#and maybe with a side of orange tea

[icewindandboringhorror]

What would you choose? :0c

(note: original image is from HERE (link) - but I edited it to add a wider variety of options.. also added $3 extra to the total, even though I know that makes it more uneven lol, I thought if you're adding 10 whole extra items, the money to spend should at least be increased slightly, if that makes sense..)

[miss-floral-thief]

Bro got rice roni? Seems a bit odd to buy it in a pack

[stargirlygirl]

out your nose

zayne x fem!reader

summary: zayne's had a tough day at work, so you try to make him feel better (it doesn't go so well)

contains: nsfw, oral sex (m!receiving), his cum squirts out of your nose, zayne cleans you up, 2.6k words

You’re stirring tonight’s soup in a large pot over the stove when the front door clanks open. In walks Zayne, still clad in his white coat and wearing his usual stoic expression. After setting his things down, he creeps up behind you and encircles his muscular arms around your waist.

You raise a spoonful of soup to his lips, giggling, “Here, have a taste. Is it too salty or?” He slurps the hot soup, a little furrow in his brow as he concentrates on the flavour profile. Lowering the wooden spoon and continuing to swirl the orange, creamy mixture, you hum the song that’s been stuck in your head all day.

He finally murmurs, “It tastes good. Pumpkin?”

You nod, “And butternut squash.”

“Mhmm.” He pecks your cheek.

“What do you need me to do?” He asks. You chuckle as you set the spoon down on the bench.

Twirling around, you wrap your arms around his neck and grin, “Nothing. I’ve got it all under control, baby. Why don’t you go get changed and relax?” His lips pout ever so slightly, seemingly not satisfied with your answer.

Your boyfriend counters, “How about I set the table?”

You chortle softly, “Okay.” With one last kiss, he leaves you to handle dinner while grabbing out bowls and spoons. You continue humming mindlessly as you try the soup and conclude it’s finished. Observant as always, Zayne places the two bowls next to the stove.

“Let me,” he says quietly. You step out of the way as he hoists up the pot and fills the bowls with your soup. As he does so, you open the oven door and pull out the bread you baked earlier. Already sliced and warm, you transfer the loaf to a plate and set it down in the middle of the island bench. Zayne puts the half-full pot down with a clank on the stove before shuffling the bowls near the bread.

After adding the finishing touches, you two sit down and eat dinner together. He listens to you ramble about your day, chiming in with questions every so often, so you know that he’s still listening. But when you ask him about his day, he shrugs while taking a bite of your delicious spelt bread.

“Busy?” You ask. He nods, not offering up anything else even after he swallows. Must have been a tough day, you think.

Zayne helps you clean up once you’ve both finished. He washes the dishes while you pack away leftovers, and he dries plates as you dry cutlery.

Seeing the slump in his shoulders, you take the last plate from him and order, “Go sit on the couch, maybe put a movie on. I’ll finish up here.”

He stares at you blankly before retorting, “I appreciate your concern, dear. But I’m fine—”

“I wasn’t asking,” you cut him off. He sighs, holding your eyes for a few moments before backing down.

“Alright. I’ll brew tea,” he mumbles.

By the time you plop down on the sofa, he’s shed his tie and loosened the top buttons of his white dress shirt. You thank him as he hands you a steaming mug of tea.

Giving it a whiff, you say curiously, “Jasmine?” He nods. You curl into his side, his arm firm around your shoulders as some rom-com plays. Taking a sip of your tea, you sigh in pleasure.

“It’s just tea,” he grumbles.

You say it like it’s obvious, “Yeah, but you made it.” Zayne can’t fight the micro-smile that curls the corners of his lips.

Halfway through the movie, you’re restless. You’ve been sitting for too long, you finished your yummy beverage 20 minutes ago, and you’ve thought of the perfect way to cheer up your grumpy boyfriend.

Standing under the pretence of stretching, you lift your arms overhead. Your crop top rises, showing off your tummy. Zayne gazes back at the screen, trying to focus on the film as you tilt to the side, revealing even more of your belly.

He’s so weak for your tummy. He loves how soft it is, especially the little stretch marks painting your hip bones. One time, he called them tiger stripes, and you just stared at him blankly, both offended and flattered at the same time. He was worried you didn’t like that nickname for them, but you reassured him otherwise with soft kisses and murmurs.

“Oh, Zaynie,” you coo, finally resting your arms down by your sides as you stalk over to him. You stand in front of him, blocking his view of the tv.

He mumbles, “Yes, dear.” You lean forward, cupping his cheeks with your hands. His hazel eyes widen, staring at you like a scared kitten as you tilt his head from side to side.

Closing the distance between you, your lips seal over his. His hands grip your wrists and slide down your arms till they caress your back. He pulls you onto his lap, your shins against his thighs, and your ass on your heels as you smooch. You can taste your dinner wrapped up in jasmine on his tongue, but you don’t care.

You grip his collar, tugging him back to your lips after he dared to break your kiss.

Air is for the weak.

You remind him of that as you kiss him harder. You nip his bottom lip, making him shudder and moan. He grips the hem of your shirt, cool fingers digging into your flesh as you suck on his tongue.

Separating, a string of spit connects your lips. You smirk, the glimmering saliva snapping as you rest your forehead against Zayne’s. Heat simmers beneath your skin, your face slightly red as you pant. Your breath becomes his, and you notice the pink dotting his under eyes.

Letting go of his shirt, your hands slide to rest over his heart. He does the same, keeping one hand on your waist while his other hand comes to your heart. They beat in sync, rapidly.

You exhale, “Zayne, let me take care of you. Please.”

He murmurs, “What did you have in mind, darling?”

“I’ll show you,” you smirk. Your nimble fingers work at the rest of his buttons until his chest is bare. You yank his shirt off and discard it on the floor.

Feeling his sculpted chest beneath your palms, you whisper seductively, “Relax, I’ve got you.” He breathes out, his chest falling as he nuzzles your hairline with his nose. You gently pinch his nipples, making him groan in your ear.

Rolling the sensitive peaks between your fingers, you sloppily kiss a trail down his neck to his collarbone. You nip at his pale skin, his barely contained whimpers heading straight to your core.

Sliding your hands down lower, you unbuckle Zayne’s belt and work at the zipper of his trousers. His inhale catches, his heart stammering as your fingertips brush over his bulge. You giggle, gazing up at him with dreamy eyes as you stroke his hard cock through his boxers.

Pecking his jaw, you stand up and tug his dress pants and underwear down to his ankles (with his help, of course). He hisses at the cool air ghosting his erection as you lower yourself to your knees, sitting prettily between his legs.

You grab his length and take the tip between your lips. Drooling all over it, you pull back and coat his length in your saliva with your fingers. You lick the vein popping out on the underside, right up the head of his cock before sucking it back into your mouth. So hot and slippery, he moans and breathes heavily as you start bobbing your head. One of your hands cradle his spit-soaked balls while the other jerks the base of his cock.

Arousal pools in your panties, ruining them for sure as you push his cock to the back of your throat. Such elicits a guttural moan from your usually composed boyfriend. Your nose brushes his neatly trimmed pubes as you do your best not to gag on his cock.

Pulling off it, you stare up at him with swollen lips stretched into a sweet grin. He sighs as he pats your crown soothingly with his veiny hand.

Zayne tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, contradicting the dishevelled mess atop his head, strands falling in his eyes and distorting his vision. Tenderly gripping your nape, he guides you back to his dick. His tip prods at your lips as you giggle.

And when you draw him back into your mouth, your boyfriend groans, “Can I?” You moan around his length, your eyes urging him on. He slowly pushes your head down on his cock until his tip kisses your throat again. You feel his fingers twitch on the back of your neck, itching to fuck your face as he reminds himself to be a gentleman. He grabs the other side of your head with his free hand, easing you up and down on his dick.

Zayne’s precum dribbles all over your tongue. But he doesn’t give you the chance to swallow it as his balls hit your chin. The wet sucking noises blur out the movie still playing, and the warm lighting illuminates your beauty in this position. So submissive and eager to please. More pre spews into your mouth as your boyfriend attempts to not cum. But he’s fighting a losing battle.

As you gag around his hard length, tears swelling your eyes, he can’t hold it back anymore. His cum shoots in ropes down your throat, scolding hot and thick. You gag, hands squeezing his thighs as you choke on his cream.

And unfortunately, your lover doesn’t notice. He’s moaning so fucking loud, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull as his hips buck. Every whine you make only intensifies his orgasm, his fingers tightening in your hair.

His release burns your throat. It rises up the back of your nose, searing all of your nerves like molten metal.

At last, Zayne’s grasp loosens and you pull off his cock faster than ever before. Hunching over, you launch into a coughing fit as his cum drips out of your nostrils. You stare down at your cum covered hands with cloudy eyes, your tears and his seed trickling onto your palms.

Your boyfriend comes around, gazing down at you with that small knot in his brow, perplexed as to why you’re coughing.

“Honey,” he rasps. You rise to your feet, stumbling as you beeline for the box of tissues next to the tv. And of course, you drop the fucking box in your haste. Bending down, more semen runs down your philtrum and lips. You pluck out a few tissues and blow your nose.

“Love, what’s wrong?” Zayne asks, confused, as he hastily pulls up his pants and comes over to you. You turn around, not wanting him to see you like this, but he’s not having any of it. As you wipe your nose, he catches a glimpse of the off-white fluid soaking the tissue. He draws a sharp breath in, bright eyes flicking between your leaking nose and the tissue.

“Fuck,” he curses lowly. He grabs your shoulders as you enter the second round of your coughing fit.

Handing you fresh tissues, he instructs clinically, “Alright. Cough it up. Blow it out. Good girl. Keep going until it feels clear at the back of your throat.” You obey, coughing and blowing your nose until his cum dwindles. All that’s left behind is—

“It burns,” you mumble through tears.

Zayne rubs your back as he murmurs, “Yes, semen can irritate the mucus membranes. Your nose is also very sensitive. Having other fluids in your nose, such as semen, which is comparatively colder than the internal temperature of your nose, can cause discomfort and a burning sensation as the cells balance out the components of the substance.” You nod, feeling exhausted as you sniffle painfully.

Your boyfriend continues, “I’m going to make you a saline solution and flush out your nose. As I do so, why don’t you get in the shower? Do you want me to start it for you?” You nod again, poutily. He draws you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom.

Setting you down, he undresses you and gets the water running before leading you into the shower. It’s nice and toasty, the steam soothing your stuffy nose. He kisses your forehead lovingly before heading to the kitchen.

Returning with a squeeze bottle in hand, he positions you out of the water’s trajectory.

“Now, tilt your head to one side.” You follow his instruction, tilting your head. He gently cups your cheek as he raises the bottle to your nose.

“I’m going to squeeze the saline solution into one nostril, and it will drip out the other. Breathe through your mouth, alright?” You hum in agreement, closing your eyes as the long tip of the bottle prods at your upper nostril. The cold fluid slowly fills the space there, mildly uncomfortable as you feel it drizzle out the other side. You breathe steadily through your mouth, your heartbeat in your ears, until Zayne stops and pulls the bottle out.

He tilts your head to the other side while explaining, “Now, I’m going to repeat the same on the other side.”

As he squeezes the rest of the solution into your nose, he praises you, “You’re doing well. Just a little more.” Drawing the bottle out, he pecks your brow and hops out of the shower.

When he comes back, he’s as bare as you are. Embracing you, he rests his chin on the top of your head as you press your chest firmly against his.

He murmurs, “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t realise you were uncomfortable.”

You mumble into his pec, “It’s okay. I’m okay.” Zayne pulls back and brushes your hair out of your face.

He shakes his head, “No, it’s not okay. You got hurt because of my negligence—”

“Zayne—”

“I’ll be more attentive to you next time. I promise, love.” He plants a firm kiss on your lips, containing the anger he holds toward himself right now. Your noses brush as he breaks the kiss.

His breath intermingles with yours as you sigh, “I feel much better now, thanks to you, doc.”

“I’m glad,” he mumbles. Zayne washes your body with precision, his movements controlled as he rinses the soap off your delicate skin. You insist on helping him wash, too, but he refuses.

You grab his jaw, forcing him to face you as you say sternly, “I know you feel guilty, but I love you.” He exhales, pecking your lips before rubbing body wash all over his toned arms.

“And besides,” you continue. “It’s kinda funny when you think about it.”

“Funny?” He grits out.

“That was anything but funny, dear.” You playfully shove him by the shoulder, but he doesn’t even budge.

“Oh, come on!” You whine. “Don’t be such a Negative Nancy. No harm, no foul, I’m fine.” Even as your boyfriend washes and dries your hair, soothes moisturiser and body oil into your skin, helps you into a fresh set of pjs, and tucks you into bed, he doesn’t relax. You can see the tightness between his shoulder blades, and his touches are so fleeting.

Patting the space next to you, you ask sweetly, “Sleep with me?” He shakes his head and kisses you tenderly, an unspoken apology as he switches the light off and closes the door behind him. You huff, confident that he’ll come around eventually, but still feeling deflated because you don’t get to sleep in his arms tonight.

more embarrassing/gone wrong sex moments:

sylus puts you in a nelson and ends up in hospital choking gone wrong with caleb xavier falls asleep while eating you out you get stuck in the sink as you and rafayel get it on

gone wrong m.list

[buckysouvenir]

i'm not sick You weren’t going to let a stupid cold defeat you in front of Bucky freaking Barnes.

You weren’t sick.

No matter what Bucky Barnes said — no matter how smugly he leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and a knowing look in his stupidly handsome face — you were not sick.

You cleared your throat (quietly, strategically), rolled your shoulders, and tightened the sleeves of your hoodie. “I’m fine.”

“You sound like a broken air conditioner,” he said, biting back a smirk. “One of those ones in a cheap motel.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means,” Bucky said, pushing off the counter and walking toward you with that annoyingly smooth super soldier stride, “you’re wheezing. And sniffling. And doing that thing where your eyes look too shiny, like a cartoon character about to cry.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not wheezing.”

“You are wheezing.”

You turned your back on him and made your way to the living room, grabbing the stack of mission reports Fury wanted reviewed and flopping onto the couch. You were fine. You could do this. You weren’t going to let a stupid cold defeat you in front of Bucky freaking Barnes.

Especially when he never — never — got sick.

Not once since you’d known him. Not a sneeze, not a sniffle, not even a yawn from exhaustion. Super soldier serum, enhanced immune system, annoyingly superior biology — he was basically a walking health commercial.

So no, you refused to show weakness. Even as your head pounded, your throat scratched like sandpaper, and your body screamed for a blanket and twelve hours of sleep.

You were fine.

You were not fine.

You were in fact, so not fine, that the moment you tried to sit up too fast from the couch, the world tipped sideways.

And Bucky caught you. Instinctively. Like he always did.

“Whoa, whoa— hey.” His hands settled on your shoulders, steadying you. “Alright, that’s it.”

“I’m—” You paused to cough into your elbow. “I’m fine.”

His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Sweetheart, you just blacked out for a second while holding a paperclip. You looked at it like it insulted your family.”

“Okay,” you croaked. “Maybe I’m a little sick.”

He didn’t say I told you so.

But he did smile like he wanted to.

Bucky didn’t leave your side after that.

He tucked you into bed (and you were too tired to argue, which he clearly took as a victory). He brought you every cold remedy known to man — and a few you suspected were just old Brooklyn traditions, like warm ginger ale and saltines.

He came in with soup — twice.

“Second one has real chicken in it,” he said, placing the bowl beside you. “Not the weird freeze-dried cubes from the first one. I upgraded.”

“Fancy,” you whispered, voice wrecked and scratchy.

He returned with orange juice and a whole bottle of vitamin C gummies.

“You’re supposed to take two a day,” you warned weakly.

“I’m not letting you die from a cold, Y/N,” he said seriously. “I’ll overdose you on vitamins if I have to.”

He even brought flowers.

“You bought me flowers?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Don’t get too excited. They were next to the NyQuil.”

And chocolate.

“You’re bribing me.”

“Yes. So stop looking like you’re going to cry and eat the damn truffle.”

But what really got you — what really made your heart ache — were the kisses.

Soft kisses to your temple when he brought in tea. A gentle brush of lips over your hair when you fell asleep mid-sentence. Little pecks at your forehead while he adjusted your blanket. Sometimes, even kisses on your warm, slightly runny nose, just to make you laugh.

“Bucky,” you croaked once, laughing despite how awful you felt, “you’re gonna catch this.”

He just smirked, leaned in, and kissed you anyway, square on the mouth. “I don’t get sick.”

You blinked at him. “You just kissed me while I have a fever.”

He kissed you again. “Worth it.”

Over the next few days, you faded in and out of sleep while Bucky floated in and out of your room. You felt him brush your hair back, hold your hand, rub your back when you couldn’t stop coughing. Once, you woke up with your head on his chest, his hand gently stroking your arm, slow and steady. You didn’t move. You just melted into it.

There were more kisses. Lazy ones. Sleepy ones. Fevered ones, mostly on your cheek or temple — until you felt a little better and pulled him in for a proper one.

“See?” he whispered against your lips. “Told you I’m indestructible.”

You snorted. “Arrogant.”

“You like it.”

You kinda did.

The quiet, careful Bucky.

Something about the way he stayed — about the way he looked at you like you weren’t a burden — made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your cold.

Once, you woke to find him dozing at your side, head tilted back against your headboard, his hand still holding yours where it rested on the blanket.

You didn’t let go.

By day five, you were better. Not perfect, but walking upright, able to speak without croaking, and your skin had lost that lovely shade of “slightly dead.”

You found him in the kitchen that morning, making coffee.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, handing you a mug.

You blinked down at it, then up at him. “Guess I lived.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you sip. “Barely. You gave that tissue box a run for its money.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

He tilted his head, voice softer. “Always.”

Maybe it was the warmth in his voice. Maybe it was the way he said always like he meant it — like he’d already decided that looking after you was just part of his life now.

Or maybe it was the fact that his hand found the curve of your waist without thinking, that he pulled you just a little closer, his fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie to touch skin as if checking for fever.

Whatever it was — it made you rise up on your toes.

And kiss him.

Just a soft one — a quiet brush of lips, no pressure behind it. But when you pulled back, Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded, like he was the one feverish now.

Later that day, you were curled up on the couch under a blanket, finally reading through the reports you’d abandoned mid-fever, when you heard it:

A sneeze.

From the kitchen.

You froze.

Then slowly turned your head.

Bucky stood there, staring at the counter. His nose scrunched, eyes wide like he was trying to process the betrayal of his own immune system.

“…did you just sneeze?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.

He blinked. “No.”

“Oh my God.” You sat up slowly, eyes gleaming. “You did.”

He scowled. “It was probably dust.”

You stood, walking toward him with a grin that threatened to split your face in two. “You’re getting sick.”

“I’m not—”

“You caught my cold.” You gasped, delighted. “The super soldier has fallen.”

“I don’t get sick.”

“You do now.” You poked his arm. “This is the best day of my life.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest — and sneezed again.

You nearly fell off the couch laughing. “Bucky.”

He groaned, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve listened to you. Should’ve stopped kissing you.”

You grinned and walked up to him, arms slipping around his waist. “You couldn’t help yourself.”

“Apparently not.”

You stood on your toes, kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll take excellent care of you.”

He eyed you warily. “You’re going to make me soup, aren’t you?”

“With real chicken,” you said proudly, hugging him tighter and pressing another kiss to his jaw. “And I’ll even bring you flowers. But only if you admit I’m your favorite nurse.”

He sighed dramatically. “You’re not even certified.”

“You didn’t care when you were kissing me all over my fevered face.”

He leaned in, nose bumping yours. “Touché.”

And when he sneezed again — a big, dramatic one — you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the tissues you were about to hand him.

But you caught him this time.

Wrapped him up in a blanket.

And whispered against his hair, “Told you I was contagious.”

[talesofesther]

best kept secret

➥ Yelena Belova x Reader/fem!OC

Summary: Yelena had chosen to keep what she feels for you a secret. Feelings were dangerous, after all. But maybe walking into the void could make her see things differently.

A/N: This is a very random little idea that I wrote in under an hour loll. It's not masterfully elaborated, but it's cute! Set during Thunderbolts, so expect some spoilers ahead.

Word count: 1,5k

Masterlist

"Why don't you ask her for something different?" You took a sip from your iced coffee, head resting on one palm. "A change of scenery?"

Yelena hummed. She had her eyes cast down, holding a staring contest with her coffee. She hadn't taken a single sip yet. "Valentina is not exactly malleable." She shrugged; there was a tiredness to her that had been there a while.

The night would settle in soon enough; the sky was already a darker shade of blue and orange. The air was fresh, though, that's why you had decided to sit together at the tables outside, instead of inside the little café.

Yelena's hair, still wet from a fresh shower, was combed back and framed her face prettily. She wore a dark grey hoodie and a silver chain around her neck. Her eyes reflected the last rays of sun. She was the most beautiful woman you had ever known.

Yelena had lost contact with all the Widows she set free from mind control. All, except you. She kept you close, she called time and time again to check on you.

You were the only one whom she sought out at night, when her knuckles were bloody and her lips tasted of sin. You kissed it all away. You were the one she'd hold close and press her mouth against with no words necessary.

You were the one no one knew about, the one who she'd deny being hers if anyone asked.

You were the one she couldn't let go of. And the one she'd never admit having.

"Try anyway?" You hoped, leaning down to try and find her gaze. Genuine worry for her hid behind the sweetness of your voice.

One side of Yelena's mouth quirked up. If you looked closely, you'd see her cheeks turning a soft pink. She wasn't used to having someone around, perhaps that's why you sometimes missed her, even when she was right in front of you.

Yelena reached over the table, all timid and reluctant. Her fingers brushed over your knuckles in a silent request for closeness.

It was all she'd give you out here in the streets, under so many watchful eyes. You could only love her in secret—safer that way, or so she'd say.

You turned your hand over, welcoming her touch when she tangled her fingers with yours. There were new scars on Yelena's hands. You made a mental note to kiss them later.

Yelena squeezed your hand. "Can I see you later?" She always asked. Her brows would always tilt up a little with the vulnerability she tried to hide. You could almost hear how she held her breath while you held the silence.

Yelena still feared the day you'd tell her no. The day you'd walk away, too.

You took hold of the spoon resting on Yelena's forgotten coffee. You stirred it lazily, each swirl clinking against the mug's porcelain.

Yelena glanced down, finally took the mug, and brought it to her lips. You smiled; "You better."

—⧗—

The clock read 12:36 a.m. when Yelena knocked on your apartment door.

She felt her heart skip a beat upon hearing your soft steps come to her. Yelena bit the inside of her cheek and wondered if the anticipation would ever go away. Part of her hoped it wouldn't.

When you opened the door for her, a sigh she'd been holding since leaving her father's house fell past her lips. Yelena knew the dangers of getting attached, but every time she tried telling herself it would be the last time, her throat closed up tight, and her fingers shook.

An empty cup of tea was on top of your coffee table, and the only light came from the kitchen adjacent to your living room. There was a wildlife documentary on, serving as background noise. And a fluffy blanket over the couch.

You'd been waiting for her.

Maybe it was unfair. Because Yelena would come back to you tasting of heartache and all the sins that wouldn't let her sleep at night, and still you'd kiss her, and hold her, and look at her as if she's someone worth looking at.

Yelena's hands were dripping with so much blood, but you held them anyway. And you pulled her in and you pressed your lips to each one of her scars, even the ones you couldn't see.

Yelena held onto your waist, falling forward like she had many times before. Her upper lip brushed yours. Yelena couldn't get enough of you.

"I called her," she breathed against you, Russian accent heavy on the syllables, "Just one more job and I'm done." Yelena's hands sneaked under your pajama shirt. She felt your goosebumps. She shivered at the thought of being the one to cause it.

You smiled into the kiss, hands buried in her short hair. You felt giddy at her consideration of what you'd said.

Yelena mimicked your smile with one of her own. She breathed you in. When you held her, she was free of all her sins.

Yelena loved you. She'd never tell you. You were her best kept secret.

—⧗—

New Yorkers were almost used to seeing disasters and superhumans wreak havoc in their city. You would have kept your distance from the chaos, but the city had been engulfed in a black void, and Yelena was at the heart of it.

You'd run to the eye of the storm, with fear sinking in your stomach and your heart beating at the rhythm of her name. There were fires to one side of you and rubble to the other. The smoke in your lungs made it difficult to breathe, but you needed to find her.

When you did, you caught the tail end of Valentina's speech about the new Avengers.

You stood among the crowd of civilians, rising on tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of who was at the front of the commotion.

Yelena froze when her gaze landed on you. Her eyes widened, and she took a step forward as if going to your side was second nature.

And you, you felt tears pooling in your eyes as soon as you finally caught sight of her. Dirty skin, bloody lip, torn clothes—but alive, and with the prettiest green eyes, finding you amidst so many people.

As soon as Valentina finished her speech, Yelena rushed forward without a second thought, pushing her way through the crowd. Reporters called out her name, and civilians tried to thank her for saving their lives. Yelena ignored them all, she kept walking, and then running towards you.

You met her in the middle, falling into a bone-crushing hug with the same kind of desperation and relief.

Yelena's arms closed tightly around your waist, her hands roamed over your back, trying to convince herself you were real. Her head fell to your shoulder, nuzzling there. You did the exact same, hands bunching up the fabric of her suit.

She smelled like smoke, blood, and sweat. But still had the same soft warmth you knew so well. Your lips found the space just under Yelena's ear, you placed a kiss there. It was gratitude for her coming back to you and a plea that she'd never leave again.

"What are you doing here? Are you okay?" Yelena's voice broke in the middle, out of relief, or something deeper.

You pulled away only to look her in the eyes, feeling the taste of tears on your lips. "Me? What about you? I was so worried, Lena."

A chuckle escaped her then, all shaky and happy. Her own tears left a clear path down the dust on her cheeks. "I'm okay. I'm okay now."

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Yelena's new teammates throwing very curious glances your way. An older man in red seemed especially excited, and the one you knew to be Bucky Barnes had to hold him back from running in your direction.

Part of you almost instinctively felt compelled to let go of Yelena, to put a respectable distance between the two of you. Yelena had always kept things private and hidden, after all.

But today, she didn't let you. Yelena's hold was strong for both of you; she wouldn't let you take a single step away.

You sighed, feeling your heart rate slow down for the first time in what had been an exceptionally long day. You let your forehead fall against hers at last. "Some last job, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Yelena whispered, one of her hands found your jaw. You felt the warmth of her skin and the fabric of her glove. "Please don't leave."

You closed your eyes. Your nose bumped hers when you shook your head vehemently. "I would never."

Yelena kissed your lips with poorly concealed love. Her hands held the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair and pressing into the skin there—it gave beneath her fingertips, as if it'd been made for her touch alone.

Yelena's love was familiar. You felt the taste of it on your lips, felt the shape of it on your skin. It had always been there.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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[heavenbarnes]

need our simon to come home from deployment IMMEDIATELY 🫶🏼 | p1 p2 p3 p4

your older bf!simon comes home from deployment at dinner time on a tuesday.

herb alpert on the kitchen radio, knife tearing through a bunch of parsley, garlic and onion simmering on the stove behind you.

simon can hear it- smell it through the mail flap.

smells like home.

your ears prick at the sound of the door swinging open, the hinges alerting you to a secondary presence. back tensing for just a moment before you hear steps you could pick out in a lineup.

he sees your fluffy slippers first, then your little shorts, then his t-shirt. finally, he’s met with wide eyes and the kitchen light hits the curve of your face so nicely.

simon could cry.

you already were.

“oh my god, si”

he doesn’t really want to touch you with his outside clothes, tactical gear smelling like the back of a cargo plane and you’re so soft and lovely he’s afraid he might mess it all up.

but there’s nothing stopping the way you leap at him across the kitchen and swing your entire self around him and he’s forgetting what he’s wearing and he’s wrapping his arms around you like he knows you won’t break.

his tongue is immediately in your mouth and he’s taking one gasping breath and filling his nose with the scent that’s overwhelming him.

simon realises right then that the house smells like dinner but you smell like home. you are home. he’s home.

when he finally lets you let him go you’re telling him to leave all his gear by the washer and you’ll sort it all out tomorrow but right now he needs to sit down so you can feed him.

he’s back in the kitchen with a sweatshirt and shorts on and he’s never found his own clothes so comfortable. maybe it’s because he can smell you on the fabric.

you’d only been cooking enough for one but at this point, you’re so happy to have him home that you’re plating up the whole thing for him as he sits at the dining table.

his chair scrapes back along the floor and he’s patting his thigh, simon eats his tea with you curled up in his lap telling him everything he’d missed.

apparently, old-mate next door broke up with his missus and it was quite the scene.

apparently, they finally finished the roadworks on the junction at the end of your street and there was no longer a blur of orange cones on the drive to work.

apparently, there was going to be a barbecue at the house down the street and the two of you were invited. you might make a salad to take with.

you could’ve been reading him the phonebook and simon would be a happy man. his hand was holding under your thigh and your face was in the crook of his neck.

he was home.

dishes done (together) and tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him, simon isn’t sure this couch has ever been this plush. he could melt into it, as long as it was just like this.

bare feet up on the ottoman and one arm wrapped around your side as your head lay against his chest. you could hear his heartbeat and he could hear the football you’d recorded for him whilst he was away.

deployment was fucking rough, seen and done things he didn’t even want to think about. but this is what he comes home to.

you.

you who curls up in his lap and idly twirls the drawstring of his shorts round your finger.

you who offered up all of your food to him to fill the pit that’d been growing in his stomach over the weeks.

you who couldn’t give less of a fuck about the football on tv but watches in quiet contentment for the sake of being closer to him.

you who doesn’t ask once about what happened while he was away but will always listen without judgement if he needs to get something off his chest.

ideally, simon would like to give you the world in return. then again, he doesn’t think even that’d be enough.

instead, he takes you up to your shared bed and, miraculously, he doesn’t fall asleep as soon as his back touches the mattress.

he could, very easily, but instead he pulls you down on top of him and gets his lips back on yours. the kiss when he came through the door had been passionate but it’d been fleeting.

simon had kept it like that, knowing if he spent a second longer with your tongue on his then he’d have you over the kitchen bench and that wasn’t what he wanted.

really, he wanted this. the full weight of you on top of him and your hips rolling messily against his as his hands went up underneath your his shirt.

he wanted to run his fingertips along your bare back and feel skin so soft he almost couldn’t remember the things his hands had done just last week.

he wanted to map out every spot, every freckle, every ridge across your shoulders and commit it to memory so the next time he had to up and leave he could trace you like a constellation in the night sky.

truthfully, simon didn’t want to leave next time. he wanted to get the call from price and tell him that he was sorry but he couldn’t do it any longer. he now had something- someone to live for and he just couldn’t gamble odds like he used to.

he wasn’t entirely sure he’d still hold the sentiment on the other side of blowing a load so simon put those thoughts in the back of his head and decided he’d work them out on tomorrow morning’s run.

right now, simon felt the soft skin of the inside of your cheeks and your spit tastes like the nectar those gods harped on about and he’s pulling hard on your hips as he rolled something hard between them.

you were moaning, whimpering, whinging into his mouth while you ground yourself into the hard line of his cock. raging erection didn’t even cover it and his head was tipping back as a-

yawn, deep and all consuming broke from his throat.

simon was fucking knackered.

exactly what he didn’t want to happen was happening in front of him, you were sitting up and cooing at him so fucking sweetly.

“si, you’re exhausted- we’ll go to sleep”

strong grip around your waist was anchoring you to the spot so you couldn’t climb out of his lap like you were currently trying.

“sweet’art”

you could hear it in his voice, he couldn’t even lift his head off the pillow. you conceded, however, letting him rub soft little circles into your hips.

“jus’ gimme’ one and then we’ll sleep”

laying back down against his chest, you felt the air woosh out of him as you relaxed your body on his. face fitting into the crook of his neck like you were made for him (you were) with a hand running along his collarbone.

“we’ve got tomorrow”

you knew it was futile, he was already slipping your shorts to the side. head tilting just a little to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“and i need you tonight”

settled.

you felt one large hand lift you up as his other freed his cock out his shorts. just enough, just enough to get the job done because any extra effort was going to render him unconscious.

bringing a hand to his mouth, he spit in his palm quickly before rubbing it along the head of his cock. deep groan rumbled beneath you as you felt him pressing against your entrance.

“lift y’top up, sweet’art- wanna’ feel y’on me”

you did him one better, leaning up enough to slip the shirt over your head and onto the floor. forcing him to hold his arms up for just a second, you pulled his sweatshirt off and discarded it in the pile.

bare chest to chest, you could feel simon shudder beneath you. snaking one arm under his armpit and the other around his ribs, you snuggled in tight as you felt him slip right in.

that’s all he wanted.

weeks of photos, videos, imagination to go off of. this was all he ever wanted. you so close to him that it was entirely possible to imagine the two of you as one. that there was no version of reality without you together in it.

lazily rolling his hips up into you as you met him halfway, rolling yours back down to share half of the load. simon’s arms wrapped around your back, keeping you close and keeping you moving against him.

“sorry love, s’not gonna’ be a long one”

you could only respond with a whimper, gently nodding your head into his neck as your lips press soft little kisses into the skin. you didn’t need a long time, you just needed him.

unable to help yourself from noticing the couple new scratches he’d come home with, your fingers idly traced along them as he sucked in a breath at the feeling.

what you wouldn’t give to keep him home and keep him safe.

a thought for another day as you felt yourself constricting around his cock, grinding yourself into his lap as firm muscle rubbed against your front.

tiny little gasps flitted from your mouth and into his ear, you could feel his body tensing up beneath you. it wasn’t just with sheer tiredness, you knew this man like the back of your hand.

left hand coming out from under where you’d buried it behind his back, you ran the tips of your fingernails down simon’s chest. you stopped at his nipple, gently scraping along the peaked flesh until you heard him.

“need y’to cum right now f’me please”

slipping your other hand between the two of you, you let your fingers wander against yourself until you could feel the tide breaking in the pit of your stomach.

body clenching involuntarily, your mouth dropping open against his skin. no doubt drool pooling against his collarbone as you came with a pathetic whimper. hips bucking a little crazy in his lap as his hand ran the length of your back.

“god that’s it, sweet’art”

simon went rigid, gripping you tight like you might go somewhere as the dams broke and he filled you up. hot and sticky and dripping out of you and onto the waistband of his shorts.

he fell so still the only way you’d know he was still alive was the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. his arms were already starting to fall limp around you.

coming back from the bathroom, slipping off the rest of your clothes and adding them to the pile. simon wasn’t asleep, there were no snores, but he had been rendered totally immobile.

pulling the remainder of his clothes off for him and settling in beside, you pulled the sheets up over the both of you as his arm began drawing you in.

draped across him, you could feel his lips pressing against the crown of your head.

“m’gonna’ rock y’world in the morning”

you snorted a little laugh, nuzzling in closer as his breathing starts to even out. no use in replying, snorings about the only answer you’re going to get.

not that you’d mind.

he was home.

[rippersz]

𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

(Lilia Calderu x Fem!Witchy!Reader) (NSFW Themes; Mostly fluff) (~9.1k words)

You are Lilia Calderu's roommate. You celebrate Christmas. Also, you are so undeniably, completely, totally, hopelessly, unbelievably (but also very believably) in love with her. Poor you.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

You wanted her. 

You wanted her so bad. 

Since the very day you met her, you wanted her. 

You wanted to hold her hand. You wanted to kiss her. You wanted to wake up next to her. 

Was that a crazy thing to say? A crazy thing to think? To want your boss/roommate like you wanted your boss/roommate? Maybe. Probably. But no one ever said matters of the heart led down a road of sanity—so how on Earth could you be blamed? 

Short answer: You couldn’t.

Not when the woman you wanted was as wise, as intelligent, as kooky, as beautiful, as charming as Lilia Murgo Calderu. An interpreter of the divine - and to you, all divine within herself. 

Even when she’d just woken up, dreams still swimming behind her eyes, orange slippers on her feet as she shuffled around the kitchen. Even when she took her time brewing tea, fixing her hair, humming quietly to herself. Even when she looked up to acknowledge you with a good morning and a lazy wave of her hand, to which you always responded with a smile and a chuckle because honestly you found her early-morning demeanour to be quite endearing. Even with the bags under her hazel eyes and the exhaustion of a terrible night weighing on her shoulders. Even when she rarely slept peacefully and then spent the entire next day getting lost within her thoughts. Even when she screamed in her sleep, cried out for help, yelped from a phantom pain. You ran to her on those nights, practically flying out of your room to find her tossing and turning in her bed, and always stumbled in the dark over to her side. Even when she was overtaken by nightmares, by visions and ‘possessions’, by people speaking through her and people speaking to her. Even then, when she was at her most volatile, with golden wicks of magic sparking along her knuckles and her fingertips, still harnessing power in her dreams, you scrambled to take her hands. To hold them gently. To pry them from their fists and smooth them with your touches.

“Lilia,” you’d whisper, heart pounding and touch soft, “Lilia you have to wake up now, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart.” And by then, she’d already be mid-gasp, shooting up in bed, looking around the room wildly before settling on you. 

Always you. Always at her side. Always willing to help. Her assistant, her roommate, the young woman everyone saw her around town with. The one who, perhaps, understood her more than anyone ever had before. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Oooo,” you smiled, led by your nose through the door that separated the front of the shop from the back of the flat, whisked along easily by the smell of food. “This looks amazing..” 

The spoon poised to the right of the stove, already dirty with the tomato and meat from the cooking pasta, was quickly picked up by your hand and dipped back into the pot. 

“Lilia you are a godsend,” you whispered to yourself, bringing the spoon (heaped with bolognese) up to your mouth, already closing your eyes before anything could land on your tongue. 

“Aht!” A sharp voice cut through your bliss, followed by a small smack and sting on the back of your knuckles as the devil herself walked up to your side and hip-bumped you away from the stove. “No tasting before it’s ready!” She scolded, taking the spoon right out of your hold and pushing it back into the pasta to stir.

“Hey!” You protested instantly, lightly shoving her back as you pressed yourself to her side and looked over the pot. She was warm, soft, and you felt your heart jump at the scent of her bourbon and wildflower perfume. “Gimme some now,” you teased, reaching over her for the spoon. 

“Can’t you wait for five minutes!?” Lilia said loudly, shooting you a glare out of the corner of her eye as she moved her body and elbowed you away again. 

“Ow- that hurt!” You cradled your belly. It didn’t, not at all, but you loved to add fuel to the fire. 

Unfortunately, the fire had all the fuel she needed. “Good!” Lilia quipped, putting the spoon back into place in its holder, “I’m glad!” 

You tried hard to hide the smile on your lips and the desperate giggles that wanted to fly out, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

“So mean to me…,” came your laughter-laden lament as you moved to the table in the centre of the room. “Making me set the table, too.” You shook your head and let out a sigh that was much too loud, exaggerating the mope in your shoulders and the dragging of your feet while you moved around the room to get bowls and cutlery. “This is illegal, I think.” 

A snort came from the stove, making you glance up just in time to see the smirk on red lips before she turned her head away to the spice cabinet. “Oh yeah? Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters?” 

“The police.” You set the bowls down quietly and gave her a scoffing ‘duh’ to follow up. 

“Oh please.” Lilia shook her head, sending grey and silver curls swishing around her neck, “The police will take one look at you and give you back.” 

You paused at the drawer, a fork already in your hand, and whipped around with a gasp. “Did you just call me ugly?” You looked quite affronted, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed, one foot already pointed out to tap rapidly on the floor. 

“Is that what I said?” She shot back, spinning in her place to give you a look in return. Eyebrows raised, tone sarcastic, casting beautiful coffee eyes over the length of your body to prove her point. In the face of that gaze, intense in all its flawless effort, you had to control the sudden hot feeling that spread across your cheeks.

“That’s what I gathered,” you pointed out, sheepish beneath the weight of her full attention, and ducked your head to rifle through the drawer, “And you like to imply things.” You bumped it shut when you found another fork. 

“Oh yeah?” Lilia huffed. “Well you like to accuse. So put that in your pipe.”

“And smoke it.” You spat, smiling.

“Exactly!” 

The two of you laughed, creating a joyful harmony as you finished setting up the table and went to turn down some of the lights. Lilia, in the meanwhile, added the finishing touches to the pasta and donned tarot-themed oven mitts (which you gifted her last year for Christmas after her others were accidentally set on fire) to carry the pot to its trivet. 

“Careful,” came your soft call as you double-checked the lock on the flat door. 

“Hmm,” Lilia hummed, slipping the mitts off and throwing them on the countertop. “Come sit, I’m starving.” 

“Shoulda cooked earlier then,” you teased, practically skipping over to the table to pull out her chair. 

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” she waved her hand and rolled her eyes before taking her seat, falling into your familiar routine.

It was your pleasure, above anything and everything else in life, to make Lilia Calderu’s days as smooth and bright as possible. You made breakfast, you helped clean up, you always pulled out her chair for her and always beat her to the dishes, and at night, you turned down the lights before heading off to your own room. It was small, decorated to suit you, and totally unnecessary. You’d insisted in the beginning of your stay that Lilia have it instead, because it had a door and was less open-spacey, but she brushed it off and said that she was already comfortable in her little pull-out bed. You didn’t enjoy the thought of it, not with the way her back hurt sometimes, but it was nothing a good spot of healing tea couldn’t fix—or so she claimed. You also learned early on that Lilia was neat, careful, and entirely against rushing. She did not like to rush. Nor did she like to argue, or raise her voice when angry, or get angry in the first place. And she didn’t like sleeping in too much and she didn’t like cold showers and she didn’t like when you didn’t respond to her texts (which happened maybe two times and both times you got an earful). But you never minded the things she didn’t like. You made sure to work on time-management, to avoid rushing, and you never got angry with her, only frustrated, and you never yelled at her (because you were quite sure that you’d rather be stabbed then ever do so), and you woke her up before her late alarm and only let her sleep in if she had a rough night, and you never used too much of the hot water, and you kept your phone ringer on whenever you left the shop, and all of the things she needed you to make space for, you did. You gave her privacy, you gave her an ear, a shoulder, you gave her gifts and you gave her attention and you gave her banter and jokes and stability and routine and beneath it all, every time you smiled at her, every time you both sat down in the armchairs to read your books, every time you stayed up late to listen to her rant about the world’s offences against witches, you were also giving her your heart. 

Happily, gladly, giving her your heart. 

“My compliments to the chef,” you grinned as you took your spot opposite her, putting your napkin on your lap as though you were in a fancy restaurant. 

“Mm, let me know if it’s too salty,” she ran her tongue over her teeth before grabbing your bowl, sliding it closer, and starting to dish up. 

You couldn’t help the way you looked at her, keeping one elbow on the table, holding your chin with the cup of your hand, admiring the way she moved. There was a specialness to it, a gracefulness found only in someone like Lilia. Even the way she put homemade pasta into your bowl, even the way she gave you a hefty helping, to make sure you ate properly, and even the way she slid it back to you with a small smile. The way the dim lights darkened her eyes, the way she focused on her own food, the way she shifted to get comfortable. 

Your heart felt just about ready to burst from your chest. 

“It’s perfect,” was the only thing you could say after you had your first bite; a common phrase in your combined household because Lilia was a fantastic cook. 

“Eh. Not bad,” she shrugged, but after her first bowl was finished, you smirked as you watched her grab another helping. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

At first, living together was a bit awkward. 

You were still a juvenile witch, having learned as much as you could from your previous mentor before she suggested Lilia as a continued source of help; and the last thing you expected when stumbling into Madame Calderu’s for the first time was the key to a future filled with the best of fortunes. You never got your palm read, never had her look into a crystal ball for you and pretend to know dead relatives, but still you were certain—your future was the best future one could have. There was a roof over your head, food at your table, books at your fingertips, and Lilia Calderu at your side. There was nothing more to want. 

Though in the beginning, that wasn’t the case. 

You tiptoed around her as though you were scared she was going to smite you down with all the power of the Divine Mother if you stepped out of line. You were the quietest, kindest, most endearing soul you could ever be—all in an effort to avoid being thrown out on your ass. But when you recognised Lilia’s way of living, how some larger part of her didn’t seem to really mind your presence at all, you began to settle. You lingered in shared spaces, you asked both the boring and exciting questions, and the tension in your shoulders faded. Sleeping came easier, smiling was instinct, and when you heard Lilia laugh at one of your jokes for the first time, you knew there was nothing in the world that could take you away from her home. 

Her home which eventually became yours, but which would always be hers no matter what she claimed. 

It was Lilia’s flat, your presence. 

It was Lilia’s life, you tagging along. 

It was Lilia’s heart, you left at the outskirts, mingling with the other acquaintances and friends (not that there were many, but still. Not in the inner circle of Lilia’s Inferno.) 

And in your life, in your heart, she was at the very centre, embedded in everything you did. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Merry Christmas!!” Your excited yell bounced off the walls, obnoxiously loud and announcing your entrance before you skated into the living room in fuzzy socks and holiday-themed pyjamas. 

The only answer that greeted you was a low gravelly groan, muffled by the press of Lilia’s face into her sheets. And on top of her head, squishing her beloved curls? A pillow. 

“Wake up now, Madame Calderu! It’s time to celebrate!” You sang, taking in the air of your shared flat. 

It was decorated beautifully, with lights along the cabinets, a fake purple tree in the corner, and other little festive trinkets you found in thrift shops, dotted around any flat surface there was. Dancing snowmen, a penguin with an ‘I love you’ sign (a symbol of your devotion, as subtle as you could make it), two stockings hung on the wall beside the tree, each of your initials sewn into the fabric. And on the tree itself? Colour-changing lights, baubles and plastic decor, some in the shapes of stars, others in the shapes of the moon’s phases, a few depicting typical witchy symbols (a hat, a little witch on a broom, two that were painted like tarot cards. The Lovers and The World.) Beneath it, there was a red and white tree skirt, fuzzy and dotted with little purple faux-pines, and on top of that, forming a little neat pile, were a few gift-wrapped presents. It was the most wonderful, heart-warming, heart-wrenching thing you had ever seen. You could spot the ones you picked out for Lilia, the gifts you spent so long thinking about, and noticed a few days before Christmas morning that she had matched each one with a wrapped present of her own. The contrast couldn’t have been more obvious; hers were all clad in some shimmery blue iridescent paper you’d never seen before in your life and yours were dressed up in a matte red and brown pattern that repeated the scene of a little bear in a Santa hat reading a book. 

You didn’t expect the presents to be there, in fact you didn’t really expect anything from her at all, and yet there they sat, adding to your pile of four. Four gifts for her and then, because she really was the softest person at heart, four gifts for you. As a thank you that evening, you’d made dinner - sweet potato chilli and slices of fresh bread. She loved it, but still you felt that a simple meal wasn’t a big enough show of gratitude. 

Christmas morning pancakes, however, would make a stunning addition to the ‘thank you’ list, especially as they were Lilia’s favourite. Two with chocolate chips and two with blueberries (though you always made at least one extra of each just in case). And beside that, a mug of herbal tea and beside that, a mug of hot chocolate. You were dead silent as you worked, trying hard to give the resident witch at least a few more minutes of peaceful sleep before you woke her up for a proper celebration. It was hard to contain the excitement, the lightning in your veins as you anticipated the rest of the day. The company, the warmth, the movies you’d watch, the books you’d read. The shop was closed, partly because the roads were full of unpaved snow, but also because you were not going to be waiting for customers on Christmas Day. You wouldn’t allow it, and eventually Lilia agreed. It was unlikely anyone would go looking for a palm reading anyway, not in that chill. Plus they all had other things to do as well, like spend time with family and cuddle up with their kids and their lovers and hold their wives and drink wine with their lovers and their wives and eat biscuits with their wives and kiss their wives and open gifts with their beautiful wives and ugh! Well. 

There were still gifts to open, gifts that you’d cherish no matter what they were. Even if Lilia got you the most basic things, like socks or a new body lotion or a water bottle, you’d wear them every day, you’d put it all over your hands, you’d never drink from anything else ever again. To even be in her busy head enough to receive a gift felt like an honour, and that was such a strange sentiment for someone you loved, putting her on a pedestal, but you were past the point of caring. Lilia Calderu was no perfect woman, you knew that more than anyone, but she wasn’t trying to be. Her kindness was taught, learned, maintained, and you weren’t sure which Gods you pleased enough to deserve it, but not a day went by where her care was overlooked. So all you could do was return the favour. 

“Merry Christmas indeed,” came a sudden rumbling purr over your shoulder, husky with sleep and tinged with amusement as Lilia shuffled her way up to the counter. 

You gave her a glance, taking in the robe around her shoulders, the colourful pattern of her nightgown, the slippers on her feet, and the sweet smirk on her lips, and could only smile when the heavy weight of her head leaned itself against your shoulder. Her curls tickled your neck a little, tied up as they were, but you had no complaints. She was warm, comforting, and still a bit tired. You would always be her headrest if that’s what she needed.

“Did you sleep well?” It was compulsory for you to ask, a habit you fell into as soon as you felt comfortable in the flat. Checking on Lilia was a common occurrence, though you only asked about sleep after she went through the night without waking up in a fit. The evening before had been quiet, so you had high hopes.

“Like a babe. What about you?” And that was the typical response, bringing a soft smile to your lips as you slid the mug of tea over to her. 

“Likewise, though I fell asleep to a delightful little playlist called Lilia’s snoring.” 

She gasped. “How dare you? I do not snore.” Wide coffee eyes looked at you, shocked, and one hand, devoid of decorative rings, playfully swiped at your arm. “Maybe you were hearing your own.” Lilia sassed before she hid her growing smirk behind her mug.

“Oh yeah right,” you rolled your eyes, moving away to shimmy the last pancake onto the small stack. “Let’s just go with that.” 

Lilia snorted and took her chance then to dip into the bathroom, still intent on completing her morning routine before eating. You got to setting the table, putting the pancakes on each plate and the rest on a separate one off to the side, placing Lilia’s favourite fork and knife beside her dish (they were made for her a while ago, complete with engraved gems and smoothed symbols, the only surviving two out of a full set), and completed the table with your mugs. It looked a bit romantic, as it always did when it was just the two of you sitting at your little kitchen table, but over the course of your time together, neither of you mentioned it. Once, in the beginning of your routine, you lit a candle and placed it in the centre of the table arrangement, and promptly promised yourself never to do so again. For as soon as Lilia sat down, embraced by the flame’s flickering light and short warmth, you felt your cheeks grow hot. She looked unbelievably handsome that evening, meeting smouldering eyes over the candlelight, showing off the shadows of her wizened face, and you were overcome with the distinct desire to lunge across the table and kiss her senseless. 

Fortunately for your friendship, you never did. And unfortunately for your friendship, the urge to do so only got worse. From kissing to holding, from holding to loving, from loving to fucking. You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t control the flutter of your heart, but there was nothing to be done. Lilia was your roommate, your mentor, the woman who laughed with you and cried with you and consoled you when you were on your period and needed a shoulder. She wasn’t the woman you kissed or the woman you held or the woman you fucked and in all seriousness, you knew that she probably never would be. And although that thought came with its own sense of pain, its own sorrow and bone-breaking ache, it was also followed by relief. If you weren’t close enough for that, then you weren’t close enough to break each other’s hearts. So there was no need to fear, no need to worry, and if ever there came a day where Lilia found someone to be with her for good, then you would be happy. You would be happy. For her, for the woman you found yourself loving, you would be happy.

And speak of the witch, the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, followed by soft footsteps, broke you out of your staring contest with the counter. 

“Thank you for breakfast,” she said airily, fresh-faced with a small bit of makeup, a spritz of perfume, and a better style for her unruly curls. You nodded, almost in a bow, as you slid her seat out for her and gently pushed her back in. 

“It’s always my pleasure. Especially today.” You knew your eyes were shining, pouring with Christmas glee, but Lilia didn’t seem to mind the excitement. 

Ever since the beginning of December rolled around, she’d been happy to help you decorate. She took the time to hang lights with you, standing on the tips of her toes to give you the string as you circled it around the tree, then she spent the second evening of her December dotting it with decorations, inspecting the ornaments and baubles as she went, and she even bought a wreath to hang from the inside of the front door. You felt as though your heart was going to crawl out of your chest, it was so full of light and love. And at the end of the evening, when she affixed the Triple Goddess’ symbol to the top of your purple tree instead of an angel, and whispered a quick, happy, “Four of Wands” to you when she settled back on her feet, you couldn’t help but wrap her up in a hug. If that’s what her heart told her, if that’s what the divine whispered, an upright Four of Wands, then who were you to dictate? The higher powers were more right that evening than they had ever been before: in that moment, everything was Four of Wands. 

And while you ate a silent breakfast across from Lilia Calderu, enjoying the warmth and taste of your meal, taking in the slight chill of the morning and the beautiful image of her lounging in her nightie and robe, everything felt like Four of Wands all over again.

“You know I didn’t expect you to get me anything,” you finally murmured, hiding your eyes as you sipped from your mug. “It wasn’t supposed to be an eye for an eye sort of thing.” 

Lilia finished her bite, licked the side of her mouth, and raised an eyebrow. “So you expected me to be the only one opening gifts on Christmas morning? I don’t even celebrate Christmas. Why would I leave you empty handed?” 

You shrugged, already feeling the beginnings of warmth taking over your cheeks. You knew she didn’t celebrate - and technically you weren’t inclined to do so either, but the holiday cheer always got to you. And she had been so patient, going along with your joy. “I just assumed- I dunno…. We didn’t do it for each other the past two years, and exactly. You don’t celebrate. So I hope you know that just because I got you things-”

“Wait wait wait wait, stop right there.” Lilia cut you off, waving her hands a little bit, forcing your avoidant eyes from your plate up to her face. Her expression was strange, serious mixed with a distinct shadow of outrage, brick-red lips set into a frown; but behind her chocolate eyes? All you could see was warmth. “Before you even go any further, I’ll have you know that I did not feel obligated to get you Christmas presents just because you got some for me, and I certainly didn’t do it because I felt sympathetic.” 

You opened your mouth, ready to interrupt, but were quickly shut down by a held-up palm and a stern look. Your jaw clicked shut.

“I did it because I wanted to.” She held your eyes. “I did it because I didn’t want you to be celebrating alone and although it has been a long time since I last celebrated the holidays, I have to tell you that this has been very nice.” Lilia nodded at you, her lips tilting up into a smile, and she watched with delight as you couldn’t help but mirror it. “It’s been nice, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, resisting the urge to shyly duck away, “yeah it’s been nice.” 

“And that is precisely why I did it. Because this is the kind of atmosphere every home should have,” she spread her hands out, breaking away to look around your living room with pride and care, taking in the purposefully mis-coloured tree, the lights and ornaments, the gifts, the holiday trinkets, the stockings, the sight of your books mixed with her books in the shelf, your shoes next to her shoes by the front door, your notes stuck to the fridge, your handwriting on the wall calendar, the TV you bought a little while ago, the paintings you hung up, the food that you made for her and dished for her and placed beside her favourite knife and fork, the drinks you prepared, the look in your eyes… And when she brought her attention back to you then, you almost cracked right in half when she leaned forward as though she were going to tell you a secret and said, in a playful whisper with a smirk on her face, “And there is no other person I would rather celebrate with.” 

You were so thankful she couldn’t read minds. 

“Okay?” She nodded as a reassurance and you returned it without hesitation. 

“Okay. Thank you…,” you breathed, shuddery and annoying, so out of tune, but when she looked at you in the way she did, when she spoke so gently, so firmly, you simply weren’t sure how you could’ve regained your footing sooner. “I- I appreciate it.” 

“I know you do,” Lilia was smug as she leaned back in her seat and crossed one leg over the other while she finished her breakfast.

“Shut up.” 

The response you got was a near-silent huff of laughter. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Okay! Stocking first or presents?” 

You stood in the middle of the room and Lilia sat in the blue armchair, nursing another brewed mug of hot chocolate. You hadn’t taken the chance to change, insisting that Christmas morning gifts were always unwrapped while still in your pyjamas, and Lilia had inclined her head to tell you that the reins were yours before she got cuddled into her seat.

“Let’s start with the big guns. Presents.” 

You nodded, still managing to somehow follow orders, and swiftly crouched beneath the tree, then carefully picked up all four gifts for Lilia and shuffled back to her on your knees. 

“Your gifts, m’lady.” 

“Why thank you,” she smiled, looked down at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, stroking the fire in your heart, and put her mug off to the side before holding her hands out and taking the wrapped presents into her lap. They weren’t very big, one of them wasn’t even a box, so she had no trouble balancing as you quickly turned around to grab your own. 

“Right,” once you were settled at her feet on the floor, cross-legged and acutely aware of how close you were, you set the boxes down in front of you and clapped your hands. “You go first, then me, then you, then me. Deal?” 

“What if I want you to go first?” One dark eyebrow raised, adding to the wicked pleasure of a dark-lipped smirk, and you instantly tried playing off your fluster with a shrug. 

“Then I will. Is that what you’d like, Madame Calderu?” Only used in moments of teasing, you enjoyed seeing the slight pink that went to Lilia’s cheeks as she heard you use her unofficial official title. Despite it being the name of her shop, it was rare that a customer addressed her as so. In time then, she only came to associate it with you. 

“Yeah, why not,” Lilia shrugged, and you instantly picked up the first gift nearest to you. 

“Can I shake it?” You grinned.

“If you’re interested in breaking things, be my guest.” 

“Mmm, no thank you,” came your little murmur as you carefully (trying to hide your eagerness) undid the wrapping. It was a long box, thin, and as the gift was revealed and the paper fell off to the floor, you felt your heart stutter. Clearly, it was jewellery. And clearly, you had to open it. But the front caught your eye, stalling you, and you took in the small golden cursive L. with interest. “Did you make this?” You whispered, shifting the box to hold it like precious gems. 

“Open it first, ask questions later,” you didn’t have to look up to know she was smiling, so you did what was desired. 

The top came off with little resistance and suddenly you were looking down at a necklace. A familiar necklace. Familiar and yet different. Made of smaller beads with similar colours, more delicate and fitting to your less loud aesthetic, but with the same rectangular shaped pendant in the centre. You nearly folded yourself in half looking closer, feeling your heart in your throat when you recognized that yes, it was like Lilia’s, but it wasn’t meant to be a replica - it was meant to match. Two hands against a white background hovered above and below a sun with an open eye, fitting the same mould, but Lilia’s hands were an iridescent blue-green, the top one pointing down from the right and the bottom pointing palm-up from the left. Yours was in complete contrast. A deep blue background, opal coloured hands, the top one pointing down from the left, the bottom pointing up from the right, and the sun in the middle was not a sun at all but a full moon, painted white, the eye’s iris a dark midnight blue. It was perfect in a way you could not even voice, hand-crafted with so much care, and you looked up at Lilia as though she herself had the bright idea to create the sun and moon and hang them both in the sky. 

“I- this is- Lilia…,” you swallowed, glancing at the necklace resting against her chest before looking down at its partner in your hands. “Holy shit, Lilia.” 

“Here, let me help you put it on.” She flapped her hands to gesture you forward and forward you went, placing the box aside and taking the necklace out with the gentlest touch. When you turned and she slung it around your neck, the jewellery was cold, but her hands were warm, and in seconds you were suddenly matching with the woman you loved. 

“...I feel like I’m part of your coven now,” you whispered while looking down, stroking it with reverence. 

“Ha!” Lilia cackled, her smile brighter than fresh snow in the sun. “You don’t want to be part of my coven, kiddo,” she took a sip of her tea. 

A very mean, insecure voice in the pit of your mind hissed at the sound of that nickname. It always incited a wild, twisting fire inside you. You hated to be reminded of your age, of the differences between you, because it always served as a symbol of what could never be. Coming to terms with unrequited love was one thing, but having the reason why it was unrequited spoken to your face so boldly, even without intent to do so, was a different beast entirely. You could handle the sadness when not reminded of its roots, but a quick ‘kiddo’ or ‘kid’ or reference to age spoken from Lilia’s lips had you instantly defensive. Of course you never showed it, never in front of her, but that didn’t mean the punch to your psyche didn’t hurt like a bitch. 

“Yes, I do.” You insisted, moving the opened box and wrapping paper out of the way. “Of course I do. Lilia Calderu’s coven? Sign me the fuck up right now.” 

She huffed, put her mug down, and turned back to her own gifts. “Shall I?” 

“You shall.” 

The first one she picked up was the squishy one, soft and medium sized, and you delighted in the way her brows furrowed as she pressed it between her fingers. Three seconds later, when the paper was torn off (just as gently as you did it, you noted), a small gasp, followed by a rich laugh, filled the air. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Lilia grinned as she picked up the oven mitts and slipped them onto her hands. It was a cute addition to your running joke. Only a few months before that moment, Lilia had somehow accidentally set her old oven mitts on fire. Bright flame and all. It was a miracle how you got there just before the smoke detectors went off and managed to throw the things outside before dousing them in water. They were still on her hands too! You’d nearly had a heart attack, staring at her with eyes so wide it gave you a headache as you ignored the half-charred mitts and held her palms. Lilia insisted she was okay as you inspected them, but she never pulled away and she didn’t protest when you asked her to please run them under cold water for a few minutes. Since then, the only ‘oven mitts’ she had were dish towels and every time you meant to buy replacements, you procrastinated or you forgot. That simply wouldn’t do—thus, the tarot card themed oven mitts she had on her hands, waving them around and pinching her thumb to her fingers with satisfaction. 

“These are lovely. Thank you,” her voice was liquid gold with gratitude as she finally slipped them off and gently set them on the table, giving them a pat for good measure. 

“Yeah, I thought you might have needed some,” you smirked and gladly accepted the small playful slipper-covered kick you got to the knee. “Now my turn again.” 

The next gift was softer than a box, but shaped like one, with a weird hard lump on the front, and once you got the wrapping paper off, your face almost split in half with the width of your smile. 

“This looks so beautiful, oh my god,” your left hand stroked and fiddled with the pendant at your neck, holding it as a newfound comfort while your right hand explored the leather-bound notebook you found in your lap. The lump you felt on the front was a sewn-in gem, coloured gold and orange, and you felt warm with the thought that it reminded you so much of Lilia’s magical tint. “Thank you Lilia.. I promise you it won’t go to waste.” 

Her eyes were shining proudly when you looked up at her, and you noticed the quick glance away from your collarbone to the book in your lap. She must have thought the necklace was just as beautiful as you did. 

“It better not, or I’ll take it back,” she teased, humming a soft sound of agreement as you marvelled at the fraying, fabric pages. 

“No chance. Now open your next one, please.” The notebook was gently set aside after you re-clasped the metal hinge. 

As Lilia picked up one of the smaller boxes, harder than the oven mitts, and began unwrapping, you briefly wondered about what you were going to put in the new journal. There were no lines, so it was perfect for sketching, but at the same time you hadn’t kept a diary in so long and it was the perfect opportunity, accompanied by the most perfect feeling. Making use of something a loved one had given you. And you would make use of it, without a doubt you would. 

“Is this a book of spells?” Lilia asked, turning the little brown book over in her hands with a furrowed brow and a confused smile. 

You straightened up and shuffled closer to her knees, practically putting your chin in her lap when you excitedly reached up to hold it open for her. “That’s exactly what it is, yes. I had to get a bit of help from Elise, but…,” you bit your lip, suddenly shy at all the effort you’d put into contacting your mentor. She agreed to help because she loved you, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t teased, and as you looked up at Lilia then, staring into dark enchanting eyes, you felt a blush roll over your cheeks. “...It’s um- it’s little obscure spells. For like cleaning and mending and things. I think there’s one in there for even stitching stars? Just stars? And a few others. Shining copper, cleaning lipstick off of glass…,” you trailed off, watching as Lilia hummed and took the book from you again. 

She took a moment to flip through the pages and read the small descriptions, taking the time to react to each one in kind. And when she got to the end, going a bit faster in her perusing, she suddenly stopped. You paused just as she paused and watched, with confusion, as her eyebrows promptly shot up.

“You think I need an.. ‘overstimulating orgasm’?” 

….

“Excuse me?” 

You went still. 

Lilia’s eyes bounced from you to the page and back again before she turned it around on her lap, nonverbally forcing you to read it. 

And there, in your mentor’s handwriting, were the cursive words, “Spell for a Very Special Feeling”. 

And beneath it, in smaller print:

‘Do your wrists ever get tired? Your hands? Are you eager for a satisfying night in? A chance to really release your frustrations without doing the work yourself? I know just the spell.

Completing the steps below will result in a release like no other. It will burn, it will feel painful, but the pleasure will override the ache and in no time at all, you will find yourself feeling delightfully… overstimulated. No tiring hours of doing it yourself! No chickening out! Give it a try maybe once. Or twice. As many times as your body can take.’ 

And a diagram showing hand movements, followed by a chant to go along with it. 

That motherfucker!

“Judging by your expression, I’m guessing you didn’t look through this thoroughly before you wrapped it for me?” Lilia smirked, cheeks growing pinker the longer you stared at the writing in complete and utter shock. 

It took you a good second to react and then another two seconds to respond. You were quick to reach out and grab the book, wanting to look through it properly to avoid any other utterly embarrassing miscommunications, but Lilia yanked it back before you could. 

“Too late,” she shook her head, and you floundered. 

“N-no! That is not supposed to say that, I swear. I would never- that- Elise wrote them all! I approved them! I don’t even know how- why-” 

Lilia raised one of her palms, cutting your sentence right in half, and you fell quiet as she smiled. 

“She must’ve slipped it in. I think she’s trying to tell me something,” the book went flipping back and forth between her palms and you sighed. 

“I’m really sorry about that, oh my god. It was just supposed to be a cute little gift.” 

“And it is,” Lilia insisted, snapping the book shut with a smirk. “Don’t feel embarrassed. It’s only natural.” You felt something in you shiver when she winked and desperately tried pulling yourself together when she turned to put the little book on the side table. 

Dwelling on the moment, now matter how enticing the idea sounded, was not a very good decision to make. You couldn’t afford to get distracted or blush too hard, but dear lord it seemed to be an impossible feat - especially with the image of Lilia in your head. Panting, blushing, hands gripping her sheets… the same hands, soft hands, with delicate wrinkles and perfect nails, just the right length and just the right width and so deceptively strong, no matter how feminine they seemed… the same hands she used to do her sewing, her cooking, her readings, her hair… the same hands she used to thread two fingers through the curve of her mug’s handle… oh in much the same way you wished they could curve into- no. 

No. 

You wrenched your eyes away, declining the draw of lust, and picked up the next gift on autopilot. As you tried emptying your head, the wrapping paper fell apart under your wandering hands, and soon you were staring down at what seemed to be a box of tarot cards. A very unique box of tarot cards with unique drawings, sequences, and detailing - art nouveau inspired. One of your favourites. 

“I don’t have this set yet…,” you breathed, drifting your fingertips over the glossy cover of the box like it was your Bible. 

“I know.” She hummed, still drinking from her hot chocolate, watching you with curiosity.  

Tarot set collecting somehow became your combined hobby over the years, although your preferences differed so as to not have any duplicates. Lilia had a set she used only for the shop, one that didn’t hold the same sentimental value as the few others she had, and you displayed your decks on the empty surface of your dresser. Lilia rarely got new ones, she was quite connected to the five that she already had, they all held different meanings, and you only enjoyed splurging when you saw ones that were really incredible. Your next gift was a surprise for Lilia, it would bump her deck number up to six, and you smiled softly as you slid the top off of the decorative box and swiftly counted the cards as the tenth addition to your collection. 

“These are gorgeous. Where did you get them?” You couldn’t tear your eyes away. 

“A witch never tells,” Lilia put two fingers to her pursed lips and though you didn’t look up to see it, you still huffed at her words. 

“Well can a witch accept a thank you?” 

“She can,” your roommate acquiesced, giving you a heartfelt “You’re welcome” when you thanked her on the spot. 

“I will say I think you and I had the same idea,” you admitted when Lilia got around to opening her next gift. She raised quizzical eyebrows as she looked down at the box in her hands, and you watched with glee as her lips parted in surprise. “We know each other so well.” 

“It appears we do…,” she murmured low beneath her breath before she tossed the wrapping paper down to you and gave the box a proper look.

It was medium sized, wooden, hand painted, and carved. On the front, there was a rather uncanny all-black cameo of Lilia’s side profile. It was perfect, from the shelf of her brow to the distinct curve of her nose down to the gentle slope of her neck, and it was front and centre in the painted format of a tarot card. At the bottom were two words written in your pen, ‘The Divine’. And at all four corners, little details of the sun, moon, Saturn, and stars. Lilia was quiet as she opened the hinged lid, and then she gasped as she came face to face with The Empress. It took her less than a second to realise what you’d done. Her gaze shifted quickly, from every individual stroke to every mark and design, from every corner signature to every line. With slow movements, pouring with awe, The Empress was quickly pushed to the back as Lilia slipped the entire stack out of the box and began fanning them with her fingertips. Her touch was delicate, hovering as she traced outlines and ran her thumb along the curves of the cards. 

“Hand painted,” she said softly and you looked from her to the deck and back again with a nod and a smile. 

“Do you like them?” You didn’t really have to ask, you knew she did, but some part of you was always nervous whenever you did something nice for your roommate. You had to toe the line carefully, balancing being platonic and being romantic, and gifts were, at times, a difficult thing to interpret. You wanted her to enjoy them, to find use in them, to keep them for the rest of her long life just as she had with a bunch of her other souvenirs. If ever she had to leave, flee, or travel somewhere without you, you hoped that she would stop to pack them in with her things first. Or better yet, use them for special occasions. Times where she could tell people that she got that deck of tarot cards from a young woman she once knew, a woman she thought of often with fondness. Maybe a woman who could become her wife one day, though it was such a silly thought you could only shake it out of your head.

“Yes, I like them,” Lilia breathed, eyes still hungrily devouring the details. She looked quite impressed. “These are beautifully done. Thank you.” Her smile felt like a hug around your shoulders when she peered down at you. 

“Oh I- of course…,” you said shyly, resisting the urge to bow your head or look away, and her smile only grew as she turned back to her new deck and began realigning them. You watched her for a moment, seeing her care and appreciation in the way she handled them like fine china, and it was only when the box made a light clink against the side table that you finally snapped out of it.

“Why don’t we open the last ones together?” You suggested, perking up with a renewed sense of interest. The last gift was your personal favourite as it contained the most magic, and since you had yet to find your own physical form of the craft, like Lilia’s golden whisps, it was also the most time consuming. Laborious magic was a true pain in the ass, but you had a little help from your mentor and in only a few days, the gift was complete. You prayed the witch in front of you enjoyed it. 

“Good idea,” she put the wooden box to the side and picked up the last gift.

You mirrored her, then watched as both of you worked at the wrapping paper and revealed your last gifts. 

In your hand, a small unassuming brown box. In Lilia’s, a long Tiffany-blue box. You shared a look and in unison, slid the tops off.

Inside the box, nestled in a soft foam mould, was a simple, smooth, shining Black Tourmaline. It was about the size of the dip in your palm and when you picked it up, your hand dropped just a bit with the weight. You glanced up at Lilia, meeting her eyes over the ledge of her knees, and smiled in confusion. 

“This is gorgeous, but why is it so heavy?” You laughed, holding the gemstone like gold as you slid it between your palms and ran your fingers over the smooth surface. 

“Turn it around,” she responded as she looked down at her own gift and hummed, moving to gently take it out of its own foam mould as though it was made of glass. 

“Oh… woah…” On the other side was an engraving. A symbol. Seven points to a complex star. You’d seen glimpses of it in various books over the years, but it wasn’t among the most common signs in witchcraft, so you never paid it any proper attention. Clearly, to Lilia, you should’ve. 

“It’s a Heptagram. In many religions, its existence is overwhelmingly positive,” Lilia said offhandedly, eyes still glued to her own gift, “and this…,” she twirled it in her fingers, face glimmering with the way the sun shone through the kitchen curtains and caught the light off of one of the shining little bunches, “is a bouquet of hemlock stuck in stasis.” Her vision readjusted, moving past the green of the stems to you, sitting in direct view behind them. You watched as the film of magic made the bunch glow. From certain angles, it seemed as though it stood beneath shining stained glass, casting reds, oranges, yellows, blues, purples, greens, pinks, and whites all in various shades.

“I knew it was a bit on the nose, but it can’t hurt you unless you decide to eat it,” you explained, “Elise helped me cast the spell. It will be like that forever, I’m pretty sure. That’s why it’s shimmering. Pretty, isn’t it?” You smiled, running your fingers over your new stone aimlessly. 

“It’s perfect,” Lilia said warmly, tilting her head with a sweet smile on her face. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” You rushed out, chest almost heaving with the weight of her affection “Now are you going to tell me the meaning behind this stone?” You asked and held it up before your eye, symbol facing her. 

“It’s a protective ward. Throughout the ages, it has come to mean different things to different believers, but I focused my energy into divine protection. As long as it’s with you, anyone with bad intentions will turn the other way,” she explained in her teacher voice, speaking matter-of-factly.

You blinked at her. 

She looked entirely unbothered, maybe a little bit proud, as if it was just another one of her lessons. As if she did something like that for everyone, everyday. 

“Or that’s what it’s supposed to do,” Lilia rolled her eyes and swung her head to the side as she picked up her mug again, “but I’m certain I got it right.” 

Oh. Right. Of course. As if it was just another one of her lessons. Like a Christmas Day lesson. Like perhaps it was no big deal. Like maybe it wasn’t a true feat of magic, no matter how small the gem. Like protection wasn’t that hard. Like it wasn’t genuinely the kindest thing anyone had ever done for you. Ever. And like you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life, which you would, of course, cuz you’d hold the thing in your pocket, in your hand, you’d sew it into your skin, if it meant you wouldn’t lose it. 

Not that you could, you decided. No. You’d have it forever. You’d keep it until death, considering that’s what Lilia wanted. Your safety. Your protection. She went as far as to pick out a gem for you, went through the time of making it compact enough, smooth enough, and spent lord knows how long carving the symbol into its surface. Then continued to cast on it, doubling the chance of success, tripling the strength. For your protection. For your survival. Because she cared. Lilia Calderu cared. And you knew she did, so you weren’t sure why tears started to prick at your eyes, but it wasn’t like she noticed anyway.

She was too focused on her hemlock, admiring it still with a pleasant smile on her lips, and you watched her lick the hot chocolate from her mouth and put her mug down before you sprang into action. 

You hadn’t even realised that’s what you’d been waiting for, why you hesitated, but the second her hands were empty and you felt the warmth of her body press into your own, it made sense. That’s what you craved. That’s what you always missed. The subtle buzz in your body, calling as if it were without something, begging for a concept you knew nothing off, went quiet. Like a switch being turned off. Your hands tucked themselves beneath her arms and went winding up to her back, splaying out with the stone squished gently in between your left hand and her pyjamas. Of course that’s what you wanted. Lilia. Always Lilia. She still smelled so lovely, like the sweet perfume of your home and the lemon of her shampoo, and you shuddered as you felt a soft puff of breath along your neck. Jesus, you melted for her. Like ice in the sun. Like butter in a pan. Warm with love, with sunlight, and you felt as though you could soak her up forever. You could stay there, nearly collapsing at the feel of her arms running up to curl along the curve of your back, forever.

“Thank you Lilia,” you whispered into her ear, sounding shuddery and frail as those sweet hands patted you once, twice, so warm and so calming. Her arms squeezed gently, nonverbally returning the sentiment, and you felt weak. “Thank you…” 

A minute passed, then she shifted and pulled you a bit closer. 

“Merry Christmas, honey,” Lilia murmured, red lips so close to your skin you swore you could feel the brush of them. The pull of them. Like maybe she wanted them to be there. 

What a silly thought. 

“Merry Christmas, Madame Calderu,” you replied, just as softly, and grinned with joy as her shoulders began to jump with happy quiet laughter.

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The witch came back the very next day oh the witch came back...

Hi! Hello! Hi! Let me know what you all think? Did I get the characterization right? I have another part in mind for this, so if you like it and you show your love, you may have more Lilia Calderu coming your way. I really hope you're all doing well. - Yours, Ripley x

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[hyunjinsmuze]

under the moonlight

warnings: smut, car sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up)

contains: smut, a little angst, break up

summary: Sometimes the only thing that makes sense is giving in to the moment — even if it’s messy and complicated.

pairing: seungmin x reader

words: 3.8k

The first thing to go was the coffee.

It used to be simple — two mugs, one sweet, one not, sitting side by side on the kitchen counter while soft music played in the background. He’d kiss your shoulder while you stirred in creamer. You’d steal a sip from his cup and grimace at how bitter it was. He’d laugh and call you dramatic.

You don’t remember when the mugs stopped showing up together. Maybe it was the third night he didn’t come home until after you were asleep. Or maybe the way his shoulders seemed heavier, always hunched over his phone, eyes darting between screens and schedules and everything but you.

It wasn’t sudden.

But it still felt like whiplash.

Chan loved you once, that much you're sure of. It was in the way he used to hold you like you were the calm in his chaos. In the way he’d whisper “I missed you today” even when you’d only been gone an hour.

But lately, he barely looked up when you walked into the room.

And when he did, it was like he was seeing someone else.

You told yourself he was just tired. That being a leader meant late nights and early mornings and mountains on his back no one else could see. You told yourself not to be selfish. Not to ask for too much.

You waited. And waited.

Until you started realizing how quiet the apartment had gotten. How loud your loneliness became.

The boys still invited you over sometimes. Movie nights, dinners, birthdays but it felt different. Felt like you were there because you used to belong. Not because you still did.

Everyone noticed it.

But no one said anything.

Except Seungmin.

He didn’t say it outright — he never would. Chan was his hyung. His leader. His brother.

But his eyes always lingered on you a little longer when you smiled too tightly. He noticed when your fingers trembled as you tried to light the candles on Chan’s birthday cake. He always sat next to you on the couch. Always offered to drive you home. Always texted to ask if you’d eaten.

Once, after a night at the dorms when Chan had stayed locked in his room working, Seungmin had walked you out and paused at the front steps.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said gently.

You blinked at him, confused. “Pretend what?”

He’d shrugged. Looked away. “That you’re okay.”

You hadn’t said anything. Just nodded and left.

You were grateful, quietly, that he never brought it up again.

But he was right.

You weren’t okay.

And the weight of all the things left unsaid was starting to crack your ribs from the inside.

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

The apartment was too quiet again.

You stood in the living room holding a mug you hadn’t touched, the tea long cold, the steam long gone. Outside the window, the city blinked with soft orange lights, and you could hear a dog barking somewhere down the street. Domestic. Normal.

But you hadn’t felt normal in weeks.

The bedroom door creaked open. You heard his footsteps before you saw him, slow, heavy, careful. You didn’t turn around. Just waited until he passed the hallway corner, rubbing at his eyes, hair a messy halo of curls, laptop still open in one hand.

He froze when he saw you standing there.

“Oh,” Chan said, like he hadn’t expected you to still be up. “Didn’t know you were home.”

The words knocked the breath out of you.

You swallowed.

“Where else would I be?”

He didn’t answer. Just blinked and set the laptop on the table. His hoodie was inside-out. His voice was scratchy. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days.

You used to worry about that. Used to beg him to rest, to take care of himself.

Now you wondered if he’d even notice if you left.

You stared at him for a long second before speaking again. “We need to talk.”

That got his attention.

Chan’s brows furrowed, his expression shifting into something between guarded and exhausted. “Can it wait? I still have to—”

“No,” you said, too quickly. Too firmly. “It can’t.”

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, finally nodding.

You both sat at the edge of the couch like strangers. Your knees didn’t even brush.

The silence stretched thin between you, taut and ready to snap. You searched his face tired, older than you remembered, but still familiar. Still him. Still the man who once danced with you in the rain at 2 a.m. Still the man who used to write lyrics about your smile.

But also… not.

“Chan,” you said, trying to steady your voice. “Do you even love me anymore?”

It was a whisper. Fragile. Barely a sound.

But he heard it.

He went still.

His jaw clenched, his hands balling into slow fists in his lap. “Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t I feel it?”

The words cut sharper than you expected, and you watched as he winced, like he wasn’t prepared for how honest it was. Or maybe because he knew it was true.

He didn’t respond.

“I wait for you,” you continued, your throat closing. “I sit in this apartment and wait for you to come home. I pretend that it’s okay when you cancel dinner again. I try to act normal when the boys ask where you are, and I have to lie because I don’t even know anymore.”

Chan’s gaze dropped to the floor. “You know how busy it’s been. The comeback—”

“This isn’t about work,” you snapped, voice cracking. “I knew what I was getting into when I fell in love with you. I knew you’d be tired. I knew you’d be gone sometimes. But I didn’t think I’d feel so... forgotten.”

Silence.

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours.

And they were full of guilt.

Real, deep guilt. The kind that came too late.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.

That stopped you cold.

“I’m right?”

He nodded, voice barely a murmur. “I haven’t been there for you. I thought… I thought you understood. That it would be okay. That this was temporary.”

“How long is temporary supposed to be?”

Chan opened his mouth, then closed it again.

You blinked through the sting in your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not when you were trying so hard to hold your heart together with both hands.

“I miss you,” you said. “I miss us.”

Something in his expression shifted. Softer, sadder.

“I miss us too,” he admitted.

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one trying?”

It hung in the air like smoke. Like a fire that had already burned everything down.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I stopped knowing how.”

You felt something inside you crack.

That was it, wasn’t it?

He didn’t stop loving you.

He just stopped knowing how to show it.

And sometimes, that hurt worse.

You stood slowly, pacing toward the kitchen, just to move. Just to breathe.

“I don’t want to be the one holding this together alone,” you said. “I can’t be the only one fighting for us.”

“I didn’t mean to stop,” he whispered.

“But you did,” you replied, your back still to him. “And I think… maybe you don’t know how to come back.”

You turned, finally facing him again.

And his eyes — God, his eyes looked like they held a thousand apologies and still not a single fix.

“I don’t want this to be goodbye,” he said, voice breaking. “But I don’t know how to make it better anymore.”

You inhaled sharply, chest aching. “Then maybe we don’t try.”

He looked up at you like you’d just shattered his world.

And maybe you had.

Maybe you shattered your own, too.

“I’m saying maybe we stop trying,” you repeated, softer now. “Maybe we just… let go. Before it gets worse. Before we hate each other.”

You expected him to argue.

To beg. To promise things he’d already promised before.

But he didn’t.

Chan just nodded. Slowly. Hollowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe we should.”

A tear slid down your cheek before you even felt it.

And Chan — he didn’t wipe it away.

He used to.

He used to pull you into his chest and cradle your face and whisper “I’ve got you.”

Now he just sat there.

Watching you fall apart.

Maybe that was answer enough.

You grabbed your coat. Your bag. Your keys.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t even ask where you were going.

You paused in the doorway, turning one last time to look at him — Bang Chan, leader of Stray Kids, the boy who used to hold the moon in his eyes when he looked at you.

“I really loved you,” you said.

And he whispered, “I still do.”

But it was too late.

You left anyway.

And the door shut with the softest finality the kind that doesn’t echo, but lingers.

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

The door clicked shut with a soft finality as Chan walked into the studio. Seungmin looked up immediately, taking in the slouched shoulders, the unshaven jaw, and the way Chan avoided his eyes. His bag dropped with a dull thud beside the couch.

“Hyung?” Seungmin asked, cautiously.

Chan didn’t say anything.

He sat, rubbing his hands over his face. That’s when Seungmin noticed—his knuckles were red, raw even, like he’d punched something, or maybe tried not to.

“Did something happen?”

There was a long pause.

Then, barely audible, “We broke up.”

Seungmin blinked.

“What?”

Chan looked up. Eyes red-rimmed, watery, but stubbornly holding back more. “Me and Y/N. It’s over.”

Seungmin stared. For a moment, it didn’t register. The way Chan said it was flat, like he’d just ordered the wrong coffee or got a parking ticket—not like he’d lost someone who made him smile differently.

“…When?”

“Last night.”

“But…” Seungmin’s mind was still catching up. “I thought you were—” he stopped himself. Because the truth was, he hadn’t really thought they were okay. No one had. They just didn’t talk about it.

“She asked if I still loved her,” Chan said quietly. “And I hesitated.”

Seungmin's throat went dry. “Did you?”

Chan shook his head. “I didn’t know. So I told her we should break up. She said okay. That was it.”

That was it.

That was all?

Seungmin felt like the words punched a hole straight through him. The silence after hurt even worse.

“I gotta… get to practice,” Chan mumbled, standing up and brushing past him like he hadn’t just set a bomb down in the room.

Seungmin didn’t move for a long time.

He just sat there, staring at the floor, trying to figure out why his chest hurt more than it should’ve.

The next morning, his thumbs hovered over your name for ten minutes before he sent the message.

‘Is it true?’

You didn’t reply until two hours later.

‘Yeah. I guess.’

‘I’m sorry. Are you okay?’

‘I don’t know what I am.’

He stared at that last message for a while. Not knowing how to answer it.

You didn’t either. So neither of you said anything more that day.

But the next morning, he sent another message.

Just a link to a song.

‘this reminded me of you

(in the good way)’

And that was where it started again.

It was small things at first.

A song link. A meme. A picture of the sky on a walk.

Then your responses got longer.

You started asking questions again. You sent voice notes. You asked what he was eating. You sent blurry photos of your burnt food. You said you were lonely, even when people were around.

Seungmin was always answering.

Always showing up.

Always waiting when you didn’t know you needed someone to.

The first time you laughed again was because he told you a story about Felix falling asleep mid-squat at the gym.

The first time you saw him in person again was three days after that.

You didn’t tell anyone. He just showed up with your favorite coffee order and a bag of snacks “in case you hadn’t eaten properly.”

You hadn’t.

That day, you ended up sitting on your apartment floor for four hours, eating chips and talking about things that didn’t matter.

The next week, he asked if you wanted to go out.

“Something dumb,” he said. “Rollercoasters. Funnel cake. Let’s go scream until your heartbreak gets drowned out by teenagers.”

You rolled your eyes but said yes.

That day was a whirlwind.

You screamed so much your throat hurt. You laughed until your stomach ached. He won you a stuffed animal that looked like an aggressively pink bunny and made fun of your fear of ferris wheels until he realized you were seriously scared. Then he didn’t let go of your hand once.

When you stumbled out of the haunted house, breathless and clinging to him, you realized it was the first time in weeks your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You didn’t know what that meant.

You didn’t want to know what it meant.

He came over more often after that.

Sometimes for coffee. Sometimes for dinner. Sometimes to fix things you pretended were broken just to have him nearby.

You started calling him when the nights got too quiet.

You cooked together.

You spilled flour once and slipped on the tile and nearly took him down with you. You both ended up on the floor laughing so hard you cried. He wiped icing off your cheek. You stared at him a little too long.

Neither of you said anything.

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

One night, you were watching some dumb drama in his apartment.

The characters were mid-fight. The usual melodrama. Tears. Slamming doors. One of them leaving while the other just stood there, too afraid to chase.

“She’s gonna forgive him,” you muttered, arms crossed.

“She always does,” Seungmin said, unimpressed.

You frowned. “Would you?”

He looked at you. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“If they ever really showed up for her.” Your eyes lingered on his, only for a second before you snapped your head back to the screen.

Later that night, when the credits rolled, you stood to leave.

He walked you to the door, like always.

You hesitated with your hand on the handle. “Thanks again. For all of this.”

Seungmin leaned against the doorframe. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you said. “You didn’t have to be here.”

“I wanted to.”

The silence was thick. Not uncomfortable. But not easy either.

Then he spoke.

Quiet. Almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“If I had someone like you…” he looked up at you, eyes more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them, “…I wouldn’t forget how to love her.”

You froze.

Your breath hitched.

“…What did you just say?” you asked, your voice a whisper.

He shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Don’t— I shouldn’t have said that.”

You blinked. “Seungmin.”

“It’s not— it’s not what you think.”

You took a step back from the door.

“I think I should go,” you murmured.

He straightened, suddenly tense. “Wait. Don’t—don’t go like that.”

You turned, trying to smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Seungmin.”

The door clicked behind you.

He didn’t move for a long time.

He just stood there, back against the door, staring into the quiet.

You were gone.

And maybe he hadn’t lost you.

But maybe he’d shown too much too soon.

You walked home with your heart beating too loud in your ears.

You didn’t know what you felt.

You didn’t know if you were scared of what it meant, or scared that he meant it.

You weren’t ready.

But somehow, it felt like you were already falling.

And you weren’t sure who you were falling for yet.

Or if you could handle it again.

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

The car ride home is quiet.

We’d spent the afternoon walking through the Han riverside paths, watching the sunset bleed across the sky like a watercolour dream. It had been soft, gentle, like so many of our recent moments where nothing was said, but everything felt.

And now, the car hummed with the quiet tension of something unsaid.

The kind of quiet that isn’t uncomfortable — just full. Full of the things that haven’t been said yet.

Seungmin drums his fingers lightly on the steering wheel as he drives. His eyes flick toward you every now and then, subtle glances that don’t go unnoticed. He’s been more careful around you lately like he’s trying to stay close without stepping over a line that neither of you can define anymore.

You rest your head lightly against the window, the soft hum of the engine almost enough to lull you into forgetting. Almost.

But not quite.

Because your thoughts keep circling back to one thing — that night. What he said. What you felt. What you didn’t say back.

He pulls up outside your apartment, parking along the curb. You don’t move to get out yet.

And he doesn’t ask why.

A few seconds pass. Then, quietly, you ask, “What did you mean the other day?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand drops from the wheel, resting in his lap, fingers clenching slightly. “Please don’t,” he says softly, without looking at you. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You glance over. “Why not?”

“Because,” he breathes, “it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Your voice is almost a whisper. “But you did.”

Finally, he turns to face you. His eyes are darker now, conflicted. “You’d just gotten out of a relationship. I was supposed to be your friend. I am your friend.”

“And friends don’t feel the way you do?” you ask, testing the space between you. “Is that what you’re saying?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens slightly. His fingers curl into a fist.

And before he can say anything else — before you can stop yourself, you lean in and kiss him.

It’s soft. Brief. A question disguised as a kiss.

When you pull away, his eyes are still closed, his breathing a little unsteady.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” you admit. “What you said. About treating me better.”

His gaze meets yours, something raw flashing through it. “You don’t have to think about it,” he says, almost desperately. “You don’t owe me anything. I never wanted you to feel—”

You kiss him again.

This time, deeper. Slower. You press your lips to his with intention, with need. You feel the way he shudders under your touch, how his hand rises hesitantly to the side of your face, then pulls you closer like he can’t help it anymore.

The kiss turns heated not messy, not rushed, but full of the weight he’s been carrying for far too long.

When you pull away again, you don’t say anything. You just climb into the back seat.

And wait.

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then the soft sound of the driver’s side door opening, closing. Footsteps.

And the passenger door opens.

Seungmin steps into the back seat with you.

His lips are on yours before the door even closes. His hands find your waist, your thighs, his mouth trailing fire along your neck as your fingers tangle in his hair.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” he murmurs against your skin. “How many times I watched you with him and wished you were mine?”

You breathe his name — just his name and it’s enough to make him growl low under his breath.

His hands slide under your shirt, lifting it slowly, reverently, as if undressing you were something sacred. You feel every brush of his fingertips, every shiver of anticipation running through you.

He removed your shirt slowly, mumbling something about how beautiful and perfect you are. He pulled the straps of your bra down your arms, unclasping it at the back. His lips kissed and sucked at your collarbone before moving to the top of your breast, then your nipple, which he took into his mouth, sucking and licking.

“oh~ seungmin” you moaned pushing his head against yoh harder

“I can treat you better,” he whispers against you. “I will.”

He’s careful but desperate. Your clothes are shed piece by piece, every touch deliberate. He worships you with his mouth, his hands, his voice — the way he tells you you're beautiful, the way he touches you like you're something he's dreamed of for years.

And when you’re both bare, straddling him in the back seat, your breaths mingling, his heart pounding beneath your hands it feels like everything slows down.

he slides into you with ease the both of you moaning loudly, seungmin didn’t wait, he thrusted up, one hand on ur waist the other squeezing your ass.

“fuck- s’good…so tight” he moans biting at ur shoulder.

his pace picks up moving u up and down to meet his hard thrusts, your mind was a blur…your hands tangled in his hair moaning his name.

He looks up at you, his hands on your hips.

“I’m not going to forget this,” he says hoarsely. “Not this time.”

You kiss him again slow and aching whilst you move together.

The windows fog. The car rocks gently. His hands never stop touching you, guiding you, grounding you. He whispers your name like a prayer, again and again, as if saying it could make the moment last forever.

You don’t say much.

You just feel.

All the pain, all the loneliness, all the weight of being forgotten it fades under the way he holds you. The way he looks at you like you’ve always mattered. Like you still matter.

you couldn’t feel he was close his cock twitched inside you and his thrusts became weak…you were also close so, so close

“gonna cum” you cry out dropping your head to his shoulder.

“hmm me too baby” he looks up at you and that’s all it took for you to snap. you came undone harder than u ever have before his name was the only thing on your lips. and it wasn’t long untill you felt the hot ropes of his release fill you up.

After, the silence isn’t awkward.

It’s warm.

You're still straddling him, both of you a little breathless, chests rising and falling together. The air in the car is thick with heat, your bodies still tangled.

You’re facing him, skin to skin, and you whisper, “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We shouldn’t have.”

But neither of you moves.

“I don’t want to stop,” you say, softer this time.

He leans his forehead against yours. “Neither do I.”

A pause. Then, a quiet laugh from you. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

His mouth curves into a slow smile. “Yeah,” he breathes. “We’re not going to.”

You both laugh — the kind of laughter that feels like an exhale. Like release.

And outside, the night holds your secret.

[usagiarchive]

what is love? — jing yuan x reader (in the eyes of yanqing)

"Ooh, maybe someday, could it happen to me too? When will it be? Who will it be? I wanna know, know, know, know, what is love?" — TWICE

sypnosis. [ 0.4k words. fluff. family. ] — When asked on the question of love, Yanqing thinks of his parents.

“Mama, what is love?”

You turn your attention to the little boy snuggled into your side as you read him a Xianzhou fairytale.

“What do you think love is, honey?”

The kid pondered for a moment before answering, “You and Dad are love!”

The joy he displayed on his face melted your heart and you couldn't help but bundle him up in your arms.

“Really? How so?”

“Don't you and Dad love each other? Isn't that love?”

You smiled and laughed a little, “That's an action, sweetheart, we love each other, it's not really a meaning, sweet boy,”

He tilted his head at you like a seal, very confused.

“The meaning of love and being in love are two different things, honey,” you tell him, not knowing how to approach the subject of love with a four-year old child.

“Think of it this way, let's think of love as your swords, Swords and using your swords are two different things, right?”

The child blinks up at you, “Mama, I understand… but at the same time I don't…”

You laughed and gave him a kiss on his forehead, “I'll explain when you're older, but for now… bedtime!”

…

Yanqing doesn't remember the interaction now that he's grown older, but if he thinks about what love is for him, you'd find his answer the same.

Love for him, was you and his Dad.

In the way that you learned to love tea as he did, even if you didn't like it at all, detested it at first, all because he loves it and you love him.

In the way his Dad never let you do anything when he's around, during grocery runs he'd lift all the bags and just let you hold his hand, during your weekend dates, he'd never let you worry about anything.

In the way you'd immediately get a pillow and a blanket if you find him sleeping in the patio (and most of the time join him), because he always complains about the crick in his neck he always has when he wakes up.

In the way he'd never seen the two of you have a serious fight, not in front of him at least, or not long enough that he'd notice because the two of you resolved anything within minutes of talking.

In the way his Dad would always peel an orange for you to share, “A half for your Mom, a half for me”, even if you'd go for a second orange, half of it will always be the other’s.

So yeah, if ever you'd ask Yanqing what love is. His answer would be you and Dad.

And maybe… he thinks as he pictures a certain spitfire girl that burrowed her way into his heart, maybe he can find a love like that, too…

usagi's note: december has been so incredibly kind to me (aside from me breaking my foot and not getting sunday) it's actually been so nice, ive met more people in this app and people here are so supportive and nice! i think ill enjoy this more hehe, merry christmas guys :))

also guys how do you do the tiny text thing? im so interested and i kinda wanna try that type of format in my works.

@usagiarchive 2024. do not repost, translate, or use for AI.

[venmondiese]

KEEPING NEW YEAR'S TRADITIONS

PART TWO OF A NEW YEAR'S TRADITION

-ˋˏ| summary: As a new year comes by, you make sure your tradition of eating grapes keeps going. And Aemond's tradition as well.

✧ | Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x reader

✧ | word count: 3.8k

✧ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, pregnant sex, Aemond is obsessed with his wife.

✧ | notes: happy new year!! this comes as an unexpected part 2 (?) i know it's late but atp, i always post everything late ;(

Aemond was in a bad mood. He liked holidays, when he had the chance to be alone with you. And on this occasion, he was ‘forced’ to spend it with his family.  

New Year last year was something he enjoyed very much. He was alone with you, Vhagar and the fireworks that the Blackwater bay throwed every year. You went to bed fairly early and of course… your little traditions.

You’d eat grapes, he’d fuck you. To him, it was an amazing tradition. All over the year he was teasing you about it, how this year he’ll try another position, how he’ll rent a private yet to see the fireworks firsthand, how he’ll do so many things for…

Nothing.

Nothing, because he was stuck with his family. And that pissed him off. 

‘It might be the last year we spend the New Year with your father, you know how delicate his health is…’ his mother and his half sister would say over the phone, and he would roll his eye. Still, you were softer, kinder and more open to the idea. 

“We should go” You said one time, as he had come home late from his work and you served him tea and some leftovers of the lunch you prepared for yourself. 

“I see they contacted you…” he murmurs, drinking his tea. “I think that us spending the New Year here is perfect as it was…” 

“I know that it isn’t your favourite thing to spend Christmas with your family, but everyone is going to your father’s home. Your mother and her husband, your siblings… even Aegon” You add with a raise of eyebrows “And your half-sister too”

“You are just listing reasons not to go” 

“If it is your dad’s last year, I think we should go, Aemond…” you say, looking at him with those wide eyes of yours, you walk closer to him, standing by his side as you press a hand on his shoulder “He is really excited about the baby��” 

His eyes go to your pregnant belly, as he sighs, one of his hands going to rub his forehead, thinking about it. “All we will do is fight, you know” he mutters. “That’s all this damned family can do nowadays”

He presses his forehead on your belly, sighing slightly as he feels your hand moving to caress the back of his head. Aemond likes to speak with your belly, or resting close to it, or anything that has to do with the baby. You were all day, every day with the baby, but he wasn’t, so he tried to do everything he could to help and feel the baby before the arrival. 

“Fine” he murmurs, begrudgingly. “But we’ll leave early… and, and don’t fall for their excuses…” 

After all, he was a weak man for you. More so when you carried his baby, anything you desired for, he tried to make it happen. As crazy as your cravings were, he cooked them all. When you complained about the clock, he had to take it to Aegon’s apartment for the meantime.  When your body ached, he massaged it. And if you wanted to be with his father’s family for the New Year… he could manage, if you were with him.

That’s how he finds himself now. Sitting at the end of the large feast table of his father’s house, hearing his cough and the small talk the rest of his family did to each other. He was leaning back, one leg atop of the other as his arm rested on your chair by his side. You didn’t turn down good food such as this, and ate happily all of it.

“A toast” His father says, as he takes his glass.

As his father talked and talked, Aemond looked at you, holding your orange juice. He saw his glass, also with orange juice, in some kind of sympathy for your inability to drink. He wasn’t the greatest fan of drinking, sure, he would often drink whiskey, maybe some fancy wine from the reach, but never to the level of drunkenness (unlike Aegon) 

He caressed your back gently, eating his food little by little. 22:50. Seven gods, this would be eternal. He wanted to go home already, he chatted with his mum, with his father, and even exchanged a dry ‘hello and happy new year’ to his half-sister. It was enough. He ignored his nephews and chatted with you, and his siblings. 

He rubs his forehead as he hears Aegon talk about how it is a shame not to be able to drink, and whatever Aegon talked about, Aemond never listened long enough to know. 

“Well, I have developed a craving for orange juice” You say to Aegon. “Next to the apartment there is an old house, and it has a lemon tree, an apple tree and an orange tree. The old lady that lives there is lovely, and she always gives me natural fruit, more so since she saw my belly, she used to deliver all the babies in the street back in her age, so she always looks after me…. Doesn’t she, my love?”

Another thing he realised was that you were so chatty when pregnant. You tease him like hell, and talk about every little adventure of the day. Vhagar fell into the pool in her cat walking time, the food you made was extra delicious, you talked to the people of the store, anything. He didn’t complain, he was used to getting home and serving dinner as you chatted about your day.

“Yes, love. She does” he agrees eating his plate. 

“Not as good as you do…” you say in a teasing tone, and he has a slight smirk.

“Aye, true…” He says proud, kissing your cheek.

“Cheesy” Aegon says making a face, but he was slightly amused. 

“Shut up” Aemond mutters to him. 

Even if his family tries to stretch the dinner as long as possible until midnight, his father was already dozing up, probably due to his high doses of medication he had to take every day, and left him sleeping like a log. 

He gets annoyed since his mother is the one tending to him, even when she was his ex wife for at least one year now. It is ridiculous, and it bothers him for no reason at all. 

Sometimes he’d visit his father, with you always. You’ll go with a sweet treat and chat for a bit, and then you’ll go. He was content with that much, his father had good conversations when he was lucid and out of medication.

“Did you bring the grapes?” He asks softly, looking at you. You raise an eyebrow, amused as he remembers that, and he rolls his eye playfully. “We do have traditions”

“I did” you assure him, a playful smirk on your lips as well. “Grapes, not a condom” you add playfully.

“Luckily for us, you are already knocked up” he whispers, kissing your cheek. 

“Uncle Aemond” the little tug on his arm, let him know it was Maelor, trying to gain his attention, which meant he wanted to be holded on his arms. 

He spent half an hour entertaining his nephews, Jaehaera and Jaehaerys were making a play with their dolls for him to see, and you were so happy to entertain them that he kept making stories to impress both of you. Maelor was quick to fall asleep on Aemond’s arms, and by 23:40 the kids were already whiny and sleepy. 

You used to chat with Helaena about maternity tips, things she would have liked to know when she was a first time mother, and that you took note of it carefully. 

He is happy with his resolutions from last year. He proposed, and you were pregnant. It was bad timing of course, since you refused to have a wedding in your third trimester, so you waited. If it was for him, eloping was good enough, and he’ll have a great honeymoon with you. 

“Did your… wishes from last year were granted by your magical grapes?” Aemond asks as Helaena takes Maelor to cradle him in her arms. 

“Not like I intended, and certainly not all of ‘em, but the most important ones I’d say… yes” You say softly. “I wanted a new cat” you say playfully, and he roll his eye. 

“Isn’t Vhagar enough?”

“I think some cute fluffy company would make her less… grumpy” 

“A baby would be enough” Aemond says with a nod as he sees the time. 23:53. 

“A human baby is not the same as a baby kitten” You state with a nod. 

“We are not taking care of two babies at once, my love” he shakes his head. 

“I’ll eat two grapes for the baby cat then” you say stubbornly, moving to grab the bowl with the twelve grapes. 

His mother sits curiously by your side, and she looks at the grapes. 

“Oh, you eat grapes for the new year?”

“Yes, ma’am.” you say with a kind smile. 

“I see… it is really against the Gods…”

“Mum” Aemond says in a stern tone, not wanting her usual lecture. 

“It’s fine” You say, trying to calm everyone. 

“I am merely saying that it is superstitious” Alicent says, not taking an aggressive tone as she holds your hand. “Not trying to be mean”

“I know how…” Aemond starts saying, but you cut him, placing a hand on his thigh.

“It’s fine. I don’t take it that seriously anyways” You say.

“You have done it for three years” He reminds you, as he knew you did everything to please his mother, since she was a bit adamant about having kids out of wedlock. As if they were living in ancient times, he sighs and rolls his eye. “Can’t we speak of something more… cheerful?” 

You had no issues with being cheerful, talking about the baby, which delighted his mother as well. 

“Luke, Jace!” Rhaenyra calls for her eldest, as the clock strikes 23:58. Aemond also stands up and helps you do so, as his stepfather calls for his mother and everyone gathers around their little family. 

“You have to give me a kiss before swallowing those grapes” he says petulantly, his hand moving to hold your hip. 

“Fine” you say, rolling your eyes amused. 

He was still slightly annoyed by the fact that he couldn’t repeat the same shenanigans of last year, his new and very own ‘tradition’ with you. You teased him endlessly, but at the end gave him a consolation prize; you could leave early to the apartment and have all the sex he’d like there. 

“One last kiss before the year ends” Aemond says smugly, waiting for his kiss. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in superstitions–” 

“We have gone through this, give me the kiss”

You comply with his request for a last kiss, nothing too passionate and inappropriate as he would like, but it is one full of tenderness. He grew more tender and careful with you these last months, as your belly grew more and more. You often groaned and complained about how unnecessarily careful he was, but he still did it. 

“I love you” he murmurs against your lips.

“I do too” you answer him “And next year, we’ll be a family of three”

He nods, and then he smirks “Of four, with Vhagar.”

You were always quick with your comebacks “Five if you count the baby kitten”

“You are unbelie–”

He was cut with the greetings of ‘happy new year’, and he leans to steal a kiss from you, which has you giggling between the kisses. 

He has gotten into the swing of eating grapes by each second, even if they were a bit sour to his taste. He daren’t to ask when you had bought them, because they tasted a bit weird. Still, you ate the grapes in time and smiled proudly when finished. 

“Fourth year in a row” you say proudly, and lean to kiss him on the cheek as he swallows the remains of the grape.

“And happy New Year to you too”

You greeted his family by a kiss on the cheek, and a hug. He was less enthusiastic, but followed you around as if he was forced to do so. 

“Mum, the fireworks are starting soon?” Little Viserys asked Rhaenyra, to which she nodded. “Can we go?”

Aemond made sure to bring a chair along with him, and he placed it on the yard to make sure you were comfortable. He brings a fluffy blanket and something to drink if you need so. You roll your eyes as you walk to him, your hand on your belly. 

“Don’t you think it is too much…?” You murmur to him, yet you still sit there.

“Hey, this is the bare minimum. It’s freezing cold in here” he says looking around to where his family was forming. 

He goes to help his father walk, along with Jacaerys. Aemond doesn’t talk about it, as he simply quietly helps his father to sit in one of the other seats to see the fireworks.

You see his mother talk to him, telling something that Aemond doesn’t answer. He comes back to you after a while. To your questioning face, he murmurs.

“Wanted me to be nicer to him” he murmurs in your ear. 

“Asking for the impossible” you playfully say, to which he rolls his eyes. 

The fireworks are absolutely pretty. You always liked to see them explode in the sky. You wondered how Vhagar was doing; thankfully these were soundless with the explosion, so you imagine Vhagar must be sleeping in the baby’s crib as if she was the newborn. 

Aemond drinks his orange juice as if he was swallowing whisky, and you could see his grumpiness. You held his hand, pressing little kisses as he smiled faintly.

You understood him, even if he didn’t tell you a word about his true feelings. And thankfully, he understands you too.

The fireworks were nice, yet after ten minutes it grew boring. You stood up and held a hand to your belly.

“My belly aches” you say to Aemond, which has him in a hurry. 

“What? What?” He asks, a bit stressed. “Is the—”

“No, it is just a tummy ache” you stop him. 

“It was the grapes,” he says, realizing it. “They were sour and…”

“I’ll just go to bed” you say to him, and your mother in law walks to you. 

“I could make you tea, darling; the fireworks aren’t over and…” 

“I’m fine. I’ll go lay down” you say not wanting to worry anyone “In Aemond’s old room…” you say with a smirk to him.

“Ah, yes, my sanctuary” he says, rolling his eye, but holding your arm to help you walk. He was paler and worried, but your chuckle soothed him.

As he helped you upstairs, you can still hear the sounds of fireworks, as you enter his room. It was obviously cleaned so it could be used tonight, but it still looks rather empty.

“You don’t want to throw up, do you?” He asks to help you sit.

“No.” you say calmly. “I don’t feel that bad, come on. Sit” you say instead.

“What are you–” he says, not understanding, sitting by your side. 

“Oh. Come on. Your tradition?” You ask with a smile. 

He raises his eyebrows as he blinks a bit unsure what this all means.

“Would you please lay back?” You ask sweetly, helping him to lay with a pillow on his head. 

“Unbelievable” he murmurs amused, his lips curling into a smirk. “And what will you do to me, eh?”

“I believe we promised some riding” you say moving your hair to the side as you smile, your hands going to his trousers to unzip them and pulling his cock, that was hardening with interest to your every word. 

His hand caresses your shoulder and then falls to your arm, cherishing your skin as he looks at you lying. “You are dirty” he accuses

“And you love it” you defend yourself sticking your tongue out to him. 

The way your dress clings to your body, accentuating the swell of your belly, ignites a hunger within him. He picked this one too, it was large and of colour cream. It was a simple, flexible fabric and you grew to love the clothes that could stretch. 

You lean to kiss him, and he makes sure to prove himself to be tender with you. He holds the small of your back as he kisses you softly.

“You are perfect” he murmurs, smiling. “How did you know I wanted–?”

“I know you like the palm of my hand” you say, caressing his cock up and down, as you talk gently to him “and I know when you are pissed. We can’t have you exploding with your family, can we?” You ask smiling “I need to keep my man in line”

Aemond chuckles, as you pull your dress up and kick your flat shoes away. 

“Ah, and you will do so by… riding me?” He is amused, and really, really, really interested. “Might as well spend all my days grumpy” he says smirking as you move your legs to straddle him carefully. Your huge belly was an obstacle after all. 

“Just shush. This year is my turn” 

He is painfully hard, as he lies back, enjoying the sight and he has that smirk that nothing will wipe it off. For a moment, he prays that no one in his family comes in to check on them. He doesn’t find the strength to stand up and lock the door, not when you are on his lap with your happy smile. 

Aemond moves his hand to caress your naked thighs, and he has a happy smile. 

“I told you, I like this new tradition” 

“Well, it is a tradition. It must be done” you say as if you were resigned to that fate. 

“Who are we to question that?” He asks, smiling. 

As you move slightly to pull off your panties, he sees the small reflection of the fireworks on the wall. 

“I thought that had finished” you say softly. 

“The neighbours throw their own for at least half an hour.” Aemond says with a lightened mood, since he would have rolled his eyes before.

You two kiss for some more, as he holds you still. Lately, since you weren’t exactly flexible as before, you did less exotic and risqué sexual positions and more casual ones. And Aemond spent hours and hours with his lips pressed against yours, kissing you, and murmuring sweet nothings.  

As you try your best to lower yourself onto his cock, he is patient. He is horny as hell, but he lets you take your time. 

“To be clear we are never fucking in your family’s houses anymore” you say and he has to let a little laugh out. 

“Alright” he says. 

You lower yourself in his cock, not minding a rubber since you didn’t need one, a fact that he loves. He hisses slightly in pleasure, his hands going to grip your hips as he tries his best not to moan loudly. 

“Fuck, my love, you always feel great” Aemond growls, as you move your hips forwards and back, grinding on his cock naturally. The sensation is exquisite, and he thinks he is going insane. 

You ride him at your rhythm, he could (and definitely) wants to buck his hips in synchronizing your small jumps on his cock, which feels like a delicious grip that he never tires of. The obscene sound of skin slapping against the skin is faint, but not less obscene. 

He hated to be intimate in other houses, much when other people were around. Growing around Aegon made it impossible for him to find any attractiveness to it, and much more, he finds it a lack of respect. But tonight he was indulging into something he always criticized about Aegon, and he obviously plans to put the fault on you. 

“Mhm, I love it” you murmur as you grind your hips against him, making sure to get that delicious feeling of his cock.

He grips on your thighs, wanting to pull you closer and have some hold as he tries to move his hips to the rhythm. He always loves how your hips wiggles as you take his cock, when you still adjust to his size as you take it. 

He never thought he’d love your pregnant body that much, seeing your stomach full with the baby. He doesn’t even think he wants to see your stomach empty from now on.

He hears your little moans, trying to hold yourself and your sounds. He wishes you had stayed home, in your apartment and in your bed, being as loud as you wanted. He hated to see you reprieve yourself. 

“You look so beautiful” he praises you, he couldn’t even reprieve his own thrust ups, as his hips insistently. 

“A-Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck” you mutter, the word rolling from your lips naturally. You had banned any bad words in the house, for the baby. Not even damn. Nothing. But now you were chanting a big one as you jumped on his cock.

He grunts, his hips bucking up as he leans his head back. Thankfully his bed doesn’t creak, because someone could walk in and he would be caught left handed.

“You feel exquisite, sweet thing” he mutters, biting his lip. 

He would love to sit up, kiss your clavicle and kiss your breasts. But your belly was in between them, but he won’t complain. 

Your little whimpers, as hurried as you two were, helped him in his pleasure. He needed to come so bad, and he wants you to come first as his fingers go to rub your clit, making you moan loud as he feels your walls clench around his cock. 

As you cum, he groans back, trying not to be loud as he mutters curses, his eyes rolling back as he leans back on the bed, his head falling on the mattress as he fills you up. 

You lay on his side, opening his window slightly and accommodating your clothes. You pant, looking at the ceiling with worn out stickers of stars giving dim shining in the dark from his childhood. It is quite cute.

“Pregnant or not, you are still insatiable” he mutters somewhat amused, getting himself together to go down and pretend everything is well. His mother probably would be worried and come to care for you once his father goes to bed, if she only knew there was no ache at all. 

“Next year we’ll do some casual missionary, I swear” you say playfully. 

“If the baby lets us sleep” he jokes, smirking to you, nuzzling your neck and pressing a kiss on your cheek.

You smile at the prospect of next year, having your baby in your and Aemond by your side. And hopefully, a second kitten.

[clarkeysbedchem]

whatever happens, i’m letting it | part four

previous part | next part

will lenney x fem reader

summary: will falls for chris’ new assistant

masterlist | main masterlist

notification !

new message from christopher 🤓

chris: we’re going skiing

you: ooo sorry not sure my boss will approve of my holiday

chris: stfu you prat

you: right. i quit.

chris: okay bye

you: thats crazy work actually christopher

chris: are you coming skiing or not?

you: who else is going?

chris: bach, arthur, george, chip, liv, flo, and sabina

you: yay okay, sure i’ll come

chris: oh and wil 😁

you: nvm im not coming

chris: too late i’ve already booked everything

you: wanker

yourusername added a post

tagged: sabinablair_, livvydimartino | italianbach, georgeclarkeey | willne | arthurtv | glambyflo, livvydimartino | theburntchip | chrismd10

yourusername pov: youre a worldclass skier 🤟🏻

load more comments

sabinablair_ im genuinely terrified for your life

┃ yourusername atleast its a good story of how i died

┃ georgeclarkeey yeah being killed bc you and will can’t ski for shit

┃ willne dont lump me with this pillock

┃ yourusername i dont want to be associated with him

userone i wonder how much convincing chris needed for the last photo

┃ yourusername none, it was his idea

┃ chrismd10 you lie

georgeclarkeey if you fall one more time im not helping you

┃ yourusername you were my last hope 😔

┃ usertwo SHIPPPP

chrismd are you still gonna work for me after this? 😅

┃ yourusername maybe with some compensation

userthree this is looking like a couples holiday bach+liv, sabina+chip, arthur+flo, george+chris does this mean will and y/n??

┃ userone youre delusional

The lodge you were all staying in had fallen into a heavy silence, the kind that only comes in the dead of night. Everyone else had retreated to their rooms, now wrapped in sleep. The only sounds left were the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls and the soft, steady crackle of the fire burning the hearth.

You sat curled up on the couch in front of it, the warm orange glow flickering over your face. The faint scratch of a page turning was the only other sound in the room. You sipped at the tea cradled in your hands, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

It was at least 3 a.m., but you were wide awake.

You never could sleep properly whenever you were away from home. Something about unfamiliar walls and beds always left you restless, and this had become your ritual - sitting alone in the quiet while the others caught up on well-earned rest.

The sudden creak of the stairs broke the stillness, pulling you from your calm. Your head snapped up. Will.

He emerged from the shadows, hair a little messy, eyes half-lidded, and voice still gravelly with sleep. “Why’re you awake?” he asked, and the simple sound of his voice sent a jolt through your chest.

You chewed at the inside of your cheek as he stepped around the sofa to face you. “Couldn’t sleep,” you admitted softly.

He tilted his head, his tousled hair flopping with the motion, and gestured for you to scoot over. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged, shifting to the side as he sat down and pulled part of your blanket over his legs. “I can never sleep when I’m not at home.”

Will leaned back, arms folding behind his head. The movement tugged his t-shirt up slightly, exposing the faint line of muscle at his waist. You noticed it before you could stop yourself, your eyes snapping quickly back to the book and mug in your lap, cheeks growing warm.

“Why are you down here?” you asked, tracing your finger idly around the rim of your mug to distract yourself.

“Just came to check on ya.”

Your head lifted at that, brows furrowing slightly.

“You think I haven’t noticed you’re always the last one to sleep and the first one up?”

You gave a quiet laugh, “Didn’t think you noticed anything about me, to be honest. Thought you could barely tolerate me.”

Will looked over at you, his expression unreadable in the low firelight. “I notice more than you think, love.”

The nickname made your breath catch. You were suddenly thankful for the shadows of the room, because your face was definitely giving you away.

“Oh.”

He hummed and shifted lower on the couch, slouching until he looked completely at home there. “Is there anything that helps you sleep?”

You shrugged again. “I’ve tried everything except medication.”

Will nodded slowly, then - without warning - reached for the book and mug in your lap, setting them on the coffee table, ignoring your quiet protest.

“C’mere.”

Your brows drew together in confusion, but before you could say anything, he rolled his eyes and gently pulled you into his side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“I don’t-”

“Be quiet, will ya.”

You gave in with a sigh, letting your head fall against his chest. The rhythm of his breathing, steady and even, filled the silence. You could hear his heartbeat, feel the warmth of him beside you. His thumb traced gentle, almost unnoticeable shapes along your arm, his touch featherlight and soothing.

Your eyes fluttered shut before you could stop them.

“You can go to sleep,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. His chin rested softly atop your head. “I’ve got you.”

And for some reason, you believed him.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep, not really. You were only going to rest your eyes for a second - just let your muscles relax into the warmth of the fire, into the way Will’s arm held you like he’d done it before, like it was second nature.

It was easy to let go.

The feeling of his hand tracing slow shapes into your arm, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the low, steady sound of his breathing - it pulled you in like a lullaby.

You didn’t know how long you'd been asleep when your eyes cracked open again. The fire had burned lower now, glowing with just enough light to paint everything in gold and shadow. Will was still there, still holding you, his body slack with sleep. His head had tilted slightly to the side, lips parted, a strand of hair falling over his forehead.

Your breath caught in your throat again - not from surprise, but from something else. Something heavier. Softer.

He looked younger like this. Calmer. Like the weight he usually carried had slipped off his shoulders just long enough to let him rest.

Your gaze dropped to where your hand had ended up - resting gently on his chest, right over his heart. You should’ve moved it, should’ve pulled away, but you didn’t. Something about this moment felt… fragile. Like any movement would shatter it.

Will stirred then, shifting slightly. His arm instinctively pulled you closer, like his body registered your presence before his mind caught up.

“You still awake?” he murmured, voice raspy with sleep, barely above a whisper.

You nodded against him. “Yeah. Barely.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathed. You wondered if he could feel your heart racing, wondered if his was doing the same.

“I used to hate nights like this,” he said eventually. “Could never sleep either. Too quiet. Too much to think about.”

You stayed still, listening.

“But this…” he paused, his thumb brushing up and down your arm, slower now, more deliberate. “This is nice.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “You mean being stuck on a lumpy couch with someone stealing your blanket?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Exactly that, yeah.”

There was a comfortable pause after that. No pressure to speak. No need to explain. Just the soft creak of the old lodge settling around you, the fading fire, the quiet rhythm of breathing in sync.

“I meant it earlier,” Will said suddenly, more awake now. “I notice things. I notice you.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. His eyes were open now, locked on yours. There was something steady in them - no teasing, no sarcasm. Just truth.

Your throat felt tight. “Then why do act like I don’t exist – and when you do it’s like I’m the worst person to ever step foot on earth. Why didn’t you just say something?”

He gave you a look - gentle, a little unsure. “Would you have believed me?”

You didn’t answer. Because maybe you wouldn’t have. Not when you were so caught up in overthinking every glance, every word, every moment where it felt like something was there.

You couldn’t find the words to reply to him, moving your eyes from his and down to the hand that was splayed over his chest rising with the rhythm of his breath. Every inch of you wanted to pull away from the contact but you couldn’t.

Will’s fingers found yours, curling around them without thinking. “You don’t have to say anything,”

You nodded slowly, your fingers tightening slightly in his. “Okay.”

You wanted to say so much more - but for now, the quiet between you felt enough.

No bickering, no challenges, just silence.

Eventually, your head dropped back onto his chest, your eyelids heavier than before. Will’s arm stayed wrapped around you, holding you close like a secret.

Neither of you said another word.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you might actually sleep.

“Will you twats be quiet?”

Will’s groggy, annoyed voice cut through the haze of sleep, echoing through your ears and pulling you back into consciousness. His voice, though irritated, still carried that familiar warmth beneath it - like it took effort to sound properly annoyed.

You stilled.

There was a hand resting on your hip. A thumb tracing absent-minded shapes into the fabric of your shirt. Small, lazy movements that sent a quiet warmth up your spine.

You let out a slow, silent yawn, stretching your legs slightly, trying not to move too much -but it was too late.

Will cursed under his breath, just softly enough for only you to hear, and you opened your eyes to find his already on you. His gaze was soft, half-lidded with sleep but undeniably tender.

The fire from last night had gone out, leaving the room lit by pale morning light that spilled through the wide lodge windows. In it, Will looked unfairly good – his face lit in a way that made him seem otherwordly

“Sorry,” you whispered, your voice still hoarse from sleep.

You shifted back quickly, putting a little more distance between the two of you than either of you really wanted. In your rush, you didn’t notice the way his expression faltered, the flicker of disappointment that passed over his features.

The shift in warmth - the sudden absence of contact - left something hollow behind.

But then you felt it: eyes. The kind of sensation that meant you were being watched.

You turned your head toward the kitchen, where a group of your friends stood, frozen mid-movement. Toast halfway to mouths, coffee cups paused, eyes wide.

George and Bach looked mildly amused. Chris and Television had a knowing smirk. And Chip looked like he had far too many questions he was dying to ask. While the girls looked as though they were gonna burst with a plethora of emotions.

Your stomach dropped.

The colour drained from your face as heat flooded your cheeks. Whatever soft, delicate bubble you and Will had existed in overnight had burst the second the rest of the world woke up.

Without saying another word, you pushed yourself up from the sofa, quickly bolting for the stairs, the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

Behind you, Will sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his messy hair, lips parting like he wanted to call after you - but he didn’t.

Instead, he just watched you disappear up the stairs, still clinging to the spot you'd left behind.

You shut your bedroom door with a quiet click, leaning your back against it for a second as you pressed your palms into your face. Your cheeks were still warm, heart racing from the way everyone had seen. From the way Will had looked at you like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

You weren’t sure what rattled you more - the intimacy of waking up like that, or the fact that it had felt so normal.

The moment was clinging to your skin like static.

You let out a slow breath and turned toward your bag to start getting ready when you heard the creak of the floorboards outside the door.

A knock came - soft but intentional. Followed by the familiar sound of Liv’s voice.

“Open up. We saw, don’t bother pretending.”

You groaned quietly, but there was no real fight behind it. You cracked the door and saw the three of them standing there: Liv, arms crossed with a knowing glint in her eye; Sabina, barely holding in a grin; and Flo, clutching her mug of tea like she’d just come from witnessing a soap drama and needed the tea to cope.

You sighed and stepped aside, letting them in without a word.

They all flooded in with quiet laughter and whispered gasps like they were sneaking into forbidden territory. Flo dropped onto the edge of the bed, Sabina leaned against the desk, and Liv closed the door behind her with a smug little click.

“You slept on the sofa with Will?” Liv started, her voice hushed but clearly filled with barely-contained excitement.

Sabina tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “And not just slept - slept slept. Like spooning? We all saw the hand placement.”

“Guys,” you muttered, covering your face again with a groan, “please, I’m already dying of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Secondhand?” Flo asked, raising a brow. “Babes, you were the source.”

You flopped onto the bed beside her, dragging a pillow over your face as they all laughed softly around you.

Liv nudged the pillow. “Okay, but seriously… are you going to pretend there’s nothing there?”

You peeked out, your voice quiet. “It wasn’t planned.”

Flo nodded gently. “Didn’t look like it. Looked… natural.”

That word made your stomach flutter. Natural. That’s exactly what it felt like.

You sat up slowly, fingers knotting together in your lap. “I didn’t even realise I’d fallen asleep. One minute he was telling me I could, and the next…” You trailed off, unsure how to even explain the way it felt. The way Will had held you. The way he hadn’t hesitated. Like you belonged there.

Sabina gave you a soft smile, her voice gentler now. “And when you woke up?”

Your throat tightened. “He was already looking at me.”

They all went quiet for a second.

Flo set her mug down. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

You looked at her like she’d asked you to solve world peace. “What can I do? I ran out of the room like an idiot.”

“You panicked,” Liv said simply, brushing her hand against your arm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sabina tilted her head. “But maybe don’t run next time, yeah?”

You nodded slowly, chewing the inside of your cheek. The image of Will’s sleepy face, the warmth of his chest, the way his thumb had never stopped drawing shapes against your arm - it all came rushing back.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. “But it’s driving me insane.”

Flo smiled. “Then talk to him about it.”

There was a beat of silence. Just the sound of the wind brushing softly against the windows, and the distant hum of voices downstairs. Then Liv stood, smoothing down her hoodie with a sigh.

“Alright, lovebirds. Let’s get ready before someone else accuses us of being dramatic.”

“We are dramatic,” Sabina shot back, and you couldn’t help but laugh, your nerves softening under their familiar chaos.

But even as they joked, your thoughts lingered in the quiet corners of that morning.

And in the space beside you that still felt a little too empty.

[luveline]

i was thinking about roommate!spencer going home after a week off working on a case and finding reader sleeping on the couch waiting for him to get home

Spencer cringes as his nails scratch the paint around the doorknob. He’s a tepid mixture of tired and sad, demotivated from another bad case, the subway home, the too many steps to the apartment. He hopes the BAU has better pay after his probation is over. He’d get a new apartment, fix up his shitty old car, maybe even get a haircut. 

For now, it’s just him, his tired feet, the threadbare couch, and you. 

You’re snoring with your face crushed to the armrest, hand tucked under your chest. You’ve started sitting and ended twisted to one side. Your back will ache when you wake up, but you’re blissfully unaware of it while you sleep. Spencer has half a mind to let you sleep undisturbed. 

He steps over your book of crosswords on the floor and the pencil waiting beside it, bending over to pat your arm. When that doesn’t rouse you, he grabs your shoulder, about to shake you awake when you sigh in your sleep, a simple, sugary sound that sends heat to his cheeks instantaneously. You’re often innocuously lovely, at least in his eyes. 

Spencer frowns and goes to make you a glass of sweet tea to wake up to. He’s secretly hoping you’ll wake up before he returns, but you’re still snoring, your face crushed, pressure on your neck. 

He wonders if you sleep on the couch often. He’s never caught you sleeping in the living room when he’s home, but this is the third time now he’s texted you that he’s coming back and walked in to find you waiting…

Are you waiting for him? 

Spencer can profile you. It doesn’t feel right, he tries not to be invasive, but he can work this out. It’s his job. 

First, the text you sent that read, Can’t wait for you to come home, I’m making chicken noodle soup for us 

Neither indicative nor exclusionary of his theory. You could mean can’t wait as the metaphor it tends to be. 

Your crossword book. Upon further inspection, he realises the pages are bent on one side, and the tent of it has landed where your hand curls toward your chest. Alright, it fell. You stayed up until you were so tired you dropped your book. 

But… you could’ve been watching TV. He turns to analyse the TV set. The standby light turns orange when it’s been left on for eight hours at a time, and you and Spencer are kind of broke, so you don’t leave anything running on purpose. You’ve never fallen asleep watching TV while he was home— 

All these reasons. 

He could just ask. He turns back to you with lips already parted, prepared to try again to wake you and slip it in casually, Shit, you weren’t waiting for me, were you? 

You’re already awake. 

Tired, you smile at him like you’re not surprised he’s kneeling at the foot of your seat. Like you’re glad he’s home. “Spencer,” you say, voice etched with the last dregs of sleep as you turn onto your side completely, giving a little wince at the stretch. 

“Hey, you okay? Why are you sleeping on the couch again?” 

You roll your eyes for what he’s not sure and reach down blindly for the crossword book by his knee, your fingertips brushing his thigh and leaving lightness in their wake. “I'm glad you’re home. Need your help, m’stuck on my puzzle.” 

“That’s what you’re sleeping here for?” 

“What?” Your eyes slip closed and then flutter open. “Mm, no, was just waiting for you to get home. How was Santa Monica?” 

Spencer has to force himself to answer around the pretzel of nerves tied in his throat, because it’s what he’d wanted, but he wasn’t ready. “It was great! I mean– I mean, it was awful, and three people died and–” He breathes in wrong. “It was fine.” 

You curl your book on the right page, blinking heavily at an unsolved row. “Oh, good. Um. Okay, ‘to carry a torch for someone’. Eight letters, not obsessed. Doesn’t fit.” 

Spencer traces the soft shudder of your lashes where they’re desperate to kiss the skin below your eye. “Besotted,” he says quietly. 

You gasp happily. “Besotted. Perfect! I missed you, genius, you always know the answer.”

He hands you your fallen pencil. “I missed you, too.” 

[norrisradio]

SOMETHING TO LOSE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "Watch the world from the sidelines / Had nothing to prove / 'Til you came into my life / Gave me something to lose" - Phoebe Bridgers, Sidelines

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x f!reader | ᝰ WC: 1.5K ᝰ GENRE: established (secret) relationship, reader is an F1 Academy driver ᝰ WARNINGS: car crash, mentions of injuries (i swear everyone is okay) ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this has been dying in my wips for close to three weeks now. i'm still not entirely happy with it bc i fear i may have lost the plot but! when lando wins in monaco, you finish writing the fic (disclaimer: this was locked and loaded pre-race) ꨄ requested by @piastriprincess ! MWAH lily I hope you like this and I'm sorry it took so long <333

Lando Norris has never been one to sit still – especially not when something, or someone, starts to matter.

He’s always been motion. Quick hands. Quicker mouth. Jokes on standby, pace in reserve. He thrives in the blur of it all: the champagne spray, the scent of hot tires and hotter pressure. But not that day. Not the day he first saw you. 

You were plastered to the back wall of a McLaren media mixer, looking like you’d rather be at the dentist’s office than under the buzz of fluorescent lights and clinking glasses. Rookie year in F1 Academy, fresh out of British F4, a rising star in a room full of planets. You still walked like your racing boots didn’t quite belong on marble floors. You hadn’t said much – until you did. 

And once you did, Lando couldn’t stop listening. 

He’d wandered over to Andrea mid-joke, only to do a cartoonish double take when you said something dry and sharp that made even the famously stone-face team principal snort into his drink. 

You caught him looking. He smiled, eyes bright. You didn’t smile back. Not right away. 

But then you did.

And that was that. 

The first time he showed up at one of your races, no one questioned it. The golden boy of McLaren at a junior formula race? No brainer. “Just supporting the sport,” he’d said, offering a shrug and a picture-perfect grin. But his hands fidgeted with the corner of his pass as you climbed into the car. 

He;d planned to stay for a few laps. Maybe post a story. Instead, he stood trackside until the final lap, heart in his throat, as you surged from midfield like a firestorm and snatche P1 with a bold dive on the inside. 

When he saw you later – sweaty, grinning, champagne-soaked – he caught your wrist just before you disappeared into a sea of orange. 

“Congrats,” he said, then leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make me look bad in front of Oscar again.” 

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers stayed tangled with his. 

No one really knew. 

There were whispers, of course. A blurry photo snapped through a fence in Jeddah: two figures walking side by side behind the hospitality units, her head tipped back in laughter, his hand brushing hers for a heartbeat too long. A clip from a fan vlog in Zandvoort: you ducking into the McLaren motorhome during lunch and emerging fifteen minutes later with your race suit half peeled and your hair different – mussed, somehow, like someone had run their fingers through it. 

Twitter and Reddit and TikTok all had their theories, but that’s all it really was. Speculation, mostly. Nothing confirmed. Nothing with teeth. 

Oscar knew, obviously. 

He gave you a slow, pointed once-over every race morning you turned up yawning and pink-lipped, Lando not far behind, hoodie half zipped and smirking. 

“Sleep well?” he’d ask, deadpan. “Like a rock,” you’d shoot back, not even looking up from your phone. 

The grin Lando tried to bite back would always give you both away. 

Oscar would sigh, sip his tea, and mutter something about undignified behavior before 9AM before disappearing into the garage. 

In Singapore, Lando showed up to the garage with a blooming mark just under his ear, shaped like a bite. 

The PR team nearly passed out. 

He didn’t blink. 

You’d warned him in the back hallway. Low voice. Sharp nails pressing into the thin cotton of his race tee. 

“I will call your mother,” you hissed, eyes narrowed. “Please do,” he said, with that stupid, crooked grin he reserved only for you. “She’s been meaning to catch up with you.” 

You shoved him against the wall. He kissed you stupid anyway. 

The secrecy was half the thrill. The glances across garages, the messages that vanished like smoke, the way he’d text you a single orange heart after a podium. 

The secrecy wasn’t about shame, or hiding. It was about keeping, holding. You weren’t his for the internet. You were his in the quiet. His in the stolen hours. 

And then– Miami. 

You’re on the back half of the grid, a downside of an epic qualifying. “You’ll carve through them,” Lando had murmured into your shoulder that morning, the sheets still tangled around your legs. 

“You better watch,” you warned, grinning into his neck. “I always do,” he replied, voice low, hands gentle. 

He should’ve been preparing for his own qualifying. Instead, he’s trackside again, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, chewing his lip raw as your formation lap begins. 

Lap 5. 

Chambers doesn’t brake. You don’t have time. 

It happens in the blink of an eye – a flash of carbon fiber, the ugly crunch of contact, your car spun out into the gravel like a paper plane. The garage goes silent. Lando stops breathing. 

The screen doesn’t switch angles. The marshalls run. A puff of smoke billows upwards. Your car stays quiet. Still. 

Landos’s fingers curl tight around the fabric of his hoodie, strangling the MCL logo. 

And then–

Your voice. Faint, garbled. But yours. 

“I’m okay. That-uh. That hurt like a bitch. But I’m okay.” 

He chokes on air, clutching the table to make sure his legs don’t give out. 

Will glances over at him, reads everything in Lando’s pale face, and throws him a subtle thumbs up. It’s enough to keep him upright. Barely. 

He almost doesn’t make it to Q3. 

Will’s screaming something in his ear, – “Head down Lando, PUSH!” – but all Lando can think about is the moment your head hit the headrest. The static in your voice. The way your car didn’t move for four whole seconds. 

You’re already in the hotel room by the time he gets there. He doesn’t bother knocking – the door opens before his knuckles can touch the smooth wood. 

You’re standing on the other side of the threshold like you’ve been waiting. One hand on the knob, the other at your side. Like you know, somehow, that he needs this. That he’ll come apart if you make him wait one more second. 

There’s a bruise blooming across your elbow, faint enough to miss from a distance. Your hair is damp. You’re wearing one of his shirts. It hangs off your frame, soft and lived-in and safe. 

And your eyes – tired. But gentle. 

“I’m okay,” you say, and your voice is soft. Honest. 

You are okay. But he’s not. 

He steps into you before the door even finishes swinging shut. Arms wrap around your waist too tightly, his hands clinging like he doesn’t trust you to stay upright. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and breaths, really breathes, like its the first clean inhale since you went spinning across that track. 

A sound claws up his throat: half-sob, half-breath, raw and wrecked. “I thought-” his voice breaks. “God, I thought-” 

The rest won’t come out. The image is too fresh, too sharp: your car turned sideways, gravel flying, comms gone silent. 

You don’t tell him it’s alright. You don’t tell him he’s being dramatic. You just hold him, gently carding your fingers through his curls. 

He kisses you like it’s the only thing he remembers how to do –  lips brushing your temple, your jaw, the line of your throat, your wrist. Each one is a question he doesn’t dare ask aloud: Are you still here? Are you real? Are you mine? 

“Be more careful,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, voice hoarse. 

His eyes are red. His lashes are wet. 

“I know,” you murmur, thumb brushing his cheek. “I know.” 

That night, he curls around you like a question he’s too afraid to answer – one arm locked around your waist, the other wound beneath you, clutching at the fabric of your shirt. His face presses against your back. He counts every breath you take. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not for him. 

But he says like that til morning anyway, holding you until his arms fall asleep. Because now, he knows what it feels like to imagine a world without you in it. 

And he won’t let himself forget. Not so he can worry – but so he can make damn sure he never takes you for granted again. 

When the morning light begins to slip through the curtains, you roll over slowly, still aching but alive. You blink at him through sleep-hazy eyes. 

“Hi,” you whisper, voice rough from sleep. “Happy race day.” 

Lando smiles for the first time in what feels like years – a real one, lazy and boyish. Relief softens him, round sout the sharp edges of his fear. 

“Hi,” he breathes. 

“I’m starving,” you mumble. 

He huffs a laugh, presses a kiss to your forehead. “Waffles and cartoons before I head out?”

You nod against the pillow, blow him a kiss as he stumbles out of bed for the room service menu. 

And just like that, the weight begins to lift. Not all at once. Not completely. But enough. 

Enough to believe that the world is still turning. 

Enough to believe you’re still his, still within reach. 

[wolvietxt]

💭 thinking about…

𝗅𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇!

pairing : logan howlett x fem!reader warnings : hurt / comfort, crying reader, awkward logan, age gap, mentions of jean + scott, perspective shifts, sunshine x grumpy, implied mutant!reader wc : 1.4k

it’s late afternoon, and the sky is streaked with shades of orange and pink. you’re sitting on a bench in the park, your usual radiant energy noticeably dimmed. your cheeks and nose are flushed, and your soft sniffles seem to almost echo around. the gentle rustling of leaves and distant chatter of passersby fills the air, but you seem to be lost in your own thoughts.

you’ve had a silly little crush on logan for a long time. it’s so stupid really. it started when you moved into xavier’s school for gifted youngsters as a teacher. you were only a few years older than some of the students, so to be in such a position felt like an honour. logan showed you around right at the start. he wasn’t the kindest, nor the most talkative, but he was by far your favourite. the vanilla - pine - woody musk that emanated off of him had you starry eyed from the beginning. you could tell very quickly that logan wasn’t an extroverted person, but he still cared for the people around him. you saw it in the small gestures like how he restocked cans of storm’s favourite soda and how he made sure that charles always woke up to a mug of tea. how you craved the same kind of attention from him.

but he’s so much older than you, and you suspect he still only has eyes for jean grey, even though she’s been gone a long time. in desperation, you’ve even attempted to emulate her, getting quieter around logan and trying to seem calmer in general. it didn’t work. in fact it did the opposite, he seems even more distanced from you. you’ve invited him round for beers or to watch a new movie you heard him talking to scott about, but he declined all of your offers time and time again. the next day, you overheard him ask scott if he wanted to come round and watch the same movie at his place. god, you’ve never felt so humiliated in your life. he must have a problem with you, but you could never put your finger on why.

you seem to have tried everything - bright smiles, thoughtful gestures, and endless attempts to joke around with him. you’d always believed that if you just kept at it, eventually, logan would see how much you cared for him. but lately, it feels as if you’d been trying too hard, pushing too much, and getting nowhere. your heart feels heavy, burdened with the unspoken fear that maybe you’re just annoying him. 

tears begin to well up in your eyes as you recall all the times he’s brushed you off or grumbled at your attempts to get close. you knows he’s not one for affection, but you can’t help wondering if he might never return your feelings. you’re probably just being stupid, thinking that you could melt his cold exterior. a single tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. you quickly wipe it away, hoping no one would notice.

but he doesn’t hate you. he couldn’t hate such a sweet thing like you. he’s noticed how you seem overly affectionate in general, but more reserved with him. so has scott. scott seemed to think it was because you had a crush on him and were trying to impress him. 

“c’mon logan! you must’ve seen the way she looks at you!” “i have no idea what you’re talking about summers.”

he’d mentioned it over beers back when the thought hadn’t even occurred to logan. a woman like you could never like a man like him. he was always under the impression that it was a one-sided crush, that he was forever destined to be alone. you were fully aware of the things he’d done in his couple hundred years of life. you were much too good for him :( too cheerful and smiley for a grumpy old man. 

logan spots you from a distance, your usually happy presence now strangely subdued. he’s used to you being the one to approach him, always with a smile and some kind of cheerful comment. but today, you seem… small. vulnerable, even :(

he’s about to walk away, dismissing it as another one of those feelings he doesn’t want to deal with, but something stops him. maybe it’s the way your shoulders are hunched, or the way you keep wiping at your face. are you crying? the thought unsettles him more than he’d like to admit. he doesn’t do well with emotions - especially not other people’s. but for some strange reason, the idea of you being upset tugs at something deep within him.

steeling himself, he walks over and sits beside you, keeping a respectful distance. you don't notice him at first, too lost in your own thoughts.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind. it’s a simple question, but it takes all his willpower to ask it.

you startle at his voice, quickly wiping your eyes. “nothing. i’m fine,” you say, forcing a watery smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. how embarrassing. he already hates you and now he has to see you cry too? you feel terrible for him, and for yourself. 

logan frowns. he’s not very good at this, but even he can tell that something’s off. “doesn’t look like nothing,” he mutters, trying to soften his usual harsh tone.

you glance up at him, surprised by the concern in his voice. it’s rare for him to ask you anything, let alone how you’re feeling. for a moment, you consider telling him everything. but then you hesitate. what if he’s just being silly? what if he doesn’t really care? as if he can see into your mind, he softly places a hand on your shoulder and whispers, “there is nothing you could say that would make me stop caring.”

you felt the burning of your waterline filling up again as soon as the words left the tip of his tongue. 

“it’s so stupid,” you finally admit, your voice trembling slightly. “i just… i feel like I’m always the one trying, you know? like i’m annoying everyone all the time. and maybe i am. i don’t wanna be a bother, but sometimes… sometimes it feels like nobody cares at all.”

you look away, embarrassed by your own vulnerability. the silence between you two  is heavy, and you wonder if you’ve made everything even worse by opening up to him.

logan feels like he’s been punched in the gut. even with his limited emotional range, he can assume you’re mostly talking about him. everybody else is quick to reciprocate your attention. everyday he feels like you’re curled up with someone new. he wishes it could be him. he’s never been good with words, especially not the ones that matter, but he never in a million years meant to contribute to you feeling like this. he’s spent so long building walls around himself that he didn’t realise how much they’ve been hurting you.

“y/n…” he starts, his voice rough with emotion. “i’m not… very good at this. at any of this. i’ve been alone for a very long time, and i guess… i don’t know how to show you that i care. but i do. much more than you know.”

he hesitates, searching for the right words. “you’re not a bother. you never have been, not to me, not to anyone. i just… it’s hard for me to open up. but that doesn’t mean i don’t… that i don’t appreciate you. i do. a lot.”

it’s not the most perfect confession, but it’s honest. he hopes it’s enough.

you turn to him, your eyes wide with surprise. you can see the sincerity in his expression, the awkwardness of a man trying to navigate unfamiliar territory. it’s more than you would ever expect to hear from him, and your heart swells with an unknown feeling.

you reach out, gently placing your hand on top of his. “thank you,” you whisper, your voice full of warmth. “that means more to me than you know.”

logan stiffens at the contact but doesn’t pull away. instead, he squeezes your hand awkwardly, a silent promise that he’s going to try. it’s a small gesture, but to you, it’s everything.

[borathae]

↳ Index [Day 07 - Picnic Sex]

Pairing: Soft Dom!Yoongi x f.Reader

Genre: established relationship!AU

Kinks: public sex on a meadow, drunk sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, praise kink, good girl kink, sensory play where he makes her guess with what he is touching her, vaginal penetrative sex in missionary, use of a condom, multiple orgasms (f.receiving), giggly and cuddly aftercare, Yoongi is a cute menace when he is tipsy

Wordcount: 4.6k

a/n: i missed this couple so much!!! holy moly i’m sobbing in the club, they’re the cutest!! goodness :( thank you for requesting this, i’m in love with them <3

Yoongi has been gazing for more than ten minutes. His lips are curled into a constant, soft smile and his eyes sparkle adoringly. He also has his head tilted to the side slightly, kicking his feet mindlessly. He doesn’t know that he is gazing, but you finally notice after coming down from your wine induced monologue about tea. 

You swallow down the flutter of your heart, cheeks heating up under his gaze. 

“Sorry, I was talking a lot.”

He shakes his head, smiling drunkenly and fluttering his lashes, “you weren’t”, he says softly.

“I just think tea is so neat.”

“I know you do. It is.” 

A shy giggle slips from you, shoulders lifting to your ears.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Just so dreamily. It makes me shy.”

Yoongi chuckles and scoots closer. His chest brushes the side of your arm and he has his hand propped up on the picnic blanket behind your butt. Like this, you can smell his sweet breath and practically feel his kiss. 

“You’re so beautiful, I can’t help it”, he whispers and brushes the back of his hand down your cheek as gently as possible. “I love listening to you. Everything you say is so wonderful.” 

“Are you drunk?” 

His flushed cheeks and droopy eyes should be answer enough. 

“Maybe a little.” He drops his cheek on your shoulder, peeking up at you through his lashes. “The wine is so good and the food was amazing and you are beautiful and this date is perfect”, he gushes as his fingers trace your stomach and thighs mindlessly.

You giggle, nudging him with your nose. You learned from dating Yoongi that he becomes very cute when he is drunk. He gets clingy and touchy and his loosened tongue can’t stop saying the sappiest stuff. He also giggles constantly and gets such a cute blush on his cheeks. You already think that he is cute on normal days, but when he is drunk, you could smooch him constantly because of how adorable he is. 

Yoongi sighs dreamily and kisses your shoulder, straightening up afterwards. He currently has ginger hair, which reflects the autumn sun in shades of orange. You lovingly like to call him your tangerine because of it.

“Close your eyes”, he says and because you trust him, you do. You know that if he asks something like this, the outcome will be nice for you. You stay seated for a while, enjoying the silence of the moment. 

You and Yoongi went on a picnic date on the meadow today. It was a sunny, warm autumn’s day and you felt like getting out of your houses. So you met up on your bicycles with homemade food in your baskets and your pets next to it, ready to drive down into the valley for a nice date. Levi and Holly are napping together in the grass just a little to your right, the food has been finished already and the bottle of wine, Yoongi brought, is half empty. Which explains why you and he keep giggling and snickering. You are both just tipsy enough that the current moment is so, so exciting and nice.

Yoongi still hasn’t acted on whatever he was planning to do.

“What are you doing?” You ask him, snickering. “Did you leave?”

“No. Guess what I’m using”, he says and a second later you feel something light tickle your face.

You giggle, chasing the sensation. He starts off at your temple, guiding it over your cheek and down your neck until he traces your exposed collarbones. You are wearing an autumn sundress today, which reveals your collarbones and cleavage. 

The sensation stops, the ghost of its touch remains on your skin in tingles.

“What was that?” he asks. 

“Something that tickled, mhm, maybe a feather?”

“No, try again.” The sensation begins anew, sending shivers down your back. It makes your heart flutter in giddiness.

Stop. It is time for you to guess. 

“Is it grass?” 

“Yay, you did it.”

You open your eyes, inspecting the blade of grass between his fingers. He picked the flower for it, which explains why it felt so feathery on your skin. 

A drunken snicker leaves you and you draw closer to him.

“This was fun. I wanna try again.”

“Okay, I’ll give you more.” 

You close your eyes, waiting impatiently for his next touch. Something soft like fabric. He dances it from your temples down to your collarbones.

You smile, turning your head to where you think his face should be.

“That’s your jumper.”

“Mhm, which part?” The sensation starts anew. He is so gentle as he guides it over your skin. It feels so good.

“Your sleeve? Maybe?”

“Correct.”

You open your eyes, meeting his adoring gaze. He lets out a soft chuckle and pokes your nose with his own, rubbing the tip against yours afterwards. You close your eyes halfway, reciprocating the affection. 

“One more, please?” 

“Okay, one more. Close your eyes.”

You obey, skin tingling in anticipation. The touch is chaste, tickling your skin.

“Are you fluttering your lashes against my cheek?” you ask in a snicker.

“Yeah”, he laughs.

“Oh god, you’re silly.”

He chuckles and kisses your cheek, dancing his lips to your ear afterwards to whisper. You shiver like crazy at the feeling of it, sighing quietly.

“Two more guesses, okay?” 

“Yeah okay…”

The next object is obvious to you with the very first touch.

“Your fingertip!”

“Mhm, correct”, he whispers, dancing it down to your collarbone to trace it. 

You open your eyes halfway. He is breathing a little heavier than before.

“What’s the last one?” you ask him, breathing heavier as well.

“Close your eyes and guess.”

“Okay.”

You can hear him shimmy closer to you and then you feel it. His lips on your neck, kissing the most sensitive spot.

You tilt your head back, parting your lips in a surprised moan.

Yoongi purrs, sucking on your skin gently before he lifts his lips. You open your eyes, looking at his pouty lips.

“And?” he asks.

“Your lips”, you sigh, gazing dreamily.

“Correct, you did so well.”

“Hah”, you let out, eyes practically lost in the view of his lips.

Yoongi, who notices and feels tingly because of it, speaks softly. He traces your thigh with his fingertips as he does, gazing at your neck.

“Wanna have a reward?”

“A reward?”

“Mhm, it’ll feel good”, he says, ghosting his lips over your neck without touching it.

“Ah”, you let out, chasing him.

“Is this a yes?”

“Yeah, please.”

He climbs atop of you, laying you down on the blanket as he does it. 

You allow him happily, exposing your neck to him so he could keep kissing you. He claims the opportunity happily, showering you in kisses and careful touches. By now, it is an unspoken shared feeling by both that this is turning you on. It was sweet at first, but sweetness sometimes tastes too addicting not to crave more of it. The day is so nice, the date so romantic and you have been sharing such nice intimacy on your little, comfortable blanket. You are also giddily drunk and stupidly in love with each other. It was bound to happen that all of these feel good emotions escalate. 

Yoongi still lifts his lips to ask, hands on an innocent place.

“I know you already said yes, but is it really okay for me to touch you?”

“Yes, is it okay for you too?”

“Yes, more than okay, my darling.” He kisses your jawline once. “Just tell me to stop if it gets too much, okay?”

“Yes okay. You too, yeah?” 

“Mhm, yeah.”

He lowers his lips, planning not to lift them again for quite a while. You fall into the sensation with a sigh, melting like a drop of chocolate in the sun.  

He kisses every inch of your neck and jawline, even giving you soft bites because he knows that you love the sensation. His lips brush against your ears as well, allowing quiet moans to reach them and with it, make you shiver. It is so hot to feel his moans like this, it will always excite you.

Yoongi of course knows that and he will use every card against you to get you as turned on as possible. He loves turning you on, especially when you look as pretty as you do today.

“I love this dress on you, I love it so much”, he breathes, rubbing his palms over the soft fabric while his lips are tasting your collarbones.

“Thank you”, you sigh, wiggling your feet. He always makes you feel so beautiful. 

“I love the colour and the fit and the fabric. You make this dress look so beautiful, my darling”, he continues, right hand sliding to your waist to trace it. The dress is a little tighter around your waist, giving it a synched look. It also makes his touch feel like electricity on your skin, forcing your back to arch off the blanket.

Yoongi purrs, kissing a path down your chest until he reaches your cleavage. The position and gravity naturally makes your breasts lay flatter than as if you were standing up, but Yoongi still buries his face in them. He makes a funny noise as he does, eliciting a loud cackle from you. You ruffle his hair instantly, chest tingling in happiness. 

“You’re so stupid”, you laugh. 

“I had to do this. I love your tits”, he mumbles, voice playful and happy. 

“If you say so.” 

“Mhm, I do.” He gathers them in his hands and massages them gently. “I really do.” 

“Wow Yoongi…this is…so nice…” you sigh, arching into his touch.

“It is. So nice”, he breathes, placing loving kisses on your clothed breasts before moving lower. 

By now, you are practically panting in excitement, body shuddering each time he touches a new spot. He has both hands on your sides, holding you safely as his lips kiss a path down your clothed stomach.

Soon every inch of it is kissed as well and Yoongi straightens up. You open your eyes, meeting his adoring gaze. His cheeks are pinker than before. 

You prop your feet up on the blanket and open your legs. Yoongi’s eyes widen, he does a sneaky double take before gawking at your face in shock. 

“Please”, you beg.

“A-are you sure?”

“Yes. You?”

“What? Of course I am, you don’t gotta ask. You know me, I could live between your legs”, he says and lies down on his stomach, burying his face in your inner thigh to munch on it playfully.

You giggle and whine, writhing deliciously at the sensation. He is kissing and sucking your skin, leaving the softest of bites as well. They don’t hurt at all, they’re a soft graze with his teeth before his tender lips replace them. The sensation is so tingly that you could honestly scream. He riles you up so much.

Soon, you cannot take the teasing anymore and you reach down to rake your fingers through his locks.

“Don’t tease please.”

“I’m not, you’re just impatient.”

You chuckle, heart fluttering. You love when he bickers with you. He is such a cutie. A cutie who currently takes off your panties, making you heave in excitement. You help him slip them off your legs, then prop them up again as wide apart as possible.

Yoongi chuckles because of your eagerness, running his palms down your inner thighs.

“You’re beautiful, darling”, he says, meaning your pussy.

“Yoongi, you’re still teasing”, you whine.

“Yeah, that’s right. I was teasing right now.”

“God, I can’t stand you”, you laugh, ruffling his hair.

Yoongi smiles, lowering himself like this. He purrs, kissing your pussy to get her used to him. Your laughter stops, a loud gasp replaces it.

“Mhm, so soft”, he lulls, wrapping his lips around your clit to give it a gentle suck.

“Oh.” Your hips flinch up. “Wow.” They drop again, legs twitching aggressively.

Yoongi lets go of you and finally darts out his tongue, guiding it through your folds to part them. You are already a little wet, making him purr in contentment. He loves your taste and your scent. He runs his hands to your hips, holding them safely. One squeeze for good measures.

“Don’t stop please”, you sigh, feeling more and more turned on. He is still gentle right now, going slow. It is so nice to be worked up this way.

Sometimes Yoongi gets really hungry for your pussy and he goes down on you sloppily and quickly. It overstimulates you within seconds, forcing you to yelp up and orgasm after just a few licks. He is very cocky whenever that happens because of how quickly he can make you climax. And you love these moments, they’re so sexy to you.

You can’t lie however and you have to admit that you really, really love when he is being gentle with you. The pleasure goes so much deeper and builds up so much more. The fact that he is capable of doing both is also very arousing to you.

“You’re so good”, you praise, voice breathy.

“Mhhm”, he purrs into you, guiding his wet tongue through your folds until he has your clit under it. He slides his left hand from your hips, using two of his fingers to part you and therefore expose more of your clit. Like this, he circles his tongue around it, careful not to grace it directly but instead make the area around it sensitive.

“God this is torture”, you both whine and chuckle, closing your legs on him slightly.

“Mh-hm, is good”, he lulls, pushing your legs apart with one hand. His tongue continues its teasing rounds while his right hand rubs your inner thigh. He purrs and does the unthinkable thing of dancing his tongue down to your entrance instead.

You throb around nothing, chasing him in a weak roll of your hips and cursing under your breath. If you weren’t already dizzy from the wine, you are definitely dizzy now that he teases you so much.

Yoongi listens to your needy curses, feeling really dizzy himself. You taste stronger than you did before, a sure sign that he managed to get you wetter. Yoongi laps it up deliciously, eyes closed and button nose buried between your soft folds. He loves when he gets messy from your pussy, burying his nose deeper while his tongue teases your entrance.

“Please, this is torture”, you let out in a whine, scratching his scalp softly but needily at the same time.

“What do you need?” he dares to ask as if he wasn’t teasing you on purpose. Gosh, he is such a menace when he is drunk and therefore playful.

“More, I can’t take the teasing please.”

“Again, you’re just impatient.”

“Min Yoongi”, you warn, lifting your head just enough that you can make eye contact with him. His eyes sparkle boyishly, his cheeks are flushed. He is also kicking his feet giddily.

“Okay, okay fine”, he laughs, “I give up. Do you want my fingers, mhm?”

“Yes please, two of them please.”

“Okay, I’m only doing this because you’re impatient.”

You drop your head with an exasperated groan, mumbling a quiet “you’re so annoying.”

He chuckles and puts the pads of his middle and ring finger against your entrance. He spits on them so the slip would be easier then finally applies pressure. You take him in greedily, walls practically sucking him in.

“Yes, god yes”, you moan, thrusting your hips ecstatically.

“Slipped right in”, he croaks, feeling his cock throb in his pants. He didn’t expect you to take him so easily nor to be so wet inside for that matter and it’s really affecting him. Once entirely inside, he begins moving, pumping his long digits in and out your soft walls.

“This feel so good”, you moan, fingers closing around his left hand.

“It does. Fuck darling, you’re…” he trails off, deciding to let his tongue do the talking another way. He presses it against your clit, licking it eagerly while his fingers fuck you slowly and deeply.

“Yes this, yes this, yes this, please this”, you chant, body beginning to writhe in pleasure. You always like to whine when he is teasing you, but it is always so worth it. Now that he finally pleasures your favourite spots, it makes you literally float on cloud nine. The warmth is so deep, so constant, so good. The slight intoxicated buzz of the wine makes it even more intense.

“This please, this please, this, this, ah this…”

Yoongi moans into you, grinding his cock into the ground. He is so turned on, head fuzzy and body running on nothing but you. He wanted to make you feel good ever since you went on your monologue about tea. He loves listening to you so much, everything you say is so interesting to him and you look so cute when your eyes are glowing from intoxication that Yoongi knew he had to make you feel good ever since you began talking about tea. Witnessing you in such a state, tasting how wet you are, feeling how much you clench is everything his drunken heart needed. And he wants to do everything in his power to make you feel as good as possible. He curls his fingers each time they grace your g-spot, staying there for a few seconds to massage the tender spot. And each time he pleasures your insides, he focuses his licks on the most sensitive part of your clit. Judging by the noises you are producing, this is going to make you orgasm.

You never tell him that something is bringing you close because it then does the exact opposite for you. You somehow stress yourself out about orgasming and then stop being close. So you always stay quiet until you are literally in the middle of climaxing. Yoongi never thought that it was weird that you did that, instead he studied your reactions until he learned just from your noises and movements when something he does is bringing you close. Like this, you can enjoy yourself without stressing and Yoongi is having the best time. Yoongi loves doing this for you because he loves you and he loves making you feel good.

Today is no different. Yoongi keeps using his fingers and mouth on you while you get noisier and shakier with each touch and lick. He can’t wait to have you climax, moaning with you as he brings you closer by the second.

Three more eager licks and with his fingers against your g-spot, and he breaks you.

“I’m cumming”, you moan, already shaking out of control.

Yoongi growls into you, enjoying the tug you have on his hair as he helps you ride out your orgasm. You are also grinding your hips into his face instinctively, smothering him in your warmth. He is in heaven. He really is.

“Oh, uh, ah”, you let out once overstimulation sets in, fleeing him in flinches of your hips, “ah, wait.”

Yoongi knows that you aren’t a particular fan of intense overstimulation and so he slips his fingers free, kissing a path up your body.

“Damn this was…okay phew”, you get out, making him chuckle and nibble on your jawline.

“Did you like it?” he coos drunkenly.

“Did I like it? I loved it, oh my lord.”

He snickers, sucking your cheek into his mouth as if he was eating your face.

“No, don’t do that”, you whine, pushing him off gently.

“I can’t help it. You’re so cute that I wanna eat you.”

You whine, nudging his chest because he flusters you so much. Yoongi smiles, snuggling his nose into your cheek.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

“Do you want more?” you ask him.

“Maybe? My cock’s so hard.”

“Oh god”, you snicker, “poor boy.”

“Yeah, poor boy. God, I wanna fuck you so bad”, he says, grinding his hips into you.

“Oh”, you gasp, shuddering in reaction and gripping his back, “Yoongi, holy fu-ah.”

“Please ___ can I fuck you? Please?”

“Yes, please do.”

He moans, kissing your cheek in gratefulness, “thank you, thank you, oh thank you.”

“Just do it, you drunk doofus you”, you snicker, ruffling his hair.

“Yeah, right.” He sits up and looks around. “Wait, I need to figure this out. I don’t wanna expose my butt”, he says, making you laugh.

“I don’t think anyone would see”, you say, propping yourself up on your elbows so you could get the condom from your bag as he undresses.

“I can’t risk it. What if someone does? Then they’ll see my pale ass. That’s embarrassing. I wouldn’t complain if I actually tanned, but I look like a ghost right now.”

“You would still complain, come on now”, you cackle, making him chuckle.

“You know me so well.” He finally managed to get his cock out of his pants without exposing his butt. “There we go. That should work”, he says.

“That’s so sexy, baby. Here, condom.”

“Thanks, darling”, he accepts it and opens it to roll it on. 

You watch him, feeling so excited for what was to come. He gives his cock three jerks for good measures then lies himself over you.

“Hey there”, you say, combing your fingers through his hair.

“Hey there”, he says, leaning into your touch. He guides his cock to your pussy, grinding it through your folds. “Mhm, so wet. Can I stick it in?”

You nod your head vigorously, “stick it in, please.”

“Look at me, yeah?” 

“Mhm yeah.” 

Pressure on your entrance for just a second then he breaches you, cock sliding into you easily. You and he moan together, eyes getting lost in the other’s.

“Wow, this is so nice”, you sigh.

“Yeah, so nice”, his voice is practically nothing but airy sounds. He is so far gone, giving up completely once he bottoms out. “Fuck”, he presses out, eyes rolling back and head dropping so his nose is nuzzled into your cheek.

“You’re so deep”, you croak.

“Mh-hm”, he whimpers, nodding his head. He shivers when you run your hand down his back so you could hold his hip.

“Move please.”

He fulfills your wish gladly, rolling his hips into you gently but deeply. He wants to stay inside you, feel you around every single inch of him. He is so happy when he is inside you, so happy.

You gasp and moan his name, head rolling to the side in defeat. He chases you, lips against your neck and eyes closed.

“Feels good?”

“Yeah, feels good. You’re so deep, ah Yoongi.”

“Mhm so deep. You’re taking me so well, baby.”

“Yoongi…”

“I love when you moan my name. Makes me wanna fuck you so good.”

You shiver from just his words, arching your back. Your clothed breasts rub against his clothed chest this way. He reaches down and caresses your back once before he pins you down onto the blanket gently, sliding his thumb to your clit.

“Yoongi”, you moan louder, clenching around him and scrunching your face.

“So good, such a good girl. Keep moaning my name”, he lulls, turning your brain and limbs into goo. He is so sexy when he praises you. You didn’t even know that you had such a huge praise kink until he did it one night and you literally melted.

“Yoongi…”

“That’s it, that’s my girl. Such a good girl”, he praises, rewarding you with slightly harsher thrusts. He is still incredibly gentle, but there is strength behind them. Strength and skill, meant to make you see stars.

“Yoongi!” you wail, arching your back.

He moans in reaction, twisting the blanket above your head. His cock throbs deep inside you, his stomach flutters. There is nothing that gets him off more than when you moan his name. He feels so good when you do and as if he could fucking do anything. Seriously, you give him such a boost of confidence when you act this way during sex that Yoongi feels almost unbearably cocky.

“Don’t stop please.”

“Put your finger in my mouth.”

You open your eyes, “huh?”

“My mouth, put it in”, he says, sticking his tongue out.

You follow his order, although confused. Yoongi takes your finger and licks it greedily, making you moan from the sensation.

“You’re so hot, oh god”, you mewl, throbbing around him.

He purrs and lets it slip out, “rub your clit with it. I need both arms to support myself. My shoulder hurts otherwise.”

“Oh god, you’re so sexy. Yoongi”, you moan, replacing his finger with yours.

“There we go, good girl”, he growls, slamming his elbow onto the ground next to your head and grabbing the blanket roughly. He angles his hips better, using the new support to pump into you sloppily.

“Yoo-”, is all you get out before your tongue stops working and all you can make are the most primal of noises.

“Yeah that’s it, isn’t it? You like that, don’t you?” he taunts, sounding so sure of himself.

You nod your head vigorously, whimpering each time he buries his cock deep inside your walls.

“Of course you do. You are so beautiful when I fuck you. Shit, I’m dizzy. You’re driving me insane.”

“Yoongi, you…cum…”

“Don’t hold back, I’ve got you baby, I’ve got you.”

“Say…it…please…”

He cradles your cheek, lowering his drunken voice seductively.

“Cum for me, darling.”

“Ah, Yoongi!” you break instantly, scratching up his back as you clasp him desperately.

“Good girl, cum for me, such a good girl”, he talks you through it at first, but then you squeeze him so tightly that he feels lost as well, “you’re making me cum too, ah ___.”

He drops his face into the crook of your neck, releasing into the condom a second later with a guttural growl. You scream his name in reaction, wrapping your limbs around him as tightly as possible. It forces his weakened body to drop on yours.

“___”, your name leaves him in a whimper, his arms cradle you against him as best as possible, “wow this was, wow.”

“Yeah, so wow”, you agree, melting under him. It’s so nice to have his weight on you and to calm down in his arms.

“How are you? Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, so okay. You?”

“I think my heart gave up. I nutted so hard.”

“God you”, you laugh loudly, “ever since you have orange hair, you’re a menace.”

“Mhm yeah probably”, he teases and gives your cheek a kiss for good measures before he has to sit up and slip out so the condom wouldn’t fall into you. He rolls it off his cock and ties a knot, then wraps it up in a fresh napkin. He hands you your panties.

You sit up and put them on while he stuffs his cock back into his pants.

“I can’t believe we just did that. Do you think someone saw us?”

“Probably not. The day is really quiet.”

“Let’s hope so. Oh my god ___, I can’t believe we did that. Are we insane?” he says, suddenly shrinking shyly as he draws closer with a giggle. He even hides his face behind his hands, laughing with his shoulders.

“Actually, you’re right. What were we thinking?” you agree, suddenly having to giggle shyly as well.

“This is what happens when we drink wine. We have stupid ideas like that.”

You agree in snickers, falling around his neck in a tight hug. He hugs you back instantly, giggling into your neck.

“I love being with you, Yoongi baby.”

“I love being with you, ___ baby.”

[gdinthehouseee]

Mother's Day: KANG DAESUNG x READER

summary: you spend some quality time with your husband and daughter for mother's day, but every couple needs alone time every now and then.

word count: 2969

tags: tooth-rotting fluff with some suggestiveness at the end (cuz i literally cannot help myself)

father's day (part 2)

The scent of something warm and slightly sweet fills the air before you even open your eyes. A soft giggle—one you’d recognize anywhere—echoes in the room, followed by a whispered “Appa, careful!” and a hushed chuckle in response. Before you can fully process what’s happening, a gentle weight shifts onto the bed beside you. Small hands pat your arm excitedly.

“Eomma, wake up! Wake up! We made you breakfast!”

Blinking your eyes open, you’re immediately met with the beaming face of your daughter, her bright eyes filled with excitement. 

“Happy Mother’s Day!” She beams.

Beside her, Daesung kneels on the bed, holding a wooden tray with a sheepish smile. “Your personal chef and little assistant worked very hard on this.” 

On the tray, there’s a slightly lopsided stack of pancakes, drizzled with syrup and topped with a few strawberries—though one has clearly been bitten into. A small cup of coffee sits next to it, along with a tiny glass of orange juice that’s only half full.

“We made it all by ourselves!” Your daughter announces proudly.

Daesung lets out a soft laugh, reaching to brush your hair out of your face. “And we only had one near disaster.”

“Appa burned the first pancake…”

“Hey!”

You can’t help but laugh, warmth blooming in your chest as you take in the scene. Your husband and daughter, full of love, their combined effort displayed in the form of a slightly messy yet heartfelt breakfast.

“You two are the sweetest,” you murmur, sitting up as Daesung carefully places the tray on your lap. Your daughter immediately scoots closer, watching eagerly as you take the first bite.

“How is it? Is it good? Do you like it?” She asks in rapid succession, her small hands gripping the edge of the blanket in anticipation.

“It’s the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

She lets out a happy squeal before wriggling under the blanket beside you, pressing her tiny body against your side. She nestles in close, her head resting against your arm as she watches you take another bite with a proud, sleepy smile. But the moment she’s settled, her excitement bubbles over again. She lists off all the things she wants to do today, seeing as it seems like such a big day, why wouldn’t she want to go to the park, have a tea party, and pretend to be princesses. 

Your husband, not wanting to overwhelm you as soon as you wake up, sits next to her and reaches out to smooth down her hair. “Before we do any of that, don’t you think we should get dressed first? Maybe brush our teeth, fix your hair a little? We can’t have a tea party in our pajamas, right?”

Your daughter gasps dramatically. “You’re right! I gotta get ready right now!”

Before either of you can say another word, she scrambles off the bed, tiny feet pattering across the floor as she rushes out of the room with a determined “I’m gonna wear my princess dress!” trailing behind her.

You watch her disappear down the hall, shaking your head with a fond smile. “There she goes.”

Daesung lets out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto the bed beside you with a groan. “Where does she get all that energy?”

You turn your head to look at him, deadpan. “Yeah, I wonder.”

“What? Not me.”

“Babe, you literally chased her around the living room on all fours last night, pretending to be a dragon for forty-five minutes.”

“Okay, but that was—”

“Do you really think she just magically learned how to run around like a maniac all day?” You smirk, reaching out to poke his chest. “You do the same thing. I just have better ways of tiring you out.”

He stares at you for a second before bursting into laughter. He tilts his head, grinning. “Oh? And what ways would those be, exactly?”

You roll your eyes, sitting up and stretching. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Jagiya! You can’t just say things like that and leave me hanging.”

You chuckle, but before you can reply, he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow as his teasing expression softens. He reaches out, fingers brushing over your cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Are you sure you’re up for all this today?” He asks gently, concern laced in his voice despite his previous playfulness. “She has about ten different plans, and you don’t have to do all of them. We can take it easy.”

Smiling, you take his hand and squeeze it. “I’m okay,” you reassure him. Then, with a mischievous tilt of your head, you add, “we’ll have to carry her in from the car when we get back. Besides, how else am I supposed to tire her out for bedtime?”

Daesung blinks before shaking his head with a laugh. “Unbelievable. So this whole day is actually a master plan?”

“Obviously.” You grin. “You think I just agreed to a tea party out of the goodness of my heart?”

He scoffs. “Wow. And here I thought you were just being a loving mother.”

“Oh, I am. But I’m also a smart one.”

He laughs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Alright, but if you get too tired, I will be enforcing a nap time. For both of you.”

“I wouldn’t complain.”

Before either of you can say anything else, your daughter’s voice echoes from down the hall. “Appa! I need help with my dress!”

He groans dramatically, making you laugh. “Coming, princess!”

With your daughter’s excited chatter filling the house, the morning passes in a blur of soft laughter, playful bickering over outfit choices, and Daesung’s gentle hands helping you tame her wild bedhead. Sunlight streams through the windows, golden and warm, casting a glow over the little moments—the way your daughter twirls in front of the mirror, beaming as Daesung fastens the tiny sparkly bow in her hair, the way he sneaks quick glances at you between tasks, a quiet, adoring smile tugging at his lips.

Getting ready is an adventure in itself. Your daughter insists on matching outfits, which means digging through your wardrobe for a colour-coordinated dress while she stands on the bed, instructing you like a tiny fashion director. By the time everyone is dressed, she’s practically vibrating with excitement.

The moment you step outside, the fresh spring air greets you: the scent of blooming flowers lingers in the breeze, mixed with the faint sweetness of fresh-cut grass. The sky is a vast stretch of blue, dotted with drifting clouds, and the distant sound of children laughing at the park makes your daughter’s energy spike all over again. She takes off in a sprint, her little sneakers tapping eagerly against the pavement, tugging her dear father along by the hand. Yet, this is only the beginning.

“Appa, come on!” She squeals, practically yanking him forward with surprising strength for someone so small.

Daesung stumbles slightly but laughs, letting her pull him along. “Okay, okay! Where to first, princess?”

“The swings!”

You settle onto a nearby bench, watching as he jogs behind her, his free hand on his hip as if bracing himself for what’s to come. The moment they reach the swings, your daughter wastes no time climbing onto one as Daesung crouches down behind her.

“Ready?”

“I wanna go super high!”

He chuckles, giving her a gentle push. She giggles as she swings forward, her little legs kicking happily in the air. He continues pushing her higher, her delighted laughter ringing out like the sweetest melody. You can’t help but smile as you watch him—his face alight with joy, completely lost in the moment with her.

As soon as she decides she’s had enough, she hops off, wobbling slightly before grabbing Daesung’s hand again. “The slide! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Daesung barely has time to catch his breath before she’s tugging him toward the slides, her determination unstoppable. When they reach the top, she turns to him with wide, expectant eyes. “You have to go down with me!”

He blinks. “Both of us? At the same time?”

She nods very seriously. He lets out a dramatic sigh but obeys, sitting down at the top of the slide before picking her up and setting her in his lap. He takes her small hands in his much larger ones, looking at her with a playful smile. “Alright, princess. On the count of three.”

“One… two… three!”

With a chorus of laughter, they slide down together, your daughter shrieking in delight as he exaggerates his expressions, acting like they’re on the most thrilling ride in the world. The moment their feet hit the ground, she’s already scrambling up to her feet, eyes darting toward the climbing structure.

“C’mon, appa!”

Daesung groans, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “Do you—do you ever run out of energy?”

Your daughter giggles mischievously before grabbing his hand again. “Nope!”

You laugh from your spot on the bench as he sends you a helpless look over his shoulder, eyes wide with mock desperation. You simply wave at him, grinning.

“Good luck, Appa!” you call.

He groans again but lets himself be dragged away, shaking his head with an affectionate smile. “She gets this from you,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

The hours slip by in a blur of sunshine and laughter, the park becoming their little kingdom for the day. After conquering the playground, your daughter decides that the next grand adventure requires a change of scenery. She leads Daesung—still completely at her mercy—over to the grassy field, where families are sprawled out on picnic blankets and kids are chasing after bubbles that float lazily in the breeze. The moment she spots a group of children playing tag, she gasps, eyes lighting up. Daesung barely has time to react before she takes off running, turning to look over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Catch me if you can!”

“Ah, so now I’m the monster?” He cracks his knuckles dramatically before sprinting after her, purposefully letting her stay a few steps ahead before suddenly picking up speed, swooping her up into his arms with a triumphant laugh.

“Gotcha!”

She shrieks in delight, wiggling as he spins her around before gently setting her back on her feet. “Again! Again!”

And so the cycle continues—Daesung chasing after her with exaggerated roars while she ducks and weaves around trees, giggling so hard she can barely run in a straight line. At some point, a few of the other kids join in, turning it into an all-out game of tag, and you watch from a shaded bench, heart full as you take in the sight of your husband, the supposed grown-up, completely immersed in the game like one of the kids.

Eventually, after what seems like a lifetime of running and squealing, your daughter slows to a stop, chest heaving as she grabs Daesung’s arm dramatically. “I need… ice cream…”

“You and me both, princess.”

With that, the three of you make your way over to the ice cream van at the park’s edge. The moment your daughter lays eyes on the menu, she gasps as if she’s discovered the meaning of life.

“They have strawberry!”

You chuckle, ruffling her hair. “Then strawberry it is.”

The three of you sit on the grass, ice creams in hand as the warm afternoon breeze rustles through the trees. Your daughter hums happily as she takes a big bite, swinging her legs back and forth. “This is the best day ever.”

Daesung smiles, resting his chin on his hand as he watches her. “Yeah?”

“Looks like someone’s finally getting tired,” he teases, nodding toward your daughter, who blinks slowly, fighting to keep her eyes open.

“Nooo,” she protests weakly, though the way she leans against his side gives her away.

He smirks, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Sure, sure. Let’s see if you say that when we get home.”

By the time you do get home, the sun is dipping below the horizon, casting a golden glow through the windows. Your daughter, though still buzzing with leftover excitement from the park, starts to drag her feet as Daesung sets her down. She rubs her sleepy eyes but perks up at the mention of dinner, immediately asking if she can help.

He laughs, ruffling her hair. “Alright, but no sneaking bites before we sit down.”

She gasps dramatically. “I would never!”

You shake your head fondly as she rushes off to grab the small plates, placing them on the table with careful determination. With her little hands setting out napkins and Daesung at your side, effortlessly moving around the kitchen to help you, there’s a warmth that settles in the air—a feeling of home, of love, of moments you wish you could freeze in time.

Dinner is a mix of laughter and sleepy babbling from your daughter, who tells exaggerated stories about her victories at the park between small yawns. Daesung plays along, gasping at all the right moments and dramatically clutching his chest when she explains how she almost outran him.

“I think you might be faster than me now,” he muses, taking a sip of water.

She beams proudly, barely holding back another yawn. “I am!”

By the time her plate is cleared, she’s slumped in her seat, eyelids drooping. You and Daesung exchange amused glances before he reaches out, gently tapping her nose. “Alright, princess, time for bed.”

“Noooo,” she whines softly, rubbing at her eyes. “I’m not sleepy.”

But the way she clings to Daesung’s shirt as he lifts her up tells a different story. You watch as he carries her upstairs, her small arms looped around his neck while he murmurs something to her that makes her hum in sleepy contentment. Smiling to yourself, you turn back to tidy up the kitchen, letting them have their moment.

It doesn’t take long to clear the table, wash the dishes, and wipe down the counters, but by the time you head upstairs, the house has settled into a quiet, cozy stillness. The warm glow of your daughter’s night light spills into the hallway, and as you step closer to her room, you hear it—a soft, gentle melody drifting through the door.

Your heart melts instantly. Peeking inside, you find Daesung sitting at the edge of her bed, his fingers absentmindedly brushing over her hair as he sings in a low, soothing voice. It’s a song she’s heard a thousand times before, one he’s sung to her since she was a baby, but it still works its magic. Her tiny hand is curled around the edge of her blanket, her breathing slow and steady as she drifts into sleep.

His voice trails off into a quiet hum, his gaze lingering on her peaceful face. He stays there for a moment, just watching her, his expression so full of love it makes your chest ache.

You lean against the doorway, speaking softly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He startles slightly but smiles when he sees you, patting the spot beside him. You walk over, sitting down next to him as he lets out a quiet sigh.

“She’s getting so big,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “I feel like I’ll blink, and she’ll be all grown up.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. “She’ll always be your little girl.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Today was perfect.”

“It really was.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, watching her sleep, soaking in the love that fills the room. It’s one of those rare, precious moments where everything feels still—where the only thing that exists is the warmth of your little family, safe and whole. Then, Daesung lets out a slow exhale, his fingers intertwining with yours as he stands. Without a word, he tugs you toward the door, and you follow, feeling the gentle squeeze of his hand in yours. But as soon as he quietly shuts the door behind you, his grip shifts, and in the next second, you're pressed against the hallway wall.

A soft gasp escapes you as he leans in, his voice low and teasing. “So… you wore me out today.”

You blink up at him, caught between surprise and amusement. “Oh? And here I thought you had endless energy.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, dipping his head until his lips hover just over yours. “Normally, I do,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “But I think you’ve discovered my weakness.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Our daughter?”

He hums again, his hands slowly gliding down to rest at your waist. “That, and you.”

Heat flutters through you as his fingers press into your hips, the touch firm yet teasing. “Spending all day with you two, watching you laugh, seeing you so happy… it does something to me.” His lips brush against your cheek, just barely ghosting over your skin before trailing lower, toward your jaw. “Makes me want to show you just how much I love you.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

He grins against your skin before finally closing the space between you, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that starts soft but quickly turns into something more heated, more desperate. His hands grip your waist tighter as he presses you further against the wall, his body flush against yours.

When he finally pulls away, his gaze is dark with want, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “Why don’t we take this to our room,” he murmurs, his voice full of promise.

You smirk, trailing your fingers down his chest. “Lead the way.”

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