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nanamiskentos · 6 months ago

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LAST FRIDAY NIGHT — choso kamo

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (d) and let the show begin !

prologue. → it's been seven days since you wobbled into your apartment and almost threw up on your best friend. seven days since you confessed your love to him. seven days of radio silence as you've done your best to shut him out, hoping that the earth swallows you whole. there's no way he's going to want anything to do with you now!

but it's been years since choso had started silently loving you.

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. choso kamo x afab!reader

warnings. vírgin!choso, spítting, kíssing, makíng out, thígh kínk (mild), yuuji being a menace 😭

word count. 8k! song inspiration. last friday night — katy perry

a/n. i can't believe i don't write for choso more. i really put a lot of love into this fic but i wish i had expanded on it a bit more 😭 one thing abt me is that i love adding side characters to cóck block

mp3. think we kissed, but i forgot!

"did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion? breakups happen every day — you don't have to lose it."

you jab at the skip button like it's personally offended you, cutting off the mournful strains of the evermore bonus track mid-verse. normally, you'd let the singer's poetic misery hold your fragile heart in a pretty gentle chokehold, for she understood your heartbreak like a nobel laureate in emotional devastation. but not today.

not on this particularly dreary friday, right before christmas, where even ms. swift's dulcet agony felt obnoxiously on the nose.

pinned under the suffocating weight of your quilt, you let out a dramatic sigh that could rival a victorian heroine wasting away from heartache and humiliation.

with the theatrics of someone clawing their way out of a shipwreck, you work one arm free, waving it weakly into the air like your tragic signal of defeat.

the cocoon of your quilts and covers isn't warm nor comforting. it's a smothering trap, a quilted tomb of your own making.

"this is it," you mumble to the empty air of the apartment, your voice muffled by layers of fabric, "this is how i go."

the universe, for its part, remains unbothered by your suffering.

with a theatrical groan that would earn you a standing ovation in a one-person tragedy, you yank the quilt over your head. plunging yourself into darkness once more.

but unfortunately, the muffled strains of your 'sad girl winter' playlist refusing to take the hint seep through, like overly persistent ghosts of your bad decisions in the past. it seemed that evermore was feeling less like a balm for your soul, and more like the soundtrack to your public humiliation.

somewhere in the tangled chaos of your bed, half pillows and half-sulking regret, your poor and neglected nintendo switch lies face down like it gave up on your hours ago. its screen has long since gone dark, but if you listen hard enough, you can almost hear your animal crossing villagers whispering conspiratorially, drafting a formal petition to evict you.

no doubt tom nook is already sharpening his capitalist claws, repossessing your house with an unsettling amount of glee.

but the rest of your room is not much better. the string lights on your walls flicker half-heartedly, casting an uneven glow over the wreckage of the past week.

it's not the charming nor dramatic kind of mess that makes for an artsy photo dump. no, this is the slow and unflattering unravelling of someone who let life beat them up with zero resistance. if rooms could file restraining orders, yours would have done it by now.

teetering laundry piles of discarded sweatshirts are haphazardly stacked in the corner. nearby, an empty hot cocoa mug sits, sticky with the remnants of whipped cream. candy cane wrappers are strewn across the room, the aftermath of a peppermint explosion that made your jaw ache.

but the true centrepiece of this disaster? your phone, face down on your nightstand. neglected and on silent. the one object in this room that's probably begging for attention, and one that you've been skilfully ignoring. and yet, right on cue, it buzzes again.

lighting up with a contact number that you've been ignoring all week.

choso.

and you squint at the notification, at the glowing screen that makes your eyes sting in the dim light.

sweet, dependable and utterly loyal choso.

your best friend of over a decade. the one person that you can't bring yourself to face.

the one person that also deserves so much better than this radio silence, and yet the last person that you can humanly confront. especially not after what happened last friday night.

and here, good friends, lies the crux of your problem.

that doomed night, seven days ago, has mostly dissolved into a series of blurry and fragmented snapshots. like a bad, half-finished film that you'd walked out of halfway through.

but the lead up? oh, you remember that part with the kind of clarity that should have been reserved for more important moments.

you could still feel the heat of storming out of that overpriced restaurant, half-drunk and fully pissed off, tears streaming down your cheeks and thickening your throat.

your ex-boyfriend? well, he had been your current boyfriend, before he decided to break up with you. in public. for all that classy, emotional damage that was so in character for him.

and with a line so perfectly cliché, it practically begged to be immortalised on a 'worst breakup excuses' list in cosmopolitan: i'm sorry, baby. i just don't see it working anymore. we're just too different. oh! and i found someone else.

oh, sure. but you should have been glad to have been rid of the man-child that thought frankenstein was the monster's name, the man who commented 'oxford study' on innocent tiktoks, and called pinterest 'girl instagram.'

god, what a fuckin' loser.

fuelled by a mix of public-induced heartache and questionable tequila choices, you had practically charged across street crossing. your feet hitting the pavement with the reckless kind of abandon reserved for teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

and there choso had been in your apartment. your best friend had been sitting cross-legged on your rug, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbons. probably wrapping yuuji's christmas gifts with military precision. he had been balancing a roll of tape in his mouth, scissors over his lap dangerously close to the family jewels. but you had barrelled through the door like a feral cat in a downpour.

his eyes had widened, a little startled, as you made your entrance. the tape had fallen out of his mouth, chestnut hair falling over his face as he gaped. you couldn't blame choso, of course. you had looked entirely like a bedraggled, disheveled mess in a storm. cheeks streaked with mascara trails, but then everything went...fuzzy?

what did you remember? crying. lots of it.

and boy, was it a show. the kind of weeping where your face contorts into a puffed-up, berry-red disaster, and you would feel the headache creeping in even before the tears had finished.

choso's arms had caught you before you could face plant into the couch. solid, broad. warm and familiar.

you had caught the scent of clove and pepper, alongside faint citrus that you had been associating with him over the years. you had been saying something, raw and desperate.

your words had spilled out of you like water from a broken faucet.

and here you were now, reaping the glorious consequences of your own unfiltered word vomit.

seven days of stewing in your own shame and regret. but seven days were not enough to undo this level of self-sabotage. you briefly considered the options: faking amnesia, dropping out of university entirely, or best case scenario — moving to antarctica and herding emperor penguins.

you groan, sinking deeper into the abyss of your covers. and then, of course, your phone buzzed again. the dull and persistent vibration drilled into your skull like a tiny, digital drill.

cho 💜

(01:09am) hey, are you doing okay? (08:42am) tell me if you need anything! (04:23pm) hello? did i do something?

you peek at the screen, trying to avoid making eye contact with the tiny and terrifying letters. your sheet mask scrunches uncomfortably, making you look like a particularly pathetic mummy. choso's sweet and utterly patient messages were a sharp control to your gross sulk, and his concern makes you want to curl into a ball and crawl into a snowbank.

outside, christmas snow fell gently, blanketing the world in a soft and untouched white. it was like something out of a dream, a world of calm and peace. peace that your trifling ass didn't deserve.

if choso wanted to speak to you, he'd have to drag you out of your self-imposed misery himself. and even if he were to arrive at your apartment door, he'd only find a note tacked to the wall. with a map leading to the south pole.

so, what exactly had happened last friday night?

the memory rolls out like an old film reel, all jagged and distorted. the kind that you can't skip, even if you wanted to. it comes in fragments, each one more excruciatingly clear than the last. the haze of vodka-infused whipped cream shots over hot drinks slowly melting away like a bad handover.

the door to your apartment? you remember that part with embarrassing clarity. you had kicked it open with awful, ragged flair. your heel slipping on the floor, and you had nearly stacked it. face-first into your own doorway, standing there with the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

the second the door had slammed shut behind you, a gust of frigid winter shot through the apartment like a chill reminder of your situation.

choso had been sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, in the midst of complete, barbaric chaos. the roll of mauve wrapping paper teetered precariously on his dark jeans, and scissors dangled from his lap while a stripe of tape was wedged between his teeth. in between the mess of clippings and discarded tape, he seemed more like an absurdly morose-looking christmas elf that had been tasked with being santa's helper after an entire bottle of mulled wine.

but as you had walked in, or rather stumbled in, his gaze had shot up. his chestnut hair falling in messy curtains around his face, with one unruly strand intertwined with a red-white rogue ribbon. choso's face had twisted in alarm, his usual solemn manner replaced by someone who looked like they were trying to figure out whether they needed to brace themselves for good or bad news.

"hey," he had said, voice soft but sharp, like he was trying to handle fragile glass. choso had spat the tape out of his mouth unceremoniously, and he had been tugging the ribbon free rom his hair, concern all over his fine features, "what's wrong? are you okay?"

and you? a disaster. drunk, crying, furious. the recipe for an emotional molotov cocktail.

"i hate him," you had snarled, yanking off your beige coat, hurling it in the general direction of the couch. instead, your aim missed entirely. flopping halfway onto the floor, and halfway across choso's knee.

choso simply plucked the coat off his leg with two fingers, gingerly draping it over the arm of the couch. your best friend was frowning as he set down his oversized scissors, rising to his feet in a fluid motion. amber-hazel eyes flicked to yours, wide with alarm as he stepped closer, "are you hurt? is this about —?" he was hesitating, "your boyfriend?"

"no, my ex-boyfriend!" the words were ripped out of you, and your voice pathetically cracked halfway through as tears spilled down your flushed cheeks, "and 'm not hurt, cho. unless you count emotional damage," punctuating your statement with a tragic, breathy hiccup.

choso's perpetual frown deepened, as thick and unruly brows knit together, "okay," he said, voice low and steady, "do you want to sit down? i can get you some water, wait." his steps are slow, purposeful as he closes the distance between you gently, with measured care. or like he was defusing a bomb.

but you were having none of his gentle care, "no, i don't want water! i want — i want to un-date him," you wail, arms flailing as you start pacing like a caffeinated hamster, "god, i'm so stupid for dating him in the first place. and yes, i know, stop looking at me like that. i know you want to say i told you so, but he's such a —," you pause mid-rant, clawing the air for the right word, "a troll. a goblin, an ogre."

choso blinks, "maybe you should just get some fresh water in you," but there's an underlying layer of grimacing amusement painted over his quiet features, "and i didn't even say i told you so."

"no," you blurt, your head snapping so fast that your neck immediately files a complaint in the form of a sharp crick, "i don't want water. i want —"

and then, your brain short-circuited. because that's when you'd actually looked at him. like really looked.

warm hazel eyes framed by dark, sleepless circles that seemed to follow choso around like cursed ghosts. soft, feathery strands of mahogany hair that refused to stay tied back, and tumbled rebelliously into his face. that damn sweatshirt, loose and charcoal gray, and perfectly slouched over his broad shoulders. the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal forearms so solid that they could make a renaissance sculptor pack and quit.

and like a freight train at full speed, like whee-woo, the realisation hit you. choso kamo.

your best friend in the entire world. your steady and reliable, and kind to a fault best friend. better than any stupid ex that you'd ever had.

and because tequila is the nectar of chaos, and heartbreak has no filter, your mouth decided to unleash the words that you would haunt you for the next week.

"i should have been dating you."

the room is silent, as choso freezes entirely. like someone had smacked the pause button on him, and his hand, mid-reach for a glass of water, stops cold. his eyes are wide, mouth parting as though he hadn't yet processed what you had said.

"what?" choso finally manages, the words soft and stunned, like he wasn't sure that he had heard you correctly.

you, in your infinite wisdom (or rather, drunken idiocy), barrelled on like a bull who had just seen red cloth, "i'm so serious! you're the one i should've been with all along!"

you wave a hand at him, as if showcasing him to an invisible jury, "you're smart and you're sweet, and you actually care about me, unlike him!"

choso blinks, his expression unreadable, "okay," he says slowly, setting the glass back down on the table, "i think maybe, uh, you should sit down?"

"i don't wanna sit down, i want you to stop looking so perfect right now."

there's a faint flush creeping up choso's neck, like red pigment staining cream watercolour canvas, "perfect?"

"yes!" you hiccuped, teetering over the couch, "you're supposed to be my best friend, and instead you just stand there with your stupid forearms, and your everything, and it's not fair!"

choso doesn't move, doesn't even speak. just stands there, vaguely dumbstruck. like you had hung the moon, and then yanked it back down to earth to hurl it at his chest.

"i should've been dating you, cho," you declare again, louder this time, and your finger jabs his broad chest like it was somehow his fault, "you're the best, y'know that? and you're so hot, how did i not realise this sooner?"

your best friend's expression goes on a journey of varying emotions, shock and disbelief, panic and confusion. all while his candied pink lips open and close, "uh," because by now, eloquence had left the room for both parties. his hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to steady you or flee. his ears noticeably red, the flush creeping down his neck.

but drunk-dumped you wasn't done. oh no, this was your oscar moment. the hill you were going to die on. the ted talk that no one asked for.

and you were on a roll now, "i mean, look at you! you've got the broody, hot guy thing down so well, and you know that's my type. and everyone knows it, like why aren't we dating already?"

choso's mouth curls again, but no sound comes out. he looks like he wants to crawl into a snowbank and bury himself there forever, "okay, i think maybe you should sit down before you hurt yourself, or, uh, the furniture."

"i'm fine!" you'd declared, throwing your arms up in defiance just as your knees decided that they were absolutely not fine. you wobbled, and in an instant, choso's warm hands are on your shoulders, steadying you with ease.

the searing heat of his touch makes your heart lurch in a way that felt far too real for comfort. you look up at him, his face close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, and your breath hitches.

he's close enough now that his lips could press against yours with the mere turn of his head. but you know that choso's just too kind and thoughtful to kiss you in this state right now. he also looks like he's about to gently suggest that you pull yourself together. you wouldn't know, because you've just bulldozed right over him with zero brakes.

tears stream down your face still, but they're starting to slow. sticky and hot, tacking to your cheeks, as you deliver the final blow, "if i asked you to kiss me now — like genuinely right now, would you, cho?"

you would never know what choso's reply would be, because you hiccup violently. the kind that punches your chest and makes you sway. fate was never done with you, because your stomach lurches in warning. you had clamped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with panic.

choso, bless his heart, had looked ready to throw himself in front of you, "bathroom. now," he'd commanded, his voice taking on a rare, firm edge.

and that's right where your memory cut off, mercifully plunging you into the black void of your vodka-soaked brain. no idea if you'd made it to bathroom. no idea if you'd thrown up all over him, classy as always.

but the last thing you did remember, the thing that haunted you eve now, like a ghost tapping on your shoulder, was the look on choso's face. wide-eyed, jaw slack. like you had flipped his entire world upside down.

choso sits cross-legged on the cold dorm floor, the faint creak of wood beneath him. in his hands is a neatly wrapped gift, small and unassuming. but painstakingly chosen for you. the crimson ribbon, shiny and festive, catches the light of the desk lamp.

it wasn't extravagant, nothing flashy nor pricey. but it was thoughtful, personal. something that he had picked out weeks ago, back when everything between you two had been normal.

back when you didn't look at your phone, and decide he wasn't worth answering.

choso's thumb grazes the corner of the box, smoothing over the edges of the paper that he had meticulously folded after watching youtube tutorials. but now? the box felt heavier than it had any right to. would you even want this anymore? would you even want to see him?

choso sighs, letting his head tip back against the edge of his bed frame. it was a tight and awful feeling, something small and sharp that had wormed its way into his chest.

it wasn't just the silence. it wasn't even the unanswered texts or the way you’d been avoiding him like he was the human incarnation of bad news.

it was the fact that you were you. his best friend. the person he always knew how to read — until now, when everything felt scrambled.

he stares at the gift again, his brows furrowing. he'd been turning this over in his mind for seven straight days, wearing grooves into his thoughts like a track stuck on repeat. did you regret it? did you even remember what you said?

and worse — what if you did mean it?

that last thought was the one that always hit hardest. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the dark strands falling back into his face. somewhere on his desk, his phone buzzed softly, and for a second, his pulse jumped. but when he checked, it wasn't you.

because of course it wasn’t.

"pathetic," choso muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

seven days.

seven long, agonising days since you'd stumbled into your apartment like the ghost of heartbreak past — tear-streaked, half-drunk, and dropping words so raw they’d knocked the air out of choso's lungs.

seven days since you’d looked at him like he was everything good in the world — right before nearly puking on him and passing out on the couch in a heap of drunken devastation.

and seven days of brutal radio silence ever since.

choso groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he slouched against the edge of his bed. he got it — why you'd be embarrassed. he, he was still processing it, the memory looping in his head like a cursed highlight reel.

"you're amazing, cho. you're perfect."

the words echoed, soft and slurred, over and over like a broken record choso couldn’t shut off. a selfish part of him — a really shameful, awful part — had been glad your ex was out of the picture. not that it was a surprise; choso had never liked that guy. too loud, too cocky. the kind of guy who thought buying overpriced cologne absolved him of skipping deodorant.

but then there was the other part of him — the one that made him feel like a jerk. the part that felt guilty for feeling anything at all. because he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about you.

choso wasn't supposed to have spotify playlists privately curated with all your favourite songs. wasn't supposed to have started buying extra hair ties, just because the thought of you stealing one was so annoyingly appealing.

and he definitely wasn't supposed to have been quietly, hopelessly in love with you for five years and counting.

how many times had he messaged now? four? five? enough that he was starting to feel like that guy, the one who couldn’t take a hint. what if you'd sobered up and realised last friday was just drunk nonsense? what if you didn't like him like that at all?

had he not spent seven days drowning his misery in tubs of mango and pistachio ice cream? enough was enough.

choso's thumb hovered over your contact for a long, stupid second, debating whether to send one more pointless text. but before he could add another "hey, just checking in," he swiped away and hit a different contact. a boisterous teenager with a shock of pink hair.

he shoots off a quick text, almost grimacing as he hits send.

Choso Kamo: Need advice. Got a hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: if this is smth weird i'm not googling it for u

choso rolled his eyes, already regretting this decision. but he needed to hear an outside opinion.

Choso Kamo: It's not weird, serious this time. If someone confesses something private to you while they are drunk, then avoids you for a week, what do you do? Hypothetically?

a pause, and then:

yuujithegoat2003: is this someone a hot girl lol

choso sighed, his dry lips twitching despite himself.

Choso Kamo: Yes. Also, serious answers only. yuujithegoat2003: ok ok. do they remember what they said? Choso Kamo: Most likely not.

yuujithegoat2003: huh...so did they say something good? or was it rude? Choso Kamo: It was good. Really quite good. yuujithegoat2003: bro this seems easy, just ask if they meant it.

choso blinked at his phone, at the...almost reasonable response. suspiciously reasonable, coming from his younger brother.

Choso Kamo: And if they freak out? Or say that they didn't mean it? yuujithegoat2003: then u say 'just kidding' and blow the place up and leave the country. i can get u a fake id, i know a guy. i know lots of guys.

Choso Kamo: You need to stop being influenced by Gojo Satoru. Just because his public break-up landed on national news does not make it a premise for my own situation. Hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: ok, gojo just said no one gaf abt your love life anyway. seriously tho if u like this hypothetical person, just be chill. don't be all intense and scare them off bc its never that deep.

Choso Kamo: Love is that deep. Especially when you care for the other person a lot. yuujithegoat2003: ur so dramatic bro. anyway good luck.

yuujithegoat2003: also if you get rejected don't tell me bc i can't handle second hand embarrassment. thx. gtg to work. these pizzas don't deliver themselves ay

choso glances down at the gift still in his lap, the ribbon he'd so painstakingly tied now a little crushed — much like his pride. the box stares back at him accusingly, as if to say, what's the plan here, genius? wait for her to magically show up?

choso exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. sitting here wallowing wasn’t doing him any favours, and neither was yuuji's unhelpful voice.

"yeah, sure," he mutters under his breath, shoving the box into his jacket pocket. he stands abruptly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his desk chair.

if you weren’t going to talk to him, fine. he'd bring the conversation to you. answers, he thought, stepping out into the cold. the winter air bit at his face, but it was bracing, grounding even. one way or another, tonight was going to settle this.

the knocking was relentless.

you tried to ignore it at first, clutching your blanket like it was a shield against all outside forces. whoever was at the door would get the hint eventually. probably. hopefully.

but no, the knocking persisted, evolving into a deliberate rhythm, like some overzealous drummer auditioning for a garage band.

"unbelievable," you groaned, peeling your headphones off and tossing them onto the pillow where they landed with a hollow clatter. if this was the pizza guy you'd ordered from two hours ago, he was wildly late, and you were too broke to tip him anyway.

dragging yourself off the mattress felt like an olympic event. your legs wobbled, your blanket fortress collapsed behind you, and your pride was buried somewhere under the covers still. at least you'd showered earlier — small victories.

your damp hair dripped cold trails down the back of your oversized sweatshirt, and you caught a whiff of cocoa butter as you shuffled to the door. that was…something acceptable at least. but then the mirror by the entryway betrayed you, reflecting sleep-swollen eyes, and the faint ghost of face mask residue clinging stubbornly to your skin.

perfect. a vision of grace and dignity.

you yank the door open, ready to unleash a pointed what do you want? — but the words lodge somewhere in your throat.

smooth. and oh, just your luck.

there stood choso, a walking anomaly in the drab matrix of your sad little existence. his tall frame fills the doorway, backlit by the flickering hallway light, clad in a baggy black tee and faded denim that didn't quite match the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. his hair was tied up in a messy bun, spiky strands sticking out like an afterthought, and of course, he looked unfairly good for someone who had probably spent the past week avoiding the sunlight.

"uh, hey," he says, his voice softer than usual — careful, even. like he thought you might throw the nearest piece of furniture at him and sprint into the night.

"hey?" you echo, voice brittle as you folded your arms tighter. the sweatshirt you were wearing — his sweatshirt, one that he had left here weeks ago — suddenly felt two sizes too big and painfully obvious, "what are you doing here?"

choso scratches the back of his neck, his gaze flickering over you briefly before darting to the floor, "i needed to see you."

"at…eight at night? without warning?"

"would you have answered if i'd texted you?"

the air between you stilled as your brain scrambles for a retort, but he had you dead to rights. with a reluctant huff, you step aside. "fair point. just come in."

choso hesitates for half a second before stepping inside, his presence making your already small apartment feel even more claustrophobic. he's taking a quick glance around, and you watched, mortified, as his eyes landed on the pile of crumpled tissues precariously close to a half-drunk mug of cocoa and a bottle of jack daniel's teetering on the edge of the coffee table.

"sorry for the mess," you mutter, your voice defensive as you crossed your arms tighter.

"it's fine," choso says, a little too quickly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, "i didn't mean to…interrupt."

"you didn't interrupt anything." you wave vaguely at the disaster zone that was your apartment.

choso's lips twitch, almost like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure if now was the time, "look, i just —" he trails off, his usual dull voice faltering as he pulled something small and neatly wrapped from his pocket, "i came to give you this. and talk."

you stare at the gift in his hands, shiny crimson ribbon and all, your pulse kicking up like it had somewhere urgent to be, "christmas came early? thanks, cho," you say, mirroring his words with the kind of ease that only comes from too many shared silences. "i'm fine, though. i wasn't up to much."

choso cracks a small, half-hearted smile, but it's like watching a flicker of light in a dim room — there, but not really there. "i tried texting," he says, glancing at you, searching for something.

"i know," you murmur, suddenly finding the floor very interesting, "i just wasn't in the mood for much talking."

choso huffs, a sound halfway between exasperation and amusement, "i noticed," he says dryly, and that only makes the air in the room more thick and uncomfortable.

you sigh, letting your shoulders slump as you flop back onto the couch, curling your knees up to your chest like you're trying to make yourself small enough to disappear, "so, what? you came here to check if i'm still breathing?"

"kind of," choso admits, settling awkwardly on the edge of your coffee table, his long legs folded beneath him in that way that makes him look like he’s trying to physically contain himself. his knees bump into yours, and you have to fight the urge to pull away, like you could get too close, "but mostly...i came to talk about last friday night."

your stomach does a horrifying little flip, the kind that sends cold fingers crawling up your spine. you stare at him, silently willing him to read the begging look in your eyes and back off, but he doesn't. he's never been the type to take the hint.

"i've been thinking about it all week," he continues, his voice quiet but steady, as if he's preparing himself for something big, "and i need to know if —"

"nope," you interrupt, holding up a hand, "nope. we're not going there."

choso blinks at you, like he's trying to process the sudden barricate that you've just put up. but you're so not ready for this conversation, not now, nor ever. and you'll be damned if he gets any closer to the minefield. he scowls, his brows knitting together like he's resisting the urge to push you off the couch, "why not?"

"because it doesn't matter, okay?" you lean your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like you can will this conversation away, "i was drunk as hell, cho. you're overthinking it."

he scoffs, his voice sharp now, like he's cutting through your flimsy deflection with a blade, "i don't think i am."

you wince, shrinking a little under the weight of his stony gaze, "why does this even matter?"

"you think i can just brush it off like it didn't happen?" and there's a rawness in choso's voice that hits you harder than expected.

your cheeks heat up, a fiery blush creeping up your neck, "i didn't mean it," you mutter.

"yes, you did," choso snaps back, with uncharacteristic heat, and he leans forward, enough to close the distance between you two, "and you know how i know? because you've been ignoring me all week. if it was just some drunk nonsense, you would have laughed it off by now. but you haven't."

you open your mouth to argue, to push back. but the words stick heavy in your throat. nothing comes out, and it must prove choso all the more right, because you watch as his bottom lip is captured by his teeth, suddenly watching plush skin split.

"do you want me to apologise?" you ask finally, voice a little too sharp for comfort, "because i will. i'll say i'm sorry for putting you in that position and —"

"i don't want an apology," choso cuts you off, and the dim light of your apartment makes the dark circles under his eyes stand out like bruises, "i want the truth."

you freeze, your heart thudding like a drum in your chest, "what truth, cho?"

"that you meant it," choso says softly, "that you meant it when you said that you wish it had been me."

the words hang in the air, heavy and electric. your breath catches, as your mind goes blank. an entire power outage, as you blink at him like a fish out of water. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you force the knot in your throat to loosen just enough to speak, "yeah," you whisper, "i meant it."

choso's whole body seems to deflate, like he's been holding up the weight of the sky. his shoulders slump, and the sheer relief on his face hits you like a tidal wave. it's almost enough to undo you. there's a sound, soft and shaky and far too vulnerable that escapes him.

neither of you move. the moment stretches out, fragile. like it could snap in half if either of you dared to breathe too loud.

then, choso is the first to move.

there's no hesitation, no uncertainty. just pure intention, like a dam finally bursting open. he shifts forward, hands finding their way to your waist with an urgency that makes your pulse go into overdrive. choso's grip is firm, but there's a reverence to it, as if you're something he's waited his entire life to touch. he pulls you to him, and you can feel the heat of him flood your chest, your blood, your bones.

"what if you regret this?" you murmur into his chest, voice muffled as your arms slip around his necks, holding onto the beautiful man like he may float way.

"not a chance," choso replies, and his voice is raspier than you've ever heard it, like he's saying it more to himself than to you.

choso kamo finally kisses you.

the kind of kiss that feels like a storm is finally breaking over clear skies, with an unrestrainted longing that crashes over the both of you.

his sweet lips meet yours with a hunger that makes your head spin, raw and real. choso clearly doesn't want to hold back, and neither do you.

his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly at russet strands.

choso groans into your mouth, a soft and burning thing that ignites every nerve in your body.

without breaking his hold on your lips, his wide hands slide down, finding the back of your thighs, making you shamefully clench them closer together.

but he's tapping them in silent invitation, and you leap into him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. the world around you blurs as he stumbles backwards.

and when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed, gravity does its job. you both tumble into the mattress in a jumbled mess of limbs and muffled laughter, your heart pounding so loud, as you muster up the courage to prod your tongue at his lips, letting him part his mouth so you can take up more of choso.

you land beneath him, his weight pressing into you in the best way possible, sending sharp spikes of heady arousal through you. and you blink up at him, breathless.

choso is so close now, his hazel eyes locked on yours with a rare intensity, like the calm façade is entirely shattered now. but there's a smile on his lips, a crooked little thing that sends a rush of warmth through you.

"hi, choso," you whisper, your voice soft yet breathless as he chases your lips again, a desperate hunger in his eyes. it's as if he can't bear to be apart from you, even for a heartbeat.

"hey," he murmurs back, that low rumble sending shivers down your spine, igniting a heat you can't ignore.

you keep pressing kisses to his glossy lips, the world narrowing down the press of his mouth and how choso's hands cradle your waist like you might slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

without breaking contact, choso shifts, his strong hands guiding you gently, firmly.

"don' wanna crush you," he spills against your mouth, his voice low and rough, and before you can reply, he flips you effortless.

the movement is seamless, fluid even. and you're suddenly perched atop him, straddling his thighs and sinking into the worn denim of his jeans.

he's leaning back against the covers beneath him, as his chest rises and falls in unsteady waves as he gazes up at you. expression caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

choso looks so completely, heartbreakingly in love with you that it leaves you breathless. his hands tighten on your waist, fingertips pressing with a near bruising intensity into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt that clings to your frame.

his cheeks are flushed a deep, telling pink, and you can't help the soft, teasing coo that slips from your lips as you trace the curve of his temple with gentle fingers, "is something wrong, cho?" you murmur.

his lips, swollen and glistening from your kiss, part slightly, his breath uneven and catching on the edges of unspoken emotions, "nothing. nothing, i swear," he says, the words tumbling out rough and raw, his voice pitched low and vulnerable.

his hands slide you closer, his grip firm but trembling slightly, and his next confession nearly undoes you, makes your core moisten even, "just…never done this before."

"really?" you whisper, eyes widening as you take him in — the flush on choso's cheeks, the way he won't quite meet your gaze, the way he holds you like you're something precious.

the realisation that he's never shared this part of himself with anyone else tugs sharply at your heartstrings, "never?"

choso swallows thickly, nodding once, his voice a quiet hum as he admits, "mhm."

"ah, you're so cute, cho," you giggle, watching as the man scrunches his nose in mock protest.

"tch, 'm not meant to be cute."

you huff, feigning disappointment, "and here i was, wishing you a very merry christmas eve." he whines as you lean in, pressing a teasing kiss to his neck, right where his heartbeat thrums beneath his pale skin. your lips find their home at the juncture, and you can't help but smile at the way he whines at your touch, bucks his hips up into yours.

"must have been real good to get a holiday gift like this."

you pull back just enough to admire your handiwork, a little red bloom that blossoms on thin skin, bruised petals that mark him now. choso's swallowing thickly, his adam's apple bobbing, as a soft whine escapes his lips again as you lean in, this time closer to the jaw. leaving a trail of kisses in a messy that makes choso squirm.

you press your thumb against his lower lip, feeling the soft and trembling skin quiver under your touch, "hey. open up," you coax, a teasing lilt colouring your voice.

choso looks up at you, his wide eyes clouded with desire as dark strands of hair fall across his forehead, "huh, what?"

you tap his lip again, impatience bubbling in your chest, "c'mon, open your mouth. properly," and the way he immediately obeys, parting his glossy lips sends a thrill through you. the scent of clove and citrus envelops you as you lean in closer, running your tongue over his lower lip.

you let a glob of spit fall from your lip into his mouth, with a thick thwack! echoing in the air. you deliberately miss, just a little bit, to watch him squirm as he swallows, eyes fluttering shut and inky lashes staining his cheeks.

"so good, aren't you? good at playing nice, hah," you use your thumb to smear the slick over his lips, just a bit. to watch him shudder, entirely captivated by you. it's exhilarating and makes your cunt clench around nothing. probably seeping through the thin material of your shorts and onto his thick jeans.

bang bang bang!

a sharp knock that booms at your door, enough to make your ears ring. you hear choso groan beneath you, shifting slightly so you can feel the full, thick curve of his bulge right where you need him most.

"think we can ignore that?" he rasps, his voice rough and low, the sound of it leave slick strands clinging between your thighs.

you spread your legs just a little wider over him, watching as his frown dissipates and his jaw drops, distracted by the preview you've given him, "i'm really hoping so."

but whoever is at the door has no intention of being ignored. another knock rattles the wood, followed by an all-too-familiar voice yelling, "hey! open up! delivery!"

your brows furrow, recognition sparking, "cho, isn't that—"

he cuts you off with an apologetic sigh, lifting you off his lap with surprising gentleness. choso sets you down on the quilt, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before muttering under his breath, "it better not be."

you watch him go, more than a little distracted by the sight of his broad shoulders and the way his messy hair bobs with each step. already, you're plotting exactly how you’ll get your hands back in it once he returns.

choso swings the door open, and you hear a collective, "what the hell?" echo through the apartment — one part you, one part choso, and one part…

"itadori yuuji?" you blurt, leaning over to get a look. sure enough, there's choso's younger brother, standing in the doorway in a bright red pizza delivery uniform, balancing three large boxes in one hand and his phone in the other.

yuuji blinks at the two of you, then raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of confusion and something vaguely accusatory before reading off his phone in a robotic voice, "uh…merry christmas eve. i have three pizzas. extra cheese. stuffed crust," he pauses, not able to keep the act up as his golden eyes narrow, "but, uh — bro, what happened to your face?"

you bite your lip to keep from laughing as choso straightens, his expression caught somewhere between mortified and furious, "yuuji—"

but the younger man's attention shifts to you, his gaze taking in the oversized sweatshirt you're wearing, choso's sweatshirt, and his jaw drops, "oh hell no. this is the hot girl you texted me about?"

choso visibly flinches as you burst into giggles.

"that's like your best friend? that's like my sister-in-law!" yuuji throws up his hands in mock disbelief, "you really keep your circles tight, huh, man?"

before choso can even respond, yuuji leans in closer, squinting at his older brother, "and seriously, dude, what's all that on your face?"

choso groans, snatching the pizzas from yuuji with one hand and shoving him toward the hall with the other, "okay, that's enough. get out."

"you haven't paid me! that's against the law!" yuuji protests, but choso grabs the scruff of his brother's uniform collar, steering him out the door.

"i'll pay you double. triple. just leave."

"my pizzas are probably cold now anyway," you call out, adding fuel to the fire.

"yeah? well, you look a bit too busy to eat them anyway," yuuji swivels his head over his shoulder to wag a finger at you with a grin, before choso finally shoves him fully into the hallway.

as the door slams shut, you hear yuuji's muffled voice echoing, "i'm telling everyone. i'm telling dad. i'm telling sukuna. i'm telling gramps, gojo, nanami —"

you can hear their bickering voices fade down the hallway, to where choso is probably gonna pack him into the car and send him off.

you glance down at the box you'd set aside earlier, your curiosity getting the better of you. carefully pulling at the ribbon, you open it to find a small scrapbook, beautifully made. inside are photos and clippings of you and choso: movie ticket stubs, receipts from late-night takeout runs, train tickets from your trip to the coast.

your chest tightens as you run your fingers over the familiar handwriting scrawled in the margins, a quote from a cheesy romantic movie that you had forced choso to watch with you a few months ago. what an honour it is to be loved like this.

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phantasm-ae · 29 days ago

Text

cw: gn reader x captain price, dark, possessive price, obsessive price, slightly toxic price, submissive reader, unfair power dynamic relationship

HEADCANON: You were Price’s sweet little wife and you absolutely love being his. Adoring. Submissive. Quiet, delicate, and sugary innocent. Only problem is Price loves it too much.

PAIRING: Captain Price x gn reader

You liked calling him sir.

Not because he demanded it. At least, not at first. But because of the way his eyes darkened every time you said it. The way his hand would slide just a bit lower on your back at dinner parties, or how his voice would drop into something heavy and private when he leaned down to your ear and said, “That’s my girl.”

It was a game. A sweet, delicious game.

You wore the dresses he picked -- always flattering, never too revealing. He learnt that he liked soft colors on you, baby blues and pale pinks, lace that clothed your soft plushy thighs and hips. Things that made you look delicate. Heaven sent. Touchable. His.

People thought it was charming. A little traditional, maybe. But… charming.

They smiled when you asked him before ordering wine. They complimented your “manners” when you let him speak for you at events. You always stood just a step behind him — never beside. Always behind. Just like you liked it.

Or… just like you thought you liked it.

It wasn’t until month eight -- after the move into the countryside, after your phone mysteriously reset and you stopped hearing from your old friends -- that things started to feel off.

You chalked it up to bad service, to the chaos of moving, to Price being busy. It wasn’t until you tried logging into your email that you realized the password had changed.

He had reset it for “security reasons baby, don’t you worry your pretty head about it yeah?”

You didn’t remember asking him to though…

“Can’t be too careful, sweetheart,” he said, setting your laptop aside like it didn’t matter one evening when you came to him after your MacBook suddenly won’t work. “Too many creeps out there. You never know who’s watching.”

That night, he tucked you in early, made you peppermint tea, and stroked your hair while you lay in his lap. The room was dim, lit only by the fire and the flicker of his unreadable eyes. You wanted to bring it up again, but his hand was so warm. So steady.

“You trust me, don’t you, love?”

You nodded. Of course you did. He was your husband.

Sir. John. Your world.

But the thing about control is, it doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers.

Sometimes, it looks like:

Picking out your clothes and calling it a gift.

Replacing your wine with tea because “you’ve been so good lately, darling. Deserve a treat is all.”

Checking your texts and reminding you, “It’s for your own good, pet. Men don’t talk to married women for no reason.”

Sometimes, it looks like the neighbor’s son going missing after he smiled at you too long over the fence.

You didn’t connect the dots. Why would you?

John was always there when you needed him anyway.

He held you when you cried, kissed you breathless when you were nervous, and said “I’ve got you, little wife. Always.” whenever you felt lost.

And well….

What more could you need?

masterlist

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kitty384 · 3 months ago

Text

The Space Beneath

Summary: After a hard mission, Y/N disappears into the one place that still feels safe. She doesn't want to talk, doesn’t want to be seen—she just wants to hide. But Bucky knows her too well to let her stay alone.

Content Warnings: PTSD symptoms (mild), emotional shutdown, hiding/coping behavior, soft comfort, hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, Bucky being the best boyfriend

There was something about the weight of silence that hit differently after a mission.

Not the kind of silence that filled the air when you were safe and still—no, this was the silence that followed chaos. A silence too loud in its emptiness. It rang in Y/N’s ears, humming over the memory of shouting, gunfire, the way her heart had pounded so hard it made her ribs ache.

She didn’t say much when they got back to the compound. No one pressed her.

Steve gave her a nod of acknowledgment. Natasha squeezed her shoulder. Bruce offered her a gentle smile. Bucky had searched her face for something—maybe a sign, a hint—but she hadn’t given him one. She couldn’t. If she spoke, if she let her hands shake, she might shatter. She might cry in front of everyone, and she wasn’t ready for that.

So she disappeared.

Not in a dramatic way. No slammed doors, no angry exits. She just… walked away. Slipped down the hall in her mission gear and socked feet, turning corners until she found the hallway that always led home.

The living room was dark. A few lights glowed dimly on the far wall, casting a soft haze over the carpet. She moved like a ghost. Not because she wanted to be seen that way, but because that’s what Hydra taught her: move quiet, move unnoticed, vanish when the world gets too loud.

She dropped to her knees beside the couch.

There was a time she would’ve chosen a closet. A locked room. A vent, maybe. But that was five years ago. Back when she didn’t know what safety was supposed to feel like. These days, safety was a warm blanket on cold furniture. The smell of peppermint tea and vanilla candles and whatever Natasha’s perfume clung to. It was this room. This couch. This space beneath it where the world didn’t exist.

Y/N crawled under slowly, her chest tight, every breath calculated.

It was cramped. Her elbow bumped a wooden beam. A few random socks were jammed into the back corner, probably Clint’s. She curled up into herself, pressing her cheek to the soft carpet. Her fingers tugged the throw blanket down from the couch edge, letting it fall like a curtain in front of her.

Darkness.

Not scary darkness. Not the kind that held nightmares or ghosts or memories of needles and sterile white light.

No—this was gentle. Close. Still.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

She just breathed.

Time stretched thin.

She didn’t know how long she was under there. Long enough for her heartbeat to slow. Long enough for the quiet hum of the compound to settle in her bones.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Careful. Not heavy like Thor’s. Not rapid like Sam’s. These were measured. Soft.

Bucky.

She knew that sound by now. She knew the way he walked, like he was always trying to make up for the times he didn’t have control over his own limbs. The way his boots barely scuffed the floor, how he hesitated just before he stepped into a room where he thought she might be.

She tensed.

Would he pull her out? Ask her what was wrong? Try to fix it?

The footsteps paused. Then there was a soft sound, the groan of leather, the clink of his knife being dropped onto the coffee table. Then—

Silence again.

Until:

“…Didn’t check here first. That’s on me,” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost like he was talking to himself.

Y/N stayed curled up, eyes half-lidded, her fingers gripping the throw blanket.

Bucky didn’t crouch down or peek under. He didn’t call her name.

Instead, he lay down.

Right there on the carpet.

She heard the shift of his weight, the soft oof he let out as he adjusted onto his side.

And then his hand slid under the edge of the couch, palm up, open.

No words.

No pressure.

Just him, lying beside her.

Y/N blinked, throat tight. Her chest ached, but not in a way that hurt. It was… overwhelming. The good kind. The kind she still hadn’t fully learned how to hold.

She reached out slowly, her fingers brushing over his knuckles, then lacing through his. He was warm. Solid. Real.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

At some point, Bucky’s thumb began to trace soft circles against her skin. She couldn’t see him—just the floor, and shadows, and the safe little world she’d built under this couch—but she felt him.

Eventually, her voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper.

“I couldn’t be around them. I wanted to be okay, I did, but I just… couldn’t do it.”

“I know,” Bucky murmured. “That’s why I came here.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “You always find me.”

“That’s the deal,” he said simply, like it was a fact of the universe. “You don’t have to explain. I just want you to know I’m here.”

Another pause.

Then she said, voice even smaller: “I thought I was better at this by now.”

Bucky’s hand squeezed hers gently. “You are. Being better doesn’t mean you never hide. It means knowing where to go when you need to. It means trusting someone enough to let them stay.”

Tears welled in her eyes then—not from sadness, but from love so thick it filled her up and spilled over.

She pressed her forehead to the back of his hand, breathing him in.

Metal and warmth and home.

When she finally crawled out from under the couch, blinking at the soft overhead light, Bucky didn’t say a word. He just opened his arms and pulled her close, letting her melt into him.

They sat on the floor together for a long time. Just breathing.

And for the first time since they got back, she felt okay.

Masterlist

Request

#y/n fluff #bucky barnes x reader #hurt/comfort #found family avengers #soft!bucky #safe place #post mission comfort #hydra survivor #avengers x reader

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kithtaehyung · 6 months ago

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holiday (3tan special) | myg

title: holiday pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) series: masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball | stay | sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken (pt. 1) | broken (pt. 2) | lollipop rating/genre: pg (18+) ; fluff ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au, holiday au summary: from what you can gather, holiday gift exchanges are supposed to be pretty straightforward. but this one quickly escalates. because no one can follow directions. note: this is all thanks to the person that suggested a 3tan crew secret santa! they don’t do actual secret santa, but they do host a gift exchange. so enjoy this speedily but still tenderly written holiday special! i wanted to get it posted asap so that we could all have it during the holiday season. hope it helps lifting spirits in any way<3 warnings: yoongi looks like sin, but reader does too🤭, kissing, no one follows directions, but especially jimin, hella kissing, no fr jimin is chaos incarnate, sibling holiday woes, tense situations, tender moments, gift exchanges, dialogue heavy i’m so sorry, also not too edited i'm sorry again sdfkljdskl. reader is adorable y'all i wanna cry, 3tan crew being wholesome af drop date: december 27th, 2024, 8:37pm est word count: 8.1k bc i love y’all???

��Wait… I’m in this, too?”

Your brother winces while checking his phone, probably also seeing the texts that Jimin sent to a freshly created group chat. “Tae and Chim roped us in this time. But it’s cool if you don’t wanna.”

As you both don work attire in your foyer, you shake your head, one hand firm on your bag strap, “I don’t even know how they work.”

“I think we random draw names. Then just give a gift to whoever we get.”

Seeing the names and numbers in here, you’re already running through a lot of possibilities. Maybe too many possibilities. But you don’t wanna make things more complicated or awkward, so you quickly concede, “I mean.. I’m down if you are.”

“I guess it’s cool.”

Head lowered, you notice that your brother’s shoes are the ones you gave him for his birthday a couple years ago. Because those days are the only ones you both celebrate every passing run of three hundred and sixty-five. “At least we’re doing something this year.”

He chuckles to his feet. “Two years in a row.”

Your sad laugh tumbles and rolls next to his. “Wild.”

“Hey.” When he pauses, it’s to wait for you to look up. “If you ever wanna talk about it, we can.”

There are a lot of times in which you dismiss your brother. Because it’s just what siblings do.

This time is not one of them.

“Same,” you offer, the weight of the world dragging your smile down.

He gives you a hug, and you feel the luxury press of his suit as you lean in with scrunched brows.

Two years in a row.

Maybe things do suck less with time.

When you both head out the door to your cars, you wonder if your brother knows how much you appreciate him and his friends for including you in things. Even if you don’t show it as much as you need to.

Guess this time of year is a good place to start.

Work drags in the wake of oncoming holiday.

But you’re learning to appreciate the decorations around the office, including the little cards that coworkers have given you at your desk—despite your many protests that they didn’t have to.

When you look up, you start to notice other things. Like the way people smile just a little more. Or the way peppermint and cider waft around the building, smelling of sweet instead of spice.

You wonder if Jungkook has decorated the studio, too. Or if he recruited everyone else to help with decorations, which means that Yoongi and the guys had to fuss with lights and whatever else people spend money on.

Laughing to your many stacks of papers and documents, you start daydreaming of what it would be like to decorate the house.

Would you and your brother do it someday? You do admit that it’s kinda nice to look around the neighborhood. And when you went into the mountains last year, you concede that the surrounding town decor was pretty inviting.

Maybe your house would be a little brighter on the inside too if you both just…

You get a notification on your phone. When the screen brightens, you see that it’s for the app that shuffles you all for the gift exchange.

You have no fucking clue what you’re doing.

But here goes.

Opening and hoping you get someone that’s easy to please, you stare at your device and blink a few very hard times.

And after every time, you still get a name that has your heart quickening faster than reindeer working overtime. It’s reindeer, right? You think that’s cor—

“You okay?”

Snapping your head up, you notice that one of your coworkers stopped mid-stride to check on you. Staring at his candy cane tie, you try not to be distracted as you slightly cringe,

“What do I get a guy for the holidays?”

“Friend or lover?”

Well, that was not what you expected to hear!

When your jaw unhinges, you’re quick to snap it back into place. “Umm.”

“Oh, this is juicy,” he perks up, quickly settling into a nearby chair and resting a strong chin in his hand. “Tell me more, I got time.”

Laughing, you shake your head while pretending to type on your computer. “Nothing to tell.”

“That means you got a whole lot.” His eyes are way too shiny right now! “But alright, I’m gonna assume both. In which case, I suggest something nice.”

“Something nice?”

“You know, like. Nice nice.”

“It’s for a gift exchange, though,” you slump, hands stopping on the keys. Looking at his whole holiday ensemble, you divulge, “The money limit’s definitely not enough for nice nice.”

“Then fuck the limit?”

Your answer is more of a sound than a word.

But he does get you to consider, even if just for a little bit. “Maybe…”

“Fuck the limit,” he advises again. “He’s gonna dig that. Especially since everyone will see it.”

Your face falls from the snowy sky. “Everyone?”

“Uhh, yeah? You said gift exchange, right? Everyone sees what everyone gets.”

“Oh. Right,” you pretend to agree to your computer. Because no, you actually didn’t know that. “Guess it’s been awhile.”

“Well, that’s what makes it fun! Good luck.”

While you would normally agree, you have a whole hoard of conflicting feelings. Because while seeing Yoongi’s name on your screen is enough to get you giddy as hell, you know there’s a couple people that may not share the same sentiments. Especially if you gift him something nice nice.

In front of everybody.

However…

As your striped and jingling coworker strides away with a hum, you drum your fingers on your minimally decorated desk.

Maybe there is a way you can finess this.

After a few weeks, the day has come for not just one exchange, but two—your friends also decided to have your own. Because it’s the easiest format, you convinced them with logic, seeing their shock at you being the one to suggest the exchange in the first place.

When they asked if you were sure, you assured them that it was okay. And the way they all brightened told you that you made a sound decision. Even if they still seemed hesitant, you know it’s because…

You’ve never done this.

So as you observe everyone in your bare living room, you start to see how their presence alone illuminates the space, with gifts in shine and glitter painting the area in holiday colors.

This is nice.

“So… Uhh.” You clear your throat, watching everyone look at you at the head of your coffee table. “How do we do this?”

They all laugh before Taehyung explains, “So one of us goes first and says who we got before giving the gift—you can sit, you know.”

In the midst of more teasing, you settle onto the floor while exclaiming, “I’m nervous, okay! This is really new to me.”

“You have a gift to give, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Then you’re already doing great,” Reia assures, and you’re even more excited to give yours away. Because you drew her name.

But before you can say that, Taehyung continues, “So after someone gets their gift, they announce who they picked, and so on.”

“Pretty straightforward,” you observe. “I wanna go first!”

Dom cackles, “You just wanna get it out of the way.”

“And?” you question, grinning when you shoot up and grab your very amateurishly wrapped bag. “Okay, okay, I got…”

“This is adorable,” Yuri cuts in, and everyone’s agreement makes you suddenly shy.

“No! Don’t make fun.”

“We aren’t!” Taehyung reaches out to rub your leg. “Promise. Who’d you get?”

“I got… Reia!” You exclaim, raising your bag a bit as she yells with everyone. The sudden raise of noise gets you a little shocked, but hyped nonetheless. And maybe a bit nervous that your gift won’t live up to the excitement. “Sorry about the wrapping job.”

“What are you talking about, this is so good,” Reia soothes, smiling wide as she delicately takes out the folded paper. “Wow, the wrapping is nice?”

Dom chimes in as she leans in, “Yeah, this is too good. Did you watch videos?”

“Uh huh.”

Everyone laughs again as you keep your nose held high. Because sucky or not, you were not gonna half-ass your first ever gift exchange. With seasoned people, at that. No way.

When Reia opens the gift you carefully picked while perusing through a local music store, you watch with the anticipation of a small child, eyes wide and waiting. Hoping that the best outcome is the real outcome.

And when she quietly yells behind her hand, everyone cheers while asking what she got. When she turns the package around, they cheer even more, because it’s a guitar pick set in her favorite colors. And one that you knew was so, very much her.

She stands up immediately and opens her arms for a hug, and you blink before getting lovingly crushed.

“Thank you,” she whispers in your ear. “This is more than great.”

“Of course, babe,” you murmur back, feeling her jean jacket under your palms and a beating in your chest. “Thank you, too.”

The rest of the exchange goes off without a hitch, with you cheering with everyone and understanding the cues more and more. Everyone’s gifts are wonderful, and Yuri’s the last to go out of the five of you.

And she got your name.

You figured giving the gift would be the hardest part.

But somehow, this part is a lot harder.

Braving it anyway—because there’s ironically no time like the present—you carefully unwrap the thin package and stare at what’s inside.

It’s a photocard. But the picture is of the five of you, one that Taehyung took with his long ass arms while the four of you huddled behind him with drinks in hand. Around its edges are stickers, hearts and stars and cute little animals.

And it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Yuri rushes over to ask if you don’t like it.

“This is the best thing ever,” you choke out, and she smiles before laughing and tearing up, too. “I love us.”

“We’re the best, duh.”

“Got that right,” Dom adds to the air while Reia and Taehyung start cleaning up the wrapping scraps. “You like your first gift exchange?”

“I should’ve joined y’all sooner.”

“Joined us?” Taehyung looks up from the ground. “What do you mean?”

“Oh. I figured you guys do this every year.”

Tae looks at Yuri, who then looks at you again before very seriously admitting, “We’ve never done this, either. Not with each other.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She taps the back of your now most precious, most coveted photocard ever. “We didn’t even think about it since you wouldn’t be there.”

Smiling at your prized possession, you vow,

“I’ll be here now.”

Regarding all of them, you start to decorate your place in your mind. Seeing where all the lights go. Where all the little trinkets hang, or whatever. You don’t quite know how this goes just yet, but you do know there’s trees involved. So that’s gonna be figured out in a year’s time.

“I’m not missing this again.”

With bellies full of laughter and a little bit of cider, you and your friends head over to Jimin’s cul-de-sac.

Dom took the wheel this time, so you get to stare out the passenger side window, eyes reflecting golds and colors as you take in the surrounding lights.

Were they always this pretty? You don’t remember being so taken by electricity and staggering electric bills, especially the houses that go all out and cover every nook of their yard in lights.

But it’s a spectacle on every corner and street, and Jimin’s little half circle of houses keeps the holiday illumination alive.

“Uhh, I think we can park down there,” you point, noticing there’s some space a little bit beyond the street. It’s alarmingly next to where Yoongi had to park once, and you cherish that memory with stars in your eyes.

“Everyone have their gifts?”

“Tae, if anyone lost theirs on the way here, we have other issues.”

It’s a quick walk to Jimin’s, and the music around the house gets louder as you approach his entrance. There are people already set up in his open garage playing what you assume are card games, and everyone greets your group as you pop in to say hi.

“Hey!” Namjoon calls. “Y’all are late! Everyone’s inside.”

“We had our own party first,” you call out, struggling with your gift bags and food tray. “Can someone—”

Before you finish your ask, you smell nice cologne and feel a big presence at your side.

When you look to see who’s assisting, you slow in your motions before uttering a small,

“Thank you.”

Jungkook slightly smiles as he grabs your last bag. “Your perfume’s nice,” he compliments behind tousled bangs. Which makes you blink because that comment is more than hard to come by from him.

So you can only grin. “Just got it,” you explain as you follow your friends inside the house. “It’s a dupe, can you believe it?”

“Damn! It’s a good one.”

“I know,” you agree, very proud of your find. Taking the gift bags from his hands, you tilt your head. “Can you bring the tray to the kitchen?”

“On it.”

When you make your way to your friends at the front area, they all eye you with concern. But you wave it off and shrug off your coat to hang on the loan coat hanger—earning teasing and whistles.

“Shut up,” you groan, laughing with everyone before straightening the reason for the noises. It’s a dress you’ve been eyeing specifically for holiday parties. Because as soon as you started to shop for your gift exchanges, that quickly spiraled into shopping for outfits to wear to them. Did your coworker spook you into looking good because it was a public event? Maybe. Absolutely.

So you shopped around before finding a dress that even you knew you looked good in. And the past couple weeks were the longest stretches ever because of your anticipation to wear it again.

As you and your newest fit walk into the kitchen, you start to greet everyone, giving them hugs and smiling bright at their compliments. Because you feel good. You feel nice. Maybe you’re just drinking the holiday cheer and letting it consume you but you don’t care because it’s fun this time. This isn’t like any other year, and it’s wonderful.

But then.

Even the most wonderful moments have to come to a halt.

And yours crash when you see Yoongi.

Leaned back on one of the kitchen counters, his body appears relaxed in another damn black button-up, telltale silver chain hanging from a neck you wanna devour in front of the whole house.

He was already annoying last year. But this time, his hair’s longer, and made up with just the right amount of disarray and a little bit even tucked behind his ear.

Fuck, this is so much worse!

If he wasn’t so attractive and magnetizing, you’d have way less than ninety-nine problems. It would be a lot closer to zero.

But you make your way over to him anyway, because of course you would. Of course he knew you would, too.

“Hi,” you greet him, hands tingling with the desire to cup his beautiful chin and yank him in for a kiss.

But he greets you back while giving you a hug, not without giving you a very obvious once-over.

“Beautiful,” he whispers in your ear before pulling away, which can only make you babble out,

“What?”

He grins wide. “You look nice.”

Oh. Oh, he really did say that. Why are you surprised? Why are you always surprised? But you have to stay poised so you stick with a neutral,

“So do you.”

“Thanks,” he says with a sly curve, still leaning back on the counter with a drink in hand. “Say something else.”

“Goodbye forever,” is what you go with, back heating with his staccato laughs following your speedy retreat.

No, no, no. He cannot notice how excited you are to give him his gift. Your bubbling excitement needs to be projected elsewhere. Because you know you picked perfect. It’s something you know he’d appreciate.

But he cannot have his ego inflated anymore or else the house would float to the sky.

But fucking hell, he looks damn good and he knows it.

After an hour or so of socializing and keeping to your little friend circle, Jimin gets everyone together in the big living room to do the exchange.

“Okay! One, two… Okay, we’re all here, so. Who’s gonna start?”

When someone calls his name, the man grins and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m host.”

“So shouldn’t you be the one to start?”

“My house, my rules!” Jimin argues with zest, pointing to the guy that dared to challenge him, “So you go first.”

And that man just so happens to secretly be yours.

Shouts erupt around the living room, and you can mostly hear Hoseok and Seokjin since they’re closest,

“Go, Yoong!”

“Ah, Yoongi’s first for a change.”

Secretly and not so secretly, you’re hoping and wishing that he pulled your name. But the odds of that would be pretty slim if you pulled him, even though it was an even chance across the board.

But as he gets up from the arm of Jimin’s couch holding a small gift bag, you determine that maybe it’s best if he didn’t pull your name. Because you already had trouble opening Yuri’s gift. How the hell would you control yourself opening his?

“K, uhh. I got…”

Wait, he’s looking towards you from across the room.

Shit. Is it happening?

You?

“Taehyung.”

A pang of disappointment and relief shoots through your veins, even when you shout with everyone while watching Tae smile from his place right next to you.

Yoongi walks right up to your seats, which are really some extra fold-out chairs by Jimin’s decorated tree. And he smells so good. Why do you have to be close to him again?

But this moment is about Taehyung, so you watch as he opens the gift. When there’s a small box inside the bag, he opens that to reveal a nice, slim… wallet?

Wait, is that leather?

Your mouth drops as everyone’s up and raising questions already, and you can clearly hear Jungkook and your brother protest the highest,

“Wait, huh?”

“We set a limit for a reason!”

Yoongi’s hands stay in his pockets when he refutes, “It was on sale.”

“Nah, he’s lying!”

Taehyung doesn’t know what to say, so when he looks at you, it takes all your strength to encourage him neutrally,

“It’s so you! Deserved.”

Yoongi looks at you before asking your friend, “Is it okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Taehyung says, full of gratefulness. “I’m just shocked.”

Jimin and Shiv chuckle from one of the couches,

“Oh? He’s never shocked.”

“This is new.”

Yoongi smiles as Tae gets up to hug him, and you’re immediately okay not being the one receiving anything right now.

Because you don’t need anything from him.

All you want is his happiness.

Once the initial gift is given, everyone goes down the line. And you’re feeling a little lighter after knowing who Yoongi got. Also, you feel less and less awkward about your gift, since the chaos of Yoongi’s was only the beginning.

Because when Taehyung gifts your brother a chain, everyone’s up and yelling again while your sibling is shocked to hell.

On one end of the living room, Namjoon shakes his grinning head while Jungkook throws his back,

“Alright, there needs to be a penalty for the most expensive gift.”

“We obviously didn’t give a shit about the limit.”

Everyone’s laughter fills the house, even drowning out the faint holiday music floating from the surround speakers.

Immediately clipping on his necklace, your brother shouts, “Am I the only one that stuck to what we agreed on?”

“Sucks for who got yours then.”

Everyone starts laughing or reprimanding Yoongi for saying that—you with a cackle included.

But then your brother busts out a fucking watch for Shiv and everyone goes bananas.

At this point, Taehyung’s fully laughing behind his fingers on his forehead, and Jimin collapses on a gawking Yoongi when Shiv quite literally jumps up.

“What the hell? Dude, I can’t take this.”

��Yes, you can! And you will.”

Fingers are pointing in every direction while people are calling each other liars, and your brother laughs on like a gremlin.

But it’s all so adorable that your heart is squeezing. Shiv’s damn near tearing up. “I’ve been eyeing this one for forever.”

“I know! You wouldn’t stop running your damn mouth about that thing.” Your older sibling claps him on the shoulder. “You can shut up now,” he says with a grin, and Shiv gives him a big hug.

“Thanks, man.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

Shiv’s turn. And everyone is waiting for what he decided to gift.

Turns out he keeps the shenanigans going by gifting Jungkook a luxury tie set.

The blond’s jaw drops as he stares hard at the package. Looking up quick, he has to ask for sure, “A set, dude?”

“It was on sale!”

“Again?”

“Are we all gonna say the same lie?”

Everyone can’t hide their amusement, with creased eyes and fake annoyance in every seat. Jungkook can’t believe his luck, since he’s been telling himself to get dress clothes forever but hasn’t gotten around to it.

“You gotta dress like a man now, kid,” Shiv tells him with a bright smile. “There’s a lot coming now that you’re making it.”

A light bulb softly glows when you realize that Yoongi might need to do the same. Trying not to look obvious, you peek in his direction.

As he stares at the floor, you already know he’s mulling over the same thoughts.

But it’s Jungkook’s turn now, and you still haven’t gotten a gift yet.

So you’re waiting with all the air in your lungs.

As the blond teases his pick, the studio boys are quick to handle him as Yoongi only huffs.

“I got… I got… I got, I got, I got, I got—”

“Kook, just say it.”

“Always like this.”

“Jimin!”

Your heart beats again as the host pops up from his couch, everyone cheering as Kook meets him in the center. Around you, speculation from your friends mixed with a little laughter spikes,

“He probably stuck to the limit.”

“Definitely.”

“Jimin’s gonna be the only one left with—”

Cackles and screams rip as Jimin kicks his head back in laughter, because in his hands is a sleek white box that everyone recognizes.

This man got Jimin designer shades.

Your cheeks hurt as you react with everyone, giddy and bubbly with how absolutely ridiculous this whole night has gone. Everyone accusing each other of cheating, while all the while every single gift has been over the top.

You really don’t feel bad about revealing your gift anymore. Quite honestly, you almost feel more bad about it not being enough.

No. It’s enough.

Yours is the best and you stick to that.

Jimin takes the sunglasses out of the box and protective pouch, slipping them on and modeling immediately.

Oh’s and ah’s echo before his friends inflate his ego,

“Damn, you sure you aren’t a model?”

“You’re one step away.”

“He really is.”

He looks great and he knows it. And he carefully puts them back in their packaging before giving Jungkook a hug. They exchange conversation, and you can feel the latter’s smile as he laughs before sitting down.

Suddenly, you have the strongest intuition that you’re next. On Jimin’s turn. He’s getting out a very nice bag from behind a couch and your brain is firing off.

“Okay! The best gift is going to…”

You were right. He calls your name.

Smiling, you shakily stand as Jimin approaches, a twinkling look in those features glowing in incandescent lights.

Eyes on you. Many eyes.

A little overwhelmed, you thank him before sitting down. Because it’s much easier to do this while on a solid, structured surface.

“Hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Best gift? What could Jimin possibly mean by—

Your scream shoots out as you clamp the bag shut because no fucking way you saw what you just saw in there.

Jimin’s laughing his ass off but it’s not funny.

“Jimin, what the fuck!” Now you know how Shiv felt and he is absolutely valid for his reaction. “I can’t accept this.”

People are concerned around you, and you quickly think they may have the wrong idea.

“What did he get?”

“What’s in there?”

Quelling some thoughts, you explain, “It’s a box.”

“Okay?”

You just gotta say it. They’re all gonna know as soon as you take it out anyway. So you breathe out,

“…It’s Dior.”

It’s the loudest it’s been all night, even though your friends are completely speechless. All the guys are up in arms and Jia’s scream for penalty can be heard through the chaos,

“What!”

“Where’s my Dior?”

“What the fuck?”

“Jimin…”

“Okay, that is way over limit! That’s cheating!”

“Penalty!”

Jimin’s sneaky smile as he turns around doesn’t help, “You know I get everything for less.”

“So?”

“Still, what the hell, man!”

You know Jimin works there. You do. But this is still making your limbs jelly and you can’t even speak.

There’s no way Dior is passed around at every gift exchange.

“You deserve it. For dealing with him.” He looks at your brother, but the look in his eyes is too sparkly to be completely truthful. Does he mean Yoongi? Or is he being serious?

Of course, your sibling throws out a droning, “Wow.”

After lots of shaky unboxing, you reveal a stunning bracelet, your friends bending down around you to gawk at how brilliant it is. Dancing in your fingers, this piece shimmers and gleams, and every single person is quiet.

Guilt. You feel guilt.

And you can’t even look at the reason why.

“Whatever you’re feeling, don’t. It’s okay.”

You’re tearing up because it’s way too nice. Which proves worse because you also feel bad for crying for the sole fact that Yoongi’s watching. You don’t want him to get the wrong idea.

You get up to hug him. “I… This is really nice, Jimin. Thank you.”

“Stop by the store sometime,” he offers with a smile. “Maybe I can slip more in your purse.”

“Easy,” your brother eyes him.

“So are we all getting fancy gifts or what?”

“Nope! Ran out of my discount, sorry.”

“Wow.”

When you finally glance around, everyone’s either a mix of shock and awe, visibly confused, or just jealous and wondering what the hell just happened.

Meanwhile.

Yoongi straight up looks like he’s holding his tongue.

And you suddenly feel really bad.

Hopefully giving him his gift will make up for what just happened. Even though you’re going after the hardest hitter of the damn night, this one’s special.

But who are you kidding? People are definitely gonna talk in private about Jimin’s little gift.

So now you have to try and mend this while acting like Yoongi’s just your brother’s friend. Cool. Awesome.

“So...”

Just try your goddamned best.

“Yoongi is mine.”

…Wait.

Your secret looks your way immediately while everyone snaps their heads to him.

What the fuck did you say?

Wait wait wait wait what did you fucking say?

Flapping your arms, you reach for words while everyone starts teasing, “Oh, god. I mean—I have Yoongi—I mean, wow. Hold on.”

Fucking fuck fuck, he’s grinning.

Thank the lord above for someone cheekily asking,

“First time at a gift exchange?”

You look away from the laughs while trying to compose your grin of embarrassment. Get it the fuck together, this is peak time to get it right.

“God. Okay.” You look down at your bag. All of its carefully folded and primped paper, the delicate folding inside. “For the gift exchange,” you clarify with a forced firm tone, “I got Yoongi.”

You feel Dom try her damned best to hide her laugh. And you know for damn sure Jimin and Taehyung are thoroughly amused right now.

All the oh’s sounding off in the living room are already enough to set your ears smoking. Your brother’s voice can be heard, but you know that’s for a specific reason.

Everything had to be carefully calculated, after all.

You walk up to him, and you cannot—absolutely cannot—look too long at the way he’s looking up at you. Him sitting in any capacity is enough to drive you up a wall, but now? When he looks so freshly fitted and prepping to tease you about all this later? You can barely think straight.

“I don’t think I can beat Jimin’s gift,” you sigh to his curious eyes. “But it’s a little too late to change.”

His smile turns so soft. He shouldn’t be the one comforting you right now when you probably broke a little of his heart. “It’s all good.”

Keep going.

Cleaning your clogged throat, you brave the crowd and breathe before starting again, “Anyway. This is kinda from both of us, but I picked it because I have better taste.”

“Hey, what the hell?”

Ignoring your brother’s protest, you watch as Yoongi softly opens the gift before pulling out a basketball jersey.

Of his favorite player.

“Holy shit.”

Shouts start erupting behind your back as you laugh, your sneaky gift joining the rest of them.

“Hello? That’s way too much!”

“That’s over the limit for sure.”

You wave your hands frantically among their teasing arguments, and your brother chimes in on your side. “I didn’t know what to get!”

“So you got a real jersey?”

“Relax, y’all. It’s from both of us.”

“Wait, which one’s Lillard again?”

“Damian,” Yoongi softly says in awe. “How’d you know?”

You can only blink, smiling faltering by the slightest amount.

Fuck, he’s gonna be cheeky right now? Knowing you know and exactly how you know? Cuddled up with him in his bed as he shows you highlight reels and tells you the guy’s whole story and that he happens to be a rapper, too?

Looking back towards your brother, you explain, “Well... He gave me a list. And I just picked off vibes.”

Yoongi’s eyes sparkle so much when he grins. “Good choice,” he compliments with creased eyes. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” You say back with a little too high of a pitch. “But tell him he still owes you a gift. This doesn’t count for him.”

“Uhh, it sure as fuck does!”

Yoongi breaks eye contact to shout behind you, “Didn’t you already tell me you got me something?”

“Yeah, it was that!”

“What a lie,” Yoongi says through a smile.

“Yeah, I did,” your brother surrenders. “The shoes are in my bag. Okay, next!”

Hilariously, two pairs of people end up getting each other. Yuri’s older sister Jia got Seokjin, who also drew her name—to the slight angst of your brother, you imagine.

And Hoseok ends up getting Namjoon. Which turns out being twice as funny because they both got each other the same pair of earphones. You can’t breathe with how hard you cackle with everyone, and your heart skips when you catch a glimpse of Yoongi’s eyes across the room.

By the end of the exchange, everyone’s bellies and cheeks sting from laughter, and every eye in sight has twinkles embedded inside.

Throughout the night, everyone starts branching off into different groups. You and your friends talk in the kitchen, and both in and out of the house, there’s groups of games and conversations.

The holiday decorations everywhere shine bright. Enveloped in the music, you keep looking at the lights, feeling happy but a little bittersweet.

You really wanna set the record straight with Yoongi. You had no damn clue that Jimin was gonna give something like that, much less in front of everyone.

The fact that you haven’t been in the same room for a bit makes it worse. What could he be thinking right now? You can’t tell because he’s nowhere in sight.

Screw it. You’re gonna at least text him. There’s no way you can survive the night if you’re gonna plague your own head without checking in with him.

Fishing out your phone, you sidestep away for a second to type something quick.

You [10:38pm]: i know it’s not dior.. but hope you like your gift :’))

Yoongi [10:38pm]: You know I do. It’s perfect, doll.

Well. He texted back super quick.

Maybe he’s really okay? Maybe he and Jimin already talked it through?

Then again.. Yoongi didn’t look happy at all during the big reveal. To the point where he was actively showing emotions you rarely get to see.

But if he says he likes his gift, that’s a good sign.

You [10:42pm]: i can’t believe jimin did that

Yoongi [10:42pm]: That was bold.

You [10:42pm]: seriously!!!

Hmm. So he didn’t know. That’s even more surprising than him knowing, now that you think about it.

You’re called over to get another round of food, and you turn down the initial invite but stay around as they get more to eat.

When you see a tray that smells way too good, you do break and get a piece anyways.

“Yeah, those are amazing,” Yuri chirps. “Shiv made those.”

“Really?” Dom grabs a couple pieces. “Lemme try these then.”

“You’re gonna want more.”

As you find a place outside to eat, you stand next to the heater while conversing with Taehyung. It’s adorable how you can tell how excited he is about his gift, turning it in his hand before pocketing the leather again.

“It’s so nice,” you compliment.

“He knows how to pick, I guess,” Tae smiles, looking at you and making you shy. Because hello? There’s no way he’s gonna be bringing that up tonight.

When you silently mouth for him to shut up, he grins like a madman. Glancing down at your hands, he suddenly asks, “Are you gonna put that down?”

“No,” you say with a tiny pang of guilt. “Afraid not.”

“Mm.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you’re thankful for the interruption.

Yoongi [11:09pm]: Guess I have to do better😔

Instantly, you take that gratefulness back.

You [11:09pm]: NO!! you don’t have to worry about me at all

Yoongi [11:10pm]: I can’t lose to you

You [11:10pm]: trust me, i just…

You think about sending the other text or not. But you do anyway.

Taehyung sees the look in your faraway face, but doesn’t comment as you peer down again.

You [11:11pm]: i just wanna see you happy

That’s all you want. If he’s happy, you’re happy. So it sucks to have part of the night come as quite the shock.

Interestingly enough, though.. Someone else in the house should also be pretty upset about your gift, and you haven’t seen Jimin cornered by him yet.

Unless your brother is just deciding to be courteous and beat his ass after everyone leaves.

Yoongi [11:13pm]: Then come over here

You’re not gonna argue with that.

So when your friends finish their plates, you suggest you all head into the garage. It’s already rowdy before you open the door, so the sounds get booming loud when you all enter.

Looks like everyone is blowing their money on other things tonight, too. The gifts were the nice part of the party; now everyone is fiending to take everyone’s cash.

“Damn, Yoongi’s clearing me out.”

“Told you not to go all in.”

“He did.”

As the cold weather rolls in, you watch as the games go on, with heaters humming with energy and your brother’s friends radiating competition.

No wonder Yoongi wanted you in here.

He’s on a damn roll.

As everyone groans after another win, Namjoon and your brother are in tatters,

“Yoong, what the fuck!”

“You hiding cards in those sleeves?”

“I told you!” Yoongi boasts, “Don’t get too cocky.”

“Says him.”

“Cocky, my ass.”

When you laugh, you earn a tiny glimpse of his eyes. But as his vision falls to your hands, you’re quick to look away, out into the night to look at all the lights instead.

Shit.

After some time passes, you find yourself alone on a balcony. Yet again. Cold wind blows through your coat, chilling you but making you feel alive. Too alive in this moment. Too aware.

The holidays aren’t so bad this time around. But you do need to set this one thing straight before things go a little sideways with Yoongi.

If he’s upset, you don’t want him to be. Even if he doesn’t say it, you want him to know you’re considering his feelings. There’s some things you just can’t control.

So you wait for Jimin, telling him earlier to meet you up here for the best chance at privacy.

When you hear the door opening, you see him come through, hair lifting in the breeze and his lips in a slight curve.

Get right to it. “Jimin, I—”

“Isn’t it so nice tonight?”

Stopping, you settle into a smile, watching him walk up to stand next to you before you both look into the night. The neighborhood glows beneath your feet, and everyone in the backyard mingles while puffs of air leave their lips.

“It really is,” you say with a smile, clutching the gift bag in cold fingers. Because you haven’t let go of it ever since it was given to you—it’s way too expensive. You’ve been guarding it all night.

Which is why you need to hand it back to the one who gave it to you. “We haven’t done something like this before, so.. It’s a nice change of pace.”

Jimin turns before realizing something. “Oh. I meant the weather.”

Embarrassed, you let out a laugh while his eyes crease. “Ah. That, too.”

“Got deep real fast.”

“Jimin!”

Both of you puff out laughter as you look down, just in time to see someone gazing right up at you. Someone that makes your heart squeeze on sight.

Oh, shit. Is he gonna get the wrong idea again?

You need to do this quick. Yoongi can’t be let down more than once tonight.

Sighing, you start to hold up the bag again. “Thank you—”

“He’s lucky you came around when you did.”

“Huh?”

Jimin leans on the railing before eyeing you with a smile. “You don’t even know, do you.”

“I don’t…” When you look below, Yoongi’s not looking anymore. And you panic. “Jimin, thank you. But I seriously can’t take this.”

Why does he look so calm? Why does he keep acting like this isn’t a big deal? “You can.”

“No, really. I—”

“I may have gone too far this time.”

Your eyes still as you breathe out a confused, “...What?”

Jimin’s face is dusted with peach in the cold, and you get a good view of his jawline as he peers down below with a regretful curve. “I kinda tricked him,” he admits. “Into picking your gift for the exchange.”

The shock you feel prevents you from even blinking. How the hell can this get even more overwhelming? “What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I got some good discounts.” Jimin turns around to lean against the railing. “So I thought it would be fun to rope him into getting you something.”

When he laughs to the chilly night sky, you don’t join him—the shock is preventing you from doing anything.

“Didn’t think he’d pick a whole bracelet, though. Made for one hell of a gift exchange pick.” He looks at you at a tilt. “You like it, right?”

Even if Yoongi was the one to pick out the jewelry, Jimin still had to purchase the damn thing. And even with his discount, it’s still expensive as hell. It has to be. You haven’t let go of the bag once because you don’t want to lose it. “But you still had to pay,” you blurt out. “I’ll find a way to pay you back if you aren’t gonna take it.”

“I didn’t pay for it, either.”

Your heart stops.

Full on halts.

When he turns his head, he looks toward the sky in thought. “Well, I did secretly pay the exchange limit. But..” He straightens before staring back at your absolute silence, dropping the biggest surprise of the whole night,

“Yoongi paid the difference.”

The sudden sob that leaves your throat startles him immediately, and he rushes forward to put hands on your shoulders. “Hey, hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I just—”

The sound of a door slides open, and you turn to see your favorite, favorite, favorite person walking through. You must look like a wreck but you don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

“I’ll leave you both to it then,” Jimin says to your watery eyes before squeezing, heading out to give you both the quiet space you need.

But Yoongi clutches his arm as he walks by, and you hold your breath as he stares him in the eye, voice burning with a steady glow,

“Don’t pull that shit again.”

“I know,” Jimin agrees without pause. “I owe you one.”

“No one comes up here then.” Yoongi releases him slow. “Until I come back down.”

The host of the night shares a quick hand clutch before assuring, “You got it.”

Bag clutched tight in your hands, you watch in wonder as Yoongi approaches you with a quiet determination. His presence alone makes your heart beat warm and soft, but you cannot stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks.

All you can ask as he gets close is a wondrous, “Why..?”

“He’s a very persuasive salesman.” When you wipe your eyes, he helps with a little look of tenderness. Though there’s still some frustration evident in his features. “But I didn’t know it would be for tonight.”

“Oh, shit,” you sigh. “Why did he do that?”

“I’m not sure.” Yoongi holds your chin, rubbing your frosty cheek with a handworking thumb. “Taehyung didn’t know he’d do it, either.”

“Tae knew, too?”

“Yeah. He thought I had it, not Chim.” He sighs to the side, hair lifting slightly in the breeze. “I almost stood up when you screamed.”

Your heart shrugs off some chill. “Really?”

Yoongi nods before looking up with scrunched brows. “It took all of me to keep my ass down. Honestly, I’m still pissed the fuck off.”

You believe that. One hundred percent, you believe that. Because you’ve never seen him talk to Jimin like that before tonight.

Reaching to cradle one of his cheeks, you feel how cold he is before whispering to soothe, “Tell me how you wanted it to go.”

When Yoongi looks at you, your lips curve into a small smile. Peppered with a bit of your tears and willingness to make him feel better.

He softly grips your hand on his face before turning to kiss your fingers. Voice low, he reveals, “I was gonna take you straight to dinner. After you got off work one day.” Another set of kisses makes your fingers both hot and cold. “Then I would’ve faked needing something from the studio. And you would’ve gotten it there.”

“Oh…” You blink as your vision blurs. “That’s…”

“Among other things.”

At his suggestive look, you playfully pat his jacket. But your heart starts leaking from your eyes.

Because you just want it all to be out already. Just everything. Everything, everything, everything, you’re so tired of keeping it under wraps.

“What’s wrong, doll.”

“Nothing,” you sob. “I’m just… I didn’t know, and… This is a lot.”

You’re overflowing with emotions. From all the experiences you’ve had tonight to this very moment, everything has been wonderful and magical and there’s nothing quite like this feeling. But you’re also so embarrassed because he definitely brought out much bigger guns than you did.

Sniffling into his jacket, you whisper, “Thank you… You got me something timeless. This is so much cooler than my gift.”

“No! Yours is great, are you kidding me?”

“It’s a jersey… That’s much less cool.”

“Mm... You also called me yours.” When you freeze completely, Yoongi's shoulders bob with his pride. “Gotta say, that was the highlight of the night."

“Oh, shut up!" When you groan into his clothes, you feel him laughing through his chest. And it's one of your favorite feelings in the world.

Shoulders slumped, you heavily yearn,

“I want it all out now. Everything.” You squeeze him closer. Closer, closer, closer. “I want everyone to know it was from you.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, though you do feel his heart beat a little faster. When he finally answers, you close your eyes. “I know I said this last time, but.. Next year. For sure.”

“Can we decorate, too?”

Yoongi looks into your starry eyes. “You wanna?” When your nod is quick, he laughs. “Guess I don’t have a real choice then, huh?”

“Nu uh.” You squeal as he hauls you into a full kiss, squeezing you in his arms and more tears out of your eyes. “Wait!”

When he tilts his head, you grin at his adorable quirk. “Let’s do it anyway.”

“Huh?”

Holding up the bag, you cheekily suggest, “Everything you said. Let’s do it.” Biting your lip and feeling the chill on your ears, you finish, “There’s a new place I wanna try with you anyways.”

Yoongi just stares, smile unsure but huffing amusement from his nose. “You sure?”

“Duh! And I’ll act even more surprised, just for you.”

Your giggling is purely born from excitement. Because you can’t wait to take him somewhere you know he’ll enjoy, too. And you get to see the studio? It’s gonna be a fantastic—

You’re brought into a tight hug before your thoughts finish. The bag between you crumples a tad, but you’re more focused on the way your head is moved for a soul-tying kiss.

Warmth and gold and sparkles burst from your chest as you’re completely taken by Yoongi’s lips, and you start to feel your house inside change. It’s festive. It’s decorated. It’s made just for you and him.

You've never been one for this season. But getting to spend it with Yoongi two years in a row? It's becoming one of your favorite times of the year.

“I just…” he murmurs to your features before gripping you close. “Thanks, babe.”

“Thank you,” you whisper into his handsome features. “Once you give it to me for real, I’m gonna wear it everywhere.”

“Please do. Get my money’s worth.”

When you both laugh, your affection leaves in puffs of white. And you give him a more tender kiss than the first.

You feel so at home it hurts. But it hurts because your heart is so full you can’t fit it all. All the love for everyone that fills that hole in your life that you and your brother have had for years.

You’re gonna tell him one day. And it’s gonna rip you apart.

But you hope everything will be okay. This time next year, all of you will be okay. More than okay.

When you lean in close, you whisper something you’ve never really said to anyone. But you’re gonna try to start, even if you aren’t quite familiar with it yet. It’s a good year to start, start, start.

“Happy holidays, Yoongi.”

His lips spread slow before giving one more kiss to your chilly nose. And every anxious feeling floats away in the frosty breeze.

“Happy holidays, doll.”

fin. :)

so... how did it go! | join the server! | join the taglist!

a/n: happy holidays, merry christmas, happy new year to everyone that celebrates! just wanted to get this one out for the ones needing a little bit of cheer around this time. we learn quite a bit about some of the crew's backstories and where they work now, huh. is this a pocket universe, too? who really knows! but it all flew out of my fingers as soon as we got the suggestion, so thank you again to that anon message! a/n 2: thank you to everyone that's stuck with me and 3tan this year. it's been a rough one, but i also wanted to post this one to let you all know i'm still here. 3tan will forever stay with me, and i have not ever forgotten it. not one day goes by where i don't think about it, or y'all, or them. trust me. also, stay on the lookout for some physical copy interest checks! we are getting closer and closer to 3tan copies being A Real Thing! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

#hehehehe surprise and happy holidays!#bts fic #bts fanfic #yoongi fic #3tanholiday #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #ryenwrites #*ryenfictalk #*latest #bts imagines #bts reactions

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orellazalonia · 17 days ago

Text

The Weight of Being Forgettable

Summary: You quietly resign, hoping for peace or maybe to be missed, but no one reaches out in the end. You're forgotten just as silently as you existed. However, both you and them recognize the aftermath of being unremarkable. [Part 2 of Always There, Never Seen]

Disclaimer: ANGST, Kidnapping, More descriptive writing rather than dialogue.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You didn't expect a moment to come. No dramatic breaking point, no cruel words shouted across a room. Just a Tuesday.

The coffee pot had gone untouched again, something you only noticed because you were the one who always refilled it. You stood in the kitchen with the same bland mug in your hand, watching the last drop of dark, bitter liquid slide into a cup you hadn’t even wanted. You were exhausted, in that way that didn’t show. Not physically. Not even emotionally.

Just… worn.

There had been a moment that morning when you stood outside the meeting room and realized: if you walked away right now, no one would stop you. No one would call. No one would ask where you'd gone. You weren't angry. You were just… done.

So you typed it up.

The resignation was short and neat. No frills. You didn’t name names, didn’t leave jabs or guilt. You wrote, “Thank you for the opportunity. I hope my work has been useful. My last day will be Friday.”

Signed and that was it. You sent it at 2:12 PM. There was no hesitation or fanfare, just a quiet email in a quiet inbox. A ghost slipping out through the back door. You half-wondered if anyone would notice before Friday.

Back at your desk, everything looked the same. A little tin of peppermints. A notebook with neat, blocky handwriting. Sticky notes with reminders no one else had seen fit to write down. You glanced around at all the things you’d done, all the problems you’d solved before anyone else noticed they were problems.

And then, the strange part. You felt… relief. No one begged you to stay. No one came running down the hall. The world didn't collapse without you. But for the first time in a long time, the weight wasn’t yours to carry.

By Wednesday, no one said anything.

There were a few auto-replies to your resignation email. One from HR and one from some higher-up who never remembered your name. You finished your shift quietly, filed things neatly, and closed out your checklists with the same care you’d always used.

By Thursday, someone asked where the coffee filters were. You weren’t there to answer.

By Friday morning, you’d cleared your desk. Left nothing behind except a printed version of your resignation on the chair, just in case anyone missed the email. You’d timed it carefully: left during a team debrief, so you wouldn’t have to walk through goodbyes no one was going to offer anyway. You rode the elevator down alone, the hum of its descent feeling like a slow, gentle goodbye.

Even with your absence now, the Tower didn’t stop moving. Missions went on. Briefings happened. The usual chaos rolled forward.

But small things started to go wrong.

The meeting room wasn’t booked in time. Natasha showed up to a double-booked training session and walked out silently annoyed. Clint missed a follow-up appointment because the reminder never got sent. The printer jammed twice. Steve’s requested dietary order was delivered late, and with the wrong items. Sam realized a report had never been filed, one you always used to clean up after hours without being asked.

Still, no one panicked. These were just little things. Little things that piled up.

By the end of the week, someone said, “Didn’t she used to handle this?” in that vague way people talk about furniture that’s been moved. Like they know something has shifted, but can’t quite name what.

Bucky passed your old desk once and stood there longer than expected. You’d always kept it tidy with that little tin of peppermints that he never took but always glanced at. The chair was pushed in. The drawers were empty, but he didn’t say anything.

She noticed however. The one he liked. She brought it up in the common room, late one evening. “Hey,” She asked, “Did we ever figure out what happened to her?”

Someone blinked. “Who?”

“The one who used to…” She gestured vaguely, “…keep everything running. She was always here.”

A pause.

“Oh,” Someone else said. “Yeah. She left.”

And that was it. No party. No sadness. Not even a group email. Just silence where your presence used to be. But slowly, they began to realize that the silence was louder than expected.

Because there was no one left who knew how to keep the floor lights from buzzing. No one who stocked the exact tea Wanda liked. There was no one who stayed late so others could leave early.

The foundation had stepped away. And only now did they realize what they had leaned.

Weeks passed. Not many, just enough. Enough for the new intern to forget to attach the mission brief Bucky needed. Enough for the kitchen to stay out of oat milk for three mornings in a row. Enough for minor cracks to widen.

Still no one said your name out loud.

It wasn’t out of malice. More like discomfort. Like the building didn’t know how to speak of someone it had let disappear so quietly.

She, the woman Bucky still laughed with in the training room, started taking on some of the tasks. Not officially, but out of instinct. She noticed the first cracks. Noticed the second. She filled in what she could. But the foundation you’d built was always more than anyone realized.

Across the Tower, people started asking quiet questions.

“Hey, who used to handle these reports?” “Didn’t someone used to refill the med kits?” “There was someone who… what was their name again?”

But no one had the answer.

Bucky didn’t say much. He noticed the gaps the way you notice bruises forming: slowly, steadily, and without warning. One day he reached for the right packet of tea and found the shelf bare. It hit harder than he expected.

He stared at the empty space for too long. Once, he found himself opening his mouth to ask you something, only to remember mid-sentence, that you weren’t there. You hadn’t been for a while now. And he never really got to know you.

He thought, once, to ask where you'd gone. But didn’t. Not because he didn’t care but because he wasn’t sure he deserved to. The silence you left behind wasn’t loud. It didn’t demand attention. It crept in slowly, like a chill that only settles once the fire’s gone out.

Eventually, someone new was hired. Someone louder. More visible. They joked a lot and got people’s names wrong. They were liked immediately. The cracks you left weren’t filled, just covered.

But the Tower never felt quite the same. And if anyone noticed? They kept it to themselves. Just like you always did.

Meanwhile, you thought it would feel lighter now. You told yourself it would.

The resignation was supposed to be your moment of quiet reclamation, stepping away from a place that never made room for you. And in some ways, it was. There were no more emails at 3 a.m. No more long hours watching everyone else get noticed while you stayed invisible in the background.

But the silence didn’t go away. It just changed addresses.

Your apartment felt bigger now. Colder. It echoed in the wrong ways. Mornings dragged on to the point where you didn’t get out of bed until the sun was well into the sky, and even then, it was usually for coffee you didn’t finish.

There were no messages. No calls. No quiet “Hey, are you okay?” from anyone who’d worked beside you for years. You’d told yourself not to expect anything, and you didn’t. But it still stung.

You scrolled through job listings with numb fingers. “Team player.” “Self-starter.” “Thrives in fast-paced environments.” You checked boxes and rewrote cover letters, and every word felt like a lie. You weren’t really a team player because you were the person the team never noticed.

When people asked how you were doing, you smiled. Said, “Good.” And everyone believes it if you say it with enough clarity. The truth stayed quiet like it always had.

Some nights, you wondered if they noticed you were gone. Not just the missing reports or forgotten appointments but you. The person who stayed late, who remembered the small things, who kept the Tower going without ever asking to be seen.

But you already knew the answer.

No one had reached out. No one had asked you where you went. You didn’t even blame them. Not really. You just wished you hadn’t wanted to be seen so badly. You wished your heart didn’t ache for a version of yourself that maybe never existed. Someone important, someone valued, or someone that people remembered.

Instead, you spent your days in cafés where no one knew your name. You read the news in the corner of quiet libraries. You went on walks just to keep yourself moving. Because if you stopped, if you stayed still too long, you might disappear entirely.

And part of you wondered if that would really make a difference to anyone. So you kept moving.

Not healing. Not rebuilding. Just… existing. You’d left quietly and the world had kept on turning. Just like you always knew it would.

However, your normal routine broke on a Wednesday. You hadn’t expected anything from the day, not peace, not purpose. Just a walk through streets you didn’t love but had grown used to accompanied with a pair of headphones, an old playlist, and a jacket too thin for the wind.

You’d built your mornings this way on purpose. You couldn’t be useful anymore, but at least you could be moving.

You were halfway through your loop when the van pulled up.

It didn’t screech to a stop. Didn’t come with a crash or chaos. Just a quiet slide beside the curb. The back door opened, and hands reached out with no hesitation.

You didn’t even scream at first.

Shock held you still. Your mind scrambled for something, logic, maybe a pattern, anything familiar, but it never came. Just the pavement vanishing from under your feet, cold air in your lungs, and cloth pulled over your face. You could hear a voice muttering, “Got her,” like you were an object, not a person.

You tried to fight, of course. But you weren’t trained. No combat skills. No enhanced strength. Just muscle memory from years of carrying coffee trays and filing paperwork.

It wasn’t enough.

When you woke, you came to with the kind of headache that bloomed behind your eyes in a slow, dull, and heavy sort of way. The light overhead wasn’t fluorescent. It was colder than that. Artificial. The kind that hummed in a way that got under your skin.

Your wrists weren’t tied. You weren’t in chains. Just a room. Stark white, sterile edges. A thin cot. A small tray with water and a protein bar sitting untouched beside you. It wasn’t meant to feel like a cell. But it did.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t call out. You just sat there, quietly. Waiting. At first, you thought, someone will come.

Maybe Natasha would notice your name in a briefing file and raise an eyebrow. Maybe Steve would frown and say, “Didn’t she used to work with us?” Maybe Bucky would finally look up and remember that girl in the back room who always had the right intel before he needed it.

You imagined Tony cross-referencing coordinates and catching the glitch in a camera feed. You imagined Sam flying low, scanning streets, muttering, “This doesn’t feel right.”

But the hours passed. Then a day. Then three. And you slowly began to understand: No one was coming.

Not because they couldn’t. Not because they didn’t care. But because they didn’t know. You were no longer on the rosters. No longer in the comms. You weren’t even part of a security clearance group anymore. You had wiped your hands clean and left quietly.

To them, you were gone before you disappeared.

There wouldn’t be a mission presented with your name as the victim to save. You didn’t matter enough to track. You weren’t an Avenger. You weren’t an asset. You were the quiet one in the hallway. The background hum. The afterthought. And now, nobody at all.

The realization wasn’t a crash. It was a slow, silent exhale. It wasn’t grief. It was confirmation and it made something deep inside you shut down.

You moved back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. Letting the hum of the light fill the silence that no one else seemed to want to, you thought to yourself: This is what it’s like to vanish completely.

#The One You Don’t See #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #angst fic #angst

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vibeswithdivs · 1 month ago

Text

careful what you wish for

You weren’t used to feeling nervous in the paddock anymore.

After months of brushing shoulders with world champions and surviving the chaos of double-header weekends, you’d learned to blend in. Ferrari red felt like skin now, the heavy lanyard around your neck more like a comfort blanket than a badge. You could walk through media zones with your eyes closed and predict post-race interviews before they happened. You’d seen it all.

But this was new.

This time, nerves curled in your stomach like ribbon — not because of the race or strategy changes — but because of what was about to happen behind the motorhome doors.

Oscar had asked you the night before, almost shyly, voice soft over the hum of your late-night FaceTime. “They’re flying in early. I’d… like you to meet them.”

You’d blinked. “Your parents?”

He nodded.

And now here you were, standing outside the McLaren hospitality suite with your palms slightly clammy and your heart tucked somewhere between your throat and ribs.

Oscar stood beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, expression calm but fond.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” you whispered, eyes flitting toward the doorway.

He chuckled under his breath. “You’re acting like I’m dragging you to your doom.”

“I just—what if they don’t like me?”

“They will,” he said, nudging you gently. “They already do. And anyway, my mum’s been bugging me about meeting you for weeks.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bugging you?”

“I got three separate texts last weekend that just said: ‘We’ll be watching for her on the broadcast.’”

Your cheeks warmed. “You told them I was—”

“I told them I liked someone,” he interrupted, smiling. “And that she’s very good at her job. And that she gets this world in a way most people don’t.”

You felt the nerves loosen slightly, your heart tugging at the corners.

He touched your wrist, a quiet kind of reassurance, and then pushed the door open with a gentle, “Ready?”

You weren’t. But you went anyway.

The McLaren lounge was bustling — staff weaving in and out, a few PR girls at the far end chatting near the espresso machine. But he led you through it, straight to a quieter corner near the window where two people sat with easy posture and matching smiles.

His mum was the first to notice you — short hair pushed behind her ears, eyes sparkling behind thin-framed glasses. She lit up instantly.

“Oh my goodness—finally!”

Before you could say a word, she was already standing, arms out.

You were wrapped into a hug that smelled like rose lotion and peppermint tea. She squeezed you once, then pulled back and held you at arm’s length.

“You are even more beautiful in person,” she said.

You blinked, heat flooding your face. “Oh—I… thank you, Mrs. Piastri—”

“Please,” she laughed. “Absolutely not. Just call me Nicole. Otherwise I’ll feel like I’m a hundred years old.”

Oscar’s dad stood next, extending a hand. “Chris. Lovely to meet you. You work with Ferrari?”

You nodded, offering your hand. “Yes. Media and communications.”

“Smart. You’re the one keeping Charles from oversharing on camera, then,” he said, deadpan.

Oscar stifled a snort behind you.

“I try my best,” you replied, grinning.

Nicole looped her arm through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come sit with us. Tell me everything about you. Where are you from? What made you join F1? Do you eat breakfast or just survive off espresso like the rest of the paddock?”

You laughed, surprised at how quickly you relaxed into the conversation. The nerves still fluttered, but softer now — like butterfly wings instead of a storm.

Oscar sat beside you, his knee brushing yours gently under the table, quiet but warm. He let you speak, only chiming in occasionally, clearly happy to let his mum run the show.

Chris listened attentively, occasionally chiming in with thoughtful questions. You found yourself laughing more than you expected — telling stories of the first time Charles left his mic on during a media day or the time Carlos tried to prank the social team and got caught on his own GoPro.

“Oh, I like her,” Nicole whispered to Oscar, not quietly at all.

“I know,” he murmured back.

And for the first time, you saw it.

This wasn’t just meeting the parents. This was being folded into something. A life. A family. A piece of him he hadn’t shared with anyone else.

The rest of the day passed in gentle waves. You sat with them during FP2, shoulder to shoulder in the grandstand seats McLaren had arranged. Oscar came and went — debriefs, press calls — but each time he passed by, he glanced toward you. Not to check in. Just… to see.

That night, you were all seated at a small restaurant outside the circuit — the kind with dim lighting and menus printed on thick recycled paper. Oscar’s arm rested behind your chair, and he kept tracing slow, absent-minded patterns on your shoulder while his mum told you about his childhood obsession with Hot Wheels.

“You should’ve seen him,” she said. “Little Oscar lining up cars by colour and team and demanding a full commentary every time we played. Even at age six, he’d complain about tyre degradation.”

Chris snorted. “Once he made me watch him restart a race because I didn’t say ‘lights out and away we go’ with enough enthusiasm.”

Oscar looked mildly horrified. “Alright, that’s enough childhood trauma for one dinner.”

You giggled, resting your hand on his knee.

“It’s okay,” you whispered to him. “I like knowing all the embarrassing bits.”

He grinned. “Careful what you wish for.”

Sunday came like a wave — all engine rumble and electric air.

You sat beside Nicole in the grandstand, both of you brimming with nervous energy. Chris stood behind you, arms crossed, eyes sharp as the formation lap began.

Oscar was starting P2. The air buzzed with possibility.

And then the lights went out.

It was a battle — a real one. Every lap had you on edge, hands curled into the seat, heart climbing higher with every second. You didn’t know when you started shouting. When Nicole grabbed your hand in a silent squeeze. When Chris muttered, “Come on, son.”

But on the final lap, when Oscar overtook in a perfectly timed move into Turn 4 — clean, ruthless, brilliant — the entire section around you erupted.

And when he crossed the line in first, you were already on your feet, screaming into the sky.

Nicole hugged you so tightly your feet left the ground. Chris was pumping his fist like a teenager. And when the cameras swung toward the grandstand, Oscar looked straight toward your section.

Right at you.

He saw you — hair wind-swept, cheeks flushed, hands clasped in disbelief — standing beside his mum like you belonged there.

On the podium, when the champagne sprayed and the national anthem played, he kept looking.

At you.

And you knew — deep in your bones — that he didn’t just win today.

He shared it.

With you.

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one imagine #formula one x you #mclaren #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #lando norris #landoscar

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godricgryffinsnore · 22 days ago

Note

babes, i absolutely love your work so yk i had to request something!!!

george weasley x bsf!reader who’s forced to watch reader get asked to the yule ball by almost every guy in their year. she’s getting asked left and right by guys from all houses, and he doesn’t understand why she keeps denying them until he realizes she waiting for him to ask. (basically a little jealous george + best friends to lovers?)

Yule Be Mine ♡ : A George Weasley Fan Fiction.

pairing : George Weasley x fem!reader

summary : At the Yule Ball, two best friends discover that sometimes, all it takes is a little jealousy, a lot of dancing, and one perfect night to realize what’s been in front of them all along. 💫

warnings : Light language, excessive fluff, mutual pining, jealous behavior, one (1) extremely love-struck Weasley. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Thank you so much for requesting, anon!!! I really enjoyed writing it, love!!! Glad to have you here <333

word count : 1.9k

main master list <3

banners : @anitalenia and @cafekitsune

George Weasley was not the type to be jealous. Really, he wasn’t. Except right now, watching a seventh Hufflepuff boy trip over his robes just to ask his best friend to the Yule Ball, George was absolutely the type to be jealous.

“Another one?” he muttered under his breath, watching from across the common room as (Y/N) politely turned down a tall Ravenclaw with a blinding smile and teeth too perfect to be trusted.

Fred leaned beside him, snorting into his hand. “You know, at this point, you might want to just hang a ‘Reserved for George’ sign on her or actually do something instead of glaring at everyone like a gremlin.”

“I am not glaring,” George hissed. “I’m observing.”

Fred tilted his head. “You’re observing like you want to set his robes on fire.”

George didn’t respond. He was too busy imagining exactly how long it would take to invent a hex that turned charming Ravenclaws into goats. Maybe five minutes. Ten tops if he wanted horns.

Another one. A Slytherin this time—smirking like he thought he stood a chance. George narrowed his eyes.

(Y/N) blinked, gave a kind smile, and shook her head.

DENIED.

That was the eleventh guy in two days.

“What is going on?” George muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “She could’ve said yes to any of them. That Slytherin even offered her enchanted roses. Did you see them? They were floating.”

“She doesn’t want roses, George. She wants you,” Fred said, like it was the most obvious thing in the bloody universe.

George blinked.

“I—what? Me?”

Fred stared at him, the way one might stare at a particularly dumb Flobberworm. “Yes, you, you daft—”

“George!” (Y/N)’s voice rang out, sweet and cheerful and completely unaware of the chaos she was wreaking in his chest.

She bounced up beside him, cheeks pink from the cold, smile radiant. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of people who asked me to the ball today. I swear it’s getting a bit mad.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” George muttered, barely resisting the urge to cross himself dramatically. “Thought I was going to have to start charging admission to watch you get asked.”

She laughed—god, that laugh—and bumped her shoulder into his. “I don’t get it though. Why all of a sudden?”

George opened his mouth to say, Because you’re perfect and you smell like peppermint and you laugh at my jokes even when they’re terrible and your eyes do this crinkly thing when you smile and I can’t stop thinking about you— —but instead, he shrugged and said, “Beats me. Maybe they all drank Amortentia.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not saying yes to any of them.”

George’s heart did a full somersault.

“Yeah?” he said, trying to sound casual. “Saving yourself for Cedric Diggory, then?”

She gave him a look. “Cedric? Please. He’s already going with Cho.”

George perked up. “So…you’re not waiting for anyone in particular?”

Something flickered in her expression. A moment. A pause.

“I might be,” she said lightly.

And then she walked off.

George stared after her, dumbfounded.

“Merlin’s saggy knickers,” he mumbled. “She’s waiting for someone.”

Fred leaned in again. “How’s that observing going for you, Sherlock?”

“Shut it.”

── .✦

Over the next three days, George kept an unofficial (and definitely obsessive) log of every guy who dared approach (Y/N).

There was Oliver Wood (too muscly), Ernie Macmillan (too earnest), and Seamus Finnigan (too…explosive). Each one got the same response: a smile, a polite “no,” and a wave.

Each one made George want to throw something into the Black Lake.

“She’s not mine,” he grumbled, “but if one more bloke tries to hold her hand I will invent a spell that turns them inside out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Lee Jordan said, watching George brew what he claimed was a calming draught but looked suspiciously like a spite potion.

“I’m in love,” George corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Lee raised a brow. “You told her yet?”

George blinked. “...Of course not.”

Fred groaned from the next table. “You are the dumbest genius I’ve ever met.”

── .✦

The day before the ball, George was losing hope.

(Y/N) hadn’t said yes to anyone. But she hadn’t asked anyone either. Which meant she was either going alone (which made George want to riot), or—

“George,” she said, flopping onto the couch beside him.

He inhaled sharply. She smelled like parchment and chocolate frogs.

“I’m giving up,” she declared, tossing her hands up. “No one else is going to ask, and honestly, I’m just tired of pretending I’m not disappointed.”

He blinked. “Wait—disappointed?”

“Well, yeah.” She leaned her chin on her palm, looking pensive. “I mean, I was kind of hoping someone specific would ask. But at this point... maybe I just go alone.”

George’s pulse skyrocketed.

Someone specific. Someone specific. Someone with red hair and bad timing and a heart currently trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“You know,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “maybe he’s just a bit slow.”

She gave him a look.

He cleared his throat. “Not stupid slow. Just… worried he’ll ruin the best friendship he’s ever had in his life by asking the most amazing girl to a dance.”

Silence.

She blinked. “Oh.”

George inhaled. “And maybe, just maybe, he’s so completely gone for her that the idea of her saying no makes his stomach feel like Peeves set off a dungbomb inside it.”

More silence.

Then—

“Well, you absolute idiot,” she said, standing up, “you could’ve just asked.”

George stood too, flustered and flushed. “So, uh—want to go to the ball with me?”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Finally.”

He laughed, stepping closer, and god, it felt right. Natural. As if this was always supposed to happen, and all it took was eleven rejections, two broody nights, and one very jealous Weasley twin to get there.

“I should’ve done this ages ago,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles against hers.

“You should have,” she teased, eyes gleaming. “But I forgive you.”

He grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he kissed her—soft and sure and entirely theirs.

── .✦

At the Yule Ball, Fred raised his goblet dramatically and declared, “To the most oblivious couple in Hogwarts finally getting their act together!”

George threw a bread roll at his head. (Y/N) just laughed.

Jealousy had never looked so good.

── .✦

“If I faint, don’t let Fred draw on my face.” —George Weasley, 7:03 p.m., approximately two minutes after seeing you walk into the Great Hall.

── .✦

George Weasley had faced trolls. He had outrun Filch with a dungbomb in his pocket. He had once pranked Snape’s office and lived to tell the tale. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared him for the sight of you descending the staircase in your Yule Ball robes.

You were glowing. Not metaphorically. You literally shimmered. There was glitter. There was…sparkle. You looked like you’d been handcrafted by the gods of chaos and starlight and soft, sweet things, and George stood there like someone had punched him square in the soul.

“You’re drooling,” Fred muttered beside him.

George elbowed him without breaking eye contact.

You caught sight of him, and your face lit up—lit up, like you were relieved to see him.

George’s knees nearly gave out.

“Hi,” you said, voice softer than usual, lips glossed and curled into a shy smile. “You clean up nice.”

George stared. “You—you're—I mean, I clean up alright, but you—Merlin, you’re blinding.”

You laughed, biting your lip, and George’s brain promptly short-circuited.

── .✦

The Great Hall was unrecognizable—ceiling bewitched to resemble a starlit sky, frost-dusted trees in every corner, everything dripping in silver and enchanted snow. But to George, it all faded into the background the second your hand found his.

Your fingers curled around his like it was natural, like it was always meant to be this way, and he had the sudden, bone-deep realization that he was doomed.

He was so in love with you it wasn’t even funny anymore.

Fred gave him a look from across the dance floor. George gave him a rude gesture in return.

── .✦

“Okay,” George muttered, staring at the dance floor. “Here’s the thing. I can charm the knickers off a professor with a pun, but I cannot waltz.”

You grinned, tugging him toward the music. “That’s fine. I can, and I’ve got two feet that aren’t constantly trying to murder each other.”

“Are you saying I’m a hazard?”

“I’m saying you’re lucky you’re cute.”

George’s heart did a backflip. “You think I’m cute?”

“Shut up and follow my lead, Weasley.”

── .✦

You danced.

Well—you danced. George mostly shuffled around like an overgrown redhead who had suddenly forgotten how limbs worked, but you didn’t seem to mind.

You laughed when he spun the wrong way. You snorted when he tripped over your hem. You beamed when he finally got the steps right for half a chorus and whispered, “You’re doing it.”

George felt like someone had lit a firework in his chest.

“You know,” he said as he swayed with you, your head on his shoulder now, music slow and honey-sweet, “this might actually be the best night of my life.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leaned closer, breath brushing your cheek. “Though I still might faint.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You look very…faint-worthy.”

You laughed and pulled back just enough to kiss his nose.

George stopped breathing entirely.

── .✦

Fred interrupted halfway through your third dance with a dramatic bow and a: “If you don’t let me steal the lady for one spin, I’m going to explode from secondhand tension.”

You laughed and agreed, twirling off with Fred who (to no one’s surprise) was suspiciously good at dancing.

George watched, arms crossed, glowering.

“She’s not yours, mate,” Lee Jordan said beside him.

“She is tonight.”

“Getting a bit possessive, aren’t you?”

“Don’t care. She smells like vanilla and joy, and I saw Malfoy eyeing her during the last song.”

Lee laughed. “You’re gone, Weasley.”

George didn’t deny it.

── .✦

When you returned, breathless from spinning with Fred, George pulled you right back into his arms with a firm, “Mine now.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Possessive, are we?”

“You have no idea.”

You both laughed—but neither of you let go.

── .✦

Later, after the band had packed up, after the enchanted snow had melted and the hall had emptied into whispers and giggles and clicking heels, you and George sat on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard.

You dipped your fingers into the water. George dipped his gaze to you.

The stars were reflected in your eyes. Or maybe you were just full of light like that.

“I had fun,” you said softly.

“Me too.” He hesitated. “You were waiting for me, weren’t you? When all those blokes asked.”

You smiled, eyes still on the water. “Took you long enough.”

“I didn’t think I had a shot.”

You turned to him, incredulous. “George Weasley, you’re my best friend. You’re funny and clever and good. Of course you had a shot.”

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

George tilted his head. “Can I kiss you?”

You smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The kiss was soft, slow, a little messy, like two people who’d been on the verge for too long finally crossing the line—and finding out the other side was better than they’d ever dreamed.

When you pulled back, George was grinning like a lunatic.

“Told you,” you teased, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. “Lucky you’re cute.”

“Lucky I’ve got the girl who turned down half the school to wait for me,” he said, voice thick with wonder.

You kissed him again.

Somewhere in the background, Fred gagged audibly from behind a statue.

#della's inbox 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡#della answered ⋆˚✿˖°#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 #george weasley #george weasly x reader #george wealsey imagine #george weasley x fem #george wealsey x reader #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n

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malfoysanctuary · 12 days ago

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Only Ever You

Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: You weren’t supposed to care about Fred Weasley. But the moment you saw through him, the moment you refused to play along with the act… was the moment he knew he’d never want to be seen by anyone else but you.

You met Fred Weasley in the middle of your third year and thought two things:

He was too loud.

He was too pretty to be that loud.

The moment you stepped into the common room and locked eyes with two identical smirks, you knew you were being set up. A twin trap. A classic Hogwarts welcome.

“Y/n, right?” said the one on the left. “I’m Fred.”

“No, I’m Fred,” said the one on the right. “He’s George. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

They both grinned. Cocky. Sure of themselves. And for good reason—every girl in Gryffindor tower seemed to melt when they walked into a room.

But you weren’t most girls.

You tilted your head, studying them. George’s tie was slightly looser. Fred had a freckle near his jaw you’d noticed once during breakfast. And George’s left shoe had a charmed dragon biting its own tail.

You smirked. “You’re Fred,” you said confidently, pointing at the right one. “And you’re George. Terrible attempt. Zero points for originality.”

Fred blinked.

George blinked.

You turned on your heel and walked away without waiting for a reaction.

And Fred—Fred didn’t stop thinking about you for days.

You were the first person who didn’t fall for it.

He hated how much he loved that.

The weeks that followed became a blur of accidental hallway run-ins and not-so-accidental stolen glances. You pretended not to notice that Fred Weasley had suddenly developed a habit of sitting closer to you in the common room, or how he always seemed to appear when Peeves locked you in a classroom or a stairwell decided to change mid-step.

Fred, for his part, was struggling.

He didn’t know how to flirt with someone who didn’t react the way everyone else did. When he teased you, you teased back—sharper, wittier, often winning. When he tried to get a laugh, you offered him a half-smile and returned to your book, leaving his heart racing and his ego bruised.

George had to physically slap him out of his daydreams at least twice a week.

“She doesn’t even like me,” Fred muttered one night.

“She doesn’t need to like you,” George said. “She sees you. There’s a difference.”

That was the problem, really.

You saw too much.

The turning point came during a Hogsmeade trip. The group was large—half of Gryffindor house bundled in scarves and gloves, heading for butterbeer and chaos. You and Fred had somehow ended up beside each other, your gloved hands occasionally brushing. Every time it happened, he tried to play it off like nothing. But you felt it. The tension. The spark.

“You alright there, Weasley?” you asked as he stumbled over a snow-covered root.

“Me? Perfect,” he said with forced bravado. “Just overwhelmed by your presence. It’s rather distracting.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched.

“I’d offer to tone it down,” you said dryly, “but it’d be a lie.”

Fred laughed—head thrown back, full and unguarded. And you felt it. A real laugh. Not a joke, not a mask.

Just him.

Later that day, after too much butterbeer and a shared peppermint stick between you both (Fred offered the other half and you hadn’t even hesitated), you found yourselves separated from the group in Zonko’s.

He watched as you examined an enchanted snow globe that made soft music when shaken.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“I like quiet magic,” you said softly. “The kind that doesn’t shout to be seen.”

He stared at you like he was trying to memorize every syllable.

“I think I like that kind of magic too,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

He kissed you for the first time weeks later.

You were studying alone in the Astronomy Tower, the rest of the school either asleep or wreaking havoc below. He found you with a blanket wrapped around your legs, quill between your teeth, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, sitting beside you.

“You never do.”

“Not since I started thinking about you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You turned your head slowly, watching him.

Fred was all bravado and light—but his eyes were dark, earnest. He didn’t mean for it to sound like a confession, but it was. You both knew it.

He reached up and gently plucked the quill from your mouth.

“You’re the only person who ever looks at me like I’m not a punchline,” he said.

And then—slowly, carefully—he leaned in and kissed you. Soft. Unhurried. Like he was giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into the collar of his jumper, the Astronomy Tower forgotten.

From that moment on, everything changed. But quietly.

He never made a show of it. He didn’t brag to the others, didn’t claim you like a prize. Instead, he touched you in soft ways—pinkies brushing in the corridor, a hand steadying your waist on the moving staircases, his scarf wrapped loosely around your neck when the wind got too bitter.

You caught him staring sometimes. During meals. During study. During Quidditch practice when he was supposed to be watching the Bludgers and not the girl with her nose in a book on the sidelines.

“What?” you asked one evening, catching him watching you as you read by the fire.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About?”

“How you ruined my favorite prank,” he said with a grin.

You raised a brow.

“And how that somehow made me fall in love with you.”

Your stomach flipped.

And then flipped again.

You closed the book, set it down carefully, and leaned toward him.

“You don’t fall in love with skeptics,” you said.

“You do when they’re right,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your jaw.

You didn’t speak for a long time after that.

Words weren’t needed.

There were moments—quiet ones—that broke you open in the best way.

Fred writing you notes on stolen scraps of parchment and tucking them into your textbooks: “Page 394 is cursed. Proceed with caution.”

Fred carrying a second pair of gloves in case you forgot yours.

Fred whispering spells to warm your shoes before long walks to Hogsmeade.

Fred watching you walk into a room like he couldn’t not.

And then there were the moments you didn’t expect:

You, having a panic attack before your OWLs, pacing the library corridor with your fists clenched and tears in your eyes—and him, finding you without a word, wrapping his arms around you and resting his forehead to yours.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, love,” he’d whispered.

“I don’t like being seen like this.”

“You always see me. Let me see you.”

You’d cried into his jumper until the tears dried up, and he never once let go.

You were the one who kissed him next—under the archway by the lake, after a long day, your voice hoarse and your nerves worn thin. He pulled you close and rested his chin on your head.

“I used to think no one would ever really get me,” he whispered.

“Fred…”

“But you do. You saw through the act before anyone else even knew it was an act.”

You pulled back, kissed him hard, and tasted every part of the boy behind the jokes.

You didn’t say I love you that night.

But he knew.

And when he finally said it—weeks later, half-asleep, thumb brushing your knuckles as you dozed in his bed—you didn’t answer with words.

You answered by kissing the words into his skin.

Over and over again.

Fred Weasley wasn’t a boy made for stillness. He was mischief, magic, wildfire in motion.

But with you… he learned what it meant to pause.

To feel.

To fall.

And in the end, he realized—he didn’t need you to be like anyone else.

He loved you because you weren’t.

Because you saw him when no one else could.

And because the moment you saw through his twin’s game and looked straight at him… he never looked at anyone else again.

#fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #fred weasely x y/n #fred wealsey fic #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #shifting to hogwarts #hogwarts houses #gryffindor #slytherin #hogwarts oc #x reader #female reader #reader insert #fem reader\

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chaosandpeppermintscolleen · 7 days ago

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DR. COLLEEN ELYSE WAYNE :: PROFESSOR

It’s why I like being a professor, get to shape a new world through the minds of those taking it over. Make a better world anyway you can.

#nyada:inspo #lookit what i made (mine)#chaos and peppermints (about)

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shadyfestivalperfection · 8 days ago

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“That’s Not Me… Is It?” ~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky accidentally stumbles onto your secret Tumblr—filled with fanfiction about him.From soft tropes to unholy smut, he dives headfirst into the world of fics, fluff, and feelings.Now you’re writing stories together… and maybe living one, too.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

||Part 2: softvibraniumdaydreams||

The night had started so peacefully.

You’d had the rare luxury of an empty common room at the Avengers compound, a warm blanket over your legs, and a mug of peppermint tea steaming gently at your side. The lights were dimmed low. Outside, New York traffic whispered beyond the windows. The tower was asleep.

And so was your dignity.

Your fingers hovered over your laptop’s touchpad, scrolling down a page littered with pink fonts, emojis, and hearts. Tumblr.

But not just Tumblr.

Your blog. Your secret, sacred space. A fanfic archive so shamelessly devoted to one James Buchanan Barnes, you were surprised it didn’t explode every time he entered the room.

Your eyes trailed the text you’d been reading — a new fic from your favorite writer, updated only an hour ago. Your cheeks heated as your brain processed the paragraph:

“He growled, metal fingers curling around your wrist like it was the most delicate thing in the world — dangerous, yes, but reverent. Possessive. Like he’d tear the world apart just to protect what was his.”

You choked lightly on your tea.

“Jesus,” you whispered, adjusting your blanket. “Who writes this stuff?”

A beat.

You bookmarked it.

Instantly.

You were mid-way through a scene involving Bucky in a henley and nothing else when your stomach gave an ill-timed grumble. You paused. The craving hit like a freight train: popcorn. Chocolate. Something salty and sweet to match the spicy chaos on screen.

“Screw it,” you muttered, pausing the scroll.

You set the laptop gently on the coffee table — still glowing, still open to the very sentence where fictional Bucky was threatening to ruin the reader against a fridge — and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

You didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall.

Didn’t hear the water droplets hitting the floor from a damp towel.

Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath as a certain ex-assassin entered the room.

But he saw everything.

⸻

Bucky Barnes had only been looking for water.

Fresh out of the shower, his hair damp and sticking to his temples, he was still towel-draped and low-energy when he stepped into the common area — expecting it to be empty. He planned to grab a drink, maybe sneak back to his room without interacting with anyone.

What he didn’t expect was the open laptop glowing like a beacon of doom.

Curious, he stepped closer.

At first, he thought it was some kind of classified document. A mission report maybe. The layout was unfamiliar. A little… glittery.

Pink font?

He squinted.

There were hearts in the sidebar. Tags. Gifs of himself shirtless.

And then he saw the title:

“Touch Me and Die (or Don’t): A Bucky Barnes x Reader Smutty Slowburn”

Bucky froze.

“…What the hell is Tumblr?”

The site had a comment section. Notes. Hundreds of little usernames like wintersdaddy89 and metalarmforyou reblogging the post with keysmashes and emojis.

He frowned and scrolled.

“He moved with lethal grace, metal hand clamping down on your thigh as he whispered, ‘You belong to me.’”

“…Oh hell no,” he muttered.

He blinked, face growing steadily redder as the next sentence described something involving whipped cream and the kitchen counter. His name was in it. HIS NAME.

He scrolled back to the top.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS A YANDERE—?”

“Hey, Buck, I—OH MY GOD!”

The popcorn bowl in your hands launched itself into the air like a missile. Kernels rained down over the rug in a sad cascade of snack death.

You looked from the screen to Bucky’s wide-eyed stare. He was clutching your laptop like it had just insulted his mother.

“…What is this?” he asked, voice pitched halfway between horror and betrayal.

Your soul departed your body.

“Nope,” you said, lunging forward. “Give it!”

He dodged you with the grace of a man who once assassinated heads of state. “Y/N,” he said, holding the laptop above his head. “Are these—stories? About me?”

You froze mid-lunge. “…I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“They’re… fanfictions.”

He blinked. “Which is…?”

You sighed and sat down, burying your face in your hands. “Made-up stories. People write them about characters. Sometimes real people. It’s a thing.”

Bucky stared at the screen again.

“Do I actually growl this much?”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “I didn’t think you’d see it.”

He sat down beside you, laptop still in his lap. His expression was unreadable.

“So you do read this stuff?”

You mumbled, “Sometimes.”

He nodded slowly.

“…Alright,” he said. “Educate me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned back on the couch, scrolling slowly. “We’re reading them together now.”

—

An hour later, Bucky Barnes was deep into his seventh trope.

He’d read fluff.

He’d read angst.

He’d been a florist, a mechanic, a single father with a child named Muffin, and at least three different versions of himself with memory loss and deep emotional trauma.

And now, apparently, he was in a story where you died in his arms.

“He held her close, trembling, whispering promises he’d never get to keep. Her blood stained his hands. Again.”

You sniffled. “That one gets me every time.”

He looked shaken. “Why do they keep killing you?”

“I dunno. Feels poetic?”

“It feels like a gut punch.”

He kept scrolling.

“Oh god. Here’s another one with a baby.”

He sighed, reading aloud:

“Bucky held little Muffin to his chest, whispering, ‘You have her eyes, you know.’”

“…This is the third Muffin.”

“Don’t question it,” you whispered. “Just let it happen.”

He read the soulmate one next. The one where he sees color the moment he meets you. You had to pause halfway because he stopped breathing at the sunrise scene.

And then came the dark!Bucky tag.

He clicked with a gleam in his eye.

“This one says I kidnap you.”

“That’s a popular trope,” you said weakly. “Dubcon is… a thing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You read that?”

You turned bright red. “Not often!”

“…You bookmarked it.”

“BETRAYED BY THE NOTES COUNT.”

—

You should’ve known better.

Really. Truly. Deep down, some part of your soul knew the second Bucky Barnes sat beside you with your Tumblr blog open, it was only a matter of time before he stumbled into… the abyss.

And stumble, he did.

One misclick. That’s all it took.

You were busy defending Muffin’s existence when Bucky’s finger landed — fatefully, tragically — on a fic tagged simply:

soft dom!bucky | smut | praise kink | ‘gonna ruin you’ energy

A pause.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…What is this?” he asked cautiously, eyes scanning the screen. “Why is it tagged NSFW?”

You choked. “It’s… not for—uh—well, it’s for adults.”

He started reading.

“‘His voice dipped low, gravel against silk, as he leaned in close—’”

He blinked again.

“‘—his metal fingers tightening around your throat with possessive hunger—’”

You lunged. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO READ THAT—”

“No,” he said, like a man on a mission. “I need to know what people think I do with my fingers.”

You slapped your hand over your face.

The silence that followed was broken only by scrolling.

A beat.

Two.

Then:

“…Am I biting someone’s thigh?”

You squeaked. “It’s fiction! It’s not real! That’s artistic license!”

“Artistic—?” He turned red. So, so red. “I say that in this?!”

He pointed at the screen.

“‘Gonna ruin you for anyone else, sweetheart.’”

You nodded meekly. “That one’s pretty popular.”

He slowly turned his head toward you.

“…Have you read this one?”

“…No.” (You had.) “Okay, yes.” (Multiple times.) “Don’t judge me, okay?!”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Then—his hand lifted. And he hurled a couch pillow straight at your face.

You burst into laughter so loud it echoed.

—

Somehow, it was now 2 a.m.

You and Bucky were draped over the couch like two feral creatures surviving on popcorn, emotional trauma, and fanfiction-induced whiplash.

The laptop was balanced between you.

You’d read every trope imaginable.

Amnesia Bucky? ✔️

Fake dating Bucky? ✔️

Accidental baby acquisition? ✔️

Soulmates, reincarnation, enemies-to-lovers? ✔️✔️✔️

One bed? You nearly passed out.

Bucky had started keeping score.

“Okay,” he said, finishing another fic. “That’s nine times I’ve died, three Muffins, and two bathtub confessions.”

You wiped a tear. “You forgot the cowboy AU.”

He groaned. “I blacked that one out.”

“No, you lassoed me with a flannel and said, ‘You’re mine, darlin’.’ I remember it vividly.”

His face fell into his hands. “Why is Tumblr allowed.”

⸻

You leaned back, stretching your arms with a yawn, when Bucky suddenly stilled.

“…Wait.”

You turned. “What?”

He clicked.

Another tab. Another fic.

You peered over.

And there it was.

A new fic, different author, different tags.

But the pairing?

Sam Wilson x Reader

Bucky blinked.

He gasped. “SAM HAS FANFIC?!”

Y/n clicked faster.

The fic started sweet. You were a new recruit. Sam was your guide. There were coffee shop scenes. Shared smiles. Mutual pining.

Then—fireworks on a rooftop.

“And this time, he finally stayed.”

The two of you squealed.

Like children.

Like banshees.

Bucky grabbed a pillow and shouted into it. You kicked your legs like it was 2009 and this was One Direction.

Which is exactly when Sam walked in.

The water bottle crinkled in Sam’s hand as he stopped in the doorway.

He stared.

You and Bucky were tangled up under a blanket, laptop glowing between you, eyes misty with emotion.

“…Are you crying over fanfiction?”

Bucky looked up, wild-eyed. “No.”

You sniffled. “Yes.”

Sam slowly took a sip of water.

Then—deadpan:

“You guys are so weird.”

He turned and walked out.

Neither of you could stop laughing for ten minutes.

—

It started subtle.

Bucky’s phone usage increased. He was asking more questions.

“Hey, what’s a ‘slowburn’?”

“Why do I keep dying in the ‘hurt/comfort’ tag?”

“Do people really like the ‘knife kink’ thing or are they just messing with me?”

Then came the moment you found him sitting in the compound kitchen — coffee untouched — staring intently at his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

He looked up.

Paused.

Then flipped the screen toward you.

Tumblr.

A blank blog page.

Username: @softvibraniumdaydreams

Bio: “Not a writer. Just a man who needs closure.”

Header: A low-res photo of a cat holding a knife.

Icon: Your Bitmoji. He’d clearly stolen it.

“…You made a blog?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Had ideas.”

You leaned over, scrolling through his first posts.

• Post #1: “Why do people keep giving me a tragic backstory? I already have one.”

• Post #2: 450-word drabble about holding hands in silence after a mission

• Post #3: “Stop killing my fictional girlfriends 2k25.”

You grinned. “You’re one of us now.”

He smirked, that familiar glint in his eye. “God help me.”

—

Three days later, he posted it.

“First fic is live. Be kind.”

You clicked on the link.

It was… beautiful. Quiet. Poetic.

Set after the war. The reader couldn’t sleep. Bucky made tea. He held her hand. They didn’t kiss. They just sat — their shadows stretching across the floor as dawn began to rise.

“He didn’t say ‘I love you,’ but it echoed anyway, loud in the silence between their palms.”

You stared at the screen.

Breathed out.

And then reblogged it.

Your comment:

“Sorry (not sorry) for making you read smut at 1 a.m. 💕 Let’s write one where you get a happy ending.”

Minutes later, he tagged you in a new post:

Collab coming soon:

Bucky finally gets the girl. And this time, no one dies. 💌

-to be continued

168 notes · View notes

mrsfancyferrari · 7 months ago

Text

Teach Me

Summary: MV1 + “I never had any special tradition for the holidays while growing up,"

Song: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas by Michael Bublé

Author’s note: Sorry it took so long to release a Christmas fics. Exam mocks are really kicking my ass right now! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 10.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Christmas had always been a grand affair in your family, an extravaganza of twinkling lights, laughter, and the warm, cinnamon embrace of freshly baked cookies.

From the moment you could remember, your mother would orchestrate a symphony of holiday cheer—everyone involved, from the youngest child to the oldest grandparent, had a part to play.

The joyous chaos of your family’s Christmas Eve traditions was something you cherished, an unshakable foundation of love that enveloped you every year.

But as you sat on the couch, a steaming cup of peppermint hot chocolate cradled in your hands, you watched Max, your best friend, from across the room, use his computer to read his email.

He was staying over at yours for the week since he thought it would be better to stay with someone over the holidays than stay by himself with his cats in Monaco.

His brow was furrowed, tongue poking out slightly as he concentrated; a sight that made you smile. But then he said something that spun your world off its axis.

“I don’t really do much for Christmas,” he remarked, his voice disconnected, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than divulging a piece of his soul.

You looked up, your heart tightening in disbelief. “What do you mean, you don’t do much?” Your voice came out sharper than intended, the surprise and concern mixing into a jumble of emotions that suddenly felt too big for your small living room. “Like… at all?”

Max shrugged, a hint of embarrassment tracing the lines of his face. “I don’t know. My family doesn’t celebrate like that. We might exchange a few gifts, but it’s not a big deal, you know? Just a regular day for us.”

A regular day. The words clanged against your heart like a fallen ornament, shattering the idyllic image you had created of sharing the holidays together.

How could someone not revel in the joy of Christmas?

The traditions, the twinkle of lights, the warmth of family—these were the things that made the season magical.

“Oh,” you whispered, suddenly feeling a chasm form between you. You took a sip of your hot chocolate, not sure how to navigate this unfamiliar terrain.

Your childhood memories flooded your mind—caroling with your neighbors, the ritual of finding the perfect Christmas tree, and the way your father would always bungle his lines while reading ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.

Max must have felt the shift in the air; he looked up, catching the troubled expression on your face. “Is it weird that I don’t celebrate?” He gave you a small, tentative smile, as if he were trying to gauge your reaction.

Your heart thudded, and the truth hung dangerously on the tip of your tongue. Could you accept this about him? “Um, no… it’s just… It’s really important to me.”

You weren’t sure how to articulate the depth of your feelings, the nostalgia that struck you like a cold wind at the thought of a muted Christmas devoid of celebration.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No, Max, I’m sorry,” you interjected. “It’s not your fault. I guess I just expected… well, more.”

Turning away to hide your emotions, you felt a tightening in your chest. You wondered if it was possible to bridge the gap between two worlds so different.

To you, Christmas was warm hugs and laughter, while to him, it was merely an ordinary day.

As you both continued to watch the show on the TV in silence, a plan began to form in your mind.

What if you could share your Christmas with him? What if you could envelop him in the warmth of your family’s traditions, guide him through the whirlwind of what the holiday truly meant to you?

That night, you stayed up late, tossing and turning, rehearsing the idea in your mind like an actor preparing for a role.

The next day, you broached the topic over breakfast.

“Max,” you started, tentative but hopeful, “what if you joined my family this Christmas? We have so many traditions, and it would be amazing to share them with you.”

You watched closely as he took a bite of his toast, the surprise etched on his face like the designs on your family’s old holiday plates.

“Are you sure?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “I don’t want to crash your family’s holiday. It sounds like it means a lot to you.”

“It does,” you replied, leaning forward, excitement building. “But I want to share it with you. I want you to experience Christmas through my eyes.”

After a moment, his expression softened, and a smile appeared. “Okay, if you really want me there, I’d love to join,” he said, his initial hesitancy fading away beneath the glow of your enthusiasm.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a rosy glow across the sky, your phone buzzed with a call from your parents. You picked it up, expecting a routine check-in, but it was a little different this time.

“Hey, honey!” your mom chirped on the other end. “We were hoping you could come over and help us decorate the Christmas tree.”

“Sure! But is everything okay?” you asked, noting a tinge of urgency in her voice.

“It’s your dad,” she said, lowering her voice. “His back has been acting up again, and he insists he can’t be on his feet too long. I’d hate to do it all by myself.”

You chuckled, picturing your dad stubbornly trying to avoid any heavy lifting, even if it meant sitting on the couch, grumbling about the decorations.

“Alright, I’ll be there soon. Do you mind if I bring Max along? He’s been staying with me for the holidays, and quite frankly, he’s getting a bit bored.”

“Of course! The more, the merrier! I’m sure he’ll love it!” she replied, her voice brightening. “See you in a bit!”

The pungent aroma of gingerbread wafted through the air as you stirred a pot of simmering cocoa on the stove. Christmas music played softly in the background, intermingling with the sounds of Max fumbling around in the kitchen.

“Max! Do you want to go help decorate my parents’ tree?” you called out, trying to be heard over the clinking of dishes and the low hum of the music.

He appeared at the kitchen doorway, a puzzled expression on his face. “Are you sure I won’t ruin it for you? I hardly know anything about Christmas,” he replied, wringing his hands, suddenly self-conscious.

“Max, relax! It’s about having fun, not just making it look perfect,” you assured him, a grin spreading across your face. “Besides, my dad’s back is acting up, and they could use an extra pair of hands. It’ll be good for us both to get out of the house and do something festive.”

He seemed to mull it over, a slight furrow forming on his brow. “Alright then, let’s go,” he said with a sigh, walking back to finish putting the remaining cookies on sheets for baking.

Once you two arrived at your parents' cozy two-story house, the inviting glow of warm lights twinkled through the windows, making it feel even more like a holiday wonderland.

The scent of pine filled the air as you stepped inside. Your mom greeted you with a wide smile and a warm embrace.

“Thank you for coming, you two! I’m so glad you could help,” she said before turning to her husband, who was gingerly stretching his back on the sofa.

You pulled back slightly to face her, noticing her festive sweater with reindeer prancing across the front. “Of course! We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you replied, a smile creeping onto your face.

As you glanced toward your dad, you caught him gingerly stretching his back on the sofa. He grunted softly, rubbing at a spot just above his hips. “I’m fine! Just did a little too much holiday decorating, that’s all,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Hello, Y/N's mom and dad," Max said shyly, standing a bit awkwardly with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He had only seen your parents twice before, and each time was a whirlwind of excitement and nerves for him.

“Max! It’s so wonderful to see you again,” your mom chirped, immediately stepping over to him, arms open. He hesitated for just a moment, but then accepted her hug, easing slightly as she welcomed him with warmth.

“What happened, Dad? Did you lift something heavy?” you asked as Max and you set your jackets down on the coat rack.

“Just a little heavy lifting here and there,” your dad said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You know, moving boxes up to the attic and making sure the Christmas lights are all working. I might have overdone it, though.”

“Remember last year?” you teased. “When you insisted you could get that giant inflatable snowman by yourself?”

“Hey! That snowman was a real battle. But look how magnificent he was once I got him set up!” he countered, puffing his chest out with pride.

You chuckled, knowing that the holiday spirit always brought out the competitive side of your father. “This year, let’s take it easy.” you suggested.

“Me and Max will put on the rest of the tree decorations, so you two go and rest,” you playfully ordered, a grin spreading across your face.

You gestured towards the mound of glittering ornaments and fairy lights that lay waiting to be hung, an assortment of memories collected over the years.

Your mom chuckled softly as she helped your dad, who was trying to rise from the couch. “Thanks, you two,” she said, glancing back at the tree adorned with half-placed baubles.

She spared a loving look at your dad, her eyes shimmering with tenderness, before leading him to their bedroom. “We’ll just take a quick nap, and then we’ll join you for hot cocoa.”

“I’ll hold you to that!” you called after her, the aroma of chocolate baking wafting through your kitchen.

Just as the door clicked shut behind you, Max stepped into view, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his green hoodie.

“Alright, Max,” you said, taking a step back to admire the bare pine tree. “What do you think? Are you ready to decorate?”

Max looked up at the tree, its branches heavy with potential. “It’s, um, a lot taller than I expected,” he said, scratching his head. His light brown hair flopped over his forehead as he shifted on his feet. “How do you even start?”

You chuckled, feeling a sense of amusement and excitement bubbling up inside of you. “Well, for me, it starts with the lights. You can’t have a Christmas tree without lights!”

“Lights? Like, the kind that twinkle?” His wide-eyed expression radiated a mixture of intrigue and skepticism.

“Exactly! And they’re the best part.” You walked over to the box where the twinkling fairy lights lay coiled. “Here, hold this end,” you said, handing him one end of the string of lights. “Watch closely, and you might just learn a thing or two.”

Together, you two draped the lights around the branches, winding them carefully to imitate a gentle cascade. Despite his initial uncertainty, Max followed your lead, and you were surprised at how quickly he picked up the rhythm.

As you worked, you thought about how different this was for him. “So, Max, what do you usually do at this time of year?”

He paused, biting his lip as if recalling a distant memory. “Um, not much, really. My family just… doesn’t celebrate anything during the winter. My parents went away on a business trip last Christmas, and it was just me and my video games.”

You frowned. “That sounds kind of lonely.”

“Yeah, it was,” he admitted with a small shrug. “I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to do something festive, though. Like… this.”

He gestured at the lights you were hanging, and a little smile broke through. “It’s different. Good different.”

“Good!” you smiled back, feeling your heart warm. “I love that you’re getting to experience it with me.”

You finished hanging the lights, and you stepped back to admire your work. “Alright, next we get to hang the ornaments! These are my favorite part.”

You pulled out the box filled with ornaments, some homemade, some collected over the years. Each ornament held its own story.

“Whoa, look at this one,” Max said, holding up a glass snowman that sparkled as he tilted it in the light. “What’s the story behind it?”

With a nostalgic sigh, you took a seat on the floor surrounded by ornaments. “Oh, that one! My grandmother made it when I was little. She used to tell me that if we hang it on the tree, it would keep us safe from snowstorms.”

Max looked at you, his brows furrowed. “Safe from snowstorms? Does it… work?”

You laughed, feeling the warmth of memory wash over you. “To be honest, I’m not sure, but it makes me feel good to have it there. It reminds me of her, and Christmas is about holding onto those memories, right?”

Max nodded thoughtfully, placing the ornament on a branch. “I think I understand. It’s more than just decorations; it’s about the people and the moments.”

“Yes! You’re getting it!” you cheered, feeling the joy of sharing this tradition take root in your hearts. As you continued to hang the ornaments, you noticed how Max’s fingers brushed over each one, examining them as if they were precious relics.

“What’s this one?” he asked, lifting a shiny red ball with a silver ribbon tied around it.

“That’s one I made in art class when I was in fifth grade. I was so proud of it! Can you imagine?” you grinned, remembering the day you came home with it in hand.

“It looks nice,” Max said, his admiration genuine. “You were pretty crafty back then,”

“Still am!” you shot back, playfully nudging him with your elbow. “Just wait until you see the tree when it’s all done.”

As you continued to hang each ornament, you began to chat more about your families, your interests, and the things you two loved. With each conversation, the air filled with laughter and anticipation.

“Are we really putting up the angel this year?” he asked, glancing over at you with a teasing smirk.

“Of course! It’s tradition,” you insisted, a firm look on your face. After all, it was important to maintain the little things that connected your world, your friendship. “You know we can’t let it down.”

Max chuckled, and the sound was like a breath of fresh air. “All right then, but I’m the one who usually puts it on top. It’s kind of my thing.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping onto your lips. “Not this year. I’m doing it. You can help me, but I’m the one putting it on top.”

“Okay, Miss Determination,” he replied, his tone mildly sarcastic, but he stepped aside as you grabbed a wooden stool from the corner of the room.

Your heart raced slightly—not just from the excitement but from a deeper, indescribable atmosphere crackling between you two.

You steadied the stool, glancing back at Max, who was still watching, arms crossed, his expression playful yet somehow, deeply attentive. His gaze held a weight that made your stomach flip, and you could swear there was a beat where the air thickened around you.

You climbed onto the stool, your heart thrumming in your chest like a tiny drum, as you reached for the starry-eyed angel that gleamed at the top of the Christmas tree.

It felt higher than you remembered, and a sense of confidence mingled with a rush of fear surged within you—like standing on the edge of an uncertain cliff.

“Easy there!” Max cautioned, his voice a mixture of concern and amusement. “Maybe I should be doing this.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the tiny thrill that his closeness brought—only a foot separating you now, his breath mingling in the air as he leaned closer.

“Don’t you dare come over here. I’ve got this,” you insisted, waving him off with a playful faux annoyance.

But before you could even register what happened next, the stool wobbled. Your heart jumped as you lost your balance, and instinct kicked in.

You flailed, arms going wide, but before you could topple down completely, a strong hand shot out, grabbing you and pulling you back against him.

“Whoa! I got you!” Max said, surprise mingled with exhilaration in his voice.

You found yourself hanging in the air for a moment, all thoughts of the angel forgotten as Max held you firmly, your feet dangling inches above the ground.

Your heart raced not just from the fall but from the electric intimacy of the moment, your bodies pressed together, the warmth of his body wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Maybe I should have done this part,” he murmured, his face inches from yours.

His gaze held yours, a mixture of playfulness and something deeper, something you both had danced around for so long, unspoken and heavy in the air.

“Okay, okay,” you breathed, a slight embarrassment creeping into you. “Just let me get back up. I can do it.”

Yet, as his arms remained around your waist, you felt an intense flutter in your chest, the world around you fading into a gentle hush.

Everything seemed to slow—a heartbeat, a moment of depth, the shared breath between friends that felt like it could be something more.

“Are you sure?” he asked, brows knitting slightly as he studied your expression, his grip firm yet gentle.

“Just a little higher,” you whispered, and he complied, lifting you just a bit higher up, careful and steady. For a moment, you felt balanced, your body suspended, held securely by him.

With a slight adjustment, you reached for the angel perched above, heart racing.

When you finally grasped the angel in your hands, you could hardly contain your joy. “I got it! Look!” you exclaimed, beaming down at him.

Your smile matched the twinkling lights strung across the room, the room alive with holiday spirit.

“You did it!” He grinned, his eyes sparkling as he gazed up at you. “But let’s see if you can put it on the tree without falling again.”

You took a breath, carefully repositioning to reach the top of the tree without losing your balance, and to your surprise, you did it. You placed the angel right on top, the final touch to an enchanting creation.

As you settled back on the stool, Max’s hands lingered a moment longer on your waist, his eyes locked onto yours in a way that stirred something deep inside you.

“You really are something else,” he said softly, admiration flooding his tone.

You met his gaze, a million words left unspoken, a shared understanding hanging in the air between you. In that moment, amidst the tree, the decorations, and the warmth of the season, you both realized that everything could change—if only you'd take the step to speak what lingered in the silent spaces.

“Max, I—”

His breath hitched, anticipation crackling like the electricity between you.

“You really are something else,” he said softly, admiration flooding his tone.

You met his gaze, a million words left unspoken, a shared understanding hanging in the air between you.

In that moment, amidst the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, the festive decorations draped lazily across the walls, and the warmth of the season, you both realized that everything could change—if only you’d take the step to speak what lingered in the silent spaces.

“Okay guys, are you almost done? We need to get this Christmas party started!” your mom’s voice rang into the room, cutting through the moment like a loud alarm.

You both jumped, the spell shattered in an instant.

“Yeah, um, right!” you stammered, pulling back slightly from his touch and forcing a smile.

The twinkling lights that had felt so inviting moments earlier now seemed to cast shadows, distorting the possibilities just spoken.

Max raked a hand through his tousled hair, irritation flickering in his eyes. “It’s fine,” he murmured, but it felt anything but fine.

The silence between you swelled with tension, unspoken words echoing in the air.

“Do you think we have enough decorations up? Or should we add more garlands?” you asked, attempting to redirect your racing thoughts.

It was a weak attempt, a desperate grasp for normalcy. But you could feel the distance widening, the moment fading like the last glow of an ember.

Max turned to help you adjust another string of lights, his fingers brushing yours as you worked side by side. “I think it looks great,” he said, though his tone lacked its usual enthusiasm.

His eyes darted around the room instead of settling on you.

“Thanks,” you replied softly, your heart heavy with the words that had been interrupted.

“What’s taking so long?” Your mom poked her head through the doorway, hands on her hips. “You two better hurry up or your father is going to eat all the cookies. And trust me, you know how fast he eats when his back hurts.”

You both chuckled uncomfortably. “We’re almost done!” you called out, exchanging a glance laden with mixed emotions.

As you both trudged into the kitchen, the comforting yet chaotic scent of melted chocolate, vanilla, and a hint of cinnamon greeted you.

Your father sat at the counter, a plate of cookies in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Crumbs dusted his sweater, remnants of his early encounter with the treats.

“Save some for us, Dad!” you exclaimed, snatching a cookie just out of reach.

You made a mock of your father’s crunching sound like a movie monster, mimicking the terrifying yet silly creatures from the last film you hadn’t quite finished watching.

“‘Save some’ was my plan until your mother left,” he chuckled, taking another bite. Somehow, amidst the crumbs and laughter, he looked both amused and guilty. “Didn’t realize how fast they’d vanish. These cookies? They’re a blessing.”

You rolled your eyes. “I can’t believe you,” you teased, trying to lighten the previously heavy mood, but the weight clung to the air like an unwanted guest. You grabbed a cookie as well, feeling the soft warmth radiating from it.

“Are they good?” Max asked, eyeing the colorful array of cookies, his curiosity mingled with hunger. He reached for one, nosily nibbling on the edge of the plate.

“Epic,” your dad said with a nod, his mouth full. “Even if I say so myself.” He looked down, catching crumbs on his lap.

“Good enough to distract you from your back pain?” you pressed gently, trying to lighten the mood, even if just a little.

Your dad’s laughter faltered for a moment, replaced by a visible glimmer of sorrow, a fleeting reminder of years that brought more than just joyful memories.

“Ah, well, that along with every other distraction I can find,” he replied, his voice tinged with a sadness you could hear but not see, as if every word was a careful piece painted in gray shades.

Just as the silence began to stretch uncomfortably, your mother entered the kitchen, a warm smile brightening her face, although tired lines around her eyes told a different story.

“Everyone’s been out of sorts today. Should we all sit down together?” she suggested, motioning gently toward the living room.

“Sounds good,” you said, stepping back from the cookie plate. “Just let me snag a few more first.” You plucked three more cookies and stuffed them into your pockets, ensuring you were ready for later consumption.

Max smirked at your cookie-stashing antics. “You really think you will need that many for a five-minute stroll to the living room?”

“Hey,” you replied, holding a cookie aloft like a trophy, “you never know when the cookie monster strikes!”

Your dad chuckled again, and the tension broke slightly. “Well, if it gets too frightening, I suppose I can lend you my sweater for protection.” He gestured grandly to the crumbs adorning it.

“However, I warn you, the last person who tried to wear it claimed to have lost a battle with sugar and chocolate.”

You giggled, imagining someone in an epic showdown against a plate of cookies while wearing that sweater. “I’ll take my chances!” you said, confidently slinging a couple of cookies into your pockets before you finally sashayed toward the living room.

As you entered, the glittering Christmas tree sparkled in the dim light, each ornament reflecting both the colorful bulbs and the excitement that filled the air.

The sounds of bells jingled softly, punctuated by the occasional laughter from your mom as she rearranged a hodgepodge of decorations.

You plopped down on the couch, managing to get crumbs on the cushion as you settled in. Max followed, a teasing look still plastered on his face.

“So, what’s the plan now? A cookie feasting or a Christmas carol performance?”

“Why not both?” Max suggested, taking a bite of one of the prized cookies. The sweet explosion of chocolate instantly heightened your holiday spirit. “We could start a new Christmas tradition!”

“Yeah! Cookie caroling!” you exclaimed.

Just then, your mom turned to you with a thoughtful expression. “So, we were thinking maybe you wanted to stay over for Christmas?”

She moved a few ornaments on the tree, her hands deftly arranging them with the care of someone who wanted everything just perfect.

You glanced at Max, who had already raised his eyebrows in surprise. Staying over for Christmas would mean a whole day of festivities, treats, and memories.

But it also meant leaving Max behind if he couldn’t join. A pang of longing shot through you at the thought of him being alone.

“Can Max stay too?” you surprised yourself by asking, your voice light but earnest.

“Of course he can!” your dad chimed in, giving Max a reassuring smile. “We always have room for friends, especially at Christmas.”

Max’s face lit up, a mix of relief and joy spreading across his features. “Really? Thank you for letting me stay,” He leaned back into the couch with a grin, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Your mom smiled warmly, returning to straighten the tree decorations. “I’ll make sure to set up a cozy spot for you, Max. We’ll even have a hot chocolate station!”

“Whoa, a hot chocolate station?” Max echoed, his eyes widening. “My festive drink dreams are coming true!”

Laughing, you leaned towards him. “Just prepare for my intense marshmallow-to-chocolate ratio. I'm known for going overboard.”

Max chuckled. “I’ll risk it for a cup with you!”

“I just might put extra whipped cream on yours,” you teased.

“Bring it on,” he shot back confidently, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes that made you look forward to a friendly competition. . . .

You were nestled in the guest room at your parents' house, a cozy haven with a view of the holiday lights twinkling just outside the window.

Christmas Eve had always been a special time filled with warmth and nostalgia, but this year, all you could focus on was Max, who was sprawled out on the couch in the living room.

You had invited him over for the festivities, and while it felt good to have him around, a worry gnawed at you—was he cold out there?

As you snuggled beneath the blankets, the fluorescent glow of string lights outside painted the walls in a soft, warm hue.

‘He’ll be fine,’ you reassured yourself. ‘It’s just one night.’ Yet the thought of him alone, wrapped in a blanket that could barely keep him comfortable, stirred restlessness within you.

You wanted to go out and offer him a cozy spot next to you, but you didn’t want to disturb him, especially if he managed to finally drift off.

After an hour of tossing and turning amidst visions of reindeer and jingling bells, you heard a soft knock at the door.

Your heart raced, mingling excitement with a touch of anxiety. Slowly, you swung the door open and there he was, Max, standing there with his fluffy pillow tucked under one arm.

The sight of him was undeniably endearing, and you fought the urge to smile like a fool.

“Hey, what’s up?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even. You stepped aside to let him in, noticing how the warm glow of the room contrasted with the chilly air he had brought in with him.

“I… just couldn’t fall asleep,” he admitted, looking down at his feet. “I didn’t know if you’d be awake, so I thought I’d check.”

“Oh, well, I’m definitely still awake,” you said, the playful tilt of your lips escaping before you could stop it. “I was trying to catch Santa.”

“Really?” Max’s eyes widened, filled with mock disbelief. “You think Santa’s actually going to show up here?”

“Well, it’s Christmas Eve! Why wouldn’t he?” You plopped down on the edge of your bed, inviting him to sit. “Just because we’re older doesn’t mean we can’t believe. It’s part of the fun!”

Max chuckled, settling onto the floor cross-legged, his pillow still clutched to his chest. “Okay, okay, I get it. But still, how do you plan to catch him? With a camera or something?”

“Maybe,” you said, half-seriously. “I might have some tricks up my sleeve. What about you? What did you think—would you prefer to catch Santa or find out if reindeer actually fly?”

He pondered that for a moment, his brows furrowing in concentration. “Hmmm, that’s a tough choice. I think I’d prefer to see the reindeer fly, actually. I mean, how do they even do it? I’d love to see those little hooves take off!”

“You know, if you stand up and pretend to be one, maybe that’s the secret,” you teased, your heart lifting at the sound of laughter that poured from him. It felt good, this mini-adventure in imagination.

Max shook his head, his smile infectious. “Absolutely not! I’ll leave the magical reindeer business to you, thank you very much.��

“Fair enough,” you said, grinning back at him. The air was lighter now, filled with a playful spirit that made the room feel even cozier. “But I’ve got to ask—are you cold out there on the couch?”

Max’s smile faltered for just a moment. “A little. I wasn’t thinking about that when I decided to crash on the couch, I swear! Just didn’t want to kick you out of your own room.”

“That’s sweet of you, but you can just come here next time if you want,” you offered, feeling a warmth spreading inside you. “There’s plenty of room.”

He glanced at your bed, then back to you. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”

Taking in his slightly sheepish expression, you sat up straighter. “You’re not! We can keep each other company while we wait for Santa… or at least talk about whatever silly thing pops into our heads.”

Max’s eyes glimmered with delight. “You know what? That sounds perfect.” He picked up his pillow and moved it to your bed, settling down beside you. “Okay, so how do we catch Santa then?”

“First, we need snacks! Santa loves cookies. We can’t let him go hungry,” you declared, leaping up and heading for the kitchen.

When you returned, you carried a plate stacked high with the best cookies your mom had made—snowflakes, gingerbread men, and festive sprinkle biscuits.

“Wow, you’re serious about this,” Max teased, grabbing a cookie. “Okay, then let’s make a plan. If we take shifts—”

“Shifts?” you interrupted with a gasp, the laughter bubbling over. “We’re not soldiers guarding the North Pole, Max!”

He couldn’t hold back his own laughter. “Okay, fine. No shifts. But how about we set up where we can see the tree and the cookies, and then when someone looks away, the other has to keep a lookout?”

“Deal. And when we catch Santa, you have to promise not to scream,” you added, snickering.

“Like I’d do that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Okay, I’m going to be the lookout then.”

Minutes turned into hours as the night unfolded beneath the glow of your soft fairy lights, laughter blending with stories and silly reindeer poses.

For the first time that night, the ticking down to Christmas felt less like a wait and more like a cherished moment shared.

You positioned yourself comfortably, but couldn’t help sneaking glances at him. One moment, he caught your gaze, and an unusual silence settled between you. The playful banter slipped away and instead, the warmth in his eyes drew you in.

He leaned a little closer, his voice softening. “You okay?”

“I am,” you said, but your heart raced more from the shift in ambiance than the excitement of catching Santa. The air was somehow charged with a tension that felt both thrilling and terrifying.

Max's gaze lingered on you, and for just a heartbeat, you both held still. You couldn’t ignore the heat rising in your cheeks. Your eyes flickered down to his lips, and you felt a magnetic pull towards him.

For a moment, you thought he might lean in. Then, as if struck by an invisible force, you turned away. “I—sorry, I just…” You stammered, struggling to find your words.

But Max’s eyes, filled with curiosity and a hint of longing, didn’t let you off the hook so easily. “What is it?” he asked gently, his voice low and soothing.

“Nothing!” you rushed out, a laugh escaping that sounded a bit too high-pitched. “I think maybe I just stared at the lights too long.”

“Sure,” he replied, but the playful tone was gone, replaced by something softer, more sincere. “You can tell me, you know. I won’t bite.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the rapid beating of your heart. “It’s just… really nice, being here with you. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve and we’re supposed to be having fun, but… it feels different this time.”

His expression softened even further, as though he understood completely. “Yeah, I feel it too.”

With a small smile, he shifted closer, letting the comfort of the moment wash over you. “Maybe it’s the cookies or the tree. Or maybe it’s because we’re just getting older.”

Under the thick blanket, you shifted again, settling into the warmth he radiated. “Now come closer; you’re taking all of the blanket,” you teased, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

Max slowly moved to close the gap, his body edging over but hesitating just a tad as if he feared touching you too much would shatter the serene moment.

“I’m scared,” he blurted, glancing sideways, his cheeks tinged a light shade of pink.

“Scared?” you repeated, surprised. “Of what?”

“Of ruining this, I guess,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything feels so perfect, and I don’t want to mess it up by making a wrong move.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Like what?”

“Making you uncomfortable,” he said. He drummed his fingers nervously on the blanket. “What if I lean too far, or what if I say something silly and it turns this into one of those moments where you laugh uncomfortably because you’re not sure how to react?”

“I wouldn’t laugh at you,” you replied earnestly, shifting so you could look at him properly. “And even if you said something silly, we’d just laugh it off, right?”

He looked at you with soft brown eyes, gauging the sincerity in your expression. “You promise?”

“Absolutely,” you said, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. “Why would I want to ruin this either? I like where we are, Max. It feels… right.”

“I just…” he paused, the weight of his thoughts hanging in the air, “I like being around you. You make everything lighter. But I don’t want to push you away.”

You leaned closer, feeling the thud of your heart echo in the space between you. The bottle of uncertainty that had been keeping both of you at bay began to crack. “It’s okay; you’re not pushing me away. I want you here.”

The tilt of your head must have been inviting enough, because he shifted in closer, the gap between you dissolving like morning mist. He was tentative, still afraid of breaking the moment, but the warmth you felt was from more than just the blanket.

“See?” you said softly as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Not so scary, right?”

“I guess not,” he chuckled, relief flooding his features. “But I just can’t help it; I keep thinking about how everything could change. What if it goes wrong?”

“Max,” you said, resting your head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne, “worrying about what might happen keeps you from enjoying what’s happening now. Isn’t that what people do? They get so lost in what’s next that they forget to appreciate what they have?”

His silence was contemplative as he pulled you a fraction closer, the warmth of him wrapping around you like the blanket. “You’re right. I guess I just really want this to last… us.”

Your heart fluttered at his words. The vulnerability in his tone was striking, and it planted a seed of hope within you. “So, let’s just be in this moment,” you suggested, draping the blanket more tightly around your bodies.

“Here and now. No expectations. Just us.”

He nodded slowly, and for a moment, the sound of snow became the soundtrack of your cocoon. Slowly, his fingers brushed against yours, a gentleness that sent a ripple of warmth through you.

A smile broke across his face, one that sent warmth through you like the first rays of sun after a long, cold night. “Sounds perfect,” he said, his voice deepening in that way you had come to adore.

You settled back against him, draping the soft blanket more tightly around your bodies. The fabric felt like a cloud, cocooning you in a protective bubble.

Outside, the snow continued its gentle descent, each drop creating a soft symphony that seemed to echo the beats of your hearts.

He fell silent for a moment, and you watched as he closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the snow wash over him. “I wonder how many people wish for this,” he mused, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I think a lot,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of his words linger in the air. “But it’s ours. We shouldn’t take it for granted.”

The two of you settled into a comfortable silence, as peaceful and inviting as the sound of the snow against the window. You felt yourself beginning to relax, lulled by the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing against your cheek where it rested.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you let out a long, slow breath, feeling the world around you begin to fade away.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, sensing your drift towards slumber.

“Always,” you replied, feeling your eyelids grow heavier. In the sanctuary you had created, enveloped in warmth and affection, you allowed the quiet to take over as your thoughts turned hazy.

And with that, you drifted into a peaceful sleep, the comfort of his presence, the shelter of the blanket, and the soft patter of the snow wrapping you both in a cocoon of tranquility.

Here, in this moment, everything was right, and your hearts whispered promises that could span across a lifetime. . . . .

You woke up to the gentle thrum of a heartbeat against your ear, warmth enveloping you fully. The sound brought you back slowly to the present, and you smiled as you remembered where you were.

The faint smell of pine and cinnamon wafted through the air, intermingling with the warmth of the blankets draped over you.

You were home, nestled in bed beside him, accompanied by the soft glow of fairy lights strung around the room.

Turning slightly, you found him still beside you, his arms wrapped around you in a secure embrace. His chest rose and fell rhythmically beneath your head, and his breath sounded deep and peaceful.

You cherished this moment like the most precious gift, knowing that today was Christmas Day.

You smiled at the thought and snuggled a little closer, feeling the sleep still clinging to your eyelids. "Merry Christmas," you whispered, not wanting to disturb the beautiful serenity of the morning.

He stirred a little, pulling you even closer. "Mmm, Merry Christmas," he murmured, his voice husky from sleep.

He tilted his head to meet your gaze, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “What time do you think it is? Do you think your parents are up yet?”

You chuckled softly, nudging him playfully. “Probably not. They’d sleep in on Christmas morning if they could."

Max’s smile widened. “Well let’s not disturb them then and do our own breakfast,” he suggested with a conspiratorial glance. “And maybe make some breakfast for them so they like me more.”

“Max, they love you, you know that,” you said, feeling your cheeks heat slightly.

Calling Max your friend felt wrong, like a poorly matched puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. In your heart, he was so much more, but the boundaries were intricate and tangled, built over years of friendship, laughter, and unspoken affection.

“My parents don’t usually agree to let a friend stay over at Christmas. You’re special.”

He tilted his head, his playful demeanor shifting to something more serious. “Really? That’s sweet of them. But honestly, I want to make a good impression. Christmas breakfast is a big deal, right? In a ‘you have to impress your parents’ kind of way?” He rolled his eyes in mock exaggeration.

You laughed, pushing your hair back from your face. “Okay, fine. What do you have in mind?”

Max hopped up from the edge of your bed, a spark of enthusiasm in his steps. “I can handle the pancakes if you get the eggs and bacon. And maybe we can sneak in some hot chocolate?”

“Sounds like a plan,” you agreed, reluctantly swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “But we have to be quiet. They’re definitely still asleep.”

“Shh, we have to be silent,” he declared dramatically, mimicking a ninja as he tiptoed toward the kitchen.

You followed him, amusement bubbling up inside you at his antics. Entering the kitchen, you were greeted by the familiar scent of pine from the Christmas tree, twinkling lights reflecting off the walls.

Max opened the fridge with exaggerated care, peering inside as if it were a treasure chest.

“Eggs and whatever this is,” he said, pulling out a carton that looked slightly dubious, but then again, you didn't remember buying much food lately.

You rolled your eyes. “That was from Thanksgiving. Let’s stick to the basics.”

Max pretended to ponder for a moment. “And let’s not poison your parents on Christmas morning.”

With a soft laugh, you got to work, gathering the ingredients for the breakfast spread. The soft sound of sizzling bacon filled the kitchen as you heated the skillet, and Max enthusiastically began mixing pancake batter in a bowl.

After some time, your kitchen transformed into a makeshift restaurant, with pancakes stacked high, bacon sizzling, and eggs brightening the countertop.

You’d managed to quiet the noise, but you couldn’t hold back your laughter at the two of you trying to balance plates on the way to the table.

“Okay, moment of truth,” Max said, placing plates down at two seats, making sure they were perfectly aligned. “How do we make this secretly magical?”

You raised your eyebrows, then added, “Hot chocolate on the side?”

“Genius!” he proclaimed, quickly pouring hot chocolate into two mugs adorned with marshmallows. “You’re not just a pretty face, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered at the compliment. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Max,” you replied playfully, unable to hide your smile.

Just as you both sat down to toast the moment, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. You shot Max a frantic look, and he quickly grabbed a pancake, stuffing it in his mouth as if caught in the act.

“Surprise!” your mother exclaimed, walking into the kitchen, her eyes wide with delight. “What’s all this?”

You exchanged guilty glances, but Max, ever the charmer, grinned with a mouth full of pancake. “Just trying to make Christmas breakfast a real deal. Hope you’re hungry!”

“And great pancakes, if I may add,” you chimed in, feeling your heart race. “And bacon! Can’t forget about baked bacon.”

Your dad appeared beside your mother, his scruffy morning hair adding to his amusement. “Wow, you two really outdid yourselves!” He looked between you and Max, clearly impressed.

Feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, you glanced at Max, who was now smirking, clearly enjoying the attention.

“Well, maybe, by making breakfast, they’ll include me in the family from this point onward,” he said, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You chuckled, nudging him again. “You already are family, you know that right?”

Max locked eyes with you, and for a brief moment, the teasing banter faded into something more sincere. “Yeah, I guess,” he said softly, his smile less about jesting and more about truth.

Your parents settled at the table, and soon enough, the jovial atmosphere filled the room as laughter and shared stories surrounded you.

Even amidst the festive spirits, you and Max shared fleeting glances and quiet smiles, both unsure whether to acknowledge what lingered just beneath the surface.

As bacon sizzled and your parents marveled at the pancakes, you felt a warmth in your heart.

"So, as you know, we're hosting the Christmas party this year," she said, her voice bright and cheery despite the busy atmosphere. "It's going to be crowded before it’s 4 PM."

You looked across the table at Max, who was focused on his plate but seemed to be listening intently. "You don’t mind that, right?" you asked him, your heart racing slightly.

It wasn’t just your parents who would be attending; they had invited family friends, neighbors, and even some of your old schoolmates.

Max looked up, a friendly smile breaking across his face. "No, it’s fine! More the merrier," he replied, taking a big bite of pancake as if to emphasize his nonchalance.

After breakfast, your mother handed you and Max a box of decorations that had been stored away for the season. "Here! You two handle the living room. Make it festive!" she called, already disappearing into the next room.

You and Max exchanged glances, and you both laughed at the same time. "Looks like it’s just us," you said, a hint of excitement in your voice.

"Let’s make this place sparkle!" Max exclaimed, grinning as he opened the box to reveal an array of ornaments, garlands, and twinkling fairy lights.

As you began to decorate the room, you found yourself instinctively reaching for a shimmering silver garland. You draped it across the mantelpiece, wishing to give it a touch of elegance.

Meanwhile, Max was busy attempting to untangle a giant string of lights, a comical frown on his face.

"I'm telling you, these lights have a grudge against us," he said, huffing slightly as he pulled on the cords.

You laughed, shaking your head. "Need a hand, or are you determined to battle the lights alone?"

He raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in his eyes. "I can handle this. Just you wait!"

He managed to get one long string untangled and triumphantly held it up. "See? Success!"

"You are the hero of light untangling!" you declared, clapping your hands dramatically.

As the afternoon wore on, you took a break to change into your dress. You’d chosen a deep green one that flowed elegantly around your knees. Standing in front of the mirror, you adjusted the neckline and twirled once to see the fabric swirl around you.

When you stepped out of your room, you spotted Max walking past with a box filled with more decorations. He froze, his gaze sweeping over you as if trying to gauge your outfit.

"Is it too much?" you asked shyly, suddenly feeling vulnerable under his watchful eye.

"No, it’s fine! You look beautiful, I promise," he assured you, his voice steady and sincere. That made your heart flutter a little.

“Thank you,” you said softly, a smile creeping onto your face.

Max cleared his throat, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks. "I mean it. You always look great."

As the clock approached 4 PM, guests began to arrive. The house filled with laughter and the sounds of holiday greetings. Your parents mingled with guests, ensuring everyone felt at home.

“Wow, look at this place,” Max said, his voice barely audible over the joyous chatter. He stood close beside you, his eyes wide as he took in the familiar surroundings that were brimming with memories.

“Yeah, it’s a little chaotic,” you admitted, your gaze drifting toward the swarm of guests. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Today, especially, you were thankful for Max's presence as anxiety began to creep in with each arrival. He didn’t know anyone else here, and his nervous energy mirrored yours, though he was determined to keep you company.

“Maybe we should find somewhere quieter?” he suggested, but just as you were about to agree, a voice rang out from the doorway.

“Hey, Y/N! Haven’t seen you in forever!” It was Blake—standing with a group of his friends, their smug expressions painted in the crackling light of holiday cheer.

Your heart sank. What was he doing here? Memories of the past flooded back—the bullying, the harsh teasing. You instinctively took a step back, bumping into Max, who looked worried.

“Should I get them out?” he whispered, concern creasing his brow.

“No... it’s okay,” you muttered, though your heart raced. There was a part of you that hoped this time would be different. Maybe Blake had changed.

“Blake!” you said, forcing a smile. “How has it been?”

“Good! Real good! Just finished finals, and I think I aced them all.” He leaned against the doorframe, an uninvited confidence radiating from him. “It’s kind of nice to see you. We should catch up sometime.”

His gaze roamed over you like an echo of the past, pulling at invisible threads that bound you to days long gone.

You could feel Max shift beside you. He subtly positioned his body protectively between you and Blake, his hand casually resting on your waist—something that felt both natural and reassuring.

The gesture worked to ground you, despite the tension that crackled in the air.

“Oh, um, thanks!” you replied, your voice shaky but steadying as you felt Max’s warmth. “I’ve been busy with college. Working a lot too. It’s—really challenging.”

Blake chuckled, his friends joining in the laughter. “You always did know how to balance things,” he said with a wink, his tone flirty. “I bet that’s why everyone is still buzzing about you. You’re always the one who had their life together.”

You forced another smile, but inside you felt uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you replied, trying to redirect the conversation. “What about you? Are you still into basketball?”

“Of course! Can’t get enough of it.” He was enjoying the attention of your classmates who were gathered around—nothing but echoes of their bygone camaraderie. “I could show you some moves later if you want. I mean, I’m pretty good.”

“Maybe I’ll just stick to watching,” you said, with a weak laugh. Your gaze flickered to Max, who still remained a quiet presence at your side, his hand never faltering on your waist.

“Come on, it wouldn’t be the same without you,” Blake persisted, moving closer, his friends egging him on. “We can rekindle old times.”

Just then, Max tightened his grip around you as if to shield you from that unwanted history. “I think Y/N has plans,” he stated clearly. “Right?”

Your heart swelled at his assertion. “Yeah! Plans!” you echoed, grateful for his quick thinking. “We were actually just about to grab some food. Isn’t that right, Max?”

“Absolutely,” he nodded, his eyes locking onto yours with an earnestness that sent warmth through you. It was something you’d been craving since that encounter with Blake began to take an unsettling turn.

“Should I join?” Blake smirked, but your laughter came out more forced than you intended.

“No! I mean, we’re kind of... in a rush,” you insisted, pointing toward the dining room where the food was being served. “Right, Max?”

“Right,” he affirmed, his eyes that twinkled with an inner strength. “Let’s go grab some snacks, Y/N.”

With a half-hearted wave to Blake and his friends, you took Max’s hand, the warmth of his palm igniting an unexpected comfort. You navigated through the crowd, the noise fading into a dull roar behind you.

“Thank you,” you exhaled once you stepped into the quieter dining room, where twinkling fairy lights adorned the table and the table was laden with a spread of delicious food.

“I was worried I’d have to drown in that conversation.”

Max chuckled, his relief evident. “I’ve got your back. Always.”

The atmosphere in the dining room was lighter, filled with the cheerful sounds of your family laughing and sharing stories.

Under a garland of fresh greens and bright red ribbons, you felt enveloped by warmth and safety, especially with Max at your side.

“So tell me more traditions that you guys do on Christmas Day,” Max asked curiously, his bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement as he perched on the edge of the couch.

You could see the warmth of the festive spirit in him, a perfect addition to your family gathering.

You smiled, wiping away a few crumbs from your cookie-laden fingers. “Well, for us, we do Secret Santa where we pick someone’s name and get them something secretly before hiding it under the tree. Oh! And we especially do Christmas karaoke!"

You laughed, pointing at your dad and uncle belting out “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in exaggerated voices. They were utterly off-key, but it only added to the hilarity.

Max chuckled, the sound making your heart flutter. “I would pay to see that!” he exclaimed.

“Then there’s the mistletoe!” you said, gesturing towards the couple by the entrance who were caught under the hanging sprig of green. “If there are two people under it, they have to kiss.”

You opened your mouth to continue, but before the words could form, Max leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours.

Time stood still. You were caught in that perfect moment until he pulled away, his cheeks turning a shade of pink that nearly matched the holiday décor.

“Uh, what just happened?” you stammered, glancing up only to find a bunch of mistletoe hanging right above you.

Max pointed up with a shy grin. “I figured I’d follow the traditions, you know?”

You couldn’t help the playful smirk that crept onto your lips. “Is that the only reason you kissed me?” You leaned slightly closer, your heart pounding in excitement.

Max's eyes widened as he shook his head. “No, um, not exactly,” he said, his voice a mix of confidence and vulnerability. “I really like you, Y/N.”

A giggle bubbled up from your throat before you could suppress it. “You’re so cute, Max,” you said, your voice light and teasing.

His face turned even redder, and your playful tone hung in the air between you like a promise. “Did I just get friendzoned?” he asked, half-joking but his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

You rolled your eyes with exaggerated dramatic flair. “Nope, I like you too, cutie.” The words flowed out more easily than you had anticipated, but they felt right, resonating with the whirlwind of emotion that had caught you both off guard.

Max's expression shifted, the nervousness giving way to relief and undeniable joy. “Really? You like me?”

“Of course! I mean, we get along so well, and you’re literally the sweetest person I know.”

He smiled wider, the hint of anxiety disappearing from his features, replaced by a twinkling delight. “Wow. Okay, good! So, uh, should we… I don’t know… try that kiss again? Just to really make sure it wasn’t a fluke?”

You laughed, the sound rich and warm like the cocoa in your cup. “Bad idea, Max. What if people see?” But even as you said the words, you felt a spark ignite, compelling you to step closer again.

“Who cares?” he said, his voice bold now. “It’s just mistletoe. And I think it’d be a better story if we kissed again than if we stood here talking about it.” His eyes danced with energy, a hint of mischief.

You couldn’t resist that challenge, not with the way he was looking at you—the spark in his eyes making it impossible to think clearly. “Okay, but if we do,” you said, taking a breath to calm your fluttering heart, “we have to do it right. No awkward pecks.”

“Deal,” he replied, the seriousness of the moment settling between you like a secret shared.

Max grabbed you by your waist and pulled you closer, his sudden boldness catching you off guard.

Surprised, a little noise escaped your lips — a mix of laughter and shock — and you could see the amusement dance across his face. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

You felt warmth flood your cheeks, a blend of excitement and anticipation, as well as the faintest hint of embarrassment. “You’re impossible,” you said, trying to regain your composure, though your heart raced wildly in your chest.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he replied, a playful smirk forming on his lips. “But I’m more than willing to show you.”

“Bring it on,” you challenged, your heart racing with both fear and excitement.

And then, before you could second-guess yourself or back out, you tilted your head back slightly, and your lips met his.

The kiss was an explosion of warmth, as sweet and indulgent as the cocoa you had been sipping. It flickered to life like the crackling fire in the corner, igniting a warmth in your heart that surged straight through to your fingertips.

You melted into him, feeling the world around you fade—the hum of conversation, the clang of glasses, the scent of pine in the air, all of it dimming in the wake of this moment.

Max’s grip on your waist tightened, pulling you even closer. The kiss deepened, and you could feel the steadiness of him against the thrumming chaos of your own pulse. His lips moved against yours with a mix of softness and urgency that sent shivers down your spine.

After what felt like both a blink and a lifetime, you pulled back, breathless. “Wow,” you managed to say, your cheeks flushed as you looked into his eyes, which sparkled with a hint of triumph.

“Wow, indeed,” he echoed, his smile broad and boyish. “You see? Better than just talking about it.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You have no shame.”

“And you’re blushing again,” he pointed out, leaning against the back of the sofa, clearly relishing the moment. “What’s wrong with a little mistletoe magic?”

“Seems like a pretty convenient setup,” you teased, trying to regain your composure. “What if someone walks in?”

“Let them!” Max shrugged, his playful energy infectious. “I’m not ashamed of how I feel about you.” His gaze softened, and for a moment, the noise of the party faded into the background.

“Guess it’s too late to act cool now,” you said, glancing around the crowded room, where your parents were happily mingling with friends and relatives.

“Merry Christmas to me, looks like I got my present,” you added, winking at him.

“Think your parents will approve?” Max's eyes danced with mischief as he leaned closer again, just inches from your face.

“They’re going to be thrilled,” you replied, sarcasm lacing your voice. “My mom has been trying to play matchmaker for months. She’s probably already trying to convince my dad to change the seating arrangement for the rest of the night.”

Max chuckled, and suddenly, the surrounding noise blurred into a vague hum as you found yourself lost in his gaze.

“You know,” he said, “I never had any special tradition for the holidays while growing up. But after today, I think I’m ready to spend the rest of my days trying to learn your family’s traditions.”

You chuckled, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Aww man, are you really trying to win my heart?”

“Is it working?” Max asked, his smile widening.

“Maybe,” you teased, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as you tried to suppress a grin.

“Good,” he said, leaning a little closer, the playful glint in his eyes replaced with something more genuine.

“Because I’ve decided I want to experience all the things that make your family special. Like this—” He gestured to your father, who was attempting to sing a holiday tune, completely off-key.

“Yeah, that’s a real highlight,” you replied, laughing.

“I’m serious,” Max said, the warmth of sincerity filling the space between you. “I want to be a part of it all—the cooking, the awkward games, the stories that are told every year. I want to learn why your mom insists on making seven different types of cookies, or why your uncle insists he can beat anyone at charades.”

Your heart swelled at his words. “You really mean that?”

“Absolutely,” he affirmed, taking a step closer, so your shoulders brushed against each other. “You’ve made this horrible week of relentless deadlines bearable just by being you. I can only imagine how wonderfully chaotic it must be at these parties. I want to be part of it.”

Surprised, you looked down at your feet, your cheeks burning. The twinkling lights around the room seemed to echo your racing heart.

“Well, you definitely picked the right night to make such a grand declaration. Keep your expectations realistic, though. My family is… a lot.”

“Bring it on,” he said, his enthusiasm contagious. “I’m ready. Besides, you’re worth it.”

As you sat there in the warmth of your parents’ home, wrapped in laughter, full of acceptance, you realized that this could be the start of something wonderful.

The sparkling lights twinkled with promise, and perhaps, just perhaps, this Christmas would be the first of many with Max by your side. . . . .

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