost pleading, as he took a step closer. His hand reached out, as if to gently guide you by the arm, but you instinctively flinched backward, the movement sharp and defensive.

“Y/N?” Lando frowned, confusion clouding his features. He dropped his hand, the space between you suddenly feeling like a chasm. The familiarity in his tone, the way he said your name—it tugged at something inside you, but it wasn’t enough to erase the hurt or the reasons you were no longer together.

“I’m not here with you, Lando…” you say quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I was invited by someone else.”

“Someone else?” he stutters, his expression flickering with disbelief. “You… who?”

Before you can answer, Lando’s eyes shift behind you, catching sight of Max Verstappen approaching with purposeful strides. The realization seems to dawn on him just as Max reaches you, his hand naturally resting on your shoulder as if it belonged there.

“When did you get here?” Max asks, his tone warm and completely ignoring Lando’s presence. It’s not malicious, but his focus is entirely on you, making Lando seem like an afterthought.

“About three hours ago,” you reply with a smile, feeling a sense of comfort wash over you.

“I could’ve picked you up,” Max offers, his concern genuine, though you quickly wave him off.

“Don’t be silly,” you say lightly before turning to Lando, who is still staring at the two of you, visibly confused and almost… jealous. “Yeah—Lando—Max sort of invited me.”

Lando’s brows knit together, his confusion deepening. “What—huh—sorry, what?” he stammers. “When did you two get so close?” His eyes dart between you and Max, searching for answers he can’t seem to find.

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual. “Erm, like a month or so ago…”

The connection clicks in Lando’s mind—the timeline of when you stopped speaking to him and when you started getting close to Max. The realization seems to sting, his lips pressing into a thin line as he hums in acknowledgment before shaking his head and walking away without another word.

“That was… weird,” Max mutters, watching Lando’s retreating figure for a moment before his attention snaps back to you. He quickly changes the subject, eager to make you feel at ease. “Come on, let me show you the garage. It’s the best place to watch the race.”

“The garage?” you ask, confused by his offer.

Max frowns slightly, equally perplexed. “Where else would you watch it from?”

“I—well, usually in the drivers’ room,” you admit with a sigh, memories of hidden moments flashing through your mind.

Max scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “Of course, he would do that,” he mumbles under his breath, before focusing on you again. “I mean, you can if you want to, but here is fine by me. You’ll be right in the heart of everything.”

You nod, silently agreeing to watch the race from the garage, knowing full well that all the cameras would catch you there, recording every move and fueling speculation about who you were. But this time, you didn’t mind. Max’s presence beside you made you feel secure, as if you belonged right there in the spotlight with him.

After the race, the atmosphere in the paddock was tense, the energy electric with the aftermath of Max’s crash into Lando. Lando made it painfully clear how furious he was, his frustration palpable in every gesture and word. Max, on the other hand, seemed remarkably unfazed by the whole ordeal. He’d still managed to finish in the points and, in his mind, had taken a small victory by ruining Lando’s race in the process. For Max, it was a win-win.

As the crowd buzzed with post-race excitement, Max spotted you standing by the edge of the garage, waiting for him. Despite the chaos around him, seeing you brought a smile to his face. He didn’t have much time before he had to face a swarm of interviewers, but he made a beeline for you, nudging your arm gently to grab your attention.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft but laced with satisfaction.

“Oh—hey!” You turned, grinning up at him. “P5 is good,” you said, your eyes sparkling with pride for him.

“Maybe for Lando’s standards,” Max jabbed jokingly, a mischievous glint in his eye.

You laughed, the sound light and infectious, easing some of the tension that still hung in the air. “You’re terrible,” you teased, shaking your head, but the warmth in your voice made it clear you didn’t mean it.

Max chuckled, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, his tone playful. The way he looked at you made your heart skip a beat, and for a second, the noise of the paddock faded into the background, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble.

He glanced over his shoulder at the waiting throng of journalists, his smile dimming slightly. “I’ve got to go handle those vultures,” he sighed, nodding toward the waiting press. “But I’ll find you after?”

You nodded, your heart swelling with anticipation. “I’ll be here.”

“Good,” he said, giving your arm one last, gentle squeeze before turning to walk away. As he headed toward the media, you watched him go, feeling a mix of pride and excitement. Even after everything that had happened on the track, Max was still the same—unflappable, confident, and now, undeniably connected to you in a way that felt both thrilling and right.

-

After the whirlwind of interviews, Max finally managed to break away from the paddock's relentless pace. The sun had set by the time he made his way back to his hotel, the darkening sky mirroring the calm that was beginning to settle over him. His thoughts, however, weren’t on the race or the questions he had just faced—they were on you.

When he entered his hotel room, it was quiet and dimly lit, a stark contrast to the loud, chaotic energy of the racetrack. He felt a weight lift off his shoulders as he closed the door behind him. He had texted you on his way back, a simple message asking if you’d come over. Now, as he stood in the middle of the room, his nerves started to creep in. There was something different about tonight, something he couldn’t quite put into words, but it was there, lingering in the air.

The knock at the door came just as he was running a hand through his hair, trying to settle his thoughts. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, opening the door to find you standing there, a soft smile on your face. You were a sight for sore eyes, the tension he’d been holding onto dissipating at the mere sight of you.

“Hi,” he greeted, stepping aside to let you in.

“Hey,” you replied, slipping past him into the room. You glanced around, taking in the minimalist decor and the soft, ambient light that bathed the space in a warm glow. “Nice place,” you commented lightly, but your eyes soon found his, and the room seemed to shrink around you.

Max didn’t respond immediately; instead, he just watched you, his gaze intense and unwavering. It was like he was seeing you for the first time all over again, but this time, with the clarity of everything that had happened today. Finally, he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly, his voice low and sincere.

You looked up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Me too,” you admitted, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, as if some invisible line had been crossed, Max leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a tentative kiss. It was slow, unhurried, as if he was savoring the moment, the taste of you, the feel of you against him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he confessed, his hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you closer.

You smiled against his lips, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest. “So have I,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of the admission.

Max’s response was a low, rumbling laugh that you felt more than heard. He kissed you again, this time with more urgency, the restraint from earlier slipping away. His hands roamed your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss deepened, becoming a desperate, hungry exchange that left you both breathless.

Without breaking the kiss, Max began to guide you toward the bed, his movements careful but insistent. When the backs of your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he paused, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. There was a question in his gaze, a silent request for permission, for reassurance that this was what you wanted too.

You answered him by tugging him down onto the bed with you, your lips crashing back into his as you both fell into the soft sheets. Max let out a soft groan as he followed your lead, his hands finding your hips as he pressed against you. The world outside the room faded away, leaving just the two of you, lost in each other.

Time seemed to blur as clothes were discarded and soft whispers filled the room. Max’s touch was reverent, his kisses trailing down your body, worshipping every inch of you. There was an urgency in the way he held you, a need that had been building up ever since that first kiss in the paddock.

When he finally moved to join your bodies together, he did so with a slow, deliberate push that left you both gasping for breath. His name slipped from your lips in a soft moan, a sound that drove him wild. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he began to move, each thrust deep and measured.

“Y/N,” he breathed out, his voice strained with the effort to keep himself in check. “You feel… incredible.”

Your hands found his hair, tugging gently as you arched into him, meeting his movements with equal fervor. The tension that had been building between you all day finally reached its breaking point, and with one final, desperate thrust, you both finished together, your cries mingling in the stillness of the room.

Afterward, as you both lay tangled in the sheets, your bodies slick with sweat, Max pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let go. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as you both tried to catch your breath.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion but laced with a quiet plea.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. “I wasn’t planning on leaving,” you replied softly, earning a tired but contented smile from him.

Max kissed the top of your head, his grip on you tightening just a fraction. “Good,” he whispered, his eyes drifting closed. “I don’t want this to end.”

As you lay there in the quiet of the night, wrapped in his arms, you couldn’t help but feel the same. Whatever this was between you and Max, it felt right, like something that had been a long time coming.

-----

tags :

@herexpertcollector @bingussthirdtoe @boady27 @some-girl-lost-in-this-world @iangelofmusic @abq654 @issi-loves-dannyric @f1fantasys @smoooothoperatorrrr @prudyhoo @0rrphiic @gaypoetsblog @bloodymug @tpwkstiles @forza-dolce @piceous21 @iforgotmynames @jzr201

[theseh00perscanh00p]

Par for the Heart: Part 11

paige x azzi

a/n: Okay so it's a lil short, sorry part 10 took a lot of brain power I'm not gonna lie lol. I was gonna post an even shorter version of this but woke up with some new inspiration so here it is. It's like 50/50 fluff to smut ratio on this one. Thanks to the anon with the idea hope you enjoy.

word count: 4.6k

"The Rhythm of Us"

It didn’t happen overnight.

There were no big declarations. No packed U-Hauls.

Just one moment at a time.

Day One: Closet Territory

Azzi came home from PT to find Paige elbow-deep in the back of her closet, old hoodies and half-folded gym clothes littered across the bed.

“Are we cleaning out skeletons or…?”

Paige peeked out from behind a row of hangers, flushed and focused. “I’m making space. For your stuff.”

Azzi blinked. “You’re… what?”

“You said your drawer was full. So I’m just—reworking the closet situation.” Paige held up one of her ancient crewnecks. “Like… do I need this vintage intramural bowling team sweatshirt?”

Azzi’s grin grew slow and fond. “You’re letting me take over your closet?”

“I’m making room,” Paige corrected. “You’re not taking over. It’s shared real estate now.”

Azzi walked forward, brushing a kiss to her temple. “You’re dangerously good at this whole girlfriend thing.”

Day Two: Packing the Old Life

On Saturday, Paige pulled into Azzi’s driveway with a trunk full of empty bins, her playlist softly humming a SZA deep cut.

Azzi stared at the bins. “You’re really gonna help me pack?”

Paige gave her a look. “Do you want to spend hours alone deciding which T-shirts are emotional support and which can be donated?”

Azzi laughed. “You’re right. I need emotional backup.”

They spent the afternoon sorting. Paige sat cross-legged on Azzi’s rug while Azzi held up items and told stories: this hoodie from a college championship, that pair of sneakers she wore to her first pro game.

Paige didn’t rush. She didn’t push.

She just kept asking: “Does this feel like something you want to bring into our home?”

And when they reached the kitchen, Paige carefully plucked the photo from the side of Azzi’s fridge—one from the day they met on the golf course candidly laughing together—and the heart magnet that had always kept it there.

She held it up. “This one’s coming too, right?”

Azzi nodded quietly. “Yeah. That one’s never staying behind.”

Day Four: Lowe’s & New Beginnings

It was Monday when Paige drove them to Lowe’s under the guise of “errands.”

Azzi side-eyed her when they bypassed every aisle except the key-cutting kiosk and the seasonal welcome mats.

“Subtle,” Azzi teased. “Really easing me into this domestic fantasy.”

Paige grinned, flipping through the mats. “Okay but hear me out—this one says ‘Welcome-ish. Depends who you are.’ That feels accurate, right?”

Azzi pointed to one that just said Home Is Wherever I’m With You. “Too on the nose?”

Paige read it twice. Then smiled softly. “Kind of perfect.”

As they waited for the guy to cut a second key, Paige placed the chosen mat under one arm and handed Azzi the freshly made key with a red heart on it.

Azzi turned it over in her hand. “So… this is really happening.”

“It’s already happened,” Paige said. “We’re just catching up.”

By the end of the week, Azzi’s sneakers were stacked next to Paige’s, her cereal box was in the pantry, and the photo and heart magnet were proudly fixed on the fridge like they’d always been there.

And one night, curled up on the couch with Azzi’s head in her lap, Paige watched their new doormat catch the last of the porch light through the open front door.

Home.

Together.

No question about it.

—-

The mornings had started to blur in the best way.

Not in chaos, not in stress — just in routine. Familiarity. A rhythm so smooth they barely had to speak to keep pace with each other.

Azzi was always the first one up. Not because she was a morning person, but because her body still woke her at 7 a.m. sharp whether she liked it or not. These days, she stayed in bed a little longer, scrolling, stretching, listening to the faint sounds of Paige’s breath beside her.

By 7:30, Paige would stir, eyes squinting open, her hand instinctively reaching for Azzi beneath the sheets.

“Coffee?” she’d mumble, already half asleep again.

“Already going,” Azzi would reply, leaning over to kiss her forehead before swinging her legs out of bed.

The kitchen was their shared dance floor.

Azzi moved slower these days, still a bit stiff post-surgery, but she had her groove back enough to putter around in Paige’s — now their — oversized hoodie and slide around in mismatched socks. Paige would join her ten minutes later, sleep-stunned and leaning against the counter like she hadn’t been awake for more than ninety seconds.

They didn’t talk much in the mornings. Just soft clinks of mugs and occasional hums from the playlist Paige always queued up — a rotation of soulful jazz and old-school R&B that made the whole house feel like a dream.

Somehow, without ever agreeing on it, they had their roles.

Azzi ran point on breakfast. Paige handled lunch. Azzi handled laundry. Paige took out the trash. Groceries were a team sport. So were Target runs. So were movie nights. So were late-night cravings for cookies and cereal at 2 a.m.

There was no learning curve. No awkward fights about drawer space or who left the lights on. It was like their lives had been quietly orbiting each other for years and had finally aligned.

And that was the part that scared them both a little — how easy it was.

Azzi leaned back against the counter one morning, sipping her coffee, watching Paige slice a banana to top their yogurt bowls. Her shirt was rumpled, hair a mess, and she was humming off-key to the song playing through the speaker.

Paige glanced up, catching her stare. “What?”

Azzi blinked. “Nothing.”

“You’re doing the staring in love thing again.”

Azzi smiled, stepping forward and pressing a kiss to Paige’s shoulder. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“I mean,” Paige teased, setting down the banana, “you could at least pretend you’re not obsessed with me.”

“Nope,” Azzi said, smug now. “Fully obsessed. You’re doomed.”

Paige laughed and turned to face her fully. “If this is what doomed feels like, I’ll take it.”

There was a pause. A soft, still moment as they stood there in their kitchen, surrounded by post-it notes on the fridge, two half-full mugs, and a faint scent of cinnamon still lingering from last night’s late-night toast.

And just like that — they went back to breakfast.

Easy.

Uncomplicated.

Like it had always been this way.

—-

The gym was nearly empty, save for the thud of a medicine ball hitting the floor and the low hum of whatever playlist Paige had thrown on shuffle. It was mostly old-school hip hop with just enough bass to keep them moving — and maybe a little showing off.

Paige had arrived straight from her swing session, already warm and riding a high from her coach’s praise. Azzi was mid-rep when she walked in, while she powered through banded hip bridges like she had something to prove.

They exchanged a quick kiss, sweaty foreheads and all, before diving in.

It wasn’t long before the room felt more like their own personal playground.

“Form check,” Paige said from behind Azzi, watching her posture through the mirror as she attempted a modified deadlift with a dumbbell in one hand and a stubborn determination in the other.

Azzi groaned. “You’re obsessed with my form.”

“I’m obsessed with you not hurting yourself again.”

Azzi looked at her in the mirror, smirking. “You just like the view.”

“Not denying it,” Paige muttered, eyes fixed and appreciative.

The hour passed in circuits and teasing — Paige counting reps out loud while purposefully skipping numbers to confuse Azzi, Azzi lightly smacking her with a resistance band in retaliation. But through it all, they stayed in sync. The kind of sync that came from trust. Knowing how the other moved. When to push. When to rest.

Azzi was cooling down, stretching against the wall while Paige finished a final round of incline push-ups, when it hit her.

The clarity was so quiet it almost didn’t register at first. Just the way Paige’s brows furrowed in concentration. The tiny satisfied breath she let out at the end of each set. The casual way she tossed her towel over her shoulder and turned to Azzi with a wink.

There was no performance here. No curated version of love.

It was just them — tired, sore, flushed, and whole.

And suddenly Azzi felt it in her chest like a quiet knock.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Not just the love. But the partnership. The steady hum of compatibility that made hard things feel easier. That made sweat and sore muscles feel like a date. That made even the silence between sets feel… full.

Paige walked over and flopped down next to her on the floor, breath heavy, loose hair damp at her temple. “You good?”

Azzi nodded, eyes soft. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Paige teased, nudging her shoulder.

But Azzi didn’t laugh this time. She leaned in, pressed a kiss to Paige’s temple, and whispered, “You’re it for me, you know that?”

Paige stilled, surprised by the sudden seriousness. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “You make the hard things feel lighter. The ordinary things feel bigger. The quiet things feel safe.”

Paige blinked, caught in the moment. “I didn’t even say anything this time.”

“You didn’t have to,” Azzi said. “You just… showed up.”

Paige smiled, reaching for her hand. “Well, good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

They sat there for a while on the rubber flooring, fingers intertwined, the sweat between them dried and replaced by something weightier — something sweeter.

Not a milestone.

Not a grand gesture.

Just a shared routine that somehow became proof of forever.

—-

They were tangled in bed, limbs wrapped, legs slotted between each other beneath the soft weight of the blanket. The glow of a bedside lamp cast a golden halo across Azzi’s bare shoulder as she lay half on top of Paige, tracing small shapes on her stomach with lazy fingers.

They’d been quiet for a while—quiet in that way only two people could be when the silence was full of safety, not space.

Then Azzi broke it, her voice a little hesitant but laced with curiosity.

“If I was a worm, would you still love me?”

Paige cracked an eye open, brow furrowing. “A worm?”

Azzi nodded seriously, though her lips were twitching. “Like—a little one. Real squiggly.”

Paige groaned, turning her head to bury it into the pillow. “Why are you like this.”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“I’d keep you in a compost bin and feed you strawberries,” Paige muttered dramatically. “But yeah, I’d still love you. Even as a worm.”

Azzi grinned. “Okay, good. Now… would you still love me if I was bald?”

That got Paige to look up. “Bald??”

Azzi lifted a brow, feigning seriousness. “Yes. No hair. What if I had a bad haircut and had to shave it all off and start from scratch? What if my edges were gone forever? What then?”

Paige blinked at her. “That’s so random.”

“It’s not! It’s valid!” Azzi argued, trying not to laugh. “I just wanna know if your love is follicle-deep or not.”

Paige propped herself up on an elbow, eyes soft. “Baby… you could be bald, blonde, or blue-haired, and I’d still be in love with you.”

Azzi let her smile bloom fully this time. “Even if I had, like… one of those mullets with lightning bolts shaved into the side?”

“Okay,” Paige said, hand raised. “Let’s not get carried away.”

Azzi snorted, then went quiet for a beat—still drawing patterns absently on Paige’s skin.

Paige noticed the shift. “What?”

Azzi looked up, meeting her eyes. “Nothing.”

“Az.”

Azzi hesitated, then said it—soft and low, almost like she was still testing the words.

“Would you… still love me if I wanted to try something in bed?”

Paige’s expression didn’t falter, but something in her settled. She tucked a strand of Azzi’s hair behind her ear and asked gently, “What kind of something?”

Azzi gave her a look. That mix of shy and bold she wore like no one else.

“It’s not like… weird or anything. I just… I’ve been thinking.”

Azzi hesitated, her eyes fixed on her hand as it lazily circled Paige’s navel. “Have you ever, like… scissored before?”

Paige blinked. Then blinked again.

“…Do I get to plead the fifth?” she said, cheeks already flushing with heat.

Azzi’s grin was immediate. “You totally have.”

Paige groaned, throwing a hand over her face. “It barely counts. It was a disaster. Like—clumsy naked bumper cars with bad steering. We got so frustrated we gave up and ordered Thai food instead.”

Azzi let out a loud laugh. “I can’t believe you just called it that.”

“It’s accurate.”

“Well…” Azzi’s voice dropped an octave, her grin softening into something more curious. “I’ve been thinking about it. Not in like, a porn-y way. Just… being that close. That open. All that skin. It’s kind of hot.”

Paige tilted her head, watching her. “You’ve never tried?”

Azzi shook her head, a blush creeping in. “No. But I want to. With you.”

Something in Paige melted. She cupped the back of Azzi’s neck and pulled her in for a slow kiss—deep, tender, laced with promise.

“Then let’s find out,” she whispered.

Paige shifted onto her back, and Azzi followed, crawling over her, straddling her thigh with a nervous but eager glint in her eyes.

“Like this?” she asked, her slick center barely grazing Paige’s.

“Closer,” Paige murmured, gripping her hips. “I want to feel all of you.”

Azzi adjusted, lowering herself until their cores met—warm and wet and shivery. The contact made both of them gasp.

They started slow. Tentative rolls of the hips. Gentle friction. Azzi’s breath caught as they aligned just right, her clit brushing against Paige’s in a glide that sent a pulse straight through her spine.

Paige groaned, her hands anchoring Azzi tighter. “Oh, fuck. Just like that.”

They rocked together, rhythm syncing, laughter fading into soft moans and breathless gasps. Azzi’s movements grew bolder, more desperate as the friction built—a sweet, aching heat that curled in her belly and stole her breath.

“Oh—Paige—fuck—”

Her head fell back, jaw slack, thighs starting to tremble as pleasure surged higher, hotter, sharper. Paige was watching her like she was witnessing something sacred.

Then Azzi’s whole body arched forward with a strangled cry, her orgasm crashing over her—wetness flooding between them, soaking skin, thighs, the sheets beneath.

She froze.

Paige stared up at her, dazed. “Wait. Did you just—?”

Azzi’s face went crimson. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know I could—oh my God—”

Paige’s hands locked around her hips, holding her there. “Don’t you dare move. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Azzi tried to squirm away. Paige wouldn’t let her.

“Nope. You’re not escaping. Not after that. I need to see it again. Feel it.”

Azzi’s breath stuttered. “What are you—”

Paige was already shifting down, sliding between Azzi’s thighs with purpose.

“I want you to come on my mouth this time.”

Azzi whimpered, her body already oversensitive and desperate. Paige guided her up, positioning her above her face.

Azzi hesitated. “What if I—”

“I want all of it,” Paige growled, voice thick with hunger. “Drip for me, baby.”

The second her mouth met Azzi’s clit, Azzi broke.

Her hips jerked, breath hitched. Paige moaned into her, tongue circling, sucking, devouring her like she was starved. Her hands gripped Azzi’s ass, grounding her, pulling her in deeper.

Azzi was shaking, crying out, hips grinding harder with every pass of Paige’s tongue.

And when Paige sucked just right—deep and slow and greedy—Azzi shattered again.

A tidal wave of release rushed out of her, coating Paige’s mouth, her chin, her throat. Azzi nearly collapsed, limbs giving out as her orgasm rolled through her in tremors.

Paige was wrecked beneath her—lips glossy, face drenched, eyes alight with awe.

“Holy fuck,” she whispered. “I’m in love. And so, so wet.”

Azzi was still panting, dazed, barely able to speak. “You’re… insane.”

Paige grinned, licking her lips. “And you, Azzi, are a work of art.”

Azzi was still catching her breath, sprawled across the sheets with her head resting on Paige’s shoulder. Her body was warm and limp, skin flushed, thighs still twitching occasionally from the aftershocks.

Paige looked equally wrecked—lips swollen, face glistening, hair mussed beyond repair. But her hand hadn’t stopped moving—grazing over Azzi’s hip, then dipping lower to trace along her still-sensitive inner thigh.

Azzi whimpered. “Paige…”

“What?” Paige said, innocent as sin. “I’m just touching.”

“You’re touching like you’re about to start something.”

“I am,” Paige said, voice low, teasing. “You said you’d never done that before. We’re celebrating. Science says repetition improves retention.”

Azzi snorted, even as her breath caught when Paige’s fingers drifted between her legs again. “You’re ridiculous.”

Paige turned her head, kissed Azzi’s temple, then her cheek. “Mmhm. And you’re still soaked. You feel that?”

Azzi whimpered again as Paige’s fingers dipped into the wet heat between her legs, slow and lazy. “Paige—”

“You can take one more,” Paige whispered, voice darkening. “Just one more. Let me make it messy.”

Azzi let out a shaky breath. “I’m already—so sensitive—”

“I know,” Paige said, dragging her fingers up to circle her clit in featherlight strokes. “That’s why it’s gonna be so fucking good.”

Azzi tried to resist—tried to stay still—but her hips had a mind of their own, grinding into Paige’s hand with a need that bloomed fast and hot. She bit her lip hard, eyes fluttering shut.

Paige’s touch stayed gentle at first, coaxing her open again, drawing small circles until Azzi was panting into her neck. “That’s it,” Paige murmured, nipping at her ear. “Let me feel you come on my hand.”

She slid two fingers in—slow, deliberate. Azzi arched into her with a gasp, nails digging into Paige’s arm.

Paige curled her fingers just right. “Fuck, yes. That’s the spot, isn’t it?”

Azzi couldn’t answer—her moans were spilling too freely now. Paige worked her open, fingers slick and sure, her thumb rubbing tight, dirty circles over her clit.

“I love how you fall apart for me,” Paige breathed, speeding up just enough to send Azzi spiraling. “So sexy like this, Az. Begging without even realizing it.”

Azzi’s legs started to tremble again, thighs clenching around Paige’s hand. “I’m close—I’m so—oh God—”

“That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Let go.”

And Azzi did—her third orgasm ripping through her with a strangled cry, her whole body bucking, hips grinding down hard as Paige fucked her through it, relentless and tender all at once.

Azzi collapsed again, completely undone—sweat-slick and gasping, legs twitching, her cheek pressed to Paige’s chest as she tried to breathe through the comedown.

Paige slowly slipped her fingers out, bringing them to her mouth with a hum of satisfaction. “You taste like victory.”

Azzi weakly slapped her side. “You’re the worst.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” Azzi mumbled, eyes closed. “You’re never allowed to leave this bed.”

“Deal,” Paige said, curling her arm around her. “But if we’re trapped here, I’m gonna need hydration… and maybe snacks between orgasms.”

Azzi opened one eye. “Between?”

Paige smirked. “We’re only at round three.”

Azzi groaned. “I created a monster.”

Paige kissed her shoulder. “No, baby. You unleashed her.”

And just like that, Azzi was grinning again—even as her thighs ached and her body trembled—because with Paige, even exhaustion came with a promise of more.

And neither of them was close to done.

Paige was lying there smug and satisfied, her arm draped lazily around Azzi’s waist, the scent of sex and sweat thick in the air. Her lips were still wet from Azzi’s last orgasm, and she looked like she could stay in that blissed-out daze forever.

Azzi let her.

For a minute.

Then, slowly, she started tracing a single finger along the slope of Paige’s ribcage, dragging her nails just lightly enough to make Paige twitch.

Paige glanced down. “What are you doing?”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just smiled—mischievous and dangerous—and slipped her thigh between Paige’s legs, nudging gently.

Paige’s breath caught. “Az…”

“You’ve been real generous tonight,” Azzi murmured, kissing her collarbone. “But I want to see you come undone.”

Paige opened her mouth to respond—but whatever she was going to say disappeared when Azzi slid her hand down her stomach and cupped her, fingers pressing into the soft heat between her thighs.

“You’re soaked,” Azzi whispered, lips brushing Paige’s ear. “You’ve been dripping for me this whole time.”

Paige whimpered, her hips shifting instinctively into Azzi’s touch. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I’m not playing at all,” Azzi said, voice low and dangerous.

Before Paige could recover, Azzi slid down her body, kissing her way lower—over her breasts, pausing to take one nipple into her mouth, sucking hard until Paige gasped and arched up into her.

Then lower still.

When she reached Paige’s thighs, Azzi didn’t rush. She kissed the inside of one, then the other, holding Paige open with strong hands and looking up with eyes full of heat.

“I want to ruin you,” Azzi said softly.

Paige groaned, head falling back. “God, please.”

Azzi grinned—and then her mouth was on her.

Hot, wet, relentless.

She licked from bottom to top, flat and slow, before circling Paige’s clit with the tip of her tongue—teasing, maddening. Paige’s hands immediately shot down to Azzi’s hair, hips jerking up as she moaned deep and broken.

Azzi kept going.

Sucking.

Licking.

Fucking her with her tongue.

Paige was panting, her whole body tightening. “Shit—Azzi—don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

Azzi didn’t. If anything, she doubled down—gripping Paige’s hips, pulling her closer, fucking her deeper with every stroke of her tongue. She moaned into her, letting the vibration reverberate through Paige’s core.

It worked.

Paige was spiraling—hips bucking, thighs clamping around Azzi’s head, words dissolving into helpless cries. Her orgasm slammed into her fast and hard, stealing the air from her lungs.

But Azzi didn’t let up.

She kept going—eating her through it, over it, into it—until Paige was thrashing, another wave already building behind the first.

“Azzi—fuck—I can’t—oh my God—”

“Yes you can,” Azzi growled, voice dark and wrecked, fingers now sliding inside her—deep and slow and intentional. “You’re gonna give me one more. I want to feel you squeeze around my fingers while you come on my tongue.”

Paige was gone.

Utterly undone.

Her second orgasm crashed through her with a scream, legs trembling, body thrashing so hard Azzi had to hold her down. She came hard—wet and raw and loud, until she collapsed back into the bed, boneless and dazed.

Azzi finally pulled back, mouth and chin drenched, eyes blazing.

She crawled back up, straddling Paige’s hips, dragging her fingers through the mess between them and bringing them to Paige’s mouth. “Taste how fucking good you are.”

Paige sucked her fingers in with a moan, dazed and glassy-eyed. “You’re a menace.”

Azzi leaned down, kissing her slow and deep, tongue slipping past her lips.

“No,” she whispered against her mouth. “I’m yours.”

Paige shuddered.

And smiled.

“Okay,” she said weakly. “But I need like… eight to twelve business days to recover.”

Azzi laughed, pulling her into her chest. “You’ve got twelve hours. Then I’m going again.”

Paige groaned. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Nah,” Azzi murmured, kissing her hair. “I’m just gonna keep loving you until you can’t see straight.”

—-

The morning sun was already creeping in by the time Paige finally cracked an eye open. Her body ached in that deliciously sore kind of way — muscles used, knees bruised, and thighs definitely still shaking a little. She rolled onto her back with a groan, one arm flopping over her eyes.

From the bathroom, the sound of a toothbrush being halfheartedly wielded echoed out.

“You alive in there?” Paige called hoarsely.

Azzi’s laugh was scratchy. “Barely. My legs are mad at me. You should be arrested.”

“I told you to tap out.”

“You said that after round four!”

“Exactly.”

Azzi emerged a minute later, her curls piled into a loose bun, one of Paige’s oversized tees hanging off her frame. She limped dramatically to the bed, flopping down beside her.

“You owe me breakfast and electrolytes,” she mumbled.

“You said, and I quote, ‘I’m an athlete, I can handle it.’”

“I also said I’d marry you if you hit that one spot again and you did so, like… you’re stuck with me now.”

Paige smirked, turning on her side to nuzzle into Azzi’s shoulder. “Noted.”

They lay there quietly for a while, sore and content, scrolling and occasionally stealing sips from each other’s water bottles.

Then Azzi rolled her head lazily toward her. “You know… if either one of us had a dick, we’d probably be pregnant right now.”

Paige burst out laughing. “Oh my god. Probably.”

“That was a full-blown Olympic marathon. We would’ve made twins.”

“Triplets,” Paige said, grinning. “Our legacy would be secure.”

Azzi snorted. “Not us having a starting five by accident.”

The joke passed between them like warm sunlight.

But Paige didn’t laugh again right away. She stared at the ceiling for a beat, lips pressing into a thoughtful line.

Azzi noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly. “What’s that face?”

Paige hesitated, then turned onto her side again, facing Azzi. Her fingers found the edge of Azzi’s shirt and toyed with it absently.

“I know we joke about it,” she said quietly. “The kids thing. But… I’ve always known that’s something I want. For real.”

Azzi blinked, caught slightly off guard by the sudden seriousness. Paige’s eyes searched hers.

“I’m not saying tomorrow or anything,” Paige added quickly. “But one day. I want a family. A house with too many shoes by the door. Chaos. Mornings that start early and never go to plan. I want that. And I think… I needed to ask if you want it too.”

Azzi was quiet for a long moment. Not because she was unsure — but because the weight of how much this meant to Paige was written all over her face.

Then, slowly, she reached out and took Paige’s hand.

“I do,” she said softly. “I want that too.”

Paige’s breath hitched.

Azzi squeezed her fingers. “I’ve thought about it. Even before us. I just… never imagined I’d feel safe enough with someone to even say it out loud. But with you? It’s the first time it feels possible. Like it could actually work. Like we’d make it work.”

Paige blinked fast. “You’re sure?”

Azzi smiled. “I’m sure. Though I will need a minimum of three years to mentally recover from last night’s trauma before raising children.”

They both laughed — a mix of nerves and joy and sheer relief — before Paige leaned in and kissed her slow and deep.

When they broke apart, Azzi rested her forehead against Paige’s. “You really thought I’d say no?”

Paige nodded a little. “I did. And I would’ve… figured it out. But it would’ve broken my heart.”

“Well,” Azzi whispered, “lucky for you… your heart is very much intact. And definitely overachieving.”

Paige beamed.

“Also,” Azzi added, “we are the hot moms at the school pick-up. It’s kind of a requirement.”

“Oh 100%. PTA moms will hate us. We’ll love that.”

“And our kids will definitely lie and say you used to be in the Olympics.”

Paige laughed into her neck. “I mean… it could still happen.”

Azzi pulled her close again, wrapping both arms around her.

It wasn’t a proposal. It wasn’t a date set. But it was a promise — a shared daydream now fully spoken into existence.

And that was enough. For now.

[sabrinasopposite]

game-boy; resume?

pt. 2 of ,,game-boy !'' / clark kent x reader

but you took my love for granted and it took me two years to understand it

summary: a broken heart and a gameboy. y/n makes her way to smallville to fix the things that matters her, was it her desire of the happy ending or truly her heart?

It was strange, how a game could feel so much like life—full of little victories and crushing defeats, like a series of choices made in a world that offered no reset button. Y/N had tried to move past it all—the late nights, the quiet silences after Clark’s absence, the emptiness that lingered in the spaces he used to fill.

Yet, she found herself holding the Game Boy again, tracing the worn edges of its plastic casing. It was as if the world had somehow paused for a moment, waiting for her to press *Start* again.

She wasn’t sure what she was hoping for. That the game would offer something new? That it would play itself differently this time?

Maybe.

But there was something about it—the way the colors flickered on the screen, the way the music filled the air—that made her feel like she could win. Even if the game had been broken before, maybe now it could work again.

The days drifted by in a haze, a blur of routine that left her empty and wanting. The memory of Clark lingered like a half-finished puzzle, pieces scattered around her heart that she couldn’t seem to place. She would see him sometimes, in passing, his smile as easy as it had always been. But it wasn’t the same anymore. She wasn’t the same anymore.

One morning, she found herself driving without quite knowing why. The motion of the car was almost soothing, a rhythmic hum that filled her thoughts with a strange kind of quiet. It wasn’t something she planned. Sometimes life didn’t need to be planned. Sometimes it simply asked you to follow the faint trail of breadcrumbs, just to see where it would lead.

And so, she drove, westward, the road stretching before her like a never-ending line on a map. There was a place she’d seen once, a shop with peeling signs and neon lights that flickered like forgotten memories. The words "Vintage Electronics Repair" had called to her then, and when they reappeared in her mind now, she didn’t question it. She just drove.

The shop was tucked between rows of weathered buildings, a small oasis of history amid the rush of the world. Old clocks, radios, and scattered trinkets filled the window display, each one a relic of a time that seemed to stretch out like a half-remembered dream. Inside, a man was bent over his workbench, his glasses perched low on his nose as he adjusted the internals of a broken radio. He barely looked up as Y/N approached, but when she handed him the Game Boy, there was something in the way his fingers touched it—a recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

He nodded silently, taking the device from her as if he knew it held more than just circuits and plastic. It held memories, and perhaps, pieces of her heart.

Hours passed. Y/N wandered the town aimlessly, trying to avoid the thoughts that buzzed in her mind like static. Her hands felt empty without the Game Boy, and yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was doing something important. The moment stretched out, pulling her further from the reality she’d been living in, into a strange space between wanting and needing.

When the repairman finally returned, she was almost nervous. Would it be the same? Could it be the same?

The Game Boy was different. In her hands, it felt… better. The worn edges had been smoothed, the screen clearer than before, the buttons clicking with a newfound precision. It was almost too perfect. Like someone had restored it to a version of itself that felt unfamiliar. It was… better. 

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tracing the contours of the newly restored device. It was no longer the one she remembered. It was something new, something polished, something she didn’t know how to approach. It had changed, but so had she.

As she stood in the shop, staring at the Game Boy, the soft sound of a familiar voice reached her ears, pulling her from the haze of her thoughts.

"Hey."

Her breath caught in her chest. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Clark stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed, but there was something different about him now. His smile was the same, but his eyes—they held something more now. Something softer. Something deeper. The lines of his face seemed both older and younger at once, as if time had moved in ways she couldn’t quite understand.

It took her a moment to find her voice, to remember how to speak in the presence of someone who had once been everything to her. “What are you doing here?”

His smile faltered, just for a second, before it returned, warmer than before. “I heard you were in town.” His voice was casual, but his eyes… they lingered on her face in a way that made her heart ache. “Smallville’s a small place. Thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

The words felt like a weight, heavy in her chest. She wasn’t sure if he was here out of politeness, or if there was something more behind his visit. Either way, it didn’t matter. It was like stepping back into a level of a game she had already lost.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N’s gaze dropped to the Game Boy in her hands, and for a split second, she wondered if this was it. Would it always be this way—trying to fix something that was already broken?

“Clark…” she began, but her voice trailed off. She didn’t know what to say. There were too many things she wanted to ask, too many things she needed to know. But instead, she held his gaze, searching for something that might give her an answer.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “I know things ended… differently,” he said quietly. “But we don’t have to pretend it never happened.”

It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but it was the one she needed. The weight of his words hung in the air between them, and for a moment, she felt as if the game had started again. But this time, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to play.

Y/N stood there, her fingers still lightly grazing the newly repaired Game Boy. Clark’s words hung in the air like a thin thread, delicate, yet weighted. She knew she should walk away—should leave the shop, the town, everything behind—but there was something in the way he was looking at her, like a flicker of the past had ignited in his eyes. It pulled her back, as if the magnetic force of their shared history had never quite released its hold on her.

For a moment, she thought she could walk away. She thought she could turn the Game Boy off, leave the old world behind and start anew. But the truth was, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to turn the screen dark again.

Clark shifted his weight, sensing her hesitation. His voice softened, pulling her out of the dizzying loop in her mind. “You look different,” he said, and there was something about the way he said it—an observation more than a compliment, like he saw past the surface and into the layers of time between them. 

Y/N forced a smile, though it felt thin. “Guess time does that to people,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the words felt hollow, slipping off her tongue like they were meant to fill a void that only he could see.

But he didn’t push it. Instead, his gaze dropped to the Game Boy in her hands, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Still got that thing, huh?”

It was as if he was trying to make a joke, a way to bridge the gap between the past and the present. But it didn’t work. It only made the silence louder.

“I had it repaired,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “It’s… different now.”

Clark nodded slowly, taking in her words. His lips parted, like he was going to say something, but he stopped himself. The space between them felt impossibly wide, yet neither of them seemed ready to cross it.

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to steady her pulse. Her hands tightened around the Game Boy, feeling its weight—new, restored, like it was waiting for her to push Start again, as if the game could fix what was broken. But the truth was, she didn’t know if she could play this game anymore.

Before she could speak, Clark’s phone buzzed, breaking the silence again. He glanced at it quickly, his expression unreadable. Y/N’s stomach twisted in knots, the old feeling of being left behind creeping in, the sensation of watching him slip away even when he was standing right in front of her.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing at the screen before quickly tucking it back in his pocket. “Work stuff.”

Y/N nodded, though the tightness in her chest didn’t go away. There it was again. That familiar distance. It was the game she’d been losing for too long, but each time she tried to quit, each time she tried to walk away, she found herself back in the same spot. The same loop. The same unresolved question: Could she ever really stop?

The relapse started quietly, like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She’d told herself she was over it—over him, over the weight of the past. But when Clark stood before her, in the same small town, with the same smile, the same pull in his gaze, it was as if nothing had ever changed. It was like being handed the controller to a game she’d promised herself she’d never play again.

But here she was.

“Clark,” she started, her voice barely a whisper. “You... You’re still with her, aren’t you?”

There was a brief silence. His eyes flickered, guilt flashing across his face before he exhaled sharply, looking away. His expression wasn’t just regret—it was the heavy weight of someone who had hurt the person they loved and didn’t know how to fix it.

“No,” he said finally, his voice low. “But… we’re trying to be friends. We’ve been through a lot.”

Y/N felt like she’d been struck. He wasn’t with Lana anymore, but they were still tethered to each other in a way she couldn’t understand. They were tangled in a history Y/N wasn’t part of, and no matter how many times she pressed Start, she would never find herself in the same level.

She had been so desperate for the game to reset, to find a way back to the beginning, when everything had been simple, and nothing had hurt. But now, with the screen so clear in her hands, it was harder to ignore the fact that some things couldn't be fixed with a button press. Some things weren't made to be replayed.

A familiar ache twisted in her chest. She felt like she was falling behind, like the game was moving faster than her fingers could follow, each press of the buttons failing to keep up with the pace of the game, her heart.

"I don't know if we can be friends," she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself. "Not after everything. We were toxic from the start.“

Clark’s face softened, the edges of his mouth curling into something like regret, like understanding. But Y/N couldn’t do it. She couldn’t keep replaying the same levels, trying to force a different outcome.

With one last glance at the Game Boy, she realized something. She hadn’t been playing to win. She’d been playing to lose, over and over again, because it was easier to lose than to walk away.

And maybe that was the hardest part—to stop. To shut off the screen. To leave the game behind.

Clark stood there for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but the words faltered, held back by the weight of everything that had passed between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice a whisper, raw and sincere.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the weight of his apology settling heavily between them. “I know I hurt you. I shouldn’t have just disappeared the way I did. It wasn’t right, and I... I regret it.”

Y/N stood frozen, the Game Boy still clutched tightly in her hands. The sincerity in his words cut through her like a blade, but it also stung with the realization that this was the first time he wasn’t just apologizing for his actions, but truly understanding the consequences of them. But was it enough? Was he enough?

Clark stepped closer, his hand hovering like he was unsure whether to reach for her. His voice was softer now, almost pleading. “You matter to me, Y/N. I— I don’t want you to think that you were just something I could walk away from or play with.”

Y/N’s heart twisted, torn between the overwhelming desire to believe him and the knowledge that she had been hurt too many times. Clark’s voice shook, but his words weren’t just a last-ditch effort. They were the admission of someone who had been through months of reflection, who was no longer just talking from a place of guilt but from a place of understanding.

For a moment, she thought about giving in, about losing herself again to the pull of the past. But even as she fought it, she knew: She had to let go.

“You don’t get to do that, Clark,” she said, her voice shaking as she fought to stay grounded. “You can’t just show up and say that like it fixes everything. You can’t just come back and expect me to fall into step with you again.”

His face tightened, like he wanted to say something—like he was fighting to explain himself, to make her understand. But then he stopped, his eyes flickering with an almost resigned pain. He knew she was right.

“I know,” he said quietly, taking a small step back, his voice soft. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I had to try.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. In that moment, she saw the raw truth of his words—the quiet acceptance that he may never be able to fix what he had broken. It was a growth she hadn’t seen in him before. He wasn’t asking her to forgive him. He wasn’t asking her to play along or try again. He was finally giving her the space to decide what was best for her.

There was a long silence, thick and suffocating, and for the first time, Clark didn’t try to fill it. He simply waited, as if knowing the decision was hers alone to make.

Y/N’s mind screamed for her to walk away, to shut the door on him and everything he represented. But her heart—her foolish heart—whispered for her to stay. To take the chance.

But no. The game had changed.

"I think we both know," she said finally, her voice quiet but steady, "that this—whatever this is—can't go on like this."

She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes steady and unflinching. Clark’s expression faltered as if he was about to say something, but she raised a hand to stop him.

“I need something real, Clark,” she continued. “Something that doesn’t break apart every time I let my guard down. Something that doesn’t leave me wondering if I’m just an option you pick up when it's convenient.”

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat growing larger as she spoke. Clark was silent, but there was no anger in his eyes—only the understanding of someone who had known what it was like to be lost, to feel like there was no way to come back.

He looked at her for a long moment, his own chest rising and falling as he fought the urge to reach out to her. He wasn’t going to stop her. He wasn’t going to plead. He just stood there, holding the space for her to make her decision.

“You’re not just an option,” he said softly, his voice almost hoarse. “I never meant to hurt you. I just... I don’t know how to fix it.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in months. And in that moment, she realized that she wasn’t looking for him to fix it. She wasn’t looking for any promises anymore. She didn’t need him to say the right words, or to prove himself.

"It doesn’t need fixing anymore, Clark,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I’ve learned how to fix me.”

Clark took a slow breath, and though his expression was still pained, there was a quiet respect in the way he looked at her now. He had nothing left to give, nothing left to ask. And for the first time, he understood what she needed, even if it wasn’t him.

Y/N slowly stepped back, the Game Boy still in her hands, heavier now than ever before. She could almost hear the echo of the button clicks in her mind—the same rhythm that had once drawn her in. But she had learned that no game, no matter how addicting, could define her.

“I think,” she said softly, her voice steady with finality, “it’s time for us to finally be done with this game.”

Clark didn’t argue. He didn’t try to pull her back into the cycle they had once shared. He just nodded slowly, his eyes still holding hers, as if silently acknowledging the end of this chapter.

Y/N took one last look at him, then turned and walked toward the door, her heart aching but lighter than it had been in months. She wasn’t running anymore.

“Goodbye, Clark,” she said, her voice steady.

The soft hum of the city outside felt like a lullaby, a promise of new beginnings. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N smiled—not because of a rush, but because she knew she was ready to live.

🕹️ hi everyone! I know it's not a happy ending but I wrote so many drafts of the part two.. and somehow I always end up with the version of them two being on their own. It's important to see the toxicity of them both and y/n's addiction or idea of clark's attention. just like in games, we are all focused on it and feel addicted to know what's the next step, what's the next level. 🕹️I am still thinking of writing a spin-off to clark's version of the story, or maybe a ,bonus' chapter of them in few years :) love ya ! 🕹️ taglist: @blackynsupremacy @angelsgalore @alelo23 @caliicela

[rosylix143]

video games | l. felix

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader

genre: angst (with comfort lol), fluff, suggestive

synopsis: it’s been so long since you’ve seen your darling boyfriend, but he’s got his priorities somewhere else.

cw: MDNI, established relationship, felix is kinda a dick here (it's okay tho i love him :3), feelings of insecurity, tiny bit of dry humping (let me know if i’m missing any)

wc: 3741

———————————・❥・———————————

Today was an exciting day for you. After long weeks of not seeing your boyfriend, you finally got to have a day with him. He had been on tour with his group for months, and you were counting the days until you finally see him again. You were standing before a long mirror, admiring your outfit for the day: blue vintage low-rise flares, a simple maroon top with spaghetti straps and lace trimming, and your favorite pair of platforms. You even grabbed one of your boyfriend’s hoodies because A) it brought the whole outfit together, with its navy blue color and hints of red, B) it was incredibly comfortable, and C) it’s your boyfriend’s hoodie.

After styling your hair, applying some light pink lipgloss and a decent amount of mascara and eyeliner, you grabbed your large sleepover bag, and walked to your car. During the whole car ride, you couldn’t stop bouncing your leg rapidly. Your heart rate was increasing by the minute, and it was hard keeping your hands stable on the steering wheel. You feared that you would jump up and down like a maniac and pounce on your boyfriend the moment he opened up the door.

The only songs you had playing in the car were the new songs Stray Kids released in the past month, and your heart skipped a beat or two every time your boyfriend’s lines came up. Once you finally reached his place, you parked your car—next to the silver blue car that was on the driveway—grabbed your sleepover bag, and walked up to the door.

It was taking everything in you to not let your body explode on the spot and keep the restlessness on the low. You were standing before the front door, and you rang the doorbell. You held your breath as you saw a blurred figure behind the frosted glass. The door opened, and to your surprise, Kim Seungmin was standing before you. You thought he wouldn’t be at the house as promised.

“Y/N?” Seungmin asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I am here to see Felix,” you said, “Is he here?”

“Oh yeah, he’s here. Just go to his room.”

Seungmin moved aside, letting you into the house. You nodded and thanked him before going upstairs and walking to your boyfriend’s bedroom. The door to his room was closed, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to see your man. You knocked on the bedroom door.

“Felix? Honey, it’s me,” you said.

There was no response. You pouted a little, but you decided to knock again. No response. Confused, you leaned your head against the door to hear if Felix was actually in there, and to your surprise, all you could hear were the sounds of lasers shooting and aggressive keyboard smashing. Your stomach churned a little, but you told yourself to not jump to any conclusions yet. You went ahead and opened up the door, and there he was. Your boyfriend, Lee Felix. His back was facing you, and he was seated in his plush gamer chair, staring at a screen while he was playing another level of League of Legends. His eyes were completely locked on the screen, his blue max headphones were on, and he was indeed aggressively pressing his fingers on the keys of his rainbow keyboard.

You sighed and placed your sleepover bag on the ground, right up against the front of his bed. You then sneakily approached him until you were right behind his gaming chair. You knew that you shouldn’t ever do this, but you had no choice. Besides, maybe it would be a pleasant surprise for him to see your face. Your hands reached for the sides of his headphones, pulling them off his ears. Felix jolted and turned his head to see you, completely surprised by your presence.

“What the hell?!” he asked, completely annoyed, “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

You were taken aback by his response. Your eyes widened and all the previous excitement from your body vanished. What am I doing here? Honey, it’s obvious….

Your stomach churned more, and your heart gained 100 pounds. You bent forward a little to meet him at eye level.

“Hey, Felix…” you started, “Ready to go out?”

“Well, obviously not! You just ruined my chance at winning the game! And now I have to restart the whole level! Perfect, just perfect!!”

Felix turned away from you and was getting ready to restart the game. Your mind was racing, mostly with confusion, but you also didn’t like the aggressive sarcasm in his tone. We agreed for today, didn't we?

“But, Pumpkin…you said that we could have our date for today…” you started. You moved to lean back up against his computer desk to at least make some kind of eye contact with him.

“Yeah, well we can just reschedule that.”

Your eyes widened at the suggestion, nearly speechless.

“Reschedule? Felix, we’ve been planning this….and I said that I wouldn’t be free all of next week because of work—”

“Can you just go, Y/N, I don’t have time,” Felix brushed off with annoyance on his tongue, putting his headphones back on.

Another punch to the gut. How could he forget that today was your special day together? After planning this supposedly perfect day with him? Your eyes were starting to well up, and your stomach was swirling. Heat rose under your skin, making you feel dizzy. You quickly snatched Felix’s headphones out of his hands.

“No, Felix! It’s been so long since we last saw each other,” you started, “And you’re just going to take this one day we had and waste it on some video game—”

“You don’t get just how long I’ve been trying to upgrade my rank, Y/N!!” Felix rubbed his head in frustration. “God, you’re so clingy. Fine, if you want my attention so bad, just wait downstairs and let me finish this.”

Silence fell between the two of you, but it was heavy like that sledgehammer of a word. The only thing you could hear was your heart cracking like glass. Felix would never, in a million years, physically hurt you, but his words hit harder than a harsh backhand to the face. He’s never even said such things to you before. Even on days when he was upset, he was careful with his words and tone around you. Especially since he knew you were soft hearted, and you have been nothing but good to him. Clingy? He thinks I’m clingy?

Your heart ached, hoping that this was some bad dream. Your mind was already flooding with flashbacks from the last heartbreak you had. He grabbed his headphones from your hands and put them back on before continuing to play his game. Your hands were beginning to tremble a little. Tears were welling up in your eyes, and you felt like you were going to choke. Your shoulders slumped in defeat, and you solemnly walked out of his bedroom.

“Okay…Go play your video game.”

Your voice cracked, and the weight on your heart got heavier and heavier. You started to cry, quickly grabbing your sleepover bag, and rushed downstairs. Seungmin was in the kitchen grabbing snacks for himself, and worry came across his face once he saw you crying and walking to the front door.

“Y/N?” Seungmin quickly walked up to you, and you stopped immediately to face him. His hand was on the border of the door, leaning in on his side. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head not wanting to burden him with your troubles.

“Nothing…” you lied, sniffing your nose like crazy and your breath hitching. “I’m going home…”

“Did Felix say something to you? I’ll talk to him if you want.”

“No, no, no, please, Minnie. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just leave you guys alone, okay?” You gently pushed Seungmin away, walked out the door, entered your car, and drove away, rivers of mascara streaming down your reddened cheeks.

Seungmin frowned a little as he watched you leave through the window. He quickly turned around and walked upstairs and stepped into Felix’s room. Felix was still seated in his chair, almost done with his game. Determination was only in his eyes, his fingers were aggressively tapping and smashing against the keys of his keyboard, and it was a miracle that his computer mouse wasn’t already crushed. Felix was breaking a sweat from all the stress built up from finishing the level, and Seungmin only sighed. He knew better than to just interrupt Felix when he’s so deep into a game. However, he wanted to confront his roommate just for making you cry. Thankfully, Felix finished the level, exhaling a breath of relief. He took off his headphones and leaned back, messing with his smooth black hair.

“Okay, Y/N…I’m done with my game—”

Felix turned around, and he was faced with Seungmin crossing his arms. Felix’s eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Seungmin? What is it?” Felix asked, “Can you tell Y/N that she can come back upstairs.”

“She left, Felix,” Seungmin said.

“What?” Felix’s eyes widened, and he stood up from his chair. “What do you mean she left? I simply told her to wait downstairs.”

“She left the dorm. Crying.”

“Crying?” Felix was about to ask why, but he remembered just how awful he was being to you. His stomach ached with guilt, and his heart broke as he remembered the look on your face before you left his room. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!! I have to apologize to her, Seungmin!!”

“She said she was going home.”

Upon hearing that, Felix quickly grabbed his jacket. He hastily walked out of his room, and he quickly went downstairs to grab his keys from the little hook on the wall next to the front door.

“You’re going to see her?” Seungmin asked, following Felix.

“I fucked up, so I need to fix it,” Felix admitted, while putting on his jacket. He turned to his friend, who just stood there with his arms casually crossed. Felix’s mind was suddenly flooded with doubtful thoughts, making him feel slightly light headed and nauseous. “God, Seungmin, what if she doesn’t accept my apology? What if she breaks up with me?”

“I don’t think she’s going to break up with you,” Seungmin sighed, “But yes, it was a dick move of you to make her cry like that. So just apologize to her, and hopefully she accepts it.”

“Hopefully. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“That’s alright. Just take care.”

“You too.”

Felix waved goodbye to Seungmin, and walked to his silver blue car. He quickly sat in the driver’s seat, buckled his belt, started the engine, reversed out of the driveway, and immediately made the journey to your house. He was being careful to not speed on the road, but his heart was pounding with urgency and with the worry that if he didn’t even make it to your house within the next five seconds, it would be over for the both of you.

x•x•x•x

You were on the couch, laying in a fetal position, covered in a blanket. Your pillow was soaked and stained, pieces of white tissue paper were scattered all over the coffee table and the floor, and you were hugging your Bbokari plushie tight. Your eyes were red-rimmed with smeared eyeliner, your nose was stuffed, your hair that was perfectly styled for the day became all frizzy and messed up, and your head was aching with the most painful migraine. You looked like a total wreck, but your mind was even messier.

Felix’s angry words replayed in your head over and over again. “God, you’re so clingy. Fine, if you want my attention so bad, just wait downstairs and let me finish this.”

Is that what he really thinks of me? I’m clingy? He thinks I’m clingy?

Your soft heart pounded and hurt so much as if it was pierced with glass. Your breathing kept going back and forth with it being slow and being rapid with each new flood of tears that wanted to come out. You knew that you were the type to love too hard. You couldn’t help it. When you love someone, you always end up falling so deeply into it that it catches others off guard. Your two ex-boyfriends couldn’t stand it, but Felix was the one who always loved that about you. You were so endearing to him, and he loved the days where you would cuddle with him, bake with him, give him gifts, and support him and his dreams, either from the GA crowds or behind your phone screen. You even played video games with him at times, and those nights were always fun, silly, and sometimes steamy.

He loved you just as much as you loved him, so why would he just dismiss this special day like it was nothing? Why did he call you clingy? Was just one day really too much to ask for? Does he not like me anymore? Did he find someone else while touring? He got sick of me…why does this happen to me every time? Am I just too much? Am I just bound to drive people away with my love? Is this some curse of mine? Why can’t I stop being clingy?

Your doorbell rang suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you jolted up on the couch, with your blanket still wrapped around you. Your vision was blurry, but your eyes were focused on the door ahead of you. You wiped the tears off your eyes and walked closer to the door, immediately recognizing the silhouette behind the frosted glass. Your heart pounded, and you weakly and hesitantly opened the door. And there he was, Lee Felix Yongbok, standing before you with a face pleading guilty.

“Felix?”

“Honey, I am so sorry!” he rushed into the door and pulled you to his chest, his arms wrapping around you. You hesitantly held onto him and more tears began to pour out. “I didn’t mean to say those things to you. I was being a cunt.”

“What—”

He let go of you for a moment and his hands landed on the sides of your face, his eyes tearing up at the sight of how heartbroken you looked, with your messy hair and makeup.

“Oh what have I done…” he choked back a cry, and held you close once more. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s okay, Felix,” you said with your throat dry from all the crying. “You’re right. I am very clingy…”

“No, no, no, no. You are not clingy at all, Hon. This was supposed to be our day together, and I’ve ruined it by being an idiot. I should’ve remembered that you were coming over and stopped being a League addict for one day. What I said was completely out of line, and I didn’t mean any of it. I was just angry at my game, and I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have. I promise I’ll make it up to you, okay? Tell me whatever it is that you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

He gently wiped your tears with his thumbs, and your heart pounded. You wrapped your hands around his wrists gently.

“You mean it?” you asked.

“Yes, Baby, of course,” Felix whispered, his voice trembling a little. “I love you so dearly. Sometimes, I feel that you’re too good for me with how sweet you are.”

He rested his forehead against yours, and heat rushed up to your cheeks, making your skin glow pink.

“You’re sweet too, Hon…” you said.

“Not as sweet as you,” Felix pulled back a little and shook his head, “I know everyone calls me an angel and everything, but between the two of us….you’re the angel here. Anyways, let me make it up to you please. I’ll even promise no more video games for the time we have left until I leave for tour again. Deal?”

Your eyes widened at his proposal. He really was desperate to make it up to you, even willing to give up one of his favorite pastimes ever in the world. You couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Felix, I’m not a monster,” you said, “I’m not going to ban video games from you. I’m always okay with playing some with you.”

“Are you sure?” Felix asked, “It’s okay to be honest with me. I really don’t want to neglect you like that again.”

“Yes, Pumpkin. I’m sure.”

“Okay, then maybe no video games unless I invite my amazing girlfriend over to play some. How about that?”

You giggled a bit and nodded at the new proposal he made.

“Deal,” you said, feeling some of the weight off your shoulders and heart disappear.

“Perfect,” Felix nodded, relieved that you agreed. “Anything else you want me to do, Baby? And I mean anything.”

“Well….a kiss from my man would be nice.”

Felix’s cheeks reddened a little, making the cute freckles on his face pop out more. He leaned in closer, your noses nearly touching.

“Only one kiss?” he asked, his voice a little lower—low enough to make the butterflies in your stomach flutter. “That’s all you need, Sweetheart?”

You nodded, and Felix smiled softly. He closed his eyes, and so did you, as he leaned in for a warm kiss. After what’s been so long without seeing him, your body felt like it was going to explode. It was like drinking water after days and days of drought. You immediately pulled him in close and kissed him back, but it was more passionate and more needy. You both took a moment to breathe, and Felix smirked while you were a blushing mess.

“I thought you only needed one kiss?” he teased, lifting your chin up slightly. “You want more, my angel?”

His deep voice combined with the sensual gaze in his eyes sent shivers down your spine. You swallowed a little and only let out a shaky “Yes please…”

Felix chuckled and kissed you again, but this time it was firm and more heated. He wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you close to his body—chest to chest—as he kissed you more and more. You whined against his lips, and you pulled him by the shirt and walked backward into your home. Felix quickly closed the door behind him, and you both landed on the black couch, his body hovering over yours.

You both broke the kiss once more, heat radiating off your skins, and you stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Felix caressed your cheek tenderly and scanned your body, already mesmerized by the way your chest rose and fell. Maybe it was the intimate lighting of the room that made you look extra sexy. He also realized just how cute your outfit was and how well it hugged your curves. Not to mention, the navy blue hoodie you “borrowed” from him the last time you were together. The hoodie was already zipped open, and it looked so big on you, making you look a little smaller than you actually are. If he could, Felix would put you in his pocket forever. He gently tugged on one of the drawstrings on the hoodie and smirked at you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie.”

“It’s too comfy to give back,” you explained.

“Keep it,” Felix whispered, leaning into the crook of your neck to plant a kiss there. “It looks cuter on you than me anyway.”

You blushed and let out a heavy breath at the kiss, and you arched your back slightly. Felix smirked and grabbed your hips as his lips traveled down from your neck to your collarbone to the mounds of your breasts. You shivered more, your skin scorching with need. You tightly grabbed onto Felix’s shirt, like it’s the only thing to ground you.

“You’re so soft, Baby,” he groaned before leaving another kiss on your skin. “My soft angel baby…”

Another breath was sucked out of you the more he kissed your skin. One of his hands wandered up under your shirt, and the other reached down and grabbed your ass, pulling your hips right up against his. You gasped and whined and wrapped your legs around him.

“Felix!!” you whined, as he started to slowly roll his hips right up against you. Heat began to rush and pool down your body, and you let out a little hiss feeling his hardness through his pants, the faster he rolled his hips. Your breathing became unsteady, and your body was overwhelmed with need. “Oh God…”

“Mmm?” he hummed, slowing down his movements. “You uncomfortable, Honey?”

“No…it’s just…” you panted a little. You blushed even more at the sight of him right above you, his dark curtain bangs dangling from his head, looking so silky and smooth. His eyes were heavily focused on you, and his Adam’s apple was bobbing a little. “Maybe let’s take this to my room?”

Felix smirked and chuckled a little, loving just how you asked him so sweetly. He nodded and immediately picked you up, carrying you bridal style. He took notice of the Bbokari plushie that was on your couch, its eyes on the two of you. Felix’s heart warmed up at the sight of the plushie, imagining you holding it tight, cuddling it, in your bed—especially on the days when he’s not able to see you.

“You didn’t see anything,” Felix said to the plushie.

You were confused for a moment at who he was talking to, but you looked at the plushie on the couch, quickly connecting the dots. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Bbokie’s traumatized now,” you chuckled.

“Well, let’s not traumatize him further,” Felix said before kissing your forehead and carrying you to your room. “Alright, Honey, I got you.”

You held onto Felix tight as he carried you with so much confidence and so much gentleness. The door to your bedroom was already open, so it wasn’t that hard for him to walk in the room. Your heart pounded with anticipation, your body ready for him to pour all of his love, passion, and desire into you. The moment he laid you down in your soft pink bed and went in for another deep kiss, you knew that it was going to be a very long and very unforgettable night.

———————————・❥・———————————

a/n: i really liked writing this one lol. comment down what you thought :)) feel free to reblog if you liked it.

masterlist | taglist

[spacequokka]

It's the (Right) Time

Pairing: Jaebeom x Reader Genre: fluff, humor Rating: G Summary: Doing the White Elephant gift exchange with Jay B and the boys. Word Count: 0.6k Warnings: None, just meme7 doing their thing.

A/N: Can you guess which song the title came from?

"Play White Elephant with us," they said. "It'll be fun," they said. Honestly, you should've known better considering who was involved. Since when has GOT7 done anything with an ounce of control? The second the last person invited to BamBam's place walked through the door, drinks were passed out and chaos ensued. You ended up sitting cross-legged in a circle with the boys, clutching your carefully wrapped package—a vintage record player you found at a flea market—hoping it wouldn't be the most memorable gift for all the wrong reasons. It wasn't impossible to find vinyl records…right? You added it to the pile while the guys fought over snacks and refills.

"Number seven!" BamBam called out with way too much enthusiasm, waving the little paper slip. You took it with trembling hands. Seven, last pick. That could ever be really good or really bad. You crossed your fingers.

Jackson was practically vibrating with excitement then drew number one. "First pick! The universe loves me!" He kissed the slip of paper then crawled forwards on his knees to survey the pile of presents in the middle of the circle. Each one was wrapped in different patterns of holiday paper, but the designs chosen hinted at who wrapped what. After much deliberation and dramatic pointing, Jackson went for a small box wrapped in silver.

The game moved quickly after that. Youngjae picked a tall gift back and found a mini karaoke machine inside, which Mark immediately stole. Jinyoung carefully selected a medium-sized box that turned out to be a rare book collection, which made his eyes light up. BamBam ended up with a designer scarf after three different steals, and Yugyeom somehow landed a set of limited edition Deadpool plushies.

Then it was Jay's turn, right before yours. He studied the remaining two gifts with that intense focus he usually reserves for reviewing song lyrics. His gaze landed on your package and you held your breath. The record player would be a perfect fit for him--you lowkey picked it with him in mind, knowing he already had a collection.

"This one," he muttered as he reached for your gift. Of course.

You watched as he carefully peeled back the paper, his eyes widening when he realized what it was. "No way," he breathed, running his fingers over the vintage wood. "This is…this is incredible." It's the look in his eyes that does it, a tender joy that leaves him with a barely there smirk.

You're last and there's only one gift left—a squishy package wrapped in red and gold. For a minute you panic. Soft gifts in a game of White Elephant can mean trouble. Inside, you find the softest fleece hoodie you've ever touched, clearly oversized and perfect for winter.

"That was mine," Jay scoots closer to you. When you look up, he's smiling gently in a way that makes his eyes crinkle. "Seems fair, doesn't it? You got my gift, I got yours."

"Did you know?" you ask, wondering if somehow he'd guessed which present you bought.

He nods, still smiling. "As their leader, it's my job to keep an eye on everything going on." He glances at the record player then back at you. "How did you know I've been looking for one exactly like this?"

"I didn't! I saw it—"

"Okay, but can we talk about how I ended up with socks? Socks?!" Jackson launched himself across the circle at Mark. "I trusted you!"

The room erupted with laughter. Jay caught your eye again, mouthing a silent "thank you" before getting to his feet to wrangle Jackson back to the couch. You pulled on the new hoodie. It smelled faintly of vanilla and coffee, just like him. Sometimes the best gifts are the ones you don't plan for.

[the-winter-spider]

Yours, Always | Part Sixteen

Steve x reader, Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: Nothing really this ones joyful

A/N: ONE MORE CHAPTER AFTER THIS TILL WE HEAD BACK TO THE CITY.

Masterpost

---

Breakfast had been easy, lighthearted Sam cracking jokes, you and Bucky stealing glances, Steve’s absence lingering like a ghost neither of you wanted to acknowledge. It felt like the first morning in a long time where you could breathe.

So when Bucky tossed his keys in the air and caught them with a smirk, asking, “Wanna go to the flea market in the next town over?” you nearly jumped out of your seat.

“Oh my God, of course,” you grinned, already reaching for your bag.

Bucky chuckled at your excitement as you turned to Sam, who was stretching his arms over his head. “You coming?”

Sam scoffed. “Duh, I leave tonight, and I need one more day with you two hooligans before I go.”

You beamed, linking your arm through his for a second before grabbing your coffee off the counter. “Good, because we are professionals at flea markets.”

Sam shook his head as Bucky pulled his truck keys from his pocket, leading the way outside. “Man, I can already tell this is gonna be a nightmare.”

Bucky’s truck was an old thing, a single cab with a long, worn-down bench seat stretching across the front. It smelled like leather and faintly of gasoline, and when you slid in, wedged between Sam and Bucky, it felt like muscle memory.

Sam clicked his seatbelt into place. “Can’t believe this thing is still running, thought for sure she would only last the day.”

Bucky turned the key in the ignition, grinning as the engine roared to life. “Like a dream.”

Sam made a face. “More like a nightmare.”

You laughed as Bucky pulled out onto the road, the sun streaming through the windshield. The town faded into rolling green hills and stretches of farmland, and after a few minutes of comfortable silence, Bucky reached for the radio dial.

Static. A half-played country song. Another burst of static. Then you heard it.

Your eyes widened.

Bucky glanced at you with a slow grin, already knowing.

“Oh, hell no,” Sam groaned, but it was too late.

Super Trouper beams are gonna blind me

But I won’t feel blue

You and Bucky both screamed the words at the top of your lungs, completely out of sync, Bucky drumming on the steering wheel, you dancing as much as you could while sitting down.

“I swear to God,” Sam muttered, running a hand down his face. “The worst. You two are the worst.”

That only made you and Bucky sing louder.

Sam groaned dramatically, flopping his head back against the seat. “I hate this. I hate both of you.”

“You love us,” you said over the music.

“No, I tolerate you,” he corrected. “Barely.”

Bucky laughed, “Everyone loves ABBA, you’re just tryna be cool.” his eyes crinkling at the corners, and when your thigh brushed his, just lightly, just enough to notice you felt a blush creep up your neck. You were thankful he didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it.

But it felt… right. It was easy, like slipping back into something that had been waiting for you all along.

The flea market was spread across an open field, lined with rows of white tents and stalls filled with antiques, handmade crafts, and all the strange odds and ends you could imagine. It smelled like fried food and old books, and you loved every second of it.

“Alright, children,” Sam said, clapping his hands. “What’s the game plan?”

“Wander until we find something weird,” Bucky said simply.

“That won’t take long,” you added.

Sam sighed, adjusting his sunglasses. “This is gonna be a long day.”

You and Bucky immediately veered off toward the first stall you saw, which was covered in vintage records.

Bucky flipped through them, pausing when he found an old Springsteen album. He held it up to you. “Remember when I played this nonstop?”

“Oh God, do I ever,” you groaned. “I still hear ‘Thunder Road’ in my nightmares.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “This is what you choose to bond over? Springsteen?”

Bucky smirked. “She liked it.”

You scoffed. “I tolerated it.”

“Barely,” Bucky teased, mocking Sam’s tone from earlier.

You stuck your tongue out at him.

The three of you meandered through the market, stopping at a booth selling handmade jewelry. You picked up a dainty gold ring, turning it over in your fingers.

“It’s cute,” you murmured.

Bucky glanced at it. “You should get it.”

You made a face. “I don’t need it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, taking it from you and handing it to the vendor. “She’ll take it.”

You gawked at him. “Bucky—”

“Don’t fight me on this,” he said, handing over some cash. “Consider it a belated, very belated birthday gift.”

You bit your lip as the vendor slipped the ring into a small velvet pouch. Bucky handed it to you, and you hesitated before slipping it onto your finger.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

The moment lingered a second too long, until Sam reappeared, holding up a ridiculous T-shirt that read Bigfoot is Real and He Stole My Beer.

“Tell me this isn’t the best thing you’ve ever seen,” Sam said, grinning.

Bucky snorted. “I’d wear it.”

“I know you would,” Sam deadpanned. “I’m gonna get it.”

The three of you continued exploring, stopping for lemonade and splitting an order of fried dough, the powdered sugar getting all over your fingers.

Bucky nudged you, wiping a bit off the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

Your breath hitched.

His hand lingered for half a second before he pulled away, popping the powdered sugar into his mouth with a smirk.

Your face was burning.

Sam, completely oblivious, was busy haggling with a vendor over a rusty pocket knife.

By the time the sun started dipping lower, you had a few small trinkets in your bag Bucky’s gift, a small book of poetry, and a keychain shaped like an old truck.

“Sentimental,” Bucky said, nodding at the keychain as you walked back to the truck.

You shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

As you wandered further through the market, the scent of fresh leather and baked goods mingling in the air, you spotted a small stall tucked between two larger tents. The booth was filled with colorful beaded rope bracelets, hanging in neat rows some with patterns, others just vibrant strings twisted together. It was a simple setup, but something about it drew you in.

Bucky followed you, his hands in his pockets, looking more relaxed than he had in days.

“This stuff is way too cute,” you said, lifting one of the bracelets off its display hook. It was a mix of blues, greens, and whites, the beads shimmering under the sun.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, watching you with a soft smile. “Yeah? You thinking of getting one?”

You bit your lip, considering. “I don’t know… I just think it’s funny, you know? How, when we were kids, everyone had BFF necklaces or matching bracelets. You know, the ones that say ‘Best Friends Forever.’”

Bucky chuckled, his lips curving in that familiar grin you loved. “Yeah, I remember those.”

“You know, if you were a girl, we’d totally have had matching necklaces.”

He glanced at you sideways, a playful glint in his eyes. “Why did I have to be a girl, I woulda wore it.”

Your eyes widened at his comment, blinking in disbelief. “Really?” you asked, surprised. “You’d wear a stupid ‘Best Friends’ necklace?”

Without missing a beat, Bucky gave you a deadpan look. “I would’ve worn it either way. Doesn’t matter to me if I’m the only guy in the world with a friendship necklace.”

You stared at him for a second, heart fluttering in your chest at the sincerity in his voice. “You’d do that for me?”

His smile softened. “Of course. You think I’d let something like that stop me?”

You felt something inside you shift, a warm rush of affection that made your chest feel tight. It wasn’t just a simple friendship for Bucky; it never had been. Not for you, at least.

You cleared your throat, trying to hide the sudden intensity of your feelings. “Well, if you had worn one, I would’ve done it, too. Guess we’ll never know, huh?”

Bucky laughed. “Guess not.”

A woman standing behind the booth watched the exchange with a smile and spoke up. “I have a set of bracelets, you know. They’re good luck charms.”

You glanced over, your eyes landing on a pair of brightly colored beaded rope bracelets. One was a mix of gold and deep red, and the other was a matching set in ocean blue and white. “We could totally wear these as ‘Best Friends’ bracelets,” you said with a smile.

Bucky turned to the woman, the grin still on his face but something almost serious behind his eyes. “I’ll take two of the matching ones,” he said, reaching into his wallet.

You could hardly believe it. “Wait, seriously?” you asked, your voice cracking slightly.

He gave a nonchalant shrug as he handed the money over. “Yeah, why not? You said you’d wear one, right? So might as well make it official.”

The woman packed the bracelets into a small bag and handed them over to you. You held the little pouch in your hands for a second, feeling the weight of it. You couldn’t quite put it into words, but the gesture, this simple exchange meant something to you. Something that felt more meaningful than just a silly, childhood tradition.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you as you stared at the bag. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to match me?”

You shook your head, finally smiling, even as your chest tightened with something that was definitely more than just friendship. “No, I do. I want to. It’s just… it’s funny, you know? After all these years we are officially best friends.”

Bucky looked at you with a mixture of amusement and something else, something soft in his expression that you couldn’t quite figure out. “We’re always gonna be best friends, no matter what happens, Right?”

You took a deep breath, glancing at him. “Yeah, always.”

You slid the bracelet onto your wrist, and when you glanced at him, Bucky was already wearing his. The beads, simple and vibrant, now tied you together in a way that felt permanent.

The two of you didn’t say much on the drive back. The sky had started its slow descent into gold and amber, the summer air warm as it rolled through the open windows. Sam had passed out in the passenger seat, arms crossed, head tilted back, his soft snores blending with the hum of the radio.

You stared out at the familiar streets, your fingers ghosting over the bracelet. The colors of the beads were already fading in the dimming light, but the meaning behind them, what they stood for felt stronger than ever.

“Long day,” Bucky murmured, his voice barely carrying over the music.

You turned to him, smiling. “The best kind.”

By the time you pulled into the driveway, Sam groaned, stretching dramatically as he woke up. “Man, I really don’t wanna leave,” he muttered, rubbing his face.

Bucky snorted. “You’re not even gone yet, and you’re already getting sentimental.”

Sam flipped him off, making you laugh as you all climbed out of the truck.

The golden hues of the very start of the sunset stretched over the backyard, casting everything in a warm glow. You, Bucky, and Sam sat around with half-empty beer bottles, soaking in the last bit of time before Sam had to hit the road. It had been a damn good day, one of those rare, easy days where everything felt light.

Sam exhaled, stretching his arms behind his head. “Alright,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Bucky, mischief already brewing. “I gotta ask.”

You raised a brow. “About?”

He smirked, nodding toward Bucky. “Why Super Trouper?”

Bucky groaned immediately, rubbing a hand over his face.

You grinned, already knowing where this was going. “Oh, you mean my song?”

Sam nearly dropped his beer. “Your song?” He turned to you, his mouth practically twitching with amusement. “So you’re the culprit. You and Super Trouper? Really?”

You sighed dramatically. “I regret everything.” Bucky laughed, you nudged his arm. “Come on, tell him.”

Bucky gave you a look, but relented. “We’ve always had a thing for ‘80s music,” he muttered. “Started as a joke, she used to make fun of all the songs I liked, but then one day she just didn’t.”

“It’s not my fault you played em constantly,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “You broke me down.”

Sam snorted. “Man, this is gold.”

Bucky scowled. “Why are you acting like ABBA isn’t one of the greatest bands of all time?”

“Oh, I’m not saying they’re not,” Sam said, smirking. “I just never pegged you as the dancing queen type.”

Bucky flipped him off, taking a sip of his beer.

You grinned, leaning back in your chair. “To be fair, it’s not the only ‘80s song we have history with.”

Bucky turned to you, already knowing where you were going with this. “Don’t.”

You smirked. “Tell Sam what your favorite song is, then since he knows mine.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, looking at you like he could will you into silence.

You just grinned wider. Then, in a softer voice, you started, “Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you…”

Bucky groaned, but the corner of his mouth twitched as you kept going.

Sam threw his head back, laughing. “No fucking way!”

Bucky sighed, shaking his head. “She’s insufferable.”

“Oh no, you both are,” Sam corrected.

You just kept singing, now fully enjoying how annoyed Bucky looked.

“You love this song,” you teased.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered. “At least I have taste.”

Sam huffed out a laugh, standing up and stretching. “I can’t believe I’m leaving you two unsupervised.”

Bucky smirked. “Well, if you stayed, we’d just subject you to more ‘80s classics.”

Sam shook his head, making his way toward the house. “Y’all are so lucky I like you.”

As Sam disappeared inside, you turned back to Bucky, smiling softly.

“Time after time, huh?” you said, nudging him.

Bucky exhaled, glancing over at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Time after time,” he murmured.

---

The first time you and Bucky stumbled upon the flea market, you had been kids, maybe ten or eleven riding your bikes further than you were technically allowed to. It had been a hot Saturday, the kind where the pavement shimmered and sweat stuck to the back of your neck. You weren’t looking for anything, just killing time, when you saw the signs nailed to the telephone poles:

SUMMER FLEA MARKET — THIS WEEKEND ONLY!

Bucky skidded to a stop beside you, his sneakers dragging through the gravel. “You wanna check it out?”

You grinned. “Are you kidding? Obviously.”

It was bigger than you expected, rows and rows of booths set up in an open field, people selling everything from handmade jewelry to boxes of old comic books, to rusty antique tools that Bucky found weirdly fascinating. But the best part? The food. Kettle corn, caramel apples, cotton candy, funnel cakes more sugar than two kids should ever be allowed to consume.

Neither of you had much money, but what you did have, you spent entirely on junk food.

“I need one of those giant lollipops,” you’d declared, eyes wide as you grabbed Bucky’s sleeve, pointing at a display of rainbow-colored candy the size of your head.

Bucky squinted at the price tag. “That’s, like, three bucks.”

“I have four,” you said proudly.

He groaned. “You’re gonna be impossible later.”

And you were. By the time you left, your hands were sticky from caramel and your stomach ached from too much fried dough. You talked nonstop on the way home, until the sugar crash hit you like a freight train.

You barely made it to his porch before your legs started to feel like lead.

“I told you,” Bucky teased, rolling his eyes as he nudged you inside.

That night, you passed out on his couch mid-sentence, still clutching your lollipop.

Years later, the flea market became a tradition.

You were sixteen the next time you and Bucky went. It had been his idea this time, and he’d driven the two of you in his dad’s old truck, the one he’d spent months fixing up after finally getting his license.

It felt different now. Bigger. Like the whole world was stretching wide open, waiting for you both to step into it.

The vendors were mostly the same, but now there were things that caught your eye in a different way rings that made you think of what kind you’d want when you got married one day, books you swore you’d get around to reading, records for bands you actually liked now, instead of just stealing whatever your parents listened to.

You and Bucky spent hours wandering, eating too much sugar again, getting into a heated argument over which movie franchise was superior, until the sun started to set and of course, you crashed again.

This time, it wasn’t mid-sentence, it was in the truck. Bucky was driving, his window rolled down, one arm lazily draped over the wheel. The radio played something soft, something familiar, and the hum of the engine made your eyelids heavy.

“You good?” Bucky asked, glancing over when you shifted against the seat.

“Mhm.” You barely got the sound out before your head tipped against his shoulder.

For a second, he froze, like he wasn’t sure if he should move or stay perfectly still. But then he just exhaled softly, adjusting slightly to make sure you were comfortable.

He didn’t wake you when he pulled into your driveway.

Didn’t wake you when he cut the engine, just sat there in the warm summer night, listening to you breathe.

Eventually, with a sigh, he leaned his head back against the seat, eyes flickering up to the stars through the windshield.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t dare. But God, if he could’ve had this forever…just you, just like this he would have. His mind was reeling.

Because this? This was everything.

You, curled up beside him, trusting him enough to fall asleep here, pressed against his side like you belonged there. The way you mumbled his name in your sleep sometimes, the way your fingers had briefly curled into the fabric of his shirt, like even in your dreams, you were holding onto him.

He wished you would.

Maybe it was the soft hum of the radio, the smell of summer air through the open windows, or the way the stars stretched endlessly above the two of you, but something inside him settled. Clicked into place.

He could spend forever like this.

No parties, no other girls, no loud nights filled with empty laughter, just this. Just you. Just late-night drives and lazy afternoons and your head resting against his shoulder like it was always meant to be there.

Maybe that was love.

Not the kind of love the guys at school talked about, the reckless kind that burned fast and ended ugly. But the kind that stayed. The kind that felt like a slow, steady thing like the way the earth turned, the way the stars always found their way back to the sky.

The kind that meant forever.

Bucky swallowed hard, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. He’d never thought about forever before.

Not until now, not until you.

It scared the hell out of him, the weight of it, the inevitability of it. He was only sixteen for christ sake, sure he knew you were gorgeous and sure he had a crush on you, had since the day he first saw you but love? That was the next level. But if he knew one thing for certain, it was this…there was no one else, not for him. There never had been. There never would be. But he couldn’t tell you that. Not yet.

So instead, he let his eyes drift back down to you, taking in the soft curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fluttered when you dreamed.

And quietly, just to himself, he whispered, “I’d give you everything.”

Even if you never asked for it. Even if you never knew.

---

The town was quiet in the late evening, the streets bathed in golden sunlight, casting long shadows across the pavement. After Sam left, it was just you and Bucky, lazily strolling around town, sipping slushies like you were kids again.

Bucky’s lips were stained blue, yours red, and every now and then, he’d glance at you with that small, amused grin, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this was real like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At some point, his steps slowed, his expression shifting, his gaze drifting toward the road that led to the cemetery. “I wanna see it,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “See what?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. “My grave.”

Your stomach twisted. The words sat heavy between you, making your chest feel tight. But you didn’t argue. If he wanted to see it, then you weren’t going to stop him.

The walk there was quiet, the only sound was the occasional sip from your straws and the soft crunch of gravel under your shoes. The cemetery looked the same as it always had peaceful, solemn.

And then, there it was.

James Buchanan Barnes

March 10, 1991 - September 2011

Loving Son, Loyal Friend

Bucky let out a breath, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “Weird,” he muttered, tilting his head. “That’s… so weird.”

He crouched down, running a hand over the smooth, cold surface of the headstone, his fingers tracing the lettering like he still didn’t quite believe it was real.

“How many times have you been here?” he asked, his voice softer now.

You swallowed, gripping your slushie a little tighter. “Three.”

Bucky looked up at you. “Three?”

You nodded, licking your lips. “The funeral.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed through. “The day I left.”

He frowned. “Why then?”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “I thought maybe if I said goodbye here, I’d leave the pain and grief here. That if I just… let it stay in this town, I wouldn’t have to carry it with me.”

Bucky swallowed hard, looking back at the headstone. “Did it work?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “No. It just manifested horribly in other ways.”

Bucky was silent for a long time before he nodded, like he understood that more than he wanted to. He let his fingers brush over the name carved into the stone, before sitting back on his heels, exhaling slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Your brows furrowed, and you took a step closer. “For what?”

His jaw clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. “For what you went through. For all of it.”

“Bucky—”

“No.” He shook his head, finally looking at you. His blue eyes were glassy now, his voice cracking at the edges. “I can’t even imagine what that was like for you andI know you’re probably thinking, ‘Buck, don’t. It’s nothing compared to what you went through,’ but don’t dismiss your pain like that.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off before you could say anything.

“It sucks what happened to me,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But I held onto hope. Knowing you were safe, knowing you were out there, living your life, getting the things we always talked about, that’s what kept me going. But you? You had to deal with losing me andif it had been the other way around—”

His voice cracked.

“If I had lost you?” He shook his head, wiping quickly at his eyes before any tears could fall. “It would have fucking destroyed me.”

You stood there, your own eyes burning, your chest aching.

Bucky let out a breath, clearing his throat. “Alright.” He sniffed, forcing a chuckle. “That’s enough sap for one day.”

You smiled softly, bumping your shoulder against his. “Not your style, huh?”

“Not in public, no,” he muttered, making you both laugh. “Too many people here.” He looked around at all the graves. Bucky stood up, and you followed as you left the grave.

But the mood had shifted, lighter now, even as something deeper settled between you.

After a moment, he glanced at you. “So… why’d Steve leave early?”

Your stomach twisted. “I asked him if we could move here.”

Bucky blinked, eyebrows furrowing. “And?”

You scoffed. “He shot me down. Didn’t even pretend to think about it. Just no.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Did he at least… ask why?”

“No,” you whispered, voice bitter. “That’s what hurts the most. He didn’t even consider it. Didn’t even ask.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his fingers flexing against his thighs. “I don’t get it,” he finally muttered. “You and him were talking about moving to Boston, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s only an hour away from here.”

“And he couldn’t even consider this for you?”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Nope.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything, but the storm brewing in his eyes was enough.

You sighed, kicking at a loose rock. “I don’t know, Buck. I don’t know what happens now.”

He watched you for a long time before finally murmuring, “Yeah. Me neither.

Bucky kicked at a loose rock on the sidewalk, stuffing one hand into his pocket while sipping his slushie with the other. “So what do you do for work now?”

You smiled a little. “I work from home.”

He snorted. “Of course you do.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, grinning. “It means that if there was a way to make money while never leaving the house, of course you’d find it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, excuse me for not wanting to sit in traffic every morning.”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “So, what is it you actually do?”

You sipped your drink, stalling for a moment. “I do freelance work. Some consulting, some writing, a little bit of everything.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly. “So… you don’t really have coworkers?”

You hesitated. “Not really, no.”

He frowned. “What about friends?”

You sucked in a slow breath, gaze dropping to the sidewalk.

“Y/N…” Bucky’s voice was quieter now, softer.

You shrugged, attempting to sound casual. “I don’t really have any.”

His frown deepened.

You sighed, finally glancing up at him. “I didn’t want to get attached, Buck. I couldn’t handle a loss again.”

His whole body seemed to tense at that. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I know,” you admitted. “But it was easier.”

A silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable, but heavy.

After a moment, Bucky cleared his throat. “So… Steve’s friends?”

“He has two, Wanda and Clint.” That made you smile a little. “Wanda’s great. She’s sweet, she’s kind. She always makes an effort with me, checks in, makes sure I’m okay. She’s my favourite out of the two.”

Bucky nodded, but he was watching you carefully. “And the other one? Clint?”

You let out a breath. “He’s…” You trailed off, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

You huffed a laugh. “He’s kind of an asshole to me.”

That made his brows lift. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I get it, honestly. Natasha was his best friend. They were like family and I think… I think he feels like I replaced her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched slightly.

“I mean,” you continued, “Steve and I are together. I adopted Lily. She calls me ‘Mom.’ I don’t think he’s ever said it, but I know he resents me for it.”

Bucky let out a sharp breath through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “That’s bullshit.”

You gave him a small smile. “It is what it is.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky muttered, kicking at the sidewalk. “That doesn’t make it right.”

You nudged his arm lightly with your elbow. “I appreciate the outrage.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath.

You glanced at him. “What?”

Bucky sighed. “Just thinking that maybe if I had been there, you wouldn’t have had to go through all of that alone.”

Your throat tightened. “You are here now.”

He nodded once, but something lingered in his eyes. Something heavy.

---

The gravel crunched beneath your tires as you pulled off to the side of the road, your hands gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles ached. The car idled, humming beneath you, but you didn’t move. You just sat there, staring straight ahead, your heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

You couldn’t do this.

But you had to.

Slowly, you unbuckled your seatbelt, your body feeling too heavy, too slow. The world outside was quiet, the late summer air thick with heat and the scent of pine. It smelled like home. Like childhood. Like everything you were about to leave behind.

The cemetery wasn’t far. Just a short walk through the grass, the path familiar under your feet despite how much you wished it wasn’t. Every step felt like lead, dragging you down, anchoring you to the earth when all you wanted was to run.

Bucky’s grave looked the same as it had at the service, fresh soil, a temporary marker with his name engraved in simple letters. James Buchanan Barnes. Below that, his birth date. And below that…

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes away.

You weren’t ready to read it.

A sharp sob tore from your throat as you fell to your knees, the impact jolting through your bones. The grave was cool beneath your fingertips, solid and unmoving, as if to remind you that he was really here.

That he was never coming home.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, your voice raw, breaking, like something inside you was splintering apart with each word. “I can’t—I can’t stay here, Buck. I tried, I really did, but it hurts too much.”

The wind rustled through the trees, and for a second, you swore you could hear his laugh.

A sob shuddered through you.

“I’m leaving,” you admitted, your breath shaking. “I—I have to go back. I can’t be here. Not without you. And I know—I know that’s selfish, but God, Bucky, I don’t know how to do this. How to live without you.”

Your hands curled into the grass, into the dirt.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

For not writing back. For not being there. For every second of time that had slipped through your fingers like sand, lost forever and for his last letter. Your head bowed as fresh tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I got your letter,” you whispered. “I guess it's the last one. I—I can’t read it, Buck. I can’t. I won’t.”

You shook your head, your throat closing.

“Maybe one day. Maybe on my deathbed, I’ll open it. But not now. Not when I already know what it’s going to say.”

Not when you already knew how much it would break you.

A shaky breath left you, and for the first time since you sat down, you let yourself look at his name. Really look at it. The finality of it. The permanence.

A weight settled in your chest, pressing down, suffocating.

“This is goodbye,” you said, and the words felt foreign on your tongue, unnatural. “I’m letting you go.”

The wind picked up, cool against your damp skin.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Please let me go too.”

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there, knees pressing into the dirt, hands shaking, chest hollow. But eventually, you forced yourself to move.

To stand, to walk away. You didn’t look back. Not when you reached your car. Not when you pulled onto the road. Not when the town disappeared behind you, fading into the horizon, into the past.

---

Bucky had just dropped you off after visiting the cemetery. You both lingered on the front porch.

“I promised Ma I’d help her with something,” he had told you, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’ll come by later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I really just wanna wash up. I forgot how hot it gets here in the summer.”

Bucky chuckled. “You never used to complain.”

“Well, I was seventeen and invincible then,” you teased.

He smirked, tilting his head. “See you around nine?”

You nodded, giving him a small wave as he climbed into the truck and pulled away, the sound of the old engine fading down the street.

You sighed, rubbing your temples, before finally stepping inside.

Your mom was at the kitchen table, flipping through an old magazine, her half-finished iced tea sweating against the wood. She glanced up at you over her glasses, immediately sensing something.

“You wanna tell me the real reason why Steve left?”

You hesitated, reaching for a bottle of water from the fridge. “We had a fight.”

She sighed, setting the knife down. “I figured as much.” She turned to face you, crossing her arms. “About what?”

You swallowed, glancing at the floor. “I told him I wanted to move back home.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t look surprised. “And he shot you down.”

“Immediately,” you admitted, shaking your head. “Like it wasn’t even something to consider.”

Your mom studied you for a long moment before she exhaled softly. “So… what does that mean for you two?”

You bit your lip. “I don’t know.”

She nodded slowly, as if waiting for you to continue. When you didn’t, she tilted her head. “And what do you want?”

You sighed, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know, Mom. I just… I want to be home. I want to be near Bucky again.”

Your mom hummed thoughtfully, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Sweetheart, you’re an adult. Yes, you have a family. Yes, there’s compromise. But at the end of the day, this is your life too. You and Steve need to figure that out.”

You swallowed hard, nodding.

A silence stretched between you before you hesitated. “There’s, uh… there’s something else.”

Your mom arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You licked your lips, forcing yourself to look at her. “Bucky bought Miller’s old property.”

Your mom froze.

Her eyes widened slightly, searching your face as if trying to see if you were joking. “Sweetheart…”

“I know,” you said quickly, already hearing the warning in her voice.

Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything right away. She just stared at you, and you could tell, she was remembering the same thing you were.

The scrapbook, your dream.

The pages you filled with sketches and magazine clippings, the way you talked about that land like it was yours before you were even old enough to understand what owning land meant. You even had a cutout from the local paper of the property itself, tucked in carefully between pages of house plans and paint swatches and Bucky knew that, he knew all your hopes and dreams.

You saw the realization dawn across your mom’s face, the way her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady breath before she finally spoke.

“Sweetheart.”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “I know.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded, like she was letting it sink in.

With a small, knowing smile, she simply said, “The universe has a funny way of working things out, doesn’t it? Have you talked to Steve today?”

You sighed, leaning against the counter. “We haven’t talked. We’re not supposed to talk until I get home the day after tomorrow.”

Your mom hummed, studying you carefully. “And what do you want?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her head. “This is your life, sweetheart. Not just Steve’s. Not just Bucky’s. Yours. What do you want?”

Your stomach twisted, and you looked away.

She gave you a knowing look. “Do you still love him?”

You swallowed, gripping the water bottle tightly. “Of course, I do. I’ll always love Steve.”

Your mom shook her head. “No, sweetie. Not him, Are you in love with Bucky?”

Your breath hitched. She knew. Of course, she knew.

Your voice was small. “I don’t think I’ll ever not be in love with Bucky.”

She let out a soft sigh, nodding, like she had been expecting it. “Then what do you want?”

Tears burned the back of your eyes as you whispered, “I just… I can’t choose between them.”

Your mom reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “It’s not fair to anybody if you don’t. Unless you let yourself make a choice on what you want, on who you want to be with you’ll just end up hurting everyone, including yourself.”

Silence stretched between you.

“My brain says Steve…” Your voice was quiet, the words stung as they left your mouth. “But my heart….”

Your mom’s voice softened. “The heart and the brain are always at war, sweetheart. The brain tells you what’s logical, what’s safe. But the heart… the heart tells you the truth. And no matter how much you try to ignore it, it will always be there, whispering the same name.”

Your breath trembled.

“What does your heart say?” she asked gently.

You didn’t have to think. You already knew.

“My heart wants the same person it’s always wanted,” you whispered. “But my brain, my brain is telling me otherwise.”

Your mom gave you a sad smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like she had when you were little.

“Then listen to your heart, honey. It’s never led you wrong before.” As your mom gave your hand one final squeeze, she stood, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’ll figure it out,” she murmured. “You always do.”

She left you sitting there, alone with your thoughts, with the war raging inside you. Silence settled in the kitchen, save for the soft hum of the old radio on the counter. You hadn’t even realized it was on, the station playing in the background all day. But now, as the quiet stretched, a familiar melody drifted through the speakers.

Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you…

Your breath caught in your throat.

The opening notes of Time After Time filled the space around you, weaving into the walls, into your bones, into the places of your heart that had belonged to Bucky for as long as you could remember.

If he were here, he’d be grinning. He’d nudge you, tell you it was a sign. Maybe it was.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for your bracelet, twisting the beaded string around your wrist.

The universe had a funny way of working things out.

If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting,

Time after time.

If you're lost, you can look and you will find me,

Time after time

[whereforarthur]

I Didn't Know Punk Girls Blushed

Request: Can you do a Chrismd imagine where he’s into an edgier girl? Like maybe she has tattoos and piercings and is the complete opposite of him? Idk how i want the story to go so you can have free range lol

Pairing: ChrisMd x Reader

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 3k

*****

Chris sauntered into the dimly lit vinyl record store, his eyes immediately drawn to the wall of albums that seemed to breathe the very essence of London's vibrant music scene. The sweet, nostalgic scent of old records filled the air, a stark contrast to the bustling street outside. He was on a mission to find the perfect gift for Arthur Hill's birthday, something that would make his old pal's face light up like a Christmas tree.

Behind the counter, a girl with a shock of different streaks of colored hair and a smattering of tattoos peeked out from under her beanie. She was the epitome of edgy, with a piercing gaze that could cut through the fog of a London evening. Her name tag read 'y/n', and she looked as if she'd rather be anywhere but here, serving customers in a store that seemed to be a relic of a bygone era.

Chris approached, a smile playing on his lips, "Hi, I'm looking for something special for my mate's birthday. He's into some old school stuff, you know?"

Y/n nodded, her expression unchanged. "What's his taste?"

Chris thought for a moment, "Arthur's a classic rock kind of guy, but with a bit of a twist. Nothing too mainstream."

Y/n's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the rows of records. "I've got just the thing," she murmured, slipping behind the counter and disappearing into the labyrinth of vinyl. The sound of her boots tapping against the wooden floor echoed through the store, and Chris couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement. There was something about her that was different from the usual girls he encountered at games or in the pubs.

When she reemerged, she held a vintage-looking album with a faded cover. "This is 'The Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd. It's a classic, but it's got that edgy vibe to it." She placed it on the counter with a gentle thud. "Your mate Arthur might like it if he's into something with a bit of depth."

Chris's smile widened. "Perfect! I think he'll love it." He watched as she pulled out a dusty record sleeve and slid the album into it with a practiced ease. Her hands were adorned with rings that glinted in the soft light, hinting at a hidden creativity beneath her tough exterior.

As she worked, y/n spoke up again, "What's your name?"

"Chris," he replied, watching her closely. "ChrisMD."

Y/n looked up, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. "Ah, the football YouTuber," she said, her tone flat.

Chris's cheeks flushed slightly. "Yeah, that's me," he said, trying to keep the conversation going. "What's yours?"

Y/n rolled her eyes and tapped her name tag. "It's right there."

Chris felt a twinge of embarrassment and leaned in closer. "Oh, right," he chuckled. "So, y/n, do you work here often?"

Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, he saw a spark of something—amusement, perhaps? "It's not the worst gig," she replied, sliding the record into a paper bag with the store's logo stamped on it. "Keeps me in vinyl and coffee."

Chris felt his heart flutter in his chest. He wasn't usually one to get flustered around girls, but there was something about y/n that threw him off his game. Her edgy allure was like nothing he'd ever encountered before, and he found himself desperately trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make him sound like the cheesy, over-eager fanboy he feared he was coming across as.

He took a deep breath, willing his cheeks to return to their normal color. "So, y/n, do you like football?" He cringed internally, knowing it was a cliché question, but he was desperate to find some common ground.

To his surprise, she looked up at him with a smirk. "You know, I've been known to kick a ball around," she said, handing him the bag. "But I'm more into the indie scene myself."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "Indie music and football? That's an interesting mix."

Y/n shrugged. "Life's full of surprises."

Their conversation was interrupted by the jingle of the shop door as it opened, letting in a gust of cool air. A customer walked in, and y/n's demeanor shifted, her eyes focusing on the new arrival. "I've got to get back to work," she said, turning away from Chris.

Chris felt a pang of disappointment but nodded, understanding. "No worries. Thanks for the help." He took the bag from her outstretched hand, feeling the warmth she had transferred to it. "Maybe I'll see you around?"

Y/n glanced back at him, a hint of curiosity in her gaze. "Maybe," she said noncommittally before returning her attention to the new customer.

*****

The next few days passed in a blur for Chris. He found himself counting down the hours until he could return to the vinyl record store, hoping to catch another glimpse of y/n. He'd never felt this way about a girl before—his usual type was more of the cheerleader variety, not the edgy, tattooed girl who seemed to see right through him. But there was something about her that drew him in, a challenge that he couldn't resist.

On the third day, he mustered the courage to return. The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside, and y/n looked up from the stack of records she was organizing. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker in her eyes that made his heart race. She didn't look surprised to see him, just… resigned, as if she'd been expecting his return.

"Back again?" she asked, her voice holding a touch of amusement.

Chris felt his cheeks warm, but he held her gaze. "Yeah, I had to come back. That Pink Floyd album was a hit."

y/n nodded. "Thought it might be." She paused, her hand resting on a nearby record. "So, what are you looking for today?"

Chris shrugged, playing it cool. "Just browsing, really."

y/n raised an eyebrow, her piercings glinting in the soft light. "You're not here to see me, then?"

Chris's heart skipped a beat. "Well, that's not entirely true," he admitted, a grin spreading across his face. "I just wanted to, you know, say thanks and maybe get to know you a bit better."

Her expression remained neutral, but he could see the corners of her mouth twitch. "What's there to know?" she asked, a challenge in her voice.

Chris took a step closer, leaning on the counter. "Everything," he said, his eyes scanning her tattoos, trying to decipher the stories they held. "You're like a walking mystery, and I'm a curious guy."

Y/n's smirk grew into a small smile. "Alright, what do you want to know?"

Chris's mind raced with questions, but he decided to start simple. "How did you get into vinyl?"

Y/n's eyes lit up, a softness coming over her features. "My dad," she said. "He had a collection that was his pride and joy. When he passed, I inherited it all. It's how I keep him with me, you know?"

Chris nodded, feeling a sudden kinship with this girl who had, until now, been a complete enigma to him. "That's really cool," he said, his voice earnest. "I bet he had some amazing records."

Y/n nodded, her eyes misting over slightly. "He did. Some of the best." She paused, then took a deep breath, as if deciding whether or not to let him in further. "He taught me to appreciate the artistry of music, beyond just the sound. The feel of the vinyl, the smell of the sleeves, the way the needle hits the record… It's all part of the experience."

Chris found himself drawn into her world, a place where the music wasn't just background noise but a living, breathing entity that connected people in profound ways. "That's beautiful," he murmured, genuinely moved by her words.

Y/n's eyes searched his, as if looking for signs of mockery or insincerity, but all she found was genuine interest. "You get it," she said, sounding slightly surprised.

Chris nodded, unable to tear his gaze away from her. She looked so pretty when she talked about something she was passionate about, her features softening and her eyes lighting up with an inner fire that made his heart race. He'd never seen a girl transform so completely when discussing something she loved. It was mesmerizing.

"I do," he said softly. "I think that's what's been missing from my music experience. Just playing it on my phone or computer doesn't quite capture that… magic."

Y/n leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Exactly! That's what makes vinyl so special. It's not just about the music; it's about the connection to the artist, the history, the culture."

Chris nodded, feeling more at ease now that they had found common ground. "So, what's your favorite record?"

Y/n's eyes sparkled as she thought. "It's hard to pick just one," she said, scanning the shelves. "But if I had to, it'd be 'The Queen is Dead' by The Smiths."

Chris nodded, scribbling down the name in his phone. "I'll have to give it a listen," he said, his thumb hovering over the screen. "You know, I've got a turntable at home that's been collecting dust. Maybe it's time to put it to good use."

The conversation flowed easily between them, a dance of shared interests and laughter. Chris found himself drawn to her sharp wit and her ability to challenge him. He'd never felt this way about a girl before—like he was discovering something new and exciting, something that made his heart race just a little bit faster.

Finally, as the shop grew quiet and the last rays of sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting patterns on the floor, he took a deep breath. "So, y/n," he began, his voice casual but his heart hammering in his chest. "I was wondering if you'd be up for grabbing a coffee or something, maybe show me around some of the local indie music spots?"

Her gaze remained on the records she was sorting, but her hand stilled. "Why me?" she asked, her tone teasing.

Chris felt a thrill run through him. She was playing hard to get, but he could see the curiosity in her eyes. "Because you're the vinyl whisperer," he said with a grin. "And I've got a feeling you know all the hidden gems of London's music scene."

Y/n finally looked up, meeting his gaze. "Flattery won't get you far," she said, but her voice held a playful note. "But okay, I'll bite. How about tomorrow night?"

Chris felt his heart soar. "Really?" He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, not wanting to scare her off.

Y/n nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yeah, really. But don't get your hopes up, football boy. I'm not going to make it easy for you."

Chris chuckled, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. "Fair enough," he said, trying to play it cool. "Where should we meet?"

Y/n thought for a moment, her eyes scanning the ceiling as if the answer were written there. "How about The Lock Tavern?" she suggested. "It's got a decent selection of records, and the coffee's not too bad either."

Chris nodded eagerly. "Sounds perfect. What time?"

"Eight," she said, her eyes finally meeting his. "Don't be late."

Chris couldn't believe his luck. He'd scored a date with the edgy vinyl goddess of his dreams. "I'll be there," he promised, trying to keep his voice steady.

*****

The following evening, Chris found himself pacing in front of The Lock Tavern, his heart thumping in his chest like a drum. He'd chosen his outfit carefully, aiming for a look that was casual but cool—a nod to her indie style without completely abandoning his own. He glanced at his watch. 7:58. Two minutes to go.

As if on cue, y/n appeared around the corner, her hair a riot of color in the streetlight. She was wearing a vintage band tee and a leather jacket that made her look like she'd just stepped off the set of a music video. She spotted him and raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips.

Chris took a deep breath and walked over to her. "Hey," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"You're early," she said, sounding slightly surprised.

"I didn't want to be late," he replied, his cheeks reddening. "So, shall we go in?"

The Lock Tavern was a cozy, dimly lit pub with a distinctly vintage vibe. The walls were lined with shelves of records, and the air was thick with the scent of beer and good music. The jukebox in the corner played a mix of indie hits and obscure tracks that made Chris feel like he'd stumbled into a secret club.

They found a table in the back, the light from a flickering candle casting shadows on y/n's face. She ordered a black coffee, and Chris went for a pint, hoping it would calm his nerves. They talked about music, her favorite bands, and the history of vinyl. Chris found himself hanging on her every word, her passion for the subject contagious.

As the night wore on, the conversation grew more personal. y/n talked about her life growing up in London, her love for the city's underground music scene, and her dreams of becoming a music journalist. Chris shared stories from his childhood, his love for football, and his journey to becoming a YouTube sensation. Despite their differences, they found common ground in their shared love for the art of storytelling—whether it was through music, videos, or the written word.

Their laughter grew louder with each shared anecdote, and the tension between them grew palpable. When the topic of tattoos came up, y/n leaned in, her eyes locked on his. "Do you have any?"

Chris felt a shiver run down his spine. He'd never considered getting inked before, but the way she said it made him want to show her something only she knew about him. "No, I don't," he admitted. "But I've always been curious."

Her smirk grew. "Well, if you're going to keep hanging around these parts, you might want to get one," she teased. "It's practically a rite of passage."

Chris swallowed, his heart racing. "Maybe I will," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But only if you come with me."

Y/n's eyes searched his, and for the first time, he saw something other than amusement or challenge in them—there was a softness, a hint of vulnerability. "Alright," she said, her voice just as soft. "But only if you let me choose the design."

Chris nodded, feeling a strange thrill at the idea of letting her mark him in some way. It was a bold move, but he was ready to step out of his comfort zone for her.

The night grew late, and the pub began to empty out. They lingered over their drinks, the conversation never waning. It was as if they'd known each other for years, despite their stark differences. But as they sat in the warm glow of the candlelight, sharing stories and laughs, it was clear that they had a connection that was more than just skin deep.

When y/n suggested they head out, Chris couldn't hide his disappointment. But as they stepped into the cool London night, the buzz of the city seemed to energize them both. They strolled down the cobblestone streets, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the quiet. The stars above were obscured by the city lights, but the magic of their evening was undiminished.

As they approached the tattoo parlor, y/n's hand slipped into his, and he felt a jolt of excitement. The shop was small, nestled between a vintage clothing store and a tattooed bakery, the neon sign flickering in the dark. The walls were lined with flash art, a kaleidoscope of images that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the punk rock playing in the background.

The artist, a burly man with a gentle smile, took one look at the nervousness etched on Chris's face and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. "Don't worry, mate," he said, his voice gruff but kind. "You're in good hands."

Y/n whispered the design into the artist's ear, and he nodded, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're sure about this?" he asked, turning to Chris.

Chris looked at her, her edgy beauty illuminated by the neon glow. "Yeah," he said, swallowing hard. "I trust her."

The process was surprisingly painless, the needle a gentle hum that seemed to sync with the rhythm of his racing heart. As the artist worked, y/n held his hand, her grip tight and reassuring. When it was over, he looked down at the fresh ink, a simple but meaningful design that represented their shared love of music and their blossoming friendship.

They stepped out into the night, the cool air soothing the sting of the tattoo. y/n turned to him, her eyes shining. "So, what do you think?"

Chris smiled, feeling a sense of belonging he hadn't felt in a long time. "I think it's perfect," he said, squeezing her hand. "Thank you."

Their walk back to the tube station was filled with a newfound ease, the awkwardness of their first meeting a distant memory. As they parted ways, the promise of future adventures hanging in the air, Chris couldn't help but feel like he'd found something special in this edgy, pierced girl who'd turned his world upside down.

In the weeks that followed, they explored the city's hidden music venues, discovered new bands, and shared quiet moments that felt like secrets whispered between friends. With each passing day, their bond grew stronger, the lines between fan and crush blurring into something more substantial.

Chris found himself looking forward to their meetups with an anticipation that was both thrilling and terrifying. He knew that the girl who had once seemed so unattainable was now someone he could see himself with, not just for a fleeting romance but for something real.

The tension grew with each shared smile, each brush of their hands. And when y/n finally leaned in and kissed him under the glow of a streetlamp, the music of the city fading into the background, he knew that he was falling for her—for the girl who had shown him that sometimes, the most beautiful melodies were found in the most unexpected places.

*****

@gvf23

@xxkatxgracexx

[lullabyes22-blog]

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - Ch: 31 - Cost & Reward

Snippet:

"Pet."

Vi blinks. The server's set a bottle of claret at the table. The blacklights strike a bright vein through the red. Vi imagines the taste: bold as blood.

"Pet," Silco says. "Pour."

Vi's reflexes tug the rest of her into motion. She complies. Wine sluices like blood into the crystal.

It's her duty to taste each bottle for poison. The first time, she'd refused flat-out. She wasn't Silco's sponge. Silco's half-smile had only hardened her resolve. She'd held his stare, and spat a thick wad of phlegm right into the wineglass.

She'd expected him to explode with temper. He did nothing. Just sat back, hands steepled in his lap. A moment later, Sevika had seized Vi by the hair, yanked her head back, and poured the contents of the glass down her throat.

Vi had been forced to swallow, or choke.

Later that week, she'd learnt that Jinx would not be dropping by to visit Hotel Muse. Her sister was busy with a project. Top secret. And no, Vi couldn't visit.

Not until she proved herself willing to play the game.

So, she plays. Sullenly—but she plays. Silco likes his spirits the way he likes his cigars: top-notch. By now, Vi has tasted everything from gin-soaked cocktails in highballs to smoky bourbon sipped from cut-crystal tumblers. Each time, she waits for her tongue to turn toad-green and her body to convulse into death-throes.

So far, the only aftereffect is the urge to piss.

Taking the tiniest sip, Vi swishes it around her mouth. Her palate is attuned to the subtleties: the acidic burn of arsenic, the alkaloid bitterness of mercury; the murky tang of belladonna.

This wine is virgin. And, Vi admits, first-rate. Rich, full-bodied, and smooth on the tongue.

Like Nao.

Vi's cheeks burn. She hopes the blacklights hide it.

"All good," she says, and slides the glass to Silco.

"Ta." He lifts the glass to the light. The rays refracts through the wine, striking broken shards across a broken face. "Pour one for yourself."

"Rather not."

"No?" A ghost of a smile. "Not in the mood to toast your handiwork?"

"Or get toasted."

"Diligent as always." He tips the wineglass in salute, then sips. "But, Violet. Did I not warn you about the wolves?"

It's the Eye's voice: iron threat veiled in velvet consonants. But there's something nearly familial to it. It resembles the way Vander used to speak to her when she'd crossed a line, and there'd be no fighting her way out of it.

Only the consequences, and the hard lesson learned.

Vi feigns calm. "Better a wolf, than a donkey's ass."

For a moment, she swears Silco's lip twitches. The impulse, stymied, does not break the surface.

The Eye is back, and he's all business.

"There's dying a hero," he says, "and there's living a liar."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me, Pet. Do little girls with big mouths always get the storybook ending? Or does the Wolf bite their hands off, when he learn they've stolen from his table?" A heartbeat's silence, savorless. "Especially his favorite vintage."

"I don't know what you—"

He leans in. The timbre of his voice dips intimately low. The patrician polish is gone. Only a raw-edged gravel remains.

"Do not," he warns, "take me for a fool."

A bead of sweat trickles down Vi's spine. The room's shadows grow teeth. At their heart, Silco's shark-eye burns. She feels it scoring through her clothes, straight to the skin.

Everywhere Nao's fingerprints linger.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

More Fanfic + Tidbits

Tip Jar

Tagging List:

@the-blue-quetzalcoatl @frostybearpaws @klorophile @kothelina @hannibalcatharsis @tiredblueann @typewriteringalaxy @theillestofomens @erikadarleyensis @testsubject24601 @elviriel @inconspicuouspotatosack @heroinejinx @aliaa-j @zaunite-leo @silcodependent @karnaca78 @aeolid-funkt @me-and-my-hyperfixations @yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy @medic-simp @cthezaunite @evren-d @flower-of-zaun @villainsidechick @spoczkotszcz @realitycanbewhateveridesire @opheliawillowbrook @nogurlstoy @mj678 @revelisms @shahs1221 @gingersforeverbox @inkshine @silcosmoke @ravenkinnie @letters-to-rosie @lbulldesigns @slavicbeastie @constantfragmentation @danally20 @thatlonelyweeb @callmeanifan-blog @thekelpiekid @not-yet-the-wolf @beardedladyqueen @littledollll @gritzzlybear @catgoblinchelly @ohmygoodnesslesbians @aldana-brillantina @fanfic-addict5 @iamredby @calico-bc @misshave-it-all @testsubject24601 @niennaera

[peachdues]

SEASONS IN LOVE (PART II)

Sanemi x F!Reader (modern college AU)

Sanemi meets Y/N in January and isn't a fan. As the seasons pass by, their evolving relationship becomes defined by a handful snapshots from the various holidays throughout the year.

CW: modern college AU • 6.6k words • tooth-rotting fluff • college typical drinking and debauchery • some mildly suggestive content • Sanemi is a massive simp

PART ONE HERE

December 24th – Christmas Eve.

Sanemi was hunched over, back turned against the icy wind that threatened to shred through the layers of his coat and sweater, as he waited for someone to answer the door.

A few weeks ago, he would’ve said to anyone that he hadn’t minded the snow — after all, the snow is what led to Y/N smiling — at him, no less — for the first time since he’d met her, and that memory had been more that enough to keep him warm through the fall of every snowflake coating the earth.

He took it all back. Y/N’s smile was a damn pretty sight, but absolutely nothing could insulate him against the near sub-arctic winds that cut through him like a knife as he shifted impatiently from foot to foot on the Kanroji’s front porch.

“God dammit, Mitsuri,” he growled. He unwound a stiff arm from where it’d been tightly tucked against his chest, prepared to start pounding against the oak of her parents’ front door, when the pink party host threw it open, her smile bright and cheerful and warm in a way that Sanemi was not.

“It’s about time!” She chirped, standing aside to let her scowling friend through and into the front entryway of her home.

Mitsuri held her hand out as she waited for Sanemi to pass her his coat. “Everyone else is here already — help yourself to any snacks you want.” Mitsuri snatched the gift-wrapped package lodged under his arm before he could say anything. “I’ll take this,” she waved it, nose crinkling with amusement at Sanemi’s indignant glare. “And I’ll put it with the others!”

Before he could respond, his pink-haired friend traipsed away back to the open floor plan of her living room and kitchen, leaving Sanemi to brush the snowflakes that had gathered on his trousers and remove his boots and leave them with the others’ scattered by the closet of Mitsuri’s parents’ home.

Every year, the bubbly and exuberant pinkette hosted a Christmas Eve for her friends at her parents’ complete with an absurd array of holiday-themed snacks, games, and Secret Santa.

In years past, Sanemi only ever deigned to show up as a courtesy to his friend, eagerly awaiting the day when he could blame needing to take care of his siblings on Christmas Eve as an excuse not to go. After his family had been killed, however, Sanemi had begun spending the Christmas holidays with Kyojuro’s family, along with Tengen, and so, he’d been forced to continue the tradition, given the enthusiasm his flame-haired best friend had for the over-the-top celebration.

This year, however, was Y/N’s first time attending Mitsuri’s annual fete; and curiously, Sanemi found himself growing more and more excited as the time for the celebration drew nearer.

That excitement only bubbled in his gut as he padded towards the Kanroji’s packed living room, eyes scanning for the sight of the one he was most eager — and anxious — to see.

Y/N spotted him from her position on one of the overstuffed leather armrests by the fireplace and shot out of her seat, nearly toppling Shinobu in the process.

“You made it!” Her smile was blazing, a now permanent fixture on her face that Sanemi found himself sneaking furtive glances at throughout the day, afraid that he would miss it.

“Wait,” Y/N stopped an arm’s length from him as she ran her eyes over his form. “Are we matching?”

Sanemi looked down at the outfit he had thrown on (carefully selected) prior to leaving his apartment and back to the amused woman before him. She was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, tucked into a pair of belted, vintage, loose jeans that she had cuffed to show her festive Christmas socks.

“Just the turtleneck. I don’t do jeans.” Sanemi snorted, flicking her nose affectionately.

Y/N, however, looked better than he. Her hair was loosely secured with a clip at her neck, and she wore no accessories save for a pair of oversized gold framed glasses that she claimed were to help with blue light strains, but Sanemi was convinced she just liked wearing them for fun.

He tried very hard not to stare too long at her full lips — painted a bright, festive red that Sanemi found he really liked.

“I should’ve brought my lipstick along, then we could’ve really twinned,” Y/N’s eyes were alight with her mirth as she teased him.

Had Sanemi been a tad bolder, he would’ve cheekily suggested another way he could get her lipstick on his mouth, but he wasn’t, so all he could do was grumble, a faint red staining his cheeks.

Mitsuri clapped loudly over the chattering group. “Friends! Dearly beloveds! Snacks are over there,” she pointed to a long table packed heavy with various holiday goodies. “And the hot chocolate bar is open! Get a snack and get settled before secret Santa!”

“When you say ‘bar,’ ‘Suri,” Tengen prodded.

The pinkette nodded solemnly. “Yes, you can make spiked hot chocolate, Tengen.”

The flashy, silver-haired man let out a whoop for joy as he made a beeline for the hot chocolate bar carefully organized by their pink-haired host. Before long, Tengen had blessed each of their drinks with a healthy splash of Irish cream, though Sanemi suspected the loudmouth’s own mug was nothing but the festive liquor.

“Nope,” Sanemi fought to keep the grimace off his face as he took a swig of his hot chocolate, the bitter burn of alcohol making him pucker. “Giyuu, drink this — it’s plain.”

The quiet, raven-haired man gratefully accepted the steaming mug from his friend and took a hearty gulp of it, frowning slightly when he realized Sanemi had indeed given him his own spiked drink.

Sanemi pretended to look affronted at Giyuu’s accusatory stare. “What? I thought you’d need it — aren’t you going home to Kocho’s after this?”

Giyuu considered Sanemi’s words for a moment before tipping his head back and swallowing the remainder of the mug’s contents.

Y/N came prancing over from the kitchen, her own mug of hot chocolate cupped between her hands, to where Sanemi now sat on the large sofa, but before she could sit down, Gyomei plopped down, nearly crushing her in the process.

“Apologies, Y/N,” the gentle giant said upon hearing Y/N’s squeak. “I didn’t realize you wanted to sit beside Sanemi.”

If Sanemi hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn that was a blush spreading across her cheeks. “No worries!” She chirped, twisting around awkwardly to find a new spot.

Sanemi grimaced. He was about to tell her to sit on the arm rest of the sofa next to him, but Shinobu called her over first, the two girls squeezing into a single-person armchair, as Shinobu threw her legs over Y/N’s lap to make room.

Secret Santa proceeded without much fuss. Sanemi was happy to receive a box of high-quality matcha from his anonymous gift-giver, though Shinobu’s lack of a poker face gave away who’d gifted it. Sanemi winked at his tiny friend, clutching the tea box tightly to his chest.

Y/N was practically buzzing with excitement. Mitsuri had hardly discerned the name scrawled on the tag of her giftbox before she’d lunged forward, nearly toppling Shinobu out of her lap.

“My turn!” The expression on Y/N’s face was that of a greedy child’s as she wriggled her fingers demandingly at Mitsuri in anticipation of her present.

The pinkette dropped the heavy box into her friend’s eager hands, Y/N giving a small oomph! against the weight of the gift.

Sanemi watched his best friend tear into her present with vigor, similar to the way a hyena tore into its prey, tufts of wrapping paper floating down beside her as she beheld the grocery store box within.

“What the—?” Y/N’s eyebrows were drawn together as she turned the container over in her hands, eyes squinting as she read the label printed on the cardboard.

“No fucking way,” Her eyes blew wide as she held the box closer to her face in disbelief. “No fucking way!”

Y/N’s laugh bordered on maniacal as she clapped her hands, ripping into the cardboard as she produced one, fat candy bar, wrapped in unfamiliar purple foil.

“My chocolate!” She crowed, dumping the contents of the box out onto her lap. A dozen large, heavy candy bars thudded to the floor, the packaging on each bearing some foreign language and description. “I can’t believe my Secret Santa found them!”

Sanemi smirked quietly to himself. Sure, he’d rigged the Secret Santa pool to ensure that he magically drew Y/N’s name from the hat full of paper Mitsuri had passed around at their weekly dinner a few weeks prior, but he’d only done it because he’d already ordered Y/N’s Christmas gift from overseas.

For ages, she’d not shut up about a particular kind of chocolate that she’d had while abroad with her family one summer. Y/N had moaned to everyone that chocolate at home just didn’t taste the same, and she longed to have just one more taste of the candy she’d come to love while on holiday, though she hadn’t been able to track it down online.

But Sanemi had; he’d found a website that put him in contact with a local, who then used his bank information to clear out an entire grocery store’s supply of the confectionary. It was risky, but he was a man in love, so what else could he do but chance it?

“Over my dead fucking body —“ Y/N threatened, as Mitsuri tried to snatch a bar from her hand.

As Sanemi sat there, smugly sipping his non-spiked hot chocolate, he mused that the look of pure glee on Y/N’s face was well worth his account getting hacked not even a week after his order arrived.

—————————————————————————

The Christmas Eve party continued until the late afternoon, at which point the group of friends began to help their host clean up the discarded snacks and empty mugs of hot chocolate before each of them set off for their respective homes for the night.

Y/N was the only one in their group who had to take a train back to her parents’, her hometown being over three hours away from campus, and so, she was the first who had to leave the merry fete.

Sanemi had offered to drive Y/N the forty-minute trip to the train station so she wouldn’t be stuck paying for an Uber, and truthfully, he was glad to have nearly an hour of uninterrupted time with her before she went home for the week.

“Ready?” He asked her as he looped his wool scarf over his head, bracing himself to be smacked in the face by the icy wind that howled outside the warmth of the Kanroji house.

Y/N finished tugging on a pair of gloves before sliding into her emerald green wool coat. “One sec!”

Y/N darted back to the living room where their other friends exchanged goodbyes and flung her arms around her pink-haired best friend’s neck.

From where he stood near the Kanroji doorway, Sanemi could see the pinkette whisper a few words of encouragement into Y/N’s ear, her face uncharacteristically serious as she squeezed her best friend one more time. Sanemi knew that Mitsuri had been comforting Y/N leading up to her first holiday season at home since her brother died, and he felt a rush of gratitude for the girl as he saw Y/N’s shoulders visibly relax under the warmth of her words.

Y/N returned, her eyes sparkling with unshed emotion that she quickly tried to wipe with her gloved hands. “I’m ready!” She said thickly, plastering a smile on her face.

Sanemi sighed, but slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly into his side before releasing her. Y/N nodded in gratitude, sniffing once, before wrenching the front door of the Kanroji house open, allowing the icy winds beyond to whip across their faces.

The drive to the train station was uneventful, though Y/N had been sure to provide him with “entertainment” by singing loudly, off-key, to every Christmas song that crackled over the ancient speakers in Sanemi’s beat-up station wagon.

He wouldn’t have traded the smile emblazoned in her face, nor the sound of her raucous laughter, for the world however, not even for the sake of his ringing eardrums.

The duo parked and Sanemi heaved her suitcase out of his trunk. As they made their way towards the train platform, Sanemi fought the urge to take her hand in his, as the snowflakes swirled around them.

“So, how did you find it?” Y/N asked after a moment, her train turning the corner into the station right on time, slowing in the distance as it prepared to stop.

Her snowy-haired friend played dumb. “Find what, exactly?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Sanemi. You’re the only one who would’ve paid attention to me when I complained about some foreign chocolate that you can’t get anywhere but that country. Of course, it was you.”

Sanemi gave her a wry grin. “My credit card may’ve been hacked, but it was worth it. Got ya the whole store shelf, didn’t I?” He nudged her elbow playfully with his own and she giggled.

He would never tire of hearing that sound.

Y/N’s train slowed into the station terminal, and she sighed, parking her small suitcase next to her as she stepped forward and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Merry Christmas, Sanemi.” She whispered, squeezing him gently.

It would’ve been nice to say it back — to say anything at all, but Sanemi found himself unable to make a sound, a hand only able to come up and awkwardly pat her back just as she pulled away. Whether or not his awkwardness affected her, Y/N didn’t show, for she only gave him one more radiant smile before boarding her train home.

“See you at the cabin!” She said brightly, stepping through the double doors, suitcase in hand.

Sanemi was still standing on the platform in bemusement at his inability to say or do other than stare at her, as though his brain had become nothing but a smooth rock rattling around inside his skull.

Y/N turned to wave at him, the doors to the train still open for the last few stragglers to board, but her smile slid from her face as she beheld him, staring at her with a fiery intensity.

What’s wrong-“ she started.

“I’m in love with you.” He said breathlessly, and to his horror, she froze, her mouth parting and her eyes going wide.

“What?”

But Sanemi could not answer her; he could not even make his traitorous mouth work as the doors slid shut and the train began its slow pull out of the terminal.

Y/N stood there, just past the doors, staring at him with that same, stunned expression until the train car rounded a corner and pulled her from sight.

————————————————————————-

More than an hour later, Sanemi arrived at the Rengoku family home where he was to spend Christmas Eve and the following morning. He kicked his boots off inside the festively decorated entryway, greeted Kyojuro’s parents, and stomped downstairs to the furnished basement where he knew his two friends would be gathered.

Tengen and Kyojuro were sprawled across the plush L-shaped sofa, both silent as they huddled over former’s phone as they listened to whomever was on the other end.

Kyojuro saw Sanemi first and smacked Tengen on the shoulder, the latter looking up as both his friends went wide-eyed.

“Obanai — hold on, he just got here.” Tengen muttered.

“What?” Sanemi demanded, a heat creeping up the side of his neck as his friends stared at him, mouths open.

Tengen pointed at his phone. “Obanai’s on. Apparently Y/N has been talking the girls for the last hour and a half because someone —“ he narrowed his eyes at Sanemi. “Decided to tell her they were in love with her right as her train was leaving?”

Sanemi wondered, briefly, whether it was possible for one’s stomach to fall out of their ass.

“Are you stupid?” Tengen asked, and Sanemi resented the fact he’d almost sounded serious.

“Put Obanai on speaker,” Sanemi muttered, flinging himself down on the sofa next to Kyojuro.

Tengen rolled his eyes but did as Sanemi asked. In the background, Sanemi could hear a faint, shrill voice ranting, and he felt his gut clench. Mitsuri.

“-and now, it’s Christmas Eve and instead of spending it with our girlfriends, Giyuu and I are playing chess for the third fucking time, because that’s how long the girls have been on the phone with Y/N.” Obanai drawled. “Not that it hasn’t been entertaining — ‘Suri is convinced Y/N should’ve pushed you onto the tracks, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi grit his teeth. “What did Y/N say, Obanai?”

His friend muttered something under his breath that sounded like an insult, but Sanemi said nothing, waiting as he heard Obanai’s voice grow smaller as he left the phone in favor of approaching the girls.

Sanemi’s stomach dipped at the renewed sound of indignant screeching that crackled through the phone, Tengen and Kyojuro snickering.

“Fine, alright, okay, stop yelling,” Obanai’s reedy and exasperated voice grew louder as he neared the phone again, though Sanemi could still hear the muffled sounds of Mitsuri squawking in the background.

“Mitsuri said you’re gonna have to man up and talk to Y/N yourself,” Obanai relayed, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. “And Shinobu said she doesn’t care enough about you to break girl code.”

Sanemi groaned, throwing an arm over his face as he leaned back into the sofa cushions, wishing he’d saved Y/N the trouble, and jumped in front of her oncoming train himself.

“How do I unfuck this?” He intoned to no one in particular, lifting the arm over his eyes to squint at his two friends as they continued to suppress their shit-eating smirks.

“You could try texting her,” Kyojuro offered, though Tengen shook his head in disagreement.

“You can’t just send a text right after confessing your undying love for her as her train was leaving,” the flamboyant man chided, clicking his phone off and kicking his feet up on the coffee table before him. “That’s like begging her to curse your ass out.”

Sanemi grumbled but he knew Tengen was right; whatever conversation he would have with Y/N would have to be in-person. She deserved that much, at least.

Tengen leaned back against the sofa, twiddling the toothpick wedged between his teeth, eyes narrowed at Sanemi in contemplation. “I thought you two hooked up back over the summer?”

Sanemi snorted, shaking his head, as Kyojuro quipped, “You’re thinking of Obanai and Kanroji.”

Their silver-haired friend looked back to Sanemi, eyebrow raising in incredulity. “You’re telling me, all this time, you two’ve been making eyes at one another and you haven’t been fucking?”

“Watch it,” Sanemi bristled, and Tengen held his hands up in surrender.

“Jesus you move slow,” he mumbled, and Sanemi chucked one of the decorative pillows lying next to him at his head, Tengen effortlessly batting the projectile away. “Is she coming to the cabin next week?”

He was referring to the spacious cabin their group had rented up in the snowy mountains to celebrate New Year’s Eve together, wanting a place large enough to accommodate them all, yet secluded enough that they wouldn’t cause too much harm when one of them inevitably set a tree on fire while drunkenly trying to set off fireworks.

Sanemi nodded, and Tengen’s smile turned smug. “Then I guess you’ll have to wait ‘til then to find out what she thinks.”

—————————————————————————

December 31st – New Year’s Eve

Sanemi Shinazugawa had never experienced torture, but the seven-day stretch between Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve was about as close as he’d thought he’d ever get.

By the time he, Tengen, and Kyojuro had loaded up his station wagon with their duffel bags and enough booze to open their own traveling liquor store, Sanemi thought the anxious buzz in his blood would make him jump out of his skin.

He’d not spoken to Y/N since saying goodbye to her at the train station — not really. He’d responded to her Merry Christmas! text in their larger group chat with his own holiday well-wishes, and she’d simply reacted to the message. Otherwise, his phone had remained remarkably silent, without so much as a meme from the woman who held his heart.

He knew that he couldn’t assume her silence meant the worst, even as his brain tried to convince him it was all it meant. After all, Y/N was experiencing her first holiday season without her brother, and Sanemi knew the emotions of such a milestone were far more likely to hold her attention than his pitiful love confession.

He felt nearly sick by the time he pulled into the circular driveway of the enormous log cabin, seated up the hill and a way back from the main road, surrounded only by an endless stretch of snow-covered trees and forest. As he helped Kyojuro unload the cases of beer and bottles of champagne from his trunk, Sanemi spied Mitsuri’s pink Volkswagen parked at the other end of the driveway, next to Gyomei’s Hummer.

Sanemi’s stomach flipped as Tengen unlocked the back door of the cabin, loudly calling out to their friends in greeting in that booming voice of his. Giyuu and Mitsuri leaned over the bannister of the staircase leading to the second floor, waving as the remainder of the friend group straggled through the door, stomping shoes against the welcome mat to clear themselves of any lingering snow.

Sanemi’s eyes met Mitsuri’s and the pinkette’s narrowed, as she promptly turned away from him with a pointed harrumph.

Kyojuro snorted as Sanemi sighed, and they heaved the case of beer they’d brought into the kitchen and on the counter.

It was going to be a long day.

—————————————————————————

Y/N emerged from the room she was sharing with Shinobu and Mitsuri not long after he’d arrived, decked out in some sparkly get-up of Mitsuri’s that was more suited to wearing out at the club than it was for staying in, though Sanemi wasn’t about to complain.

She’d cheerfully greeted every one of their friends with hugs and her smiles until she came to him. Thankfully, Y/N was far less awkward than he, and she’d only hesitated for a moment before giving him a hug that Sanemi found did not last nearly long enough.

As the group settled in with their drinks and grazed at the smorgasbord of food and snacks laid out in the kitchen, Sanemi caught sight of Y/N watching him, eyes expectant. He tried to muster the courage to approach her, to ask her if they could talk in private, but Sanemi balked at the weight of both Tengen and Mitsuri’s knowing stares as they flicked back and forth between himself and Y/N.

He couldn’t do this with an audience; he could only hope that Y/N would understand.

Yet, Y/N looked slightly hurt at the way Sanemi turned and struck up a conversation with Obanai and Gyomei, and Sanemi could feel at least one pair of eyes hurling daggers into his back as he remained turned away, no doubt from Y/N’s pink, livid best friend.

This was going to be damn near impossible, and yet, it was entirely his fault to begin with, as he’d been the one to stupidly blurt out that he loved Y/N to her without properly preparing himself for the moment; and now, it was his situation to un-fuck.

Somehow.

And so, Sanemi merely opened another beer and took a hearty swig of its contents, hoping to gain the liquid courage he’d need to finally confront her head-on.

—————————————————————————

Sanemi had downed two flutes of champagne since the sun had set and he still found himself jittery and uneasy as he continued to dodge Y/N’s pleading looks.

He felt like an asshole, especially right then, as the year wound down to its last half hour. Sanemi was standing in the kitchen alone, turning over a bottle of champagne in his hands as he debated taking it along with him when he went to find Y/N, and work things out between them. Perhaps they could open it in celebration if it turned out that she returned his feelings; if not, he could always drown his sorrows in the bubbly.

“If you don’t grow a pair and talk to Y/N, I’m making out with her at midnight,” Shinobu threatened, brushing by Sanemi to grab another bottle of cheap champagne to uncork. “Right in front of you.”

Sanemi shot her a shit-eating smirk. “Don’t think your boyfriend would be a fan of that idea,” he challenged, grabbing the opened bottle from Shinobu’s hand and pouring himself another glass of sparkling wine.

“I support it,” Giyuu called out from the living room, much to his girlfriend’s satisfaction and Sanemi’s irritation.

Shinobu tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned sharply away from him on her heel. “I rest my case.”

At that, Shinobu departed with a shrill reminder for him to man up! and Sanemi was left alone in the kitchen once more. With a deep inhale, Sanemi lifted his champagne flute to his lips and tipped back its contents, swallowing his champagne in a single wet gulp, before setting the glass back in the counter, and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

He set out to find Y/N.

—————————————————————————

He found her outside, leaning up against the side of the cabin as she nursed her own flute of champagne, as she stared past the line of trees where their friends had begun assembling the various rockets and fireworks they’d gathered to mark the start of the new year.

Sanemi felt his tongue go thick at the sight of her, so pretty in the snow, though he didn’t know how she wasn’t shivering; she didn’t even have on a coat, and the only thing on her legs was a thin pair of nylons and her platform boots she insisted made her “nearly” as tall as him.

He joined her in leaning against the cabin on the opposite wall of her, though she did not acknowledge his presence past a small inclination of her head, her gaze instead falling to the glass clutched between her hands.

The silence stretched endlessly between them, making him shift his weight from leg to leg as he squirmed.

“Where’s that pretty smile o’ yours?” Sanemi finally broke, and Y/N looked up at him, a frown pulling her painted lips into an adorable pout.

He may have been a tad buzzed from the champagne, but his head felt clear, and his heart felt full as he looked towards his beautiful best friend, so very underdressed for the single-digit weather and snow in that sparkly two-piece Mitsuri had insisted she wear, even though it was just them at the cabin, celebrating.

“Back at the train station,” she mumbled after a moment, returning to her own champagne flute, swirling the liquid around.

Sanemi felt his gut sour, and he found his tongue incapable of forming any words, much to his embarrassment.

Neither said anything for a moment, the distant echoes of their friends cheering as they set up the fireworks magnified against the snowy backdrop of their mountain retreat.

“Why’re you avoiding me?” Y/N’s voice was so small, so unsure that Sanemi felt his heart ache because he hated that he’d been the cause of her doubt.

“I mean, how can you tell me that — what you said, a week ago, and now you can barely meet my eyes?”

“Y/N-“ Sanemi sighed, but Y/N cut him off once more.

“I understand if you didn’t mean it; I get it’s easy to get caught up in the moment, but just tell me that.” She pled.

Sanemi exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I was worried about your reaction,” he confessed after a moment, and Y/N’s frown deepened.

“I was also pissed at myself for doin’ it that way — I had a whole plan, I was gonna take you out somewhere nice, like you deserve, but, well,” Sanemi trailed off, awkwardly. “You just looked so happy at the Christmas party, and then you hugged me, and I guess I went a bit stupid.”

Y/N was silent, only staring at him with wide eyes, her champagne flute dangling precariously from her loose hand as she gaped at him.

“Y-you meant it? You really meant it?” She breathed.

Sanemi looked to her and rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he answered, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’ve been waiting…a long time, to hear you say that.” Y/N admitted, a tentative grin spreading across her face.

Sanemi met her smile with his own, and he began to advance slowly towards where she leaned against the cabin wall. “Sorry to make you wait, princess.”

Y/N responded with an airy laugh. “I expected I would have to break the ice,” her heart thundered against her sternum as Sanemi boxed her in against the logs with his arms. “I’ve been openly flirting with you since the snowball fight.”

Sanemi snorted. “And I’ve been putty in your hands since Halloween. Probably longer.” His hand rose to rest on the small, exposed sliver of her waist and Y/N shuddered at how warm his touch was.

“You sure know how to keep a girl waiting, then.” Y/N’s eyes narrowed in on the proximity of Sanemi’s lips to hers. Though felt the warmth of his breath caress her face, he maintained just enough distance between their lips to tease her.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Sanemi murmured, his thumb stroking the small patch of exposed skin above her hip.

Y/N smirked. “Then warm me up.”

Somewhere beyond the trees that dotted the property, Sanemi and Y/N’s friends began the countdown to midnight; but the two of them did not react to the impending new year, instead only holding one another’s gaze, steadily in the snow.

Their faces were titled towards one another, both still teasingly withholding the satisfaction of being the first to close the marginal distance between their lips from another. But in the distance, Sanemi vaguely heard his friends cry “ONE,” and so, right as the New Year arrived, he finally gave in, and he slanted his mouth over Y/N’s.

Later, Sanemi would muse over the fact that that had been the second time he’d missed a fireworks show with his friends, but he would not be able to care.

Because no display of colored sparks in the sky could compare to the feeling of Y/N’s lips moving fervently against his; could not compare to the way her fingers buried in his hair, or how she felt beneath his palms as he pressed her against the cabin wall and kissed her for all she was worth.

When they finally broke apart, the winter night had fallen silent once more, but it did not remain so; in an instant, their friends erupted into applause, with Tengen letting out a very loud Finally!

Y/N laughed and wrapped her hand around the collar of Sanemi’s jacket, hauling his mouth back to hers. As their friends made suggestive oohs, both Sanemi and Y/N stretched their hands out and simultaneously flipped the group off.

“It’s about damn time, you two,” Tengen drawled as the group made their way inside the warmth of the cabin.

“If you find a rocket in your bed tonight, Tengen, I want you to know it was me.” Sanemi replied smoothly, not taking his eyes off Y/N as she blushed under the hand he kept on her cheek.

—-———————————————————————

It was after two in the morning, and most of the revelers had finally drifted off to bed, drunk and happy and partied out. Only two couples remained awake, not quite yet ready to let the sparkling night fade to black.

One couple was seated on the ornate leather couch before the cabin’s lit Christmas tree, talking and giggling softly to themselves. Mitsuri stifled a sleepy yawn behind her hand, settling in against Obanai’s side as her eyelids drooped.

The ebony-haired man smiled to himself as Mitsuri’s breathing slowed, the beautiful girl finally nodding off against him as the excitement of the weekend lured her to sleep. Slowly, so as not to disturb his girlfriend’s peaceful rest, Obanai turned his head to watch the other couple still awake, though they were in the adjacent reading room.

There, standing before the large bay window of the cabin, Sanemi slow-danced with Y/N as the sound of some old holiday song crackled through the old record player of the cabin’s study. Y/N’s back was to Obanai, but her head was resting against his friend’s chest as Sanemi rocked them from side to side, his lips pressed against the girl’s hair. After a moment, Sanemi bent to murmur something in her ear, and Y/N drew back from his chest and nodded, causing his grin to spread wide across his face.

Obanai turned away from the sight of his friends, a small smile creeping onto his face, as Sanemi led his new girlfriend to his room.

—————————————————————————

Everyone was slow to rise later on New Year's Day, in no short part due to the previous night’s indulgences.

The last to rise, however, was the friend group’s newest couple, and it was with no small amount of delight that the friends saw Y/N emerge from Sanemi’s room, dressed in his sweater from the night before and a pair of men’s briefs. She padded into the kitchen, happy to accept the steaming mug of coffee that Shinobu handed her with a knowing smirk, while flipping off Tengen as he’d loudly asked her if she’d enjoyed her night.

When Sanemi finally entered the kitchen, a dark purple bruise seared into the side of his neck, the whole gang erupted into applause, much to the couple’s laughter and slight embarrassment.

Mitsuri sidled up to her best friend, nudging her with her shoulder. “Shinobu and I had a bet as to who would show up this morning with hickies. She owes me $5.”

Y/N’s returning smirk was naughty as she brought the steaming mug of coffee to her lips. “You just can’t see mine.”

Mitsuri giggled and Y/N couldn’t help but join her, feeling too warm and happy as her eyes met her now-boyfriend’s while he watched her from across the counter. As she’d swiped a donut from one of the several boxes scattered around the table, Y/N felt Sanemi’s fingers shyly brush against her own, and the pair exchanged small, sweet smiles before resuming conversation with their respective roommates.

Later, as the group loaded up cars with their luggage in a haphazard game of suitcase Tetris, Sanemi caught Y/N’s eye again and winked, prompting the latter to blush.

As they piled into their cars and drove away from the cabin, Sanemi realized he was the luckiest man in the world.

—————————————————————————

Epilogue — New Year’s Day, 2 years later

“He just texted me — they’re walking up,” Kyojuro whispered, and the group dissolved into renewed giggles and excitement as the snow drifted lazily outside.

“Shush!” Shinobu urged over the tittering group, as they all crouched in the dark, excitement buzzing among the friend group as they waited anxiously in Sanemi and Y/N’s apartment.

Mitsuri rocked on her heels beside Shinobu, squatting behind the couple’s sofa, her hands fluttering in glee. “They need to hurry up! I can hardly wait!”

“They’re almost — shut it!” Shinobu hissed at the unmistakable sound of a key entering a lock on the front door.

There was a wash of light from the apartment hallway as the door swung open, and Shinobu and the others burrowed deeper into their hiding spots. Only as the door clicked shut, and Sanemi flipped the light switch to their living room, did the group erupt.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Every one of them — Mitsuri, Obanai, Shinobu, Tengen, Gyomei, Kyojuro and even Giyuu sprung from their various crouching spaces behind furniture and closets as they greeted the newly engaged couple.

Y/N’s hands flew to her face in surprise and joy, her cheeks bright red as she laughed. On her left hand, a beautiful, emerald ring sparkled.

The blushing bride-to-be turned to her fiancé and smacked him lightly on the chest. “You ass! Is this why you’ve been so weird and secretive over the last few weeks?”

Sanemi caught his fiancé’s hand and brought it to his lips, prompting the young woman to flush even further. Before she could return the gesture, Y/N was nearly knocked over by the flurry of pink and green that hurtled toward her, locking her arms around her neck and sobbing with joy.

“He was afraid he was gonna blow it,” Tengen offered, though he flinched at the sharp glare the scarred man shot his way. “Okay fine — he thought we would blow it.”

“I can’t imagine why he’d be concerned,” Y/N shook her head in mock-solemnity over Mitsuri’s shoulder. “After all, Giyuu did spoil Gyomei’s 22nd birthday.”

Giyuu made some sound of indignation as the tips of his ears reddened. Kyojuro thumped Sanemi on the back in congratulations. “I still think it would have been much nicer to have us all there when you finally popped the question, Shinazugawa!”

Sanemi rolled his eyes. “Like hell was I gonna let you shitheads ruin a romantic moment.”

Mitsuri, who’d not yet unwound her arms from Y/N’s neck, leaned in close to her best friend’s ear. “Did he cry?” She whispered conspiratorially.

Y/N’s grin widened. “Like a baby. He got down on one knee and started blubbering.”

It might have been a slight exaggeration — though her snowy-haired lover had gone misty-eyed as he’d knelt before her in front of the large Christmas tree in the city square and poured his heart out. As he pulled her in tight against him after sliding the delicate ring on her finger, Y/N had felt the wet droplets of his joyous tears as he’d buried his face into the side of her neck.

But Y/N couldn’t resist the chance to make it known amongst their friends that Sanemi Shinazugawa had the softest heart out of any of them.

The pair of best friends dissolved into giggles, before Mitsuri pulled away and the two hummed and hah’ed over Y/N’s engagement ring, Shinobu joining in as they marveled over the way the emerald shone.

Beside them, both Obanai and Giyuu looked accusingly at their smug friend. “Neither of them are gonna shut up about the ring now. Thanks, Shinazugawa.” Obanai grumbled.

Sanemi locked an arm around his friend’s neck and ground his knuckles into the top of his head. “Please. Like you don’t have a Pinterest board titled ‘future wedding’ for when you decide to have the balls to ask ‘Suri to marry you.” He grinned. “I’ve seen your phone, dude.”

“Jackass,” Obanai mumbled, though any ire he felt towards the snowy-haired man was quick to dissipate, because he couldn’t remember the last time Sanemi had smiled as broadly as he did right then.

He was happy — really, and truly happy.

Because Sanemi Shinazugawa loved many things.

He loved Saturday mornings, when there was no alarm or no obligations, and he could just exist peacefully in his bed with his woman wrapped snug in his arms. He loved when his phone had zero notifications, because that meant he was being left the fuck alone, and in peace.

He loved his friends, that wonderful group of people whom he’d known for most of his life, who’d always supported him or provided a good kick in his ass whenever he needed it.

But most of all, Sanemi loved New Year’s Day, and the snow, because it had brought him Y/N — his fiancé, and the great love of his life, and all her smiles that he had to look forward to every day, for all the days to come.