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kumkaniudaku · 4 months ago

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Superhero

Summary: Surprise shawtyyyy! It's Terry's birthday!

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: None

"A little to the left, Phee. A little more. Okay, back to the right. Perfect!"

Napheese breathed a sigh of relief as she released her hold on a Terry-sized cutout of his favorite super arachnid something-or-another around Diedra's living room. Patrice couldn't remember if it was Peter, Miles, or one of the others – all she knew was Terry loved the blue and red masked crusader. Whatever Terry loved, she vowed to bring to him in abundance.

As party guests doubled as set-up crew members and buzzed about the Richmond family home, Patrice played project manager, wrangling pockets of confusion until they came together to produce the vision she'd had in her mind since Valentine's Day. In the backyard, Ken managed the tedious task of stringing up a paper-mache Spider-Man while Terry's old teammates carried folding tables to and fro under Zorah and Zanah's watchful eyes.

Marvin and Leon stood at the grill, unloading freshly cooked meats and roasted veggies into aluminum pans, dancing along to Corey and June's partnered DJ set as they tested their speakers.

Napheesa's husband, Aaron, and Victoria's fiancee, Jonathan, manned a makeshift bar area, trying to find the right liquor-to-mixer algorithm for cocktail recipes Patrice had found online. From her spot at the kitchen table, Patrice could see them grimace and toss yet another drink over their shoulders to start fresh.

Indoors, Patrice and her trusted set of ladies turned Terry's childhood living room into a blue and red wonderland, complete with decor rivaling any party planner's best day on the job. Comic books with a cartoon version of his adult form sat next to masks, noisemakers, and shot glasses to mix the childlike with a little adult fun. Streamers hung from the ceiling. Confetti decorated themed table cloths. Games sat waiting for the perfect time to pop them open and unleash all of the arguing that came with friendly competition.

Huffing, puffing, and aching, Patrice had done her job. She'd deal with the soreness creeping up her legs and resting at the base of her spine once clean-up was wrapped, and Terry was grinning from ear to ear.

Diedra looked up from stuffing colored cellophane treat bags meant to appeal to the inner child of 30-somethings. She smiled at her daughter-in-law and the swell of her growing belly showing beneath her sweatshirt. "You've done a good job, Patrice. Take your rest, sister girl."

Rest was a foreign concept to an expectant mother hellbent on scaling a four-year-old's birthday party to something fit for a grown man. He couldn't quite put his finger on what had Patrice protecting her phone screen when he was around and hadn't gathered any details outside of the Publix order she tasked him to deliver for the month's supposed Sister Circle meeting. She'd sent him over 30 minutes away for a fruit platter and wings she swore up and down the closest supermarket could fulfill. He was off the trail for now. Just long enough to usher his closest family and friends into his parent's living room to sit in excited silence, anticipating the opportunity to wish him well in his next year of life.

"Your brother's at the store, wondering which beer Terry likes most," Rosalyn relayed with the phone unnecessarily close to her face as she marched into the room from the backyard. "And those boys are tearing up all that liquor out there. I don't know if y'all are gonna have any left."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Ros. They always tearing something up. Can't take 'em nowhere," Victoria mumbled as she finished tying ribbons on her stash of treat bags, earning a hum in agreeance from Napheesa.

Patrice nonchalantly waved them off as she used one hand to stuff a piece of chocolate into her mouth and the other to rub her stomach. "Tell Junior it's alright. He won't drink anyway. He says he's sober until further notice. Just make sure he brings enough ice."

"Terry won't have a beer on his birthday? He's been doing that since he was 18. You really are a magician, Little Richmond." Dee's compliment came in a sweet voice that sharply contrasted her expert precision in plucking Patrice's third bite-sized Snickers from between her fingers before tossing it in a nearby wastebasket. She ignored the small whimper and continued. "You know you're the only one that can surprise him, right? We've been trying since he was a boy, and he always sniffs out the plan. With you, he follows directions blindly. I wouldn't have ever been able to get him 'cross town for this long."

"Did you ever try threatening him? That's usually what I do," Patrice added.

Napheesa chuckled. "Girl, he listens because you also got something his mama ain't got."

"Ain't that the truth. The vagina does amazing things, ladies. There's power between those thighs. Come to the real Sister Circle meeting next week, and we'll talk all about it!" Diedra agreed.

"I know that's right, Auntie," Victoria exclaimed.

Patrice sat with a satisfied grin on her face, wanting to take exception to her mother's not-so-subtle assertion but knowing that the truth was simply the truth. She chose a joke as her rebuttal: "Y'all don't know what we're doing when we're alone."

"Baby, we know. We can see you. Ain't no shame."

All in the room laughed at Rosalyn's joke, compelling Patrice to join in, even at her expense. She ran her hand across her belly, dreaming of what her baby might think of all this fanfare unfolding mere inches from their safe space.

She sighed and looked around, tears pricking her eyes. "Everything looks so good y'all. Thank you for helping me. Even if you did take all my snacks. I owe y'all first dibs on newborn photos."

"As if I won't be in that house helping you the second you get home," Vick scoffed. She reached over to grab Patrice's hand for a quick squeeze. "We got you girl. Anything for you and that man of yours."

"One day, you're gonna have to get over the breakup, Victoria," Napheesa laughed.

Vick rolled her eyes. "Patrice forgives. The Lord is still working on me. Sometimes, I have flashbacks and just wanna…" Her voice trailed as she made a strangling motion and shook her hands. When she stopped, she looked over at Diedra, laughing at her animated movements. "No offense, Mrs. DeeDee."

"Sometimes little traces of his daddy jump out, child. Blame it on that fiery, light-eyed Richmond blood. Lord knows I love it and hate it all the same damn time."

Wisdom and frustrations shared between generations of women connected through one man filled the room, pushing Patrice into a fit of giggles as she listened along and tried to quell the unfamiliar fluttering in her abdomen. Buzzing in the front pocket of her working overalls paused her participation in the conversation. It brought her attention to Terry's teenage face filling the screen.

She lifted her hand to get the group's attention. "Sshh sshh, y'all. This is Terry. Let me put him on speaker." Talking ceased, and breathing stilled as they rushed to sit perfectly quiet and eavesdrop. Patrice put on her sweetest voice to answer. "Hey, Birthday Man. Everything okay?"

On the interstate, Terry slowly switched lanes, growing frustrated by the unfathomable traffic on Saturday afternoon. He grimaced at the nickname. "Baby, I'm in my 30s. Birthday Man makes it sound like I never moved out of my mama's basement."

"Excuse me for wanting to celebrate you. Guess I'll cancel the reservation too, then," Patrice sassed, earning stifled laughter around her.

"I'm sorry, Piggy. Call me whatever you want. Don't cancel our time together. I'm excited." The genuine smile in his voice brought heat to Patrice's cheeks and a quiet swooning to the group.

She smiled, though he couldn't see her. "I'm excited, too," she gushed. "You on the way back to me for a little while?"

"Yeah, I should be there in fifteen minutes. You stayin' off your feet over there? I won't hear about you on no ladders, will I?" Terry knew the answer. He always knew the answer to whether his busy body of a wife had finally committed to following her doctor's orders.

"Duh, TJ. I know how to sit down," Patrice answered.

Terry chuckled. "You know how to lie, too. At least sit down until I get back. Corey says he's running late anyway."

"Alright. I love you. We love you." Patrice's voice carried an innocent lilt mushy enough to make Zorah quietly roll her eyes in the background. She padded into the room.

"I love y'all, too. See you in a bit, baby."

Air kisses shared from a distance, growing shorter by the second, capped off a nauseatingly sweet conversation so covered in newlywed confections that it was nearly responsible for new cavities in everyone's mouths.

Patrice gave Terry's photo a final smile before looking up at the face carrying varying mixes of disbelief and shock. She rolled her eyes. "God forbid a girl is nice to her husband. Stop looking at me, and let's get this show on the road. My baby will be here soon!"

Prison warden sensibilities helped corral a group of adults into Marvin and Dierdra's living room with enough time to spare for Patrice to toddle down the front porch steps like a damsel in distress and look for her "missing" cell phone charger.

T.I.'s 'U Don't Know Me' rattled car windows lining the street as he barrelled down the quiet residential street. Terry's arm hung comfortably out of the window, allowing the rays of a blazing sun sitting high in the sky to ping off of his wedding ring once he raised his hand to wave at his first love. Patrice put on an unassuming smile and closed her back passenger side door to wait for him to follow his usual routine.

The truck's engine shut off with an easy twist of Terry's wrist once he found a spot in front of the house, taking Urban Legend's bass-heavy third track with it. Bags rustled, and soft grunts of effort left newly moisturized lips. A heavy door slammed as a mountain of a man stepped out of his chariot and took long strides toward a woman dancing from foot to foot to welcome him in.

"What you doin' out here," Terry asked as he approached. He gently placed the lightest bag in Patrice's outstretched hand before leaning down to peck her puckered lips. "Who let you come out here by yourself?"

She shrugged, unwilling to place blame on anyone in particular. "The meeting hadn't started yet, and I thought I had left my charger in the car, so I came to grab it. But I guess it's in my bag? I don't know. This momnesia stuff is real."

"Mhmm. How's your back?" A large hand came up to place light pressure in the spot she'd recently complained about, hoping to ease the pain.

"It's better." For his sake, a lie slid off Patrice's tongue with minimal effort. "Dee's grabbing me a heating pad, and I get the good chair. Wish she'd let me have another chocolate instead, but whatever. Perks of getting disgusting in that hotel room, I guess."

"I really hope you don't say that in front of these old ladies. Is that who all these cars belong to? You think they gon' eat all this food?" Terry questioned, taking stock of the unfamiliar vehicles.

Patrice sighed in exasperation. "Oh hell, Terry, are you helping me or interrogating me? Come on and get this stuff in the house so I can talk about you behind your back in peace."

Terry's chuckle and the audible pop of palm on her denim-covered backside rang out behind Patrice as he followed her into the house. Blissful ignorance carried him in the house. He blissfully smelt her perfume wafting in the wind, blissfully watched her spreading hips switch in front of him, blissfully listened to the sweet alto of her voice call out his presence as they rounded the corner—blissfully unaware.

"Surprise!"

Bliss abruptly took a back seat to the reflex to shield Patrice from danger. The hair on Terry's arms stood attention, looking for the threat, and wild eyes surveyed the room. His father's smile disarmed him first. Then his mother, Corey, with his phone up to capture the moment, his sisters giving him identical middle fingers, and the hulking Spider-Man cutout masquerading like a member of his extended family, calmed him further. Confusion came for him next – a fleeting emotion but one that rocked him with so much force that he considered walking out of the house altogether. If not for Patrice grasping his arm to keep him in place, Terry would've hightailed it back to his truck and disappeared into the wind.

But, as his fight or flight response dissipated and realization knocked the wind from his lungs, tears pricked the corner of his eyes.

Spider-Man. The birthday party he never received. The superhero he spent hours dreaming of becoming in his boyhood. The character that kept him excited for something in his darkest times. His favorite interest to share with his father and the one he hoped to pass on to his child one day soon. A sea of red and blue engulfed him, sparking up more gratitude than his body knew how to filter into productive words or sounds.

"Say hello to your people, baby. They came to see you!"

Patrice's voice pulled Terry back into reality and broke him down, all in the same breath. He slowly set the fruit tray on the floor before pulling her into a hug packed with a heady amalgamation of wish fulfillment and unspeakable gratitude. A chorus of 'awws' rolled across the room in a murmur from people not used to a vulnerable Terry willing to cry in front of a crowd.

Patrice ran her nails across his shoulder blades as she rocked them side to side. "Happy Birthday, Pookie Bear! We're all so proud of you and the man you are."

"Thank you," Terry whispered against Patrice's neck. "I love you so much."

"I know. I love you 3000." A short laugh sent warm hair fanning across Patrice's skin before Terry pulled back to look at her face with amused confusion. She smiled. "See, I pay attention sometimes!"

Whispered declarations of love and short kisses kept at bay with the strength of Christ himself produced more big feelings and bigger tears until the soft clearing of a throat nearby reminded Terry that not only was he at a birthday party, he was at his birthday party.

"Shit," he whispered to himself before quickly swiping moisture from his cheeks. Terry scanned the room for faces once more, taking in the full scope of all his wife had achieved. "My baby sisters are here. They never come home," he laughed through more tears. "Ken is here! Mike, Tim…what is goin' on here? Oh my God!"

Corey hollered back behind his phone. "We here to party, man! We had to cut the guest list. Everybody and they mama was trynna get in here for you, boy!"

"And the catfish. Mostly you, but definitely the catfish," Zanah added to scattered laughter.

Terry's smile stretched from ear to ear as he reached out to snag two plastic Spider-Man masks from a nearby table. With careful precision, he slid one onto Patrice's face, adjusted it, and then did the same for himself. Childish whimsy compelled him to try shooting imaginary webs from his wrists.

Patrice gave him a quizzical look. "Does that mean we're good to go, Spidey?"

They were more than good. Like fresh champagne uncorked and sprayed to celebrate a championship win, Terry's imaginary webslinging cracked the seal on the afternoon. Adults ran around, stuffing their faces and dancing like children dropped off at a classmate's birthday party. Terry got the first crack at his pinata and hit it so hard dead center that Peter Parker nearly disintegrated into a heap of cheap paper and cardboard. Relay races stretched muscles, many of which hadn't been used in ions. Pictionary on the back deck quickly turned into a game of watching Ken flex how many things he could turn into awful stick figures. They presented the man of the evening with sentimental and gag gifts in equal measure and showered him in praise.

"Okay, babe," Patrice exclaimed as she presented Terry with a slender box wrapped in red paper. "While you open that, I have to give a speech because you always have one for me. Terrence is nothing short of amazing. I've never met anyone so dedicated to serving his family and his community. You're a mentor, a dutiful son, an amazing big brother, and the only husband I want. I'm so happy to get a front-row seat to your next evolution as Daddy. I love you, Pookie Bear. Hopefully, this shows how much I look at you as a superhero. Our Friendly Neighborhood Terry, if you will!"

A little online digging and a sketchy, at best, Etsy shop brought Terry's wildest dreams to life. He held a detailed figurine of his face and body contorted into a signature hero's pose. Thanks came in deep kisses, and a grown man showcased his new toy to all his friends as if he was transported directly back to age six.

By sunset, more libations and a deck of cards procured from thin air, turning innocent fun into a heated competition between teammates seeing each other for the first time in years and couples looking to put a hurting on each other's pockets.

Terry existed in a permanent state of laughter. His shoulders shook with each chuckle, his abs flexed and relaxed underneath his shirt from every joke and story taking him on a trip down memory lane, and his cheeks burned from smiling with the full force of his facial muscles.

As much as Patrice wanted to remain with the group and listen to a spirited retelling of Terry's infamous in-game trash talk and a nasty reaction to his taunting, she needed to listen to her little one's demand for an empty bladder.

Terry watched her disappear into the house and half-listened to Tim's story, which was littered with exaggerations, for a few minutes before pushing back from the table and excusing himself. He slipped into the quiet, empty house and flipped on the kitchen lights in search of his mother's good cake knives. Methodical cuts produced a small sliver of contraband for someone special.

Loud whooshing from the hallway powder room and the sink shutting on and off produced goosebumps pebbling across Terry's skin. Anticipation coursed through his veins. His smile grew as she came around the corner, rubbing her fluttering stomach.

"Oh, hey," she greeted, exhaustion evident in her tired smile. Once they were within arms' length of each other, she reached out to caress his cheek with her thumb. He leaned into her touch, kissing her palm. "Having fun, baby?"

He nodded. "Mhmm. I got something for you?"

"Baby, this is your day. You don't need to get me anything," Patrice whined.

"Shhhh," Terry answered, shaking his head. "Just let it happen. Close your eyes."

She did so reluctantly, expecting a silly kiss or something inappropriate until the soft embrace of fluffy buttercream and soft vanilla cake pushed past her lips into her mouth. Patrice hummed and chewed, savoring every morsel before opening her eyes. "God, I love you."

"Not nearly as much as I love you," he answered while feeding her another, bigger bite she readily accepted. "I owe you the moon next month, okay? Name it, and you got it."

"A BMW. All white. Peanut butter insides."

Terry scoffed and wiped the corner of Patrice's mouth free of debris. "Easy. I'm literally Spider-Man. Give me a challenge, Treecey."

"Ooooh, I see you. Shut my mouth," she exclaimed, her laughter inviting Terry to join in. "Let's see, superhero. How about…"

Mention of fantastical things like trips to the moon and a purse made from rare stars fell from Patrice's lips in jest as Terry carefully balanced feeding and active listening. What she considered a silly little game was anything but for a man wholly invested in her happiness. If he had to fight crime by night to bring Patrice the desires of her heart, he'd do it with a smile under his mask.

Superhero. He'd waited a long time to finally earn the moniker and party to boot. And he'd wait for 100 more, fight a never-ending list of villains, and jump across the multiverse just to love like this again.

------

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#aaron pierre #terry richmond #rebel ridge #terry richmond x oc

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lunarl0re · 30 days ago

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Chrome & Curses

I am sleep deprived, used all my brain power on college assignments and this rn is the best i can do. i present biker! sukuna x fae(?) reader. no one knows if shes human, even i dont. fluff/crack fic.

tw: a corpse i think(is this even a tw)

word count: at least 3

• ──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──── •

Sukuna had seen things. Cursed spirits, bloodied battlegrounds, the inside of a man’s skull (twice). Nothing shocked him anymore.

Until you.

He spotted you while speeding down the winding road outside the city, the scent of smoke and iron in his nose. You were in the middle of the lane, squinting at a squirrel like it was revealing the secrets of the universe. Your dress looked like it was made from tablecloths and stardust. Your hair was tangled in wildflowers. And your socks had clouds on them. Clouds.

He swerved hard, tire screaming against asphalt, stopping inches away from you. Helmet off, eyes blazing, tattoos writhing slightly with leftover rage — he was ready to unleash hell.

You tilted your head. “Oh. Are you a fire spirit?”

“…What?”

“Because you’ve got the vibe.”

He didn’t reply. Mostly because he was silently recalibrating his entire reality.

You introduced yourself like you were at a garden tea party, not nearly roadkill. And then you reached out and gently touched one of his tattoos like it was a butterfly, gasping in delight. “Ooooh, this one’s angry. Do they all have names?”

He didn’t punch you. That was the first clue he was in trouble.

Within a week, he’s picked you up from a “moss gathering” expedition, where you accidentally wandered into a biker bar and asked a man twice your size if he was a tree. Sukuna had to break a pool cue in half and growl something vaguely demonic to get you out of there.

You thanked him by putting stickers on his gas tank. (They're still there.)

You baked him cookies you swore were from a family recipe, but he’s 80% sure they were just mushrooms, glitter, and hope. He ate three.

He’s convinced you’re a fae. Not metaphorically. Genuinely. There is no way a human could survive the modern world with the amount of bewildered whimsy you exude. You don’t know what a QR code is. You think gas stations are “tiny spell shops.” Once, you offered a cop a pinecone “in trade.”

And yet…

He’s smitten. Not the slow, creeping kind. The crash-into-you-at-100-km/h kind.

Sukuna now:

* Teaches you how crosswalks work like a grumpy jungle guide.

* Hangs crystal charms from his handlebars because “they keep your aura clear.”

* Absolutely murders anyone who so much as looks at you sideways, then scowls as you hand the corpse a flower crown “for their next life.”

* Rides out to weird groves and forgotten shrines because you said the “trees there whisper funny.”

You, in turn, believe in him. Entirely. Without hesitation. You pat his terrifying tattoos like they're shy kittens. You call his curses “his little friends.” You talk to his bike like it’s alive (he’s starting to suspect… maybe it is, now).

One night, as you both sit by a campfire in the woods — you humming to the stars, him sharpening a blade for “reasons” — you curl up in his lap, tiny and warm, and murmur sleepily:

“You’re not so scary. I think you’re just… a thundercloud who forgot how to rain.”

And that’s the moment Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, Toppled God of Wrath and Leather, realizes:

He’s doomed.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

#jjk scenarios #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #ryomen sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna #sukuna x female reader #sukuna x reader

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em-ontv · 10 months ago

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Under his skin.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x fem!supe!reader

Summary: When he met you, who was just like him; tempered, aggressive, he immediately hated you, no, loathed. But maybe that's not all he feels for you.

Warnings: vulgar language/cursing, mentions of violence (barely), no use of y/n, English is not my first language, mistakes should be present, apologies beforehand.

Author’s note: So… I just wanted something where this man isn’t an egoistic maniac. He annoys me so much but I love him <3, this was written just out of spite, enjoy!

Word count: 705

Ben hated you.

You were a supe, a big deal. The leader of a new team of supes who were really just assholes when the cameras were turned off, and each of them possessed powers more messed up than the previous.

You were quick to throw fists and unleash whatever terrifying power you were gifted with. And fuck, did that rub him the wrong way. It was the same recipe, a sweet smile in front of the public and a complete disregard for human life in private. And you were the worst of them all; invulnerable, aggressive, with a temper that made Soldier Boy himself look like a boy scout.

He fucking hated you for that.

It was bad enough that Vought thought it was a good idea to create another superteam in case Payback ever went awry — then it succeeded, way too much for Ben's liking.

He had a hard enough time trying to keep his own idiots in line without worrying about another set of so-called 'heroes' stepping on his turf. But no, they went ahead and made you into their new big thing. And what's worse? You were someone who didn't take shit from anyone — not even him.

From the first day you met, it was like pouring gasoline on a fire. You talked to him like he was nothing, like some relic from a different era. You didn't just talk back; you tore into him, picking apart his ego piece by piece, you got under his skin like a parasite.

But the real kicker? You weren't afraid of him. You stared him down like he was a joke. It got to a point where he couldn't stand the sight of you. Just knowing you were around would set him off, make him want to tear somebody's head off, preferably yours.

"Where's the asshole?" Ben growled at Mindstorm, who swallowed thickly and pointed toward a room. He shot him a glare before nearly kicking the door open.

And there you were, sitting there with a smirk on your face, like you owned the place.

He clenched his fists, feeling his blood pressure rise, and you haven't even said anything yet. "You piece of shit. You think you're hot stuff, huh? Running that joke of a team like a dictator?"

"Don't be mad at me just because your team can't find it in their hearts to respect you." you tilted your head. "Talking about Payback, how is it? Still playing dress-up?"

His jaw twitched, and for a moment, he considered throwing you through the wall.

"You're nothing but a wannabe," he spat. "A cheap rip-off version of me. I don't know how you got this far, but don't think for a second that you're anywhere close to me."

You just grinned, more amused than anything, but there was a hint of anger lingering behind your eyes. "You're a washed-up mascot for Vought. Your team can't handle the dirty work,” you leaned forward. “And you as their leader? You can't even get your own shit together, talk about leading a team."

Ben's face flushed with anger, his fingers twitching toward his shield. But you just watched him, knowing you stuck a nerve.

"You're lucky Vought's got rules," he muttered, barely holding himself back. "Because if it was up to me—"

"You'd do nothing, Ben." you cut him off, your voice dripped with condescension. "Because you can't do anything. Not to me."

And in a split second, he swung his shield at you, but you didn't dodge.

You caught it.

And then it started.

Slowly but surely, Ben would lie awake at night, fists clenched, jaw tight, replaying your arguments in his head. He'd think about you and that infuriating smirk. The anger was still there, seething, but there was something else now, something creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

It was humiliating, that's all it was. He was Soldier Boy, the toughest bastard on the planet. He didn't take shit from anyone, let alone someone like you. But then, one night, after downing half a bottle of whiskey and staring at the ceiling for hours, it hit him like a freight train.

He didn't just want to beat you.

He wanted you.

#soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy the boys #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy fic #the boys #the boys fanfic #the boys imagine #the boys amazon #the boys tv #the boys fandom #the boys au #the boys x you #the boys x y/n #the boys x reader

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softlypossessive · 3 months ago

Note

Hello! May I request a Hawks x reader fic where the reader teaches him how to cook their favorite dish? The dish can be whatever you like!

A Recipe for Trouble (and Something Like Love)

♡ Characters: Keigo Takami (Hawks) x gn!Reader ♡ Warnings: Domestic fluff, playful banter, shirtless Hawks in an apron, food-themed innuendo, emotional vulnerability, light kisses, mild spice (heh badum tsss ), love as comfort food ♡ WC: ~1.8k ♡ Notes: Thank you for the adorable request! I meant to write a quick fluffy moment and somehow ended up in my feelings over tomato stew and apron Hawks. This was so fun to write—Keigo is chaos in the kitchen but he means so well. Hope you enjoy this messy lil love letter disguised as a cooking lesson!

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The kitchen was a warzone of domesticity, a cramped little corner of your apartment bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon sun streaming through the window above the sink.

Dishes were piled haphazardly in the sink, a testament to the chaos Keigo Takami — better known as Hawks — had unleashed in his valiant attempt to conquer your childhood recipe.

The air was thick with the scent of sautéed garlic, simmering tomatoes, and a faint whiff of charred onion, a casualty of his earlier bravado.

Keigo stood there like he’d been born to rule this domain, though the evidence suggested otherwise. Your second-favorite apron — the one with cartoon chickens dancing across a faded yellow background — hung crookedly around his lean waist, the strings knotted in a messy bow that barely held it in place.

No shirt, of course — why would Hawks, the Number Two Hero, bother with something as mundane as a shirt when he could flaunt the sculpted lines of his torso, all sharp edges and golden skin kissed by the sun? The beautiful bastard.

His blonde hair was a tousled disaster, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d just flown through a storm, and those amber eyes of his — sharp as a predator’s — were locked on the onions he was brutalizing with a kitchen knife.

The blade flashed in his hand, wielded with the same reckless confidence he brought to every fight, though here it was woefully misplaced.

A single bulb hung overhead, its light catching on the chipped paint of the cabinets, giving the whole scene a lived-in, cozy charm that felt distinctly yours.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at your lips as a chunk of onion launched itself across the room, skittering under the fridge like a fugitive.

“Are you… fighting those onions?” you asked, watching him hack away.

“I’m chopping them with style,” he shot back, his voice dripping with mock indignation, though his technique was anything but stylish.

Another piece flew, bouncing off the wall with a soft thwack.

“Totally intentional.”

You sighed, the sound exaggerated for effect, and pushed off the counter.

“Keigo. You’re holding the knife wrong. You’re supposed to curl your fingers, not — baby, you’re gonna lose a thumb.”

He paused mid-slice, tilting his head to fix you with a lopsided smirk, the kind that made your heart do stupid little flips despite yourself.

“I have like three knives in my belt at all times, and you’re worried about this one?”

“I like your thumbs,” you muttered, closing the distance between you.

Your hands brushed his as you reached for the knife, guiding his fingers into a safer grip — curling them under, away from the blade’s path. His skin was warm, calloused from years of hero work, and the contact sent a quiet thrill up your spine.

He went still under your touch, his smirk softening into something quieter, more real.

“You’re really good at this,” he said, his voice low, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the way your hair fell into your face, instead of the cutting board.

You scoffed, trying to play it off, though your cheeks warmed.

“Chopping vegetables? It’s not that impressive.”

“No,” he murmured, his tone deepening, “letting someone in like this.”

Your breath caught, snagging in your throat like a thread pulled too tight.

This whole thing — the dish, the cooking lesson — was just a whim, a half-joking offer to share a piece of your past: a stew your mom used to make, rich with tomatoes and herbs, the kind of comfort that lingered in your memory like a soft blanket.

You’d laughed when you suggested teaching him, picturing the great Hawks fumbling with a spatula.

But now, with him standing barefoot in your kitchen, looking at you like the peeling linoleum and the hiss of the stove was some kind of sacred ground, it hit you harder than you’d braced for.

“I just wanted to share something with you,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, your fingers still lingering on his. “Something that makes me feel at home.”

Keigo’s grin softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re my home.”

The words landed like a punch, stealing the air from the room, leaving only the sizzle of the pan behind him and the wild thud of your heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

You stared at him, caught off guard by how easily he said it, how sure he sounded.

You cleared your throat, nudging him with your elbow to break the tension before it swallowed you whole.

“Alright, Mr. Sentimental. Get back to work. Stir that before it burns.”

“Yes, chef,” he quipped, snapping into a dramatic salute with the spatula, the motion so over-the-top you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

He turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce with exaggerated care, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

It was absurd — Hawks, the fastest man alive, treating a pot of stew like it was a life-or-death mission. His wings, tucked tight against his back, twitched every now and then, a few stray feathers fluttering to the floor, catching the light like tiny embers.

The kitchen wasn’t big — barely enough room for two people to move without bumping into each other — but it felt alive with him in it.

The counter was a mess of spilled spices and vegetable scraps, a cutting board stained with onion juice, and a jar of dried basil you’d knocked over in your haste to save the garlic from his earlier assault.

He’d insisted on helping, shrugging off your protests with a lazy “I’ve got this, babe,” even as he’d promptly set a dish towel on fire trying to light the stove.

You’d laughed until your sides hurt, swatting him with the singed fabric while he grinned like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

Now, the chaos had settled into something softer. The stew was coming together — slightly lumpy, the tomatoes a little unevenly chopped, but fragrant and warm, filling the room with a scent that tugged at your heartstrings as he hummed a tune you vaguely recognized from one of his patrols, something he’d picked up from a street musician downtown.

When it was done, he plated it with a flourish, the bowls mismatched and chipped from years of use, the stew sloshing a little over the edges.

“Ta-da,” he announced, holding one out to you like it was a prize. “Michelin-star worthy, if I do say so myself.”

You snorted, taking the bowl.

“You’re delusional.”

“Delusionally talented,” he corrected, hopping up to sit on the counter beside you.

You followed suit, your legs swinging in tandem, the cool edge of the counter pressing into your thighs.

He hummed around the first taste, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“Damn. That’s good.”

“You made it,” you said, nudging his knee with yours.

“We made it,” he corrected again, tapping his fork against yours with a soft clink.

The stew was rich, a little salty from his heavy hand with the seasoning, but it hit all the right notes — warmth spreading through your chest, a taste of nostalgia wrapped in something new.

You smiled, softer than you meant to, and he caught it, leaning in just enough that your knees bumped again.

“Can I confess something?” he asked, his voice dipping into that playful, flirty tone that always made your pulse skip.

“Is it about the onions?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the space between you. “No. It’s about you.”

You tilted your head, waiting, your fork hovering mid-air.

He looked at the plate, then back at you, his gaze steady and unguarded.

“I’ve done a lot of reckless things — flying into burning buildings, picking fights with villains twice my size. But learning to cook for you? Might just be the scariest. And the best.”

You froze, the fork slipping slightly in your grip.

His words hung there, simple but heavy, and before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed the front of that ridiculous chicken apron, yanked him close, and kissed him.

It was messy and perfect — his lips tasting of garlic and tomato, a hint of the stew still lingering, warm and familiar like the dish you’d just made together.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer across the counter as you melted into him, his kiss carrying a hunger that belied his easy grin, a quiet intensity that made your head spin.

When you pulled back, he was flushed, cheeks pink, eyes dazed and bright.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, and whispered, “I burned the onions on purpose.”

“You liar,” you laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the heat still coursing through you.

“I’d burn a hundred onions if it gets me another kiss,” he said, his grin widening, all teeth and charm.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands sliding up to tangle in his messy hair, tugging gently at the strands.

He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and the fork clattered to the counter, forgotten as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him.

The kitchen faded away — the mess, the smells, the hum of the city outside — until it was just the two of you, tangled up in each other, the taste of home on your lips.

His wings flexed behind him, brushing the cabinets with a soft rustle, and you felt the tickle of a feather against your arm, a reminder of who he was — wild, untamed, but here, with you, soft in a way he didn’t show the world.

“Keigo,” you murmured against his lips, pulling back just enough to catch your breath. “You’re a terrible cook.”

He laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, his nose brushing yours.

“Yeah, but I’ve got other skills, babe. Wanna see?”

You swatted his chest, but he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“I mean it, though,” he said, softer now. “This — cooking with you, being here — it’s better than any mission. You’re better.”

Your heart squeezed, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder, his bare skin warm under your cheek.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you whispered, and he chuckled, wrapping an arm around you, holding you close as the sun dipped lower outside, painting the room in shades of orange and pink.

The stew sat cooling in its bowls, but neither of you cared.

Later, you’d drag him to the couch, curl up under a blanket, and argue over what movie to watch — him pushing for action, you vetoing anything with explosions — but for now, you stayed there, perched on the counter, legs tangled, sharing a bowl of slightly burnt stew and a love that felt like it could outshine even the brightest hero’s spotlight.

With Keigo, it was always like this — messy, unexpected, and so damn sweet you couldn’t imagine it any other way.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

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tobeafangirl · 4 days ago

Text

unhinged

Words: 3,847 Rating: M | angst (language, harry is so pissed he takes a door off), fluff (happy ending!) Type: Harry Styles x Reader Taglist: @infinityxlovers @emlovesniallhoran @puzio19 ❀ Masterlist ❀ Requests ❀ Taglist ❀

Harry frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. He watched Y/N move around the apartment, her movements stiff, her back rigidly turned towards him. An invisible wall seemed to have sprung up between them overnight, and he had no idea why. He'd woken up to a palpable chill in the air, a silent accusation hanging between them, thick and unyielding. What had he done? He racked his brain, replaying every moment of the previous day, searching for a misstep, a forgotten word, a careless action that could explain this sudden, icy distance. But his mind remained blank. He just didn't understand.

He'd tried to initiate conversation that morning, a lighthearted comment about their shared dream the night before, but Y/N had simply grunted in response, her shoulders stiff. It wasn't like her. Usually, she was an open book, her emotions easily readable, her affection readily given. This calculated distance was new, and it unnerved him. He felt like he was walking on eggshells, a silent alarm blaring in his head, warning him of an imminent explosion he couldn't preempt.

He watched as she picked out her clothes for the day, each movement precise and devoid of her usual fluidity. The air between them was thick with a tension he couldn't grasp, an anger he couldn't name. It was the kind of silence that screamed, louder than any argument, and it left him feeling helpless, adrift in a sea of unspoken grievances. He longed for her to just tell him, to unleash whatever fury was brewing, so he could at least understand it.

"Is everything okay?" he'd finally ventured, his voice carefully neutral, hoping to break the suffocating quiet. Y/N paused, her back still to him, and for a terrifying moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then, a low, controlled voice, devoid of warmth: "Fine." The single word, delivered with a chilling finality, felt like a slammed door, sealing off any possibility of immediate resolution.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the frustration beginning to bubble. "Y/N, I know something's wrong. You've been acting weird all morning. Just tell me what it is." He tried to keep his tone gentle, but a hint of impatience crept in. He hated this game, this dance around the unspoken truth. Just tell him. Let them fight it out and get it over with.

"Harry, I don't even know where to begin. I was so incredibly hurt that you didn't come to my party. I put so much thought and effort into every single detail, from the invitations to the playlist, the food, the decorations – everything. I wanted it to be perfect, not just for me, but for all our friends, and especially for you.

I remember spending weeks, truly weeks, meticulously planning everything. I agonized over the guest list, wanting to make sure everyone felt included and had a good time. I researched recipes, trying to find dishes that would cater to everyone's tastes. I spent hours decorating, trying to create an atmosphere that was both celebratory and comfortable. Every decision I made, every task I completed, I did with the hope that you would be there, enjoying yourself, making new memories with us.

And then, you just… didn't show up. No call, no text, no explanation. It felt like a punch to the gut. All that anticipation, all that hard work, all those hopes – it all just evaporated in an instant. It wasn't just about missing your presence, Harry, though that was certainly a huge part of it. It was about feeling like my efforts, my time, my feelings, meant absolutely nothing to you. It felt like you didn't care enough to even send a quick message to say you couldn't make it. That's what really stung. It made me question everything."

My chest felt tight, a familiar knot of frustration coiling in my stomach. "How was I supposed to know?" I muttered, the words barely a whisper, yet laced with a desperation I couldn't hide. It wasn't fair. Every argument felt like a replay, a loop of accusations and misunderstandings. I loved Y/N more than anything, but sometimes it felt like we were speaking two entirely different languages, constantly missing each other's signals.

Then came the familiar sting: "Because I told you." That phrase, delivered with a flat finality, always felt like a punch to the gut. Had she? Had I truly forgotten? Or was it buried under the weight of a million other unspoken things, a quiet assumption I was supposed to just get? The silence that followed was deafening, amplified by the unspoken accusation hanging in the air.

"Bullshit," I shot back, the anger bubbling to the surface. It was a raw, unfiltered response, born from a deep-seated exhaustion. I hated fighting like this, hated the way it chipped away at the foundation we'd built. But the helplessness was overwhelming. How could I fix something if I didn't even know what I'd done wrong?

"Don't bullshit me, you don't listen to me." That was it. The core of it all. The accusation that always cuts the deepest. It wasn't that I didn't listen; it was that I didn't always understand. The nuances, the unspoken expectations, the subtle shifts in tone – they often eluded me. And the fear of failing Y/N, of consistently falling short of her expectations, was a constant, nagging ache in my heart.

"I listen just fine, you just don't communicate." The words were out before I could stop them, a desperate defense. It was a vicious cycle, this back-and-forth about who was at fault for the miscommunication. All I knew was that every time we ended up here, in this painful stalemate, my heart ached for a resolution, a way to bridge the growing chasm between us.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded, the words sharp, cutting through the heavy air. "What am I supposed to do, huh? Read your fucking mind?" My voice cracked on the last word, betraying the fear and hurt beneath the anger. "You're supposed to be my fiancé."

"Yeah, well, maybe we need to revisit that conversation," Y/N shot back, her voice cold, distant. It felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

My blood ran cold. "Revisit that conversation?" I echoed, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Are you serious? After everything we've been through? It was just a party, Y/N. A party! Is that what our entire future hinges on now?" The injustice of it burned, a hot, angry coal in my chest. It felt like she was weaponizing our commitment, using it as leverage in a petty argument.

"It wasn't just a party!" Y/N's voice cracked, a raw edge of pain I hadn't expected. "It meant a lot to me! You know how much I was looking forward to it, how much effort I put into planning it. And you just... dismissed it. Like it was nothing. There won't just be 'others,' not when you keep acting like this!" The force of her words hit me like a physical blow. Before I could even process it, the loud slam of a door reverberated through the apartment.

The sudden silence left in Y/N’s wake was more deafening than any shout could have been. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room, the echo of the slammed door rattling not just the apartment, but my very core. Was this really happening? Was this the end of us, all because of a party? My mind raced, trying to reconstruct the last few minutes, searching for the exact moment everything had gone so horribly wrong. But it was all a blur of accusations and pain, a tangled mess of miscommunication and hurt feelings.

A cold dread began to creep in, chilling me to the bone. This wasn't just a fight; this felt different, final. The weight of Y/N's words, "maybe we need to revisit that conversation," pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. The thought of losing her, of our future dissolving into nothing, was unbearable. My chest tightened again, this time with a frantic, desperate need to fix it, to undo the damage that had been done.

I walked numbly to the bedroom door, the one Y/N had just slammed. My hand hovered over the doorknob, hesitating. What would I say? How could I even begin to bridge this chasm? The door itself felt like a barrier, a physical representation of the distance between us. And then, a new kind of anger, hot and sharp, began to simmer beneath the surface. How dare she walk away like that? How dare she threaten our engagement over something I truly didn't understand?

The anger morphed into something more destructive, a desperate need to assert control, to break through this suffocating silence. This door, this symbol of her departure, suddenly became the enemy. It was blocking me, preventing me from reaching her, from fixing this. A wild, illogical thought sparked in my mind, fueled by adrenaline and despair. If the door was the problem, if it was literally standing between us, then it had to go.

My hands clenched into fists, and without a moment's hesitation, I grabbed the doorknob, yanking it hard. It resisted for a moment, and then with a grunt, I pulled again, twisting and pushing, determined to remove the barrier.

The screws holding the door to its frame were stubbornly in place. I let go of the doorknob, my gaze falling to the floor, then quickly moving towards the toolbox in the corner of the living room. A screwdriver. That's what I needed. I strode over, rummaging through the various tools until my fingers closed around the familiar handle of a Phillips head. This would solve it.

I returned to the bedroom door, screwdriver in hand. "Y/N," I shouted, my voice tense but firm. "Unlock the door."

A moment of silence, then a hesitant click. The door remained closed, but the lock was now disengaged. I pushed on the door, holding it open just enough to wedge my body in. Y/N was standing on the other side, eyes wide, a mix of confusion and fresh anger clouding her features.

"What are you doing?" Y/N demanded, her voice rising. "Are you serious right now?"

Ignoring her protests, I positioned myself at the top hinge, the screwdriver ready. "I'm taking the door off," I stated, my own voice edged with a desperate resolve.

"You're what?" Y/N shrieked, moving forward as if to stop me. "No! Stop it! What is wrong with you?"

I pressed the screwdriver into the screw head, twisting with all my might. The first screw groaned, then slowly began to turn. "This door," I grunted, focused on the task, "is the problem."

"The door isn't the problem, you're the problem!" Y/N yelled, her hands flailing. "You're insane! What are you trying to prove?"

The first screw was out. I moved to the middle hinge, then the bottom, Y/N's increasingly frantic protests ringing in my ears. She tried to grab my arm, to push me away, but I held firm, my determination unyielding. Finally, with a final twist and a grunt, the last screw came free. I carefully leaned the heavy door away from the frame, lowering it to the floor with a thud.

"Are you absolutely out of your mind?!" Y/N shrieked, her voice raw with disbelief and fury as the door hit the floor. "What in God’s name did you just do?! You ripped our bedroom door off its hinges because we had a fight?! This is beyond insane, Harry! I can’t even look at you right now!" Her chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears that were quickly overshadowed by burning indignation. The entire apartment felt like it was vibrating with her outrage.

She gestured wildly at the now-empty doorframe, a stark, gaping maw in the wall. "This isn’t fixing anything, Harry! This is… this is destroying things! What kind of person does this? What is wrong with you? I was upset, yes, I was angry, but you just took it to a whole new level of crazy! How am I supposed to feel safe with you when you act like this? This isn’t a misunderstanding; this is an aggressive, destructive outburst!"

Y/N stumbled backward, putting more space between them, her gaze flicking from the dismantled door to Harry’s face, a look of profound disappointment and fear settling in. "I thought we were having an argument, a terrible one, but an argument. I didn’t think you were going to… this! I need a minute. I need to be alone, and clearly, that’s not going to happen with no door! Just… get out. Get out of my sight right now, before I say something I really regret."

Harry watched Y/N retreat further into the bedroom, her words echoing in the sudden, hollow silence of the room. The initial surge of adrenaline that had fueled his destructive act drained away, leaving behind a cold, sickening realization. He looked at the door lying on the floor, then at the empty frame, and finally back at the closed bedroom door, which now, ironically, felt even more impenetrable without its hinges.

The anger he’d felt, hot and righteous moments ago, curdled into a bitter shame. He had been so convinced he was breaking a barrier, but he’d only erected a larger, more frightening one. Y/N's words about safety, about aggression, clawed at him. He hadn't meant to scare her. He hadn't meant to destroy anything. He’d just wanted her to listen. But in his desperation, he’d done the exact opposite of what he intended. He’d pushed her further away.

"Y/N?" he called out, his voice hoarse, a stark contrast to the earlier defiance. He took a hesitant step towards the open doorway. "Please... just let me explain. I didn't... I wasn't trying to scare you. I just wanted you to see that I am listening, that I was frustrated because I feel like we're not connecting."

A muffled sob came from within the room, followed by a sharp, "Just leave me alone, Harry! I don't want to talk about it right now! Just get out!"

He stopped, his heart sinking. "But Y/N, please. I know I messed up. I know this was... I know it was crazy. But I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel unsafe. I just... I was so lost, and I thought if I could just get rid of the door, you'd have to talk to me." He winced at how desperate and pathetic it sounded, even to his own ears. "I'm not insane. I just... I don't know what to do when you shut down like this. I can't stand it."

Another moment of silence, heavier than before, then Y/N’s voice, colder and more resolute. "I said, get out. I need space. I need to process this. And I can't do that with you hovering and... and looking like you just committed a felony. Just go."

Harry finally capitulated, the last vestiges of his desperate energy draining away. He turned from the open doorway, the gaping maw of the frame a silent testament to his colossal error. He walked back to the living room, the discarded door a sprawling accusation on the floor, and sank onto the couch, the cushions offering no comfort. Guilt, cold and sharp, began to gnaw at him, consuming every thought. He’d wanted to break through, to force a connection, and instead, he’d shattered something vital. Y/N’s fear, her outright declaration of feeling unsafe, replayed in his mind, each word a fresh stab.

***

The next few days were a blur of agonizing silence. Harry tried. He sent texts, brief and apologetic, but they went unanswered. He left small, handwritten notes on the kitchen counter, expressing his remorse and his desperate need to talk, but they remained untouched. He made her favorite coffee in the mornings, the aroma filling the apartment, only for Y/N to avoid the kitchen until he'd left for work. Even her presence in the same apartment felt like a crushing weight, the unspoken distance more painful than any shouted argument. Y/N moved through their shared space like a ghost, her eyes avoiding his, her movements precise and deliberate, as if even the slightest acknowledgement of his existence was an intolerable burden. The apartment, once filled with her laughter and easy conversations, was now a monument to their fractured connection, echoing with the sound of Harry’s solitary movements and the deafening silence from the bedroom.

He decided he couldn't stand the silence anymore. This wasn't how they worked. This wasn't them. A new plan began to form in his mind, something tangible, something that spoke louder than words he couldn't seem to get right. He would cook for Y/N. Not just anything, but everything she loved. He would make the apartment feel like home again, filled with warmth and the inviting smells of their shared history.

He spent the entire day meticulously planning, making lists, and then heading to the grocery store with a desperate focus he hadn't felt in days. He bought the ingredients for Y/N's favorite pasta dish – the creamy mushroom and spinach linguine she always ordered from that little Italian place. He picked up fresh berries for a shortcake, knowing how much Y/N adored them, and a bottle of the obscure sparkling cider they only drank on special occasions. He even remembered to get the specific dark chocolate bar she always kept hidden in the pantry. He wanted to fill the space with every comfort, every reminder of the happiness they once shared.

As dusk settled, Harry began to cook. The rhythmic chop of vegetables, the sizzle of garlic in olive oil, the comforting scent of simmering sauce slowly filled the quiet apartment. He moved with a quiet intensity, each action a silent plea, a desperate offering. He set the dining table with their best plates, lit a few candles, and even found the small vase for the single rose he'd bought, placing it carefully in the center. Everything was perfect, a carefully curated scene of apology and hope. He just needed Y/N to come out of the bedroom.

He walked to the bedroom door, or rather, the empty frame where the door used to be, and gently knocked on the wall. "Y/N?" he called out, his voice soft, almost fragile. "Dinner's ready. I made your favorite pasta." He waited, his breath held, listening for any sign of movement, any indication that she might emerge from her self-imposed solitude. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, until he heard a faint rustle, and then, slowly, the creak of the bed.

A moment later, Y/N appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, still a little puffy, flickered from Harry to the set table, then back to him. There was a weariness about her, a quiet exhaustion that twisted his gut. She didn't say anything, just stood there, her presence a fragile truce in the war of her silence. "Please," Harry whispered, gesturing towards the table. "Just... come eat."

After another long moment, Y/N slowly walked towards the dining table, her steps hesitant. She sat down opposite him, her gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight rather than on him. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the delicious aroma of the pasta doing little to dispel the heavy atmosphere. Harry served them both, his hands trembling slightly as he placed the plate in front of Y/N.

"It smells good," Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper, the first words she'd spoken directly to him in days. It wasn't an apology, or forgiveness, but it was a start. Harry felt a small, fragile spark of hope ignite within him. "Thank you," he managed, his own voice hoarse with emotion. He watched as Y/N picked up her fork, twirling a small amount of pasta, but not yet eating.

"I... I really am sorry," Harry said, breaking the strained silence. "For everything. For the door. For making you feel unsafe. I just... I panicked. I didn't know what else to do. I hate it when we're like this." He looked at her, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I know it was wrong. It was insane. But I was so desperate to get through to you."

Y/N finally met his gaze, and for the first time in days, he saw something other than anger or fear. It was still hurt, but also a flicker of something akin to reluctant understanding. "It was," Y/N agreed, her voice still quiet, but firm. "It was terrifying, Harry. And it wasn't fair. But... I hear you. About feeling shut out." She took a small bite of pasta, and the simple act felt like a monumental shift.

"I don't mean to shut you out," Y/N continued, her voice gaining a little strength. "It's just... sometimes, when we fight like that, I get overwhelmed. And I don't know how to articulate what I'm feeling without making it worse. So I retreat. It's a bad habit, I know. But it doesn't mean I don't care, or that I'm trying to punish you." She pushed the pasta around on her plate, avoiding his gaze once more. "I just... I needed to calm down. And after the door... it just made everything so much harder."

Harry reached across the table, his hand hovering uncertainly before gently covering hers. "I understand," he said, his voice raw with relief. "I know I reacted badly. I just... I saw you pull away, and I thought I was losing you. Everything we have, everything we've built, it felt like it was slipping away because I couldn't understand. And I didn't want to lose you, Y/N. Ever." His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a silent promise.

Y/N squeezed his hand, her gaze finally softening as she looked at him. "We're not losing us, Harry," she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips. "We just... we need to learn how to fight better. How to listen to each other, even when it's hard. And maybe," she added, a playful glint in her eyes, "we can start by putting that door back on its hinges." Harry laughed, a genuine, relieved sound that filled the apartment, finally dispelling the heavy silence that had lingered for so long.

"Deal," Harry agreed, his voice thick with emotion, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face. He leaned forward, closing the small distance between them, and Y/N met him halfway. Their lips met in a tender, desperate kiss, a silent promise of mended hearts and a future they would navigate together, one difficult conversation, one act of understanding, and one repaired door at a time. It was a kiss that sealed their reconciliation, a quiet explosion of relief and love.

#unh #one direction #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #fanfic #harry 1d #harry styles fic #1direction #harry styles x reader #harry styles story #harry styles one shot #harry edward styles #harry pov #harry styles angst #one direction fanfiction #onedirection

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wannaeatramyeon · 1 year ago

Text

Johan Seong x Reader: Meeting Mrs. Seong

Requested by a few 🫡 G/N. Fluffy.

"Don't you dare!"

Scowling at Johan, you smack his hand away with a spatula.

He gives you a frown of his own in return, recoiling sharply, nursing the offending hand, acting as if that hit was the worst thing he has ever endured.

It hasn't even turned red, for god's sake.

"It's for your mom," you say, not like it's any surprise to him. You've been perfecting a cake recipe all week, Johan being the happy and compliant guinea pig.

He had moaned, at first, before he was unleashed on all the baked treats. But how could you turn up to see Mrs. Seong with nothing, not even a gift. It's your first time meeting her. What must she think of you if you showed up empty handed?

"She doesn't care," Johan told you, rolling his eyes, crumbs around his mouth after your first batch.

What he doesn't tell you is that she's already over the moon to meet you. To know there's someone else out there looking after her Johan and making him as happy as he sounds on the phone.

Either way, it's the principle of it. You want to make a good first impression. "I care."

"Mrs Seong!" You greet Johan's mom with a wide smile and a bow.

"Y/N, it's so nice to finally meet you. Johan has been talking about you nonstop."

Her arms encircle you in a tight hug.

Over her shoulder you give Johan a funny look. You thought they had only started to talk again recently, how much have they actually talked - and about you?

Blood already rushing to his cheeks, he refuses to meet your eyes. Chooses to squat down, cake tin in one hand and fuss over Eden and Miro which tells you enough.

"All good I hope!"

"Of course. I've never heard my boy so serious about anything. The other day, he said the sweetest thing about you-"

Johan springs up, eyes blown wide in panic. How could she snitch on him, embarrass him like this.

"MOM-"

The pups, sensing their owners distress start barking.

"Ignore them," you give a sweet smile to Mrs. Seong, one hand latched onto Johan's arm and holding him firmly in place and other slapped to his mouth, muffling his complaints. "I want to hear all about it."

#lookism #lookism x reader #lookism webtoon #lookism manhwa #johan seong #johan seong x reader #seong yohan #lookism fic #wannaeatramyeon

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holdinbacksecrets · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! Can you please write BTS version of the voicemails they will send hinting their feelings? Thank you 😊

thank you for requesting 🖤

voicemails from bts, hinting feelings

namjoon: “i was in a bookstore the other day and started to imagine a book you wrote being on the shelves someday. everything you do, down to the indentation of your steps, leaves behind a story. do you remember your birthday two years ago? you drank one glass too many, and it’s like the fiction unleashed. i recorded a voice memo, but i never played it for you. i want to.”

jin: “are you scared? this morning you sounded really scared on the phone. i’m sorry i didn’t say more or say enough. i was caught off guard because you’ve never showed me scared before, not like that. i’ve seen your apprehension. i’ve seen your insecure. i’ve seen your anxiety, but this was consuming fear. i’m making dinner, and i feel like you probably haven’t eaten today… if your anxiety gives anything away about your scared. come over when you’re off. i’ll greet you with a hug and bowl of soup. or two bowls. i have cheese and bread too. the good bread. the loaf you turned me on to.”

yoongi: “you used the notes app on my phone to write out your grocery list, and i’m amused. it sounds like you’re having a conversation with yourself: right now, i want rice crispies, but i’ll probably change my mind once i’m in the cereal aisle. trust your gut, or get two boxes. you’re 26. no one is stopping you. oh! get some apple juice too. i keep having dreams about twelve year old me at a friend’s house. we’d sit at the kitchen island after school with graham crackers and apple juice, and i miss her. i miss those simple conversations. you’re so pure and magnetic. sometimes i wonder where you came from, but then i’m just glad you made it here—tumbled into my life because you did tumble. you’ve always made the story sound too elegant. the tumble was charming, i promise.”

hoseok: “you’ve been sharing recipes with me, or i guess i should say the final product of your recipes has been shared with me, repeatedly, and now i’m starting to wait for the knock on my door or the ring of a text. is that bad? i wouldn’t want you to ever think i’m demanding treats, but i love… i love the time we spend together when you bring them over, and your eyes sparkle when my expression changes because of how good everything always tastes… i love that too.”

jimin: “did you say everything you needed to yesterday? i swear your lips parted and you leaned in so many times to never say anything. i know it was a busy place, and it’s not that fun sitting at a table for twelve. but i was ready to listen. i’ll be ready at 2 am too. whatever you need. there’s something to this, right? to the ease of our conversations. you trust me?”

taehyung: “do you want to sculpt clay with me? i bought a whole bag and a bunch of tools. i thought about booking a private lesson, but i wanted my record player and access to a kitchen and the ability to get my hands dirty whenever i want to—need it. do you need it too? if not, keep me company while i try to make something?”

jungkook: “can i pick you up today? this is going to sound ridiculous, but your smell used to linger in my car, and i can’t quite make out the notes of your perfume anymore. i can imagine them, but they don’t meet me when i open the door… i can’t leave this as a voicemail on your phone. can i leave this as a voicemail on your phone? i sound insane.”

bonus: “i’m calling to tell you i’m proud of you. sometimes when we were kids, i used to think our dreams wouldn’t make it higher than the trees. i thought they’d get caught in the leaves, die on branches come winter, but look at us. look at you. you’re incredible. we did it.”

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gothybat · 7 months ago

Text

DR Ideas

Want some DR ideas that you should try? You’ve stumbled upon the right post.

Hairstyling DR! Haven’t you wanted to try a new fun haircut, colour or style but too scared to actually do it? Well the DR speaks for itself. Perfect right?

Infinite Closet DR! Need a new style? Having a DR where you have so many clothes and able to try whatever style you want to? Basically everyone’s dream!

Makeup DR! Want to try something new? Having all the makeup in the world with a really big mirror with good lighting can unleash your inner MUA!

Cooking/Food DR! Have you ever wanted to try some food or even make some? How about this DR where you can use a big recipe book or even just watch a video and try to make whatever you want! Or… eat whatever you want!

Study Space DR! Want to study something but life at home is much to stressful? Using this DR will help you study for your finals! Obviously you can’t use this DR for homework but… exam review? Of course you can!

Relaxing DR! Life can feel hectic. Take the time to relax and chill out!

Classroom DR! Do you need to relive a lecture? Relearn something? Well… I’m sure this DR speaks for itself.

Concert DR! Who wouldn’t want to listen to there favourite artist?

Pumpkin Carving DR! Wouldn’t it be fun?

____ Class DR! Don’t you want to learn a new skill? Learn how to dance, sing, act, or even play an instrument!

Language Learning DR! I can’t guarantee you will learn everything perfectly but.. why not try!

Different House DR! This can be a really easy DR to shift to!

Work DR! Want to try a different job? See what it would be like? Shift in with all the knowledge you need and try it out! Be SAFE.

Travel DR! Want to travel to somewhere new? Well here’s your opportunity!

Thanks for sticking around this long! I hope you try some of these DRs that I thought of instead of listening in my class.

Much love,

Anastasia

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marsbutterfly · 1 year ago

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..cowboy hanji

that’s it

Headcanons: Cowboy! Hanji Zoe

a/n: BITCH. YOU UNLEASHED A MONSTER.

warnings: nonbinary! hanji zoe, fem! reader, fluff, they do throw up at the end so idk sjfaopfa be aware of that. also, this is lowkey inspired by stardew valley and i didn't beta read, we die like men

/ cowboy! hanji has always been the town's favorite. they are known for their little quirks, such as taking in every stray animal they find in the desert and nursing them back to health, or mixing drinks down at the saloon while no one was looking and daring their friends to drink it. It never ended too well.

/ cowboy! hanji is oblivious to the fact that every girl in town has a crush on them. like, it's pretty bad actually. they keep getting "not so secret" messages from girls they've just met, saying how they are "soooooo smart, and kind, and have the most beautiful smile." they think they are just being nice.

/ cowboy! hanji never believed in love at first sight until you moved into town. you were moving in to take over your grandfather's old farm after spending most of your life traveling around and collecting all the knowledge you needed to make things work.

/ cowboy! hanji didn't know someone new was moving in, so when the mayor introduced the two of you, they immediately turned into a blushing mess, unable to even form a single coherent sentence. but when you giggled at their antics, they knew they were fucked.

/ cowboy! hanji immediately offered to be your tour guide, they were so excited to have someone new to talk to about the different kinds of vegetations and you had more knowledge than anyone they had ever been around. oh, all the information they could learn from someone like you.

/ cowboy! hanji who always stops by your farm with new books regarding the town's history, dishes they learned to cook during their childhood and their designated recipes. they always do their best to come early in the day to help you care for your crops, or take care of your animals, even help you take stuff into town to set up your stall at the market. they don't mind the temperature and seeing how happy it makes you, just makes it all worth it for them.

/ cowboy! hanji has a thick, velvet laced southern accent. it's a little stronger than anyone else's and, at first, you do have some trouble understanding them. but the more time the two of you spend together, talking the night away over a bottle of aged whiskey, the more you understand them. not only the way they talk, but also the way they think.

/ cowboy! hanji who carries around two guns and three knives. if there is one thing about them is that they refuse to be underprepared for any kind of danger, even more so now that you have come into their life and they found something that they want so desperately to protect.

/ cowboy! hanji who never saw themselves falling in love with anyone, but can't seem to get you off their mind for a single second. the simple idea of seeing you later in the day makes their heart race and they clutch their hat every single time.

/ cowboy! hanji who sees you and tips their hat at you. a simple sign of respect that always earns an honest and gentle giggle out of you because the two of you have been close for a few months at this point.

/ cowboy! hanji who can tie any knots and lasso literally anything that moves. the first time one of your cows escaped, you tried your best to get it under control yourself, but your talents involved plants and crops and the mere idea of lassoing anything caused a small wave of panic to wash over you. luckily for you, hanji was right on time for their morning help with the chores and, as soon as they saw the runaway cow, they chased after the animal and lassoed it with such ease that you can feel your face burning with embarrassment. you repaid them with fresh lemonade and a pie.

/ cowboy! hanji who always considered themselves to be straight forward but can never get a single word about their feelings out when it comes to you. their entire face turns bright red and their brain stops functioning the minute they see you smile. it's their biggest weakness.

/ cowboy! hanji who invites you to the town's festival one day, explaining how it's a massive tradition and how everyone would be there. you ask if you should bring something or maybe set up a stall and they shake their head, saying they'll take care of everything and you should just save up the most delicious looking veggies and fruits you've harvested so far.

/ cowboy! hanji who pays a group of teenagers to take care of your stall at the festival so the two of you can have some fun. it's a thoughtful gesture and you insist on paying them back, but they deny it immediately. the two of you go back and forth for a while until they decide that the only way you can repay them is for you to be their arm candy for the night.

/ cowboy! hanji who refuses to let you pay for any food or any of the games around the festival. they get you to try their favorites and the two of you continuously have eating competitions or seeing who is going to win more prizes by the end of the night or who will be the ultimate hero.

/ cowboy! hanji whose eyes immediately glow when they notice the mechanical bull at the town's square. the mischievous glint never fading as they look at you, only to realize you share the same look in your eyes. no words are needed for the two of you to understand each other, running to place your prizes behind your stall and making your way towards the line.

/ cowboy! hanji who gives up so easily when you flash them those big, puppy dog eyes and they agree to go first. they're experienced, more so than most people, so it's not easy to knock them down. as you count, it takes nearly a minute to get them off the back of the fake animal and you set it off as a personal vendetta to beat their record.

/ cowboy! hanji whose lips can't seem to close the longer you stand on the back of the mechanical bull. a minute passes, then thirty more seconds, hell you are nearly at two minutes by the time your arms give up and you allow yourself to fall from the machine. all you can hear are the roars of the town's people celebrating around you.

/ cowboy! hanji whose screams are louder than anyone else's as they celebrate your victory. they scoop you up in their arm, placing your ass on their shoulder as they continue to pump their hand in the air while the other holds you in place. they don't even notice, but they've been chanting the words "that's MY girl!" over and over and over again.

/ cowboy! hanji who finally places you down as the two of you begin to make your way back home, all your items already packed. as you stand at the edge of the festival, a few people still dancing around and eating, you stand in front of them, your eyes glistening under the hanging lights and the moon. with their free hand, hanji brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, their breath trembling slightly as they finally find the courage to ask "can i kiss you?"

/ cowboy! hanji whose cheeks turn bright red and their breathing hitches in their throat as you nod. their lips gently brushing above yours as you melt into their touch. it's a gentle kiss, the roughness of their hands on your waist contrasting directly with the softness of their lips, the taste of the candy apple the two of you shared earlier in the evening still present in their tongue as it wraps around yours. you can't help but hum against their mouth, your hands gently cupping their cheeks as you carefully nibble at their lower lip.

/ cowboy! hanji whose heart has connected with yours the minute they saw you for the first time. their forehead touching yours as the two of you stand in a comfortable silence for a little while, it doesn't last long. the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds before running off towards the nearest trash cans. the combination between the excitement of the kiss, the mechanical bull ride and all the junk food finally catching up to the two of you.

/ cowboy! hanji who holds your hand as the two of you get sick together in the trash cans behind city hall.

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