#pantry cleaning and order

[presidentkamala]

Excited to wake up and house the rest of this lemon cake btw

[rosemaryhoney27]

Ghost of a Chance

Gotham was not a city known for its kindness. Rain slicked the alleyways like a second skin, and shadows crept where sunlight dared not linger. Alfred Pennyworth had seen a great many things in this city. Muggers, monsters, and masked madmen were just part of the nightly routine. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be saved by a ghost.

Or something very much like one.

It was supposed to be a quick errand—a quiet evening walk to clear his head. But halfway down Burnside, three desperate men with more bravado than brains cornered him. Alfred had been ready to disarm the first and disable the second, but he never got the chance. A blur of white and black swooped in, accompanied by the distant, bone-deep hum of unnatural power. The muggers were down in seconds—one frozen to the wall, another knocked out cold, and the third suspended midair by a glowing hand that flickered green.

The boy was there and gone just as fast. Alfred barely had time to register the tattered hoodie, the hollow cheeks, the white hair and green eyes that didn’t seem quite human.

"Wait—!" Alfred had called, but the boy was already gone, melting into the shadows like smoke.

The encounter would’ve ended there—just another strange chapter in Gotham’s nightbook—if it hadn’t kept happening.

Twice more, the mysterious young man appeared. Once to stop a purse snatcher near the theater. Another time to drag a lost child out of a crumbling building during a fire. Always fast, always silent. Always gone before Alfred could properly speak to him.

And always too thin.

It was the kind of thin that spoke of long nights without food. Hollow cheeks, knobby elbows, a belt cinched too tight around jeans that barely stayed up. It reminded Alfred of the early days—of Dick, of Jason, of Tim, of Damian. Of boys who had learned to survive instead of live.

Alfred Pennyworth had a rule: no one went hungry on his watch.

And so began his campaign.

At first, it was subtle. A wrapped sandwich left behind after one of the ghost-boy’s heroic appearances. A thermos of hot tea left conveniently near a rooftop perch. A backpack, clean and durable, filled with protein bars and fresh socks. Most of it vanished, though Alfred never saw it happen.

Then came the note, scrawled in messy, tired handwriting:

“Thanks. You didn’t have to. I’m not sticking around though. It’s safer for you if I don’t.”

The next day, Alfred left a response tucked in the same spot:

“You are not a danger, young man. I’ve seen far worse, and fed far worse. If you insist on continuing your streak of rooftop chivalry, I insist you do so on a full stomach.”

He added a slice of quiche. It was gone by morning.

Bruce raised an eyebrow the first time he caught Alfred baking two loaves of banana bread instead of one. Tim said nothing when the supply order mysteriously included a half dozen extra protein shakes and thermal gloves in medium size. Damian made a snide comment—something about stray ghosts haunting the pantry—but Alfred didn’t dignify it with a reply.

Then came the night it changed.

A patrol gone wrong. Batman caught in a collapsing parking garage. The comms went dead. Nightwing was too far. Red Hood was tracking Penguin. The only one nearby—untraceable, unregistered, and undeniably powerful—was the boy Alfred had been feeding for weeks.

He left the beacon on the rooftop.

“Help him. Please. –A.P.”

Within minutes, Bruce stumbled through the Batcave entrance, soot-smudged and breathing, but alive. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was the boy. White hair. Green eyes. Shivering slightly, but still on his feet.

“I didn’t do it for favors,” the boy said. His voice was hoarse, too young for his haunted face. “I just... couldn’t let him die.”

“I know,” Alfred said gently. “Which is precisely why the offer of dinner still stands.”

“…I shouldn’t.” But his eyes drifted toward the warm lights of the manor beyond the cave, toward the smell of fresh bread and something sweet baking in the oven.

“No one escapes me forever, dear boy,” Alfred said with a small smile. “Not even slippery ghosts.”

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then finally, like a candle burning out, he sagged.

“…Okay. Just for tonight.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, already turning toward the kitchen. “We’ll start with soup.”

Behind him, the boy whispered a name like an afterthought—like something long buried finally being said aloud.

“Danny. My name’s Danny.”

“Well then, Master Danny,” Alfred said, with the same fondness he reserved for all his wayward sons, “welcome home.”

[emmyrosee]

[12:23 am]

Osamu swears he’s going to hire someone for the graveyard shift.

He can’t keep doing these obscene night cleaning-shifts alone, they run him exhausted and keep him from coming home to you for a vast majority of the night, keeping you both from each other.

You leave before he wakes up. He’s back after you’ve gone to bed.

He’d assured you that, tonight however, he was going to be home at 9, come hell or high water, to spend a night with you like you deserve, because if anyone deserves his attention for being a good sport, so patient and loving and kind to him, it’s you.

But he’s not perfect, despite what he’d love to believe.

Because counting the registers turned into resweeping the floors. Then, when he realized it was still before 9, he started to wipe the counters. By the time that was done, he’d noticed the sacks of rice that needed to be moved to the kitchen from the pantry in preparation for tomorrow’s rush. He needed to scan them in for inventory, then he needed to pencil them in to make another note of how much he needs to order from Kita-San.

All this… until his watch cruelly reminded him of the time.

Past midnight.

Now osamu drives home in silence, a massive hand scrubbing down his face while the other weakly holds the steering wheel.

It's a miracle he's alive to tell the tale.

His eyes are heavy as he pulls into your driveway, home silhouetted in the moonlight like a beacon of hope. He shambles into his home, carefully maneuvering around his dark home as to not wake you. He knows you're asleep in bed, curled on your side with your head on his pillow bc it smells like him, and he'll have to move you so gently and try not to melt at the sleepy smile you give him.

Tonight, however, you surprise him.

The room is lit with candles that are placed on top of books that lead like a trail to the bed, the lamp covered with a thin, red cloth that adorns the room in a pink hue. Melted chocolate strawberries are plopped on his nightstand. He smiles at the sight of you, his onigiri shirt which pools around your body and a pair of underwear, curled up on the bed and sleeping soundly, using your pillows as a blanket.

He sighs as his heart aches from all the clear effort you put into the decor, bowing slightly to blow out the candles- he’s honestly amazed the house hasn’t burned down- all before making his way to the bed and slowly sitting down. He smiles fondly as your brows furrow at the dipping of the bed, and he rests a loving hand on your back, thumb running back and forth soothingly.

“All this work and I couldn’t be quicker, huh?” He mumbles to you, knowing you can’t hear him, but he chuckles as you shuffle to be closer to the new warmth. Finally, your eyes twitch to slowly open, and you yawn as you slowly blink awake, sleepy gaze drawing up to Osamu. You smile and try to curl closer to him, “hi, baby,” you mumble sleepily.

He clicks his tongue fondly and moves his hand to cup your cheek, stroking his thumb over the creases from your smile, “hey sweetheart… what’s all this, hm?” He asks, smiling happily when you chuckle and close your eyes again.

“Wanted us to have a romantic evening,” you explain, and osamu wants to kill everyone who kept him from you tonight. “I miss our time together, but we’ve been so busy and…” In your sleepy haze, you must realize what you’re saying because your eyes fly open and you stop yourself from finishing your thought, but Osamu already knows what you’re thinking before you can even tell him otherwise.

“And I was supposed to be here,” he sighs. When you say nothing and your eyes do your best to avoid his, he scratches the tiny hairs at the nape of your neck, “I’m sorry, baby, I should’ve been here.”

“You were working,” you hum, head nuzzling against your own arm more. “I get it.”

“I just don’t have the time anymore for stuff like this-“

His words trail off before they can dive from his tongue, but he wonders if it was worth it, because the silence is suffocating, and he can already tell by the way your brows furrow in pain that even you’re surprised with his words.

“Have the time…” you begin, slowly sitting up. “For… what?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he corrects, but at this point, he’s watching your face contort from shock to just… sadness. He feels his heart break, he knows he needs to fix this. “I just meant I didn’t have anymore free time.”

This time, you slowly sit up, still facing away from him, and he hates the feeling of you being so appalled by his audacity when he’s trying so hard to fix it- even if there’s nothing to fix.

There’s nothing he can say, not much else he can do, he’s done his damage, and now his price is to watch your glimmering eyes blink a line of tears that quickly get wiped away with the back of your hand.

“I didn’t realize I was free time,” you choke, and he moves his lips to try and form words, but not a single one comes out to try and fix the situation.

You’re not, he wants to say. That you take all his time, you’ve earned all this time, all he wants is you, all the time, and he’s been shitty and he’s amazed you haven’t upped and left him for all he is when it’s all he deserves.

Why the hell can’t he just say it?

“I’m… I’m gonna go out to the couch,” you say, finally looking up at him and sealing the final nail in his coffin. Your sclera’s are red with tears, and your voice croaks from the lump of embarrassment that settles against the chords.

“No, no, no baby, c’mon,” he pleads, reaching out to grab your wrist. “We can still have a good night, yeah?” He brings your hand up to kiss your knuckles, “have some strawberries, drink some champagne, right?”

You offer him a small, fake smile, but your eyes glimmer in betrayal, “it’s okay. It’s late. You’ve got to be up tomorrow morning.”

“But-“ he squeezes your wrist tighter. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” he whimpers. “We can still cuddle, I always have time to cuddle with ya.”

“Do we have to pencil that in as free time too?” You scoff. He deserves it, he know he does, but he reels his hand back like he’s been burned, heartbreak squeezing his chest.

“Baby, no… god, no, I’m sorry-“

“I know you just tripped up your words, Osamu,” you confess, wrapping your arms around yourself as an attempt to comfort. “But you clearly were feeling that way, that’s why the thought was there. You meant what you said, even if it wasn’t how you wanted to say it.”

"But-"

"We can finish this tomorrow," you whisper, and he hears it in your throat that you're fighting back tears. "I'm tired."

"Yeah... okay..."

But you don't go to sleep.

Osamu knows this.

Because he never went to sleep either, staring at the ceiling while he listened to you wail on the phone with your best friend, his own tears biting his eyes, hot like fire as they roll down his face.

[sai-int]

does rts!simon like taking care of reader? like does he enjoy the idea of her relying on him for everything?

omg yes!!!

rts!simon doesn’t just like taking care of you—he lowkey needs to. it’s hardwired into the way he loves—to protect. the idea of you relying on him doesn’t scare him; it settles him. it makes the chaos in his head go quiet.

but it’s not only just about the now, it’s about the before, too. the way you used to live.

he knows you’ve spent winters wrapped in two coats, sitting beside the oven because the heat bill couldn’t be paid. he knows you’ve made one order of takeout last three nights in a row and told yourself it was “fine.” that you’ve chosen between food and gas. that you’ve gone to sleep cold, or angry, or with such an aching kind of loneliness that makes you fell hollow all over.

he remembers the way you brushed it off when you explained the depth of the situation on the ride to manchester—told him like it was just part of life. like it wasn’t unfair. like you didn’t deserve better.

but you do. and he’s going to give it to you—every last bit.

so, there’s no way in hell you’re going back to that. not on his watch. not while he’s breathing.

he takes care of everything without any fuss. the house is warm before you wake up. the fridge is always full. you never have to look at a bill, never have to ask. Yyu always have clean sheets, soft clothes, a stocked pantry, fresh flowers—because you’re not surviving anymore. you’re safe. and more than that, you’re wanted. cherished. kept.

even if he’s away for work (which he still refuses to tell you about, by the way) or comes home late, he’ll have groceries delivered, he’ll send you money—he’ll do whatever you need.

he makes sure you never have to feel unloved again.

and even though he never says it out loud, love is in his eyes when he sees you curled on top of 1,000 thread count sheets and under a goose down duvet, cheeks flushed from the heat he set high just for you.

[kaiijo]

SUPER-GLUED JAR PRANK — [WIND BREAKER]

characters: sakura haruka, umemiya hajime, hiragi toma, togame jo content: gn! reader, a (very old) tiktok prank notes: they’re so silly, i love them

sakura haruka ✶

in hindsight, you should have known giving sakura the super-glued jar might not have been your best idea but his bright pink face paired with an inevitable tirade were too good to pass up. you can’t take all the credit for it — kotoha played a role too, supplying you with a nearly-empty jar of sprinkles and some acting. 

your boyfriend is sitting with nirei and suo when you emerge from cafe potus’s pantry with the jar. she feigns disappointment when she asks, “any luck?”

“no,” you say, shaking the jar in your hand for effect.

“it’s such a waste to just let all that stuff sit at the bottom.”

you turn to sakura and asks, “can you try opening it, sweetheart?”

sakura’s face flushes at the pet name, which makes his friends giggle, and he takes the jar from you. with each attempt his make, sakura scowls more and more, huffing as he sets it down. nirei suggests that he tap the lid against the edge of the table but sakura uses just a bit too much force and the glass breaks. you gasp and the trio at the table jumps back with fast reflexes. 

kotoha’s already running to grab a broom and dustpan and you’re reaching down to pick up the big pieces. sakura’s hand closes around your wrist before you can and he says, “are you crazy? you could hurt yourself, let me do it.” 

“no one touch it,” kotoha orders as she sweeps the shards up. nirei is apologizing profusely and sakura mutters an apology, complaining about how he almost had it and how they shouldn’t make jars that sealed that tight. when you come clean to him about gluing the lid, he’s huffing and puffing at you, and you make it up to him with a lot of food and a lot of kisses and cuddles in private. 

umemiya hajime ✶

you find umemiya on the roof of furin high, tending to his garden. your heart swells as you hear him coo at his plants, carefully and lovingly watering them. you almost feel bad about this little prank. almost, but you remember the prank he pulled last week with that fake rubber bug in your lunch so you don’t feel too bad.

you thank every star in the sky that sugishita’s not here at the moment because you’re pretty sure this prank would be the last thing you’d get to do if he was. “hajime?” you call to him.

 his head immediately swerves to look at you and his smile is as bright as ever as he set down the water can and makes his way over. he presses a loud, messy kiss against your cheek, and you don’t even have to ask umemiya; he notices the jar in your hand and says, “i can help you open that!”

“thanks,” you say and he takes the jar from you. 

he’s beaming when he replies with a breezy “no problem, baby!” and firmly grips the lid, giving it a firm twist. his smile dims a little and he tries again with no luck. umemiya squares his feet and gives it another go, and you can’t deny that seeing his arms bulge with exertion against the sleeves of his white t-shirt is in any way unpleasant.

he slides on his gardening gloves and tries again. the lid doesn’t budge and umemiya is pouting at the jar and mumbling, “i’ll be right back.” he disappears into the school for about twenty minutes. he comes back with a look of defeat, shoulders slumping. “i can’t help you,” he says. “i’m really sorry.”

oh my god, you feel your stomach twist in sympathy and you answer, “i know. i’m really sorry, haji, it’s because i super-glued the lid.”

he blinks once, twice, and then his smile is back on his face. he wipes some sweat off his brow and sighs in relief, “phew! i thought i’d totally lost my strength there for second!” you can’t help but stare at him as he grins, outshining the sun. what did you do to deserve this angel?

hiragi toma ✶

you walk into your living room, where hiragi is setting up a movie for the two of you to watch. “any movie in mind?” he asks as he leans back in the couch, remote in hand. 

“howl’s moving castle?” 

“again? we watched that last weekend too.”

you grin at him. “it’s not my fault howl’s so cute.”

your boyfriend rolls his eyes, grumbling, “he’s not that cute. and he’s not real.” before you can argue, hiragi motions at the jar in your hand. 

“can you help me open it?” you ask him, holding it out to him. 

he eyes it suspiciously. “you hate pickles.”

“i want to try them again.”

“but why buy an entire jar if you want to just—”

“can you please just open it? help me start this new journey in my life?” he still looks confused but, ever the dutiful boyfriend, takes it from your hand. 

one attempt. two, then three. by the fourth, you feel a giggle threatening to burst forth but the familiar sound of the air pressure releasing has your jaw dropping. hiragi doesn’t take the lid off entirely, letting it sit on top as he hands it back to you. he takes in your awed expression with a frown. “is everything okay?” he’s already reaching for his stomach tablets. 

“i super-glued this,” you say, still a little starstruck. “like, with a lot of glue. you weren’t supposed to be able to open it.” 

you show him the lid and as he swallows down the pill. he sighs, “you’re going to be the death of me.” 

togame jo ✶

“these looks so good!” tomiyama says, marveling at the spread of sandwiches and snacks you had brought to the park. he had been the one to propose a shishitoren picnic, though togame was the one who had pared it down to just a couple of people to make it more manageable. 

“thanks! help yourselves!” you reply, watching on with a small smile as the boys dug into the food you had prepared. you lean against togame, who rests his chin on your shoulder. 

he leans forward for a sandwich, handing you one as well. it’s your favorite variety of the ones you made and you’re thrilled that your boyfriend remembered that. as you take a bite, you figure this the perfect time to execute your plan. you reach into your own bag, pulling out a nearly-finished jar of chili oil. you nudge togame. “you think you can help me open this? i tried all morning.”

“sure,” he says, gently lifting it from your grasp. his arms are still around you as he makes his first attempt and you feel the quick breath he exhales as he tries again. he eventually untangles himself from you, eyebrows furrowing. “shit,” he says, “i don’t know if i can.”

tomiyama makes grabbing hands at it. “let me try!” togame hands it over to his friend and tomiyama tries a couple of times, pouting when he can’t open it either. he hands it over to sako, who glowers when he fails too. the jar gets passed between the shishitoren members present and each one is unsuccessful. the last guy hands it back to you and togame sighs, “sorry we couldn’t help, baby.”

as everyone else apologizes to, you feel a little bashful as you admit to gluing it. you’re relieved when they take it in good stride, letting out relieved cries and playfully protest. you pull out another jar of the same chili oil, this one totally super-glue-free and give it to those who want it as a peace offering.  as the group settles into a nice rhythm, you lean back against togame and his head finds its place in the crook of your neck again.

[eternalmneme]

In this post I will help beginners understand the basics of Hellenism, which is the oikos! Hope this help and I’ll explain all well! Enjoy your reading💛 (Sorry for my English if I’ve mistaken something, its not my frist language)

The sacred Household in Hellenism🏡

“The gods are not far away — they live among us, beginning at the hearth.”

When people first come to Hellenism, many expect temples, elaborate rituals, and festivals with incense drifting into the sky. And yes, those things exist, and they’re beautiful.

But in traditional Hellenic religion, the true center of worship has always been the household — the oikos. This is where devotion begins.

The oikos is more than just your physical living space. In ancient Greece, it referred to the entire household unit: the family, the home, the land, the goods, and the sacred forces that protected and sustained them.

For Hellenists, our home is a temple in miniature. It’s where you interact with the gods every day, where you make offerings, pray, purify, and maintain order. You don’t need an expensive altar, what you need is intention, reverence, and consistency.

Hestia: The heart of the Home🔥

At the center of the sacred household is Hestia, goddess of the hearth flame.

She is the first-born of the Olympians, and the first (and last) to receive offerings in every ritual.

Hestia represents warmth, safety, peace, continuity. In ancient homes, the hearth fire was never allowed to go out, and when a new household was formed, the flame was lit from the family hearth.

(I will do more about the Gods in specific in other posts)

In a modern practice, you can honor Hestia simply:

Light a candle or lamp in her name.

Offer a drop of oil, water, or wine.

Speak a short prayer:

“Hestia, keeper of the hearth, may your flame burn bright in my home.”

It doesn’t need to be elaborate!

But ancient Greeks honored her a bit differently!

As I said earlier, the hearth (estia) was a literal fire in the center of the home. It was always kept burning as a sacred flame: extinguishing it was considered bad luck or impious unless ritually necessary.

Every meal and domestic ritual began with a libation or offering to Hestia! In fact, no matter which god was being honored, Hestia received the first and last libation in any sacrificial ritual.

She didn’t have many temples, her domain was every home and public places! At city level, a sacred fire to Hestia burned in the prytaneion (town hall or public hearth), symbolizing civic unity.

And then as another ritual, when a couple got married or a new household was formed, a flame from the bride’s family hearth was carried to the new home to light the new hearth, symbolizing continuity and divine blessing!

The Household Gods are more than one!🏛️

The sacred household includes more than Hestia. Such as: Zeus Ktesios, Hermes Propylaios / Hermes Agoraios, ancestors and Household Spirits (like Agathos Daimon).

Of course, there are more Gods that protects Household but these are the most commonly honored ones!

Zeus Ktesios: Protector of the household, provider of goods and food. Many Hellenists keep a ktesios jar, a simple container filled with water, oil, and other symbolic items like bay leaves or coins. It’s kept in a clean corner of the pantry or home.

Hermes Propylaios / Hermes Agoraios: Hermes protects the boundaries of the home and the spaces beyond. He is honored at the threshold, by the door, as guardian of comings and goings. A small stone or figure by your door can be his marker. He’s the god who makes movement and communication possible.

Ancestors and Household Spirits: The dead are never far from the living in Hellenism. Ancestors (both literal and spiritual) are remembered with respect and offerings.

But what can we do as a devotion in our homes?

There are many ways! But I’ll offer a little simple routine:

Washing your hands (khernips) to purify

Lighting a candle for Hestia

Pouring a libation (water, milk, wine)

Speaking a short prayer

Leaving a small offering: bread, olive oil, fruit, or incense.

Remember that none of this is a RULE and necessary, but it builds Kharis and in more simple words it tells the Gods “this is your home too and may you protect it”, we make space for the Gods and its a simple yet efficent devotional act!

It reminds us that the divine is not far away! In Hellenism, this is where devotion starts!

I hope you enjoyed. I tried to explain this well enough and at the same time as short as I could!

[lorialia]

⋆ sweet temptation ⋆

pairing: best friend!han jisung x fem!reader

genre: smut, minors dni.

summary: you and your best friend accidentally devour an entire box of sex chocolates while watching a pirated version of the movie ponyo. now you're left to deal with the consequences.

a/n: this came about after i submitted a similar thirst for @daydreams-after-dark 's birthday month event . . . so if you're seeing this, hi :) thanks for the indirect motivation to start a skz blog and post this. i hope you all enjoy ♡

warnings: dom!hanji, sub fem!reader, accidental use of sex chocolates/aphrodisiacs, dry humping, unprotected sex, very messy and wet, creampie, pet names(baby), possessive language, multiple orgasms, technically there's no verbal consent but they're both enthusiastic

"This is bullshit. I swear it is."

“What do you mean?" Jisung says, staring at you accusingly from across the couch. His wispy black hair falls in front of his round glasses, and his fingers reach up to brush it away so he can give you a halfhearted glare. "I put Ponyo in B-tier. That means it's good."

Your nose crinkles in pure disgust, absolute horror at the dingy laptop placed on your best friend’s ottoman. The screen glitches every once in a while, but you see the brightly colored tierlist clear as day. There’s Ponyo—one of your favorite Studio Ghibli movies of all time, a masterpiece of visual art and fairytale storytelling—in B-tier. Middle of the road. Average.

“It deserves better than just good!” You insist, convinced that he has the worst taste on planet Earth. “C’mon. At least put it up a tier.”

“Next to My Neighbor Totoro? Fuck no.”

“Fuck you!”

“Woah woah woah, language,” Jisung replies cheekily, and you grumble, tipping back to sink your head into the cushions of your best friend’s couch. If he even is your best friend after this anyways.

You and Jisung have been hanging out at his apartment for hours, chatting about basically anything and everything. It’s an especially exciting night; his roommate is out visiting family for the weekend, meaning the two of you have the whole place to yourselves.

“Don’t make a mess,” Minho had said through the phone. “I don’t want to clean up once I get back home.”

So far, you’ve had halfhearted success in baking cinnamon rolls, little-to-no success cooking dinner, and full success in ordering barbeque chicken. The kitchen had barely survived through it all, but aside from an occasional utensil on the floor it’s pretty clean.

Aside from your cooking ventures, you two have taken it upon yourselves to rank all the Studio Ghibli movies on a tierlist. Some of his takes surprise you, maybe frustrate you— but none of them fill you with such rage as seeing Ponyo in B-Tier.

“When was the last time you watched this movie?” You ask, almost demand. Jisung pretends to think for a moment; his soft lips pursing together in contemplation.

“Uhh… when I was twelve.”

“Oh for fuck's sake,” You reach over to his laptop and grab it, typing furiously to find a pirated URL for the movie. “We’re watching Ponyo tonight. No buts.”

“Fine,” Jisung says, extending the ‘e’. Out of the corner of your eye you spot him picking up the empty plastic containers of your dinner. He pouts, lips jutting out exaggeratedly when he finds the tins utterly empty. “Aww man, no more food. I’ll go see if there’s any leftovers in the kitchen.”

“Okay,” You idly reply, too busy trying to bypass the stupid ad pop-ups on his computer. You mash a couple of buttons, open and close a few tabs, and boom, you’re in.

Meanwhile, Jisung has gone and returned from the kitchen. In his hands he holds a random box of chocolates that he tosses into your waiting hands. “Found these in the back of the pantry. Probably Minho’s.”

You open the cardboard flap and dig your hand inside, pulling out a rectangle-shaped chocolate wrapped in pretty red tinfoil. You don’t care to read the name—the room is too dimly lit to see anyway—and rip open the package, finding two square chocolates waiting for you.

“Huh,” You comment, holding up the two chocolate pieces. “I’ve never seen chocolates that come in twos before.”

A hand snatches one of the chocolates away and you turn to see Jisung chewing. His adams apple bobs as he swallows. “Mmm, cherry. You should try it.”

You glance at the singular square held between your fingertips, and shrug before popping it in your mouth.

An hour later, you and Jisung are curled up together watching Ponyo. From glances and little remarks here and there, he seems to be enjoying it, and thank god he does. You couldn’t stand seeing Ponyo be misplaced any longer.

During a particularly captivating underwater scene, you reach for the box of chocolates—only to find the insides empty. You blink for a moment, tearing your eyes away from the screen, and realize you and Jisung have eaten them all.

“Aww,” Your eyebrows furrow in annoyance, but you remove yourself from the pile of blankets to toss the box in the trash. Your best friend remains engrossed in the movie, only shifting to adjust his glasses.

You think to check the brand on the box before you throw it away. It would be nice to get again, after all. The chocolates tasted pretty good—

“Jisung.”

The serious tone of your voice jerks your best friend back into reality, and he hurries to pause the movie. His gaze flickers up to yours with a slight level of concern. “What’s up?”

“These chocolates…” You audibly gulp, and your mind swims from reading the label on the box. “I don’t think these are regular ones.”

“Then what are they?” Jisung crawls over from his side of the couch and leans over your shoulder. His breath tickles your neck as he speaks. “Weed?”

You point to the packaging. It’s sensually decorated, with elegant lettering and a good number of red hearts littering the front. Right in the center are two words: aphrodisiac chocolate.

Jisung’s eyes bulge wide open and he blinks several times. “Sex chocolate?!”

“Yeah,” You let out a breathless, winded chuckle. Your eyes are equally as wide as his. “How many did we eat?”

Over the next minute, you and Jisung rummage around the couch and collect as many wrappers as you can. With each find, you’re more and more flabbergasted—assuming you two had an equal amount, you can say that you probably had ten to twelve chocolates…each.

“Holy shit,” is the only thing he can say for the next minute. You check the back of the box and discover more lovely news: the recommended amount is one to three squares per person.

There’s silence for the next couple of minutes after that.

The two of you must look so stupid, crouching over copious candy wrappers, dumbfounded by your dual idiocy. What the fuck were you going to do?

Jisung attempts to answer that question in breaking the silence. “So essentially…we’re gonna get super horny.”

“Yeah,” You respond, wincing. “I’m kind of trying not to think about that right now.”

“Well- I mean- You- I- ugh,” Jisung rubs his temples sorely. For once he’s completely serious, no giggles, no jokes. It concerns you as much as it frightens you. “How long until it kicks in?”

“A few hours, it says.”

“Any way to reverse the effects?”

“We already ate the chocolates, Sungie. I don’t think we can get them out.”

“Fuck,” He stares at the empty container. “What are we gonna do then?”

You open your mouth to respond and find it dry. Suddenly you’re hyperaware that in an undisclosed amount of time, both you and your best friend will be incredibly horny. In an apartment together, with no distractions. Just you and him.

You’re tempted to run for the hills. Grab your bag and race home to deal with it all on your own, rather than face this volatile situation and the can of worms that is your undeniable attraction to a man you swore never to date. It feels like the better situation for a split second; enough for you to place one foot on the ground in an effort to stand up from the couch.

Jisung’s head whips up immediately, and the panicked, almost desperate flash in his eyes freezes you in place. It’s almost a plea, a look that stirs something deep in your gut: Please. Don’t go.

You sit back down.

“So…wanna watch the rest of Ponyo?”

By the end of the movie, Jisung moves Ponyo up to A-tier. Normally you’d gloat in his face and criticize his judgmental movie taste—but you can’t seem to get the thought of the chocolates out of your head. It doesn’t help that he's uncomfortably close, his hoodie brushing up against your shoulder with every breath.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts the laptop, doesn’t look at you as he leans back on the couch. His eyes are distant. Unfocused, dazed like you’ve only seen when he’s dead drunk.

You only need to wonder why for a moment before you notice just how burning hot you are.

Your shirt tightly sticks to you like a vice, and your head fogs like smoke filling the air. The thick pulse in your chest can’t seem to subside, and you feel your skin heat up more with every second that passes.

One sensation rushes in even stronger, an ache from your lower half. Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily, feeling for some sort of relief, any sort of relief. God, you’ve never wanted a dick more in your entire life.

And your best friend happens to be sitting right across from you with one.

Shit. No. You can’t think that way about him; you shouldn’t look. He’s your best friend—but your gaze moves on its own and hones in on the very obvious bulge in his sweatpants.

You glance upwards. Jisung’s cheeks are flushed. A bead of sweat trails down his forehead. He can’t seem to stop swallowing. His pretty dark eyes are not trained on yours but on the way your thighs press against each other for friction. He stares as if he’s devouring you whole.

“Jisung?” You say softly, your voice almost hoarse in your throat. There is no need to whisper. It’s just you and him, in his apartment together, alone.

“…Yeah?”

“Are you feeling it too?”

Jisung still can’t seem to look you in the eyes. He nods, slowly.

You crawl closer.

“Fuck,” He sputters out breathlessly. His hand reaches up to shakily adjust his glasses. Sweat seems to drip down the side of his face and off his chin. He wipes it away.

You inch closer, and with every shuffle you hear Jisung’s breath grow more ragged. His hands move all over himself— adjusting the gray sweatpants you want to ruin so badly, make a mess all over and cum on, brushing away the same strand of hair over and over. He still can’t seem to look at you.

Finally, you arrive right in front of him. You sit with your legs spread wide, your shorts doing little to cover up the arousal starting to drip down your thigh. Your knees, planted on the couch cushion, brush against his legs. His breath stops.

You reach up and gently grab ahold of his chin. Slowly, you turn his head so he comes face to face with your equally flushed face.

“Oh my god.”

In an instant, Jisung’s lips press against yours; he practically climbs on top of you, pinning you down into the furniture. His arms reach and wrap around whatever he can as he drinks from the taste of your lips in a dizzying rhythm. It’s insistent, messy, desperate. Your mouths move in a tangled dance, hoping each to swallow the other whole.

His fingers find the bottom hem of your shirt and hook underneath it to tug it up. You oblige and revel in each and every touch you can get.

Your shirt is shoved above your breasts, and Jisung doesn't bother to unclasp your bra—opting to move the fabric aside instead. He breaks the kiss to ogle at your bare chest. His eyes are lidded and you swear that his pupils are heart-shaped, and he sighs, almost dreamily. Like he's seen a piece of heaven.

“God, you're fucking beautiful,” He mutters from above you. “I'm sorry, I just can't....”

His words send a rush of heat straight to your core, and you whine. Next thing you know, he has his hands on your knees and spreads your legs apart so he can slot himself between them.

The friction of his pants against your clothed clit makes you keen—usually you aren't so sensitive, if not for those chocolates. Every sensation seems to be heightened.

"Sungie~" You whimper as Jisung rocks his hips against yours, your legs wrapping around his waist. He leans down to capture your lips in his once more, hungry for the hints of chocolate he tastes.

Everything is sloppy and coordinated; he grinds into you like a bunny in heat, groaning at every bit of friction between his gray sweatpants and your cotton shorts. It's hot and stuffy, but you've never felt so good in your life.

"Feel so good, shit-" Jisung mumbles between messy kisses. His glasses are fogged and hanging half off his nose, but he couldn't care less. "Wanna fuck you so badly- you want that? Want me to fuck you- ah, god~ like you deserve?"

Jisung shoves his head down into your chest, burying himself between your two mounds as he presses up on you from below. He kisses your skin and moves slightly to suckle on your right nipple, making you keen. His soft boba eyes peek out to look up at you, dazed and sick with sticky desire.

Your cunt clenches around nothing, throbs under the way Jisung's clothed cock hits your clit repeatedly. You want him to fuck you so bad, need your best friend's dick to split you open.

"Fuck me please," You beg, your voice trembling and thoughts hazy with lust. You've never begged for a man before, but Jisung is simply different in every way. "Please, Jisung, Sungie, please-"

He audibly groans, as if the sound of your voice gets him any closer to heaven. He wrenches himself away from your cunt to slip down his pants just enough for his thick, veiny cock to slip out. Meanwhile, you can't resist slipping your hand under the waistband of your shorts, to your needy wet cunt. You rub your clit with two of your fingers, whining softly at the stimulation of your swollen bud.

Suddenly, Jisung's hands wrap around the hem of your shorts and panties—he tugs them down all at once, exposing your sobbing pussy to his greedy view. You look up and his eyes are hungry, lidded and clouded with want, zeroed in on your cunt. You think he might be drooling.

Jisung hurries to press his cock against your wetness. He's shaky, almost trembling as he guides his mushroom tip through your folds, his breath coming out in stutters.

Even with just the tip, it's big. You feel like you're split open, and every inch of his cock entering your pussy sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine. It doesn't even hurt with how wet it is, and he slides in like warm butter. He practically collapses onto you as soon as he bottoms out, his head buried in your neck.

His cock twitches inside you, and you realize through the haze that Jisung isn't moving. He's whining softly, breathlessly, but his hips do little more than tremble.

"Jisung-"

"Don't," He shushes you. His voice is raspy and desperate, and he mouths at your neck between words. "I-I'm trying not to cum."

You whine, wanting any sort of friction—but Jisung doesn't budge. Then you squirm a little, just to feel it a little more, and both of you let out audible moans. He grabs your hips roughly to hold you in place.

"F-fuck-" He swears, and there's a growl in the back of his throat. "Are you trying to get me to cum inside?"

The idea of his cum filling you up sends a rush through your bones. You inadvertently clench around him, and the grip on your hips becomes so strong it might bruise.

"Y-you want it that bad? Fine then. Fucking take it."

Jisung starts a relentless pace; he groans into your neck and holds your hips down so you take every inch of him with every thrust. His tip brushes up against your cervix sweetly, and you keen, your hands tangling into his black hair.

"You're so wet baby-" He mutters, stamping in a word between rough thrusts. "So. Fucking. Tight. God, bet no one has made you feel this good, huh? Say it."

You can barely find the words, letting punched-out moans every time his cock kisses your cervix. "Y-you're the only one, Ji!"

"That's it," He says, his pace speeding up impossibly faster. He's hardly going in a pattern, just bunny fucking into you like there's no tomorrow. "This pussy belongs to me, doesn't it? All mine~"

Jisung changes his grasp; he gets a hold of your thighs and spreads them so he can fuck you deeper. It's a welcome change—and you remove one hand from his hair to clamp over your mouth, your moans becoming unabashedly noisy. Your eyes squeeze shut and roll back behind your eyelids. "O-oh Jisung, that feels good-"

"Baby, baby please, I gotta cum- gonna cum inside, want that? You want that?" He says, and his hand shakily moves to rub his palm against your clit.

You cry out, about to tip over the edge. You want it more than you've ever wanted anything in your life. "P-please!"

Jisung groans loudly, not bothering to muffle the noise as he cums inside. You cum at the same time, whimpering into his tangled-up hair. His hips stutter but they don't halt; he fucks his cum into you lazily. You whimper at the sensation of his warm cream filling your insides. It's messy and deliciously wet.

"Jisung," You mumble out, still feeling a burning ache. You're addicted to the pull of his cock inside your walls. "I- I want-"

He interrupts you with a groan; then his hips begin to pound into you once more, moaning into the skin of your neck. He simply can't stop, even when you let out a high-pitched cry.

"I'm sorry baby- just had to. Your pussy is sucking me in-" Jisung grunts. His voice is nearly drowned out by the wet squelch of every thrust into your creamy cunt. "Just one more, one more, that's it~"

You feel like you're being folded in half from the way he presses you down, your thighs moving to rest on his shoulders. He ruts into you with reckless abandon, and his hands find themselves digging into the couch on either side of your head.

Jisung lifts his head up so it's right above yours, and you see him for the first time in what feels like ages. His glasses are long gone, and his lips are slightly ajar as he groans senselessly with every thrust. The pinkness of his round cheeks and the lidded pleasure in his eyes matches yours; he leans down to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss.

You moan into his mouth sweetly, and he hums in delight. There's no rhythm to the way he kisses you and fucks you—just pleasure-driven madness, desperation to feel you in every way.

"Mine," He mumbles, almost to himself as he pounds into you desperately. "Gonna cum in you again, fill you up~ my baby, all mine-"

You clench despite the tired ache in your thighs. You want him to cum in you over and over, spill his semen and let him fuck it into you again. You want him completely, irrevocably.

It's this thought that sends you over the edge for a second time; you wail, unable to make out any words as a wave of pleasure washes over you. Jisung messily kisses you throughout, muffling the sounds that escape your lips with his own.

He thrusts a few more times, groaning senselessly into your mouth before finally cumming again. Another warm sensation floods your insides and you sigh in satisfaction.

Jisung crumples onto your body and simply lays limp on top of you. Neither of you can bring yourselves to move.

"Best sex ever." He croaks out with a hoarse voice, and you laugh tiredly.

The next morning, you wake up on the couch. Jisung is laying next to you, his body tangled with yours. He stirs as you shuffle and pull yourself up from the cushions.

"Morning," You whisper, and he responds with a soft hum. His hair is adorably chaotic and worsens as he runs a hand through it. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," He says, and sits up with a groan of pain. "God, my joints. I feel like I blew out my back."

You notice a similar soreness in your thighs, but you tease him regardless. "You old man."

"Shut up," Jisung replies with no real malice. He looks down at you with surprising affection, his boba eyes twinkling with joy. You can't help but smile at the sight.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You say, an amused breath leaving your lips.

"Nothing," He grins cheekily. "Just that I got to have sex with my best friend who I've liked for an entire year."

You blink in shock, and Jisung giggles. "What? You're surprised?"

"No, I mean- yeah," You find yourself stumbling over your words, a pink blush appearing on your cheeks. "I mean, we did fuck yesterday, I just didn't expect you to say it so...bluntly."

"Well I did," Jisung lowers his voice to a soft whisper. He leans in close so his lips nearly brush against yours. "I like you."

"I like you too," You reply bashfully, and you can't resist kissing him. It's slow and saccharine sweet, nothing like the desperate messes you were yesterday. He sighs like a love-struck teenager as you pull away.

"Minho's gonna kill us," He mumbles dreamily. You burst out laughing.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

The Corroded Coffin used to think they'd be the new Metallica or Judas Priest. But where their passion and hard work never lacked, their big break just never came.

What did come, however, was an unexpected change of their career path.

It started innocently enough - they went through yet another failed meeting with recording studios, they'd travelled pretty far and it was for nothing. Instead of going back to Hawkins and risking another one of Eddie's road rages, they decided to break into an abandoned house and drink their sorrows away.

That is, until their empty bottles started collecting themselves, something invisible touched Gareth's shoulder and the dusty floor started showing written messages.

Jeff wanted to flee. Gareth to faint. But Eddie and Freak just shrugged. Eddie gestured towards the approximate ghost location and said "by the power of I don't give a shit anymore, I compel you to sit down and stop it, we'll clean the bottles when we leave tomorrow."

The rattling stopped. There was a moment of silence when the Corroded Coffin actually thought it had worked, but then the ghost overcame its shock and physically threw Eddie, his bandmates and their things out.

They sat on the wet grass for a while and contemplated their whole exitence. Eddie was pretty shaken about the whole thing because he'd just managed to royally piss off a ghost and lived to tell the tale. But apart from absolutely terrifying...it was also fun?

And his friends seemed to think the same. Jeff patted his shoulder and said: "not bad for a first touch with the unknown, huh?"

They stayed in the area and tried again. They decided to tape over their promotional video - not so great, they had to admit after rewatching it - and started documenting their ghostly encounters. And maybe it was just the timing, maybe it was their interactions and personalities, but it worked. They showed some of their tapes to a local TV station and they got a cautious yes, more than they ever had with their music.

They got assigned a small crew, Fred with a camera and Chrissy for sound, wrote their own episodes and did plenty of research. And they got to try quite a lot of different approaches with their ghostly friends. Eddie was amazing at taunting the ghosts, making them appear if there were any present. Gareth had a wonderfully calming presence, managing to save the CC's ass several times. Jeff was the brains, he made sure they'd always know the history of the house and the probable identity of the ghost. And Freak decided to dabble in the occult sciences with a terrifying precision. There could never be enough salt in Eddie's van for all the circles he made.

It all went well until they learned of the Creel House in Hawkins. They went there, did their research and before entering the house, they ordered some pizza for dinner. They assumed it would be over by midnight, thinking it was just another sad story of an unresolved murder, but the ghost of Henry Creel was out for blood.

Oh, and he also controlled the spiders of the house. That was new.

To set the scene: The crew had fled the house about an hour ago. Eddie was crouching behind an old table, blocking Henry's barrage of kitchen knives, shouting "IS THIS THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!". Gareth was behind the table with Eddie, but he went more into the wailing territory with "I DON'T THINK THIS WILL HELP YOU MOVE ON, HENRY!". Jeff had blocked himself in the pantry and kept trying to identify the triggering moment - "I think he's re-enacting the murder of his mother, guys! Does that help?!" (it doesn't). And Freak gave up on salt circles and was now tossing handfuls of salt around the house with a questionable technique but unwavering determination.

Suddenly, a car horn.

Then, a bitchy male voice: "Are you coming to get your pizza or what? I have other customers to get to!"

Eddie gritted his teeth as Henry added heavy pans to the mix and hit his shoulder. "We're a little busy surviving here! Ask Chrissy to pay you!"

There was a muffled and annoyed "ugh" from behind the door and then: "Is it Henry again?"

Eddie just blinked. Gareth was more ready to answer: "Sure is! He's not a fan of our exorcism!"

And the pizza guy didn't leave. He just huffed and said something that sounded suspiciously like "amateurs".

Eddie wanted to punch him.

But before he could do that, the front door opened. Gareth held his breath, half expecting a sound of knives hitting their target.

Instead, they heard a few more steps and then: "What the fuck, Henry?!"

A faint whispering reached their ears, but they couldn't decipher it. But the pizza guy could.

"I don't care they didn't get your permission, Henry. Yeah, it's annoying, but what are you going to do? If more people die in this house, it's going to get demolished. You know that. Yeah, I know the house is old, but it's great for your spiders, right? They'd be homeless. Do you want to make your spiders homeless, Henry?"

They dared to peek from behind the table, and Eddie had to pinch himself. Because in the middle of the dusty dining room stood one of the prettiest young men Eddie had ever seen, hands on hips and arguing with something invisible.

The man completely ignored them.

"That's what I thought. Now, apologize. No, they can't hear you, so get creative."

All four CC members stared as words formed in the spilled salt: "SORRY".

The pizza guy seemed to be pleased. "Good job, Henry. Now, let me get them out of here and I promise I'll get the Party to bring you some new spiders when they capture them outside, yeah? Three knocks, slide them in a glass behind the door. Got it. Take care, Henry."

Only then did he look at Eddie and the others and frowned. "That's your cue to leave. Get your stuff and go, now." And as they were quickly collecting their scattered notes and recording equipment, he added: "and say goodbye when leaving. Don't be rude."

Four rushed "Bye, Henry!" and "Sorry, Henry"s later, the Corroded Coffin was standing on the grass outside, feeling the setting sun on their skin and smelling fresh pizza. Gareth promptly paid for the delivery, and everyone proceeded to thank their mysterious savior.

"I'm Steve," he said after they'd all expressed their thanks, "and you're stupid. Do you really do this without anyone who sees and hears them? Do you just stumble blindly into haunted houses for a fun and stabby time?"

Eddie had to swallow down a very bitchy response of his own. "Sorry to stroke your ego even more, pretty boy, but a man of your talents is hard to come by."

And Steve, to Eddie's massive shock, just cocked his head and fluffed his hair, probably out of habit, but damn. "Well, consider yourself lucky because I'm open to job offers," he said with a wink that brought Eddie back into his teenage fantasies. "You need someone like me, and I assume you pay better than pizza delivery. Do you?"

Turns out, their producer was willing to get one more person on board, especially when they finished processing the leftover footage from the Creel house.

Steve was an amazing addition. He was snarky, self-confident, easy to look at and most of all, he was fun and compassionate. Watching him communicate with ghosts of kids and help them move on made Eddie's icy heart melt.

But one day they were on a site of an unfortunate teenage death, Steve was chatting with the ghost of a 17 year old girl like they'd known each other for ages, he was laughing, cracking jokes, and then:

"No, he hasn't kissed me yet."

Eddie turned around on his heel and stared at Steve, snickering to himself and talking to a misty figure next to him. And worst of all, they were both staring right at Eddie.

"Hasn't even asked me out, no. You'd think he'd be interested, but I guess I'm doing something wrong."

And Eddie's head short-circuited, and all the repressed fantasies from nights next to Steve in their trailer came back with vengeance. He howled and threw himself at Steve, kissing him right on that bitchy mouth. "Doing something wrong?! Steven Harrington, those shorts of yours are doing everything right, but how about you say something, huh?!"

Steve returned the kiss to the cheering of the CC guys, Chrissy's clapping and Fred's disgusted noise, and shrugged when they broke apart. "I knew you'd get it, eventually. Oh, and Heather?" he turned to the ghost. "You're the best wingwoman ever, in this life and after."

Four good things came from this ghostly encounter:

After the kiss, Gareth finally gathered enough courage to ask Chrissy out. She said yes.

The episode with Heather became the most watched episode of the CC's show.

Steve and Eddie remained in an equally blissful and teasing relationship for the rest of their lives.

And finally...

The TV station decided to design official merch for the CC's show: incredibly short shorts that said on the backside: "DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT".

[cloudwisp]

𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 · 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬

contents: fluff. satoru makes sweet promises about the future with you. 800 wc.

“What would you say if I retired today?”

The words left his mouth so easily—like they’re one of the many frivolous musings that comes and goes, an afterthought when the shared laughter and playful teasing had died down a bit. Behind his loose grin, Satoru carefully studies your face as he weighs the question in your mind, as though they bear no consequence and he wants to hear your answer no matter how serious or unserious he’s being.

“Retire…” You drawl thoughtfully, “You mean put your sorcerer work behind you?” You more than readily welcome the idea than you let on, it’s all you can think about sometimes and keeps you awake at night. You knew about the dangers and the shortcomings that his lifestyle posed, but your love for him outweighs the troubles and the fears and the risks that come with loving someone like him—that is Satoru Gojo.

Not the Strongest Sorcerer, the leader of something, just a normal person who has a fondness for the sweeter things and never lets good humor go to waste if he could help it. If he truly decided to retire from now onwards he won’t have to participate in another dangerous mission again, no more of those dreadful overseas assignments that keeps you both apart for long stretches of time, and you could get used to knowing that he gets to come home to you every night.

“Well, okay. I suppose I could become the breadwinner for once.”

Satoru lets out a pleased laugh. His arm that encircled your waist tightens as he squeezes you with great affection, receiving a small oof from you and quick gentle pats of surrender before he crushes your lungs. He’s sitting on an abundance of wealth for the both of you to lead a comfortable life, and you’re cute for worrying about finances in the foreseeable future. Maybe he doesn’t spoil his precious sweetheart far enough, he thinks.

“I guess you’ll need to work triple time in order to afford my expensive taste.” He teases, pinching your cheek between his fingers. “We can be a dynamic duo. You can work while I stay home.” He mutters softly, letting his hand settle against the nape of your neck while his thumb brushes against your cheek. “Would I be a good househusband?”

“You’d be awful.” You were a little quick to say, almost shuddering at the thought. He feigns a hurt expression with the slightest furrow to his brows and an adorable pout lines his lips. He had an affinity for sweets as shown in your fully stocked pantry but navigating the rest of the kitchen would cause quite an upheaval despite his best efforts. “Maybe at first anyway.”

“You think I won’t be able to clean or cook properly?” Satoru complains dramatically, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and shoulder. You attempt to push him away between your giggles as the ends of his hair tickles you and he gently nips away at your skin, but his large build unsurprisingly wouldn’t budge. He lays a light kiss here and there shortly after, his voice lowering into a playful whisper. “Giving up on me already, huh? Too bad, that was your only chance of seeing me in an apron~”

Satoru comes up to meet your gaze and he catches your lips for a sweet taste, the warmth of his body sinking into yours and your arms wrap around him to bring him in a little deeper. “Are you saying I wouldn’t be able to control myself around you if I came home to you wearing an apron?” It was your turn to pinch his cheeks fondly and you consider something. “But it’s a nice thought—you wanting to lead a different life.”

“I want to make you a promise,” he begins slowly, and there’s a beautiful look behind his cerulean hues filled with just pure adoration and love that’s reserved only for you. “When my time comes and I’m ready to call it quits, I’ll retire with you by my side. We’ll move somewhere peaceful and quiet—as secluded as you like. We could even travel the world if that's what my baby wishes, just the two of us.”

“That’s a big promise you’re making me.” You raise an eyebrow at him. But you like the dream that he’s sharing with you, no matter how close or how far out of reach it may seem. And so, a warm smile softens your face. “Just me and you?”

“Yes, Angel.” He grins happily, pulling you closer so his heartbeat matches yours and the sound lulls into one under the moon’s gaze. As long as you keep giving him every excuse in the world to keep you within arms’ reach—forever, then it’s contentment and peace and everything else in between he’ll find with you. If you’re there, then that’s home for him. “Just us and the sky.”

꒰ note ᰔ still coping with everything that’s happened along with ch. 261 so hope you enjoyed this something silly and something fluff for our sweet loverboy satoru. ꒱

[secretlyazombi3]

Leon’s Love Languages….ᐟ ᰔ

leon kennedy x gn! reader 

๋࣭ ⭑⚝ a/n: Kinda rushed . Not proof read! (I've been busy :c) I liked writing this, I might write more like this for more characters, ada’s probably next ! >_<

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

જ⁀➴ #1 - PHYSICAL TOUCH ⊹₊⟡ 

᱖ ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

╰┈➤ RE2R! Leon LOVES holding your hand. He does it every chance he gets - in public or not. He especially loves holding your hand in public because it lets people know you’re his. 

╰┈➤  Kisses make him MELT. Forehead, cheek, lip, neck, collarbone, doesn’t matter where. Kissing him randomly will turn Leon into a flustered mess. 

╰┈➤ He’s basically a puppy, he loves it when you play with his hair. 

╰┈➤ RE4R! Leon’s a bit hesitant when it comes to giving you physical affection, he’s shy about asking, so he does it in subtle ways.

╰┈➤ If you mention feeling sick at all - regardless of what type of sick, he’ll touch your forehead to feel for your temperature, just wanting an excuse to touch your face. 

╰┈➤He gently touches your arm when you’re talking, especially if you’re talking about something you’re passionate about because you don’t even notice his touch. 

╰┈➤ Whenever you’re in the car together, his hand immediately drifts to your thigh. 

╰┈➤ He waits for you to initiate cuddling, he doesn’t want to be seen as weak for wanting cuddles. But he’s touch starved, so he’ll cuddle you once you’ve fallen asleep if you didn’t initiate cuddles.

╰┈➤ Leon can’t express in words how loved he feels when he gets cuddles. He hates admitting it outloud, to him, it feels childish. But he feels relaxed when your arms are around him, and it’s easier for him to sleep when he knows you're safe in his arms.

╰┈➤ Older! Leon is literally a big guard dog, he’s always got his big arms around you to protect you. Touch makes him feel so special, and he really needs that comfort as much as he can get. He’s basically attached to your hip. 

╰┈➤He complains after missions/work - he’s getting old, so he’s got more aches on his body, and he loves massages. It feels so intimate but also helps him relieve stress and relax, so he’ll whine about his aches until you offer him a massage. 

જ⁀➴ #2 - ACTS OF SERVICE ⊹₊⟡ 

᱖ ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

╰┈➤RE2R! Leon orders food to your place without you asking. He won’t even tell you so you’re taken by surprise once your favorite meal is at your door without you ever having to pay.

╰┈➤Again, he’s basically a puppy, so he carries your bags to help you out and to show off how strong/capable he is.

╰┈➤  RE4R! Leon has to resort to acts of service a lot since you two spend a lot of time apart. 

╰┈➤ So, he’ll send you texts and call you every chance he gets while away to remind you that yes, he’s alive, that he loves you and that he’s thinking of you.

╰┈➤ He notices small things. He’s always been an observer, but especially so when he started dating you. So you’ll notice that some more snacks you mentioned are in the pantry, or that there’s a refill of the perfume you mentioned you’re running low on.

╰┈➤ Leon works a LOT, he knows you hate it. He hates it too. So, he always brings you a small gift once he returns from his missions. Flowers, chocolates, giftcards, you name it. He wants to make you feel even better once he comes home. 

╰┈➤He tries his best to help you out when you’re stressed, he’ll do your least favorite chore or fill up your car with gas, anything to help you out. 

╰┈➤Leon also doesn’t care much for himself. His place gets messy often and quickly - he doesn’t have much time to clean. Which is why he loves when you return some favors back to him. 

╰┈➤He can’t hide his smile once he’s returned from a mission to a clean living space. Or when you made him some food since you knew he’d be too tired to. It makes him feel special when you do the things for him that he just can’t do himself.

╰┈➤Older! Leon likes taking care of you. He’s seen so many people die, he wants to keep you safe and protected. So he takes on the role of your caregiver. He’ll do small things to make it feel like he’s caring for/spoiling you. 

╰┈➤Breakfast in bed is usually his go to. He likes cooking for you because then he knows you’re being well fed, and he likes taking chores off of your plate. 

જ⁀➴ #3 - QUALITY TIME ⊹₊⟡ 

᱖ ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

╰┈➤RE2R! Leon loves planning regular dates with you. He usually lets you choose what to do, but when he chooses it’s typically dinner dates or movie dates. He’s pretty traditional. 

╰┈➤RE4R! Leon savors every moment he can get with you because of his job. He’s always away and neither of you know if he’s even going to come back in peace. So he wants to cherish every moment he can.

╰┈➤Leon has trouble sleeping, so he often ends up waking before you, and his favorite moment of the day is always when he just gets to lie down with you curled up in his arms. 

╰┈➤Leon follows you around like a baby duckling. He can’t help it, he feels a magnetic pull to you, sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s following you around. He simply likes basking in your presence. 

╰┈➤He also likes watching you enjoying your hobbies and asking you questions about it every few minutes. 

╰┈➤Older! Leon likes simple moments with you. He doesn’t have as much energy as he used to, so he enjoys going on walks with you, hugging you from behind while you cook, finding beauty in the small time you two get to share, no matter how simple. 

╰┈➤Leon loves just being able to put on a movie and just cuddle you while watching together. He’s not even paying attention to the movie, just you. 

જ⁀➴ #4 - WORDS OF AFFIRMATION ⊹₊⟡ 

᱖ ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

╰┈➤RE2R! Leon is a lovesick puppy. He loves pet names from you, and he loves giving you pet names like “darling”, “prince/princess”, “gorgeous”. 

╰┈➤He can’t contain his urge to just ramble about how beautiful he dins you or how precious you are to him. 

╰┈➤ RE4R! Leon’s not really a man of many words. He stays quiet a lot, he doesn’t like pouring his heart out. 

╰┈➤Except when he’s drunk. When there’s a drunk Leon, there’s a cling Leon. Drunk Leon makes sure you know in detail how much he cares about you and how much he’d do for you. He makes sure to tell you he thinks you’re beautiful and that he loves you a good hundred times between drunken ramblings. 

╰┈➤Older! Leon’s never really been one to like compliments either, in his line of work he’s mostly complimented for stuff he doesn’t like/care about, like his strength. 

╰┈➤ But Leon loves getting compliments about his character, like how he cares so much about the lives of others, his selflessness, about the small things you notice about him that no one else takes their time to see. 

╰┈➤ So, the compliments Leon gives you similar compliments back. He wants to give you the same butterflies in your stomach that he gets. He’ll compliment you on your hobbies, your character traits, small details he notices about you.

╰┈➤ That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like complimenting your appearance. You swear you hear him call you pretty 17 times a day. He can’t shut himself up about how gorgeous he finds you. 

╰┈➤ But there’s nothing he loves more than whispering to you how much he loves you and how much he wants to just protect you.

╰┈➤ He also loves praising you (iykwim)

જ⁀➴ #5 - GIFTS ⊹₊⟡ 

᱖ ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

╰┈➤RE2R! Leon is, again, pretty traditional, so he likes giving you flowers often, especially when he picks you up to take you out.

╰┈➤He’s pretty taken aback when he gets a gift from you. Growing up as an orphan, he hardly received gifts. So it was a completely new feeling getting something he really wanted as a gift from you. He felt special knowing someone took time to know him, know his interests and spend their own money on him. 

╰┈➤ RE4R! Leon feels guilty receiving gifts. He knows you took a chunk out of your paycheck to give him something. He likes giving you gifts more than he does receiving them. 

╰┈➤Leon still appreciates it whenever you gift him something he mentioned he wanted/needed because he’s not used to someone remembering small details about him like that.

╰┈➤Leon likes giving smaller gifts more often because it’s less pressure than only buying big gifts. He also does this because it’s easier to spoil you.

╰┈➤He does this pretty casually, sometimes you don’t notice it. Like, you could be out shopping and look at a book that seemed interesting and suddenly Leon’s slipped it into the cart and paid for it. 

╰┈➤Older! Leon gets you gifts in absence of time together. You’re used to him being busy, but he still really wants to make you feel special or make you feel like he cares. So every now and then, he’ll get you something special, like concert tickets, to make up for him not being there.

[loganficsonly]

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 2: cleaning up ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 4.3k

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: 1 SUGGESTIVE LINE, angst, mentions of alcoholism, many inner thoughts, descriptions of somatic release, laura <3

AUTHOR'S NOTE: very nervous about what you think, please let me know how i did

Logan wakes up with bleary eyes.

There is an uncharacteristic softness underneath him. Things smell different, too: a refreshing combination of musk and cedarwood, a whiff of pulp. They all betray a sense of gentleness that he most certainly isn’t accustomed to. Wade’s couch usually smells like burnt bacon and worn blankets—

Wade’s couch?

He blinks, focusing his hazel gaze on the unfamiliar plaster ceiling above him. Then he looks at the rest of the room.

Bare, save for an opened cardboard box the size of one and a half dishwashers sitting in a corner. Big enough for what little items he’s accumulated in the three months he’s been here.

Right. He officially moved in with you yesterday.

Spent the afternoon getting the place clean enough to live in. Ate pizza for dinner—his first meal with just you. Helped you unpack and move things around before deciding to call it a day. He lets out a soft grunt, slowly shaking off the sleep.

Everything smells… comfortable. You must’ve sprayed some kind of air freshener when you cleaned the bedrooms.

He knows the apartment is empty before he walks out into the short hallway. Your heartbeat isn’t home. No sounds from within the space, though there are plenty of them outside. Unlike him, the city has been awake for a while. 

There’s no clock on the wall yet, but by his estimates, it’s sometime around nine. You must’ve left for work.  

A rumbling hunger beckons him to the kitchen, his bare feet pattering on the hardwood flooring. He squints at the refrigerator light when opening the door. The only thing there is a box of leftover pizza from last night. You had the foresight to order more, something he’s endlessly thankful for right now. 

He places the pizza on a big plate—porcelain white with a bunch of flowers on its edges, one of yours—and into the microwave. The box buzzes alive at a press of a button. His mind turns slowly, just as the plate does. 

He doesn’t have work today, so he can go straight to the grocery store. Buy coffee. He grunts, feeling a little grumpier at the fact that there’s none around, putting in a mental note to text you about it later. He has no idea how you like your coffee.

That’s something he plans to fix quickly.

Because that’s what good roommates do, he quickly convinces himself.

You’ve been nothing but kind to him, so if he’s going to stock up the pantry, might as well pick stuff that you like. Right? No other reason to know your preferences. 

He abandons the thought process as he feels his heart rate hitch up slightly. Instead, he resorts to making a list in his head. He’s good at that.

Unpack. That’ll take fifteen minutes tops.

Take a shower, then go out to the grocery store. If the one he saw around the block is open, that’ll also be less than an hour.

Get a clock. 

That will leave him about six hours to kill until you come home. He can probably do some errands for you—he’ll have to ask. He frowns, thinking about what he should get exactly. You cook, so you’ll need spices, seasoning, oil… 

His brain mentally scans the imaginary aisles of the grocery store, window-shopping before he sets foot in it—a habit, so that he can be in and out of that overwhelming place as quickly as possible. He recalls the rows of soup, canned tuna, dried tomatoes, turning to a different aisle to beverages. Soft drinks, milk…     

He opens his eyes, as if broken away from his browsing, the space between his brows deeply creased. A jolt out of his musings, interrupted by a memory. Memories, rather.

Blurry flashes of his past, hazy blues and yellows and what looks like black but smears to bright red. Glimpses of faces he’ll never see again, people he’ll never be able to apologize to. Then the aftermath—nothingness and desperation, too gone to mind the jeers of heads turned towards him, scowling. The sounds of a glass bottle knocking against a wooden counter. One, then another, then another…

Until he doesn’t remember anything.

How this caustic string of thoughts surface while picturing grocery store aisles is beyond him. They were once tucked under the metaphorical rug of his consciousness, buried under busyness.

Always bigger fish to fry when it comes to making this universe a home. Had to earn money so he’s no longer squatting at Wade’s. Try to be in Laura’s life and help her adjust, though it seems like she’s taken to it like a duck to water, compared to himself.

But now, three months in? Now he hears what sounds like a small dog barking in the distance. Street chatter. Bicycle bells. 

Peace. He barely recognizes it. It’s disfigured, distorted. Maybe because he punches it in the face every time he sees a mere glimpse of it—mostly by getting himself hammered.

For the first time in a long time, he feels like there are no more bigger fish. No more excuses. Nowhere to run.

A lump in his throat at the thought of facing it, the thing he’s never allowed himself.

It’s intimidating. For a man who’s faced horrors like him, that means something. His jaw tightens.

He decides he’ll do it tonight, anyway.

As if on cue, the microwave dings.

It’s about 11am. You’re in the middle of reading a document when your phone pings with a text.

It’s from Logan.

Hey. Got a minute?

You realize it’s only, like, the fifth text in your conversation thread with him. The ones above it were ‘thanks for helping me carry the groceries’ from you and a simple ‘no problem’ from him.

Real life interactions with Logan are pretty limited. Group hangouts at Wade’s are one of the ways you’d see him, but you had to share him with other people—that sounded weird even in your head. And if you drop by at Wade’s, Logan’s not always there.

That, along with the fact that he was probably already a century old when the first iPhone came out, meant that he barely uses his phone, and therefore you don’t text often.

A warm feeling blooms in your chest. Now that you’re roommates, it’s safe to assume that you’ll be talking to each other more…

Fuck, woman, can you be normal about this? your brain scolds itself.

Of course you and Logan are going to communicate more often—you live under the same roof. Frequency does not equal intimacy. Especially if you’re most likely going to be talking about mundane things like ‘the detergent is running out’ or ‘can you help me get a bunch of triple-A batteries?’. 

Yeah, maybe living with your crush was not such a good idea.

Taking in a deep breath, you dial his number and put your phone up against your ear. Yes, you can talk, if it spares you from working even just a minute.

He picks up after the first tone.

A ‘hello’ grunted from the other end of the line. You realize this is the first time you’ve heard his voice over the phone.

“Hope I’m not botherin’ you at work,” he continues. It sounds like he’s outside—an overly cheerful piece of stock music is playing in the background. 

“Hey, not at all,” you reply, eyes glued to your screen but registering none of its contents. “What’s up?”

“I’m at the grocery store. Want anything?” 

You blink. He could have texted you that, but you’re not complaining about getting to talk to him. He’s probably just bad at it, his large hand cramping against the little touchscreen keyboard. Laura joked about that before. 

“What are you getting?”

A beat. “Coffee. Milk. Apples. You like apples?” 

“Yeah, I like ‘em.”

“What kind of coffee do you drink?” he asks, the question quickly following up your answer as if he had it locked and loaded.

“Any kind,” you answer easily. “I take mine with a bit of milk.”

“What about pasta shapes?”

There are static crinkles of plastic through the phone. You find yourself smiling, imagining Logan with a hand holding his phone, the other hovering a bag of linguine next to the spaghetti to see what the fuck the difference is.

“Honestly, Logan, I don’t mind most of them, you can get whatever you want,” you laugh lightly. 

“Which ones do you mind, then?” 

You feel a pleasant twinge in your chest. His voice sounded so low and warm and gentle just then, like he really cares. Swallowing, you find your voice again. 

“Angel hair. They’ve got no bite.” You murmur.

There’s a short chuckle that provokes butterflies to flutter around in your stomach, unbidden.

“What else d’ya need?”

For a good two minutes or so, the two of you ping-pong items back and forth. You list down some seasonings and condiments. He asks for your thoughts on brands. You smile at the way he pronounces some of them—“Graze-a? Grah-za. Whatever.”—and at the fact that he’s thoughtful enough to check with you on your preferences.

Quietly giving you a choice. You bite your inner cheek. How can something so simple make someone feel so special? 

By the end of going through the shopping list, it feels like you don’t want to hang up, and neither does he. There are beeps now, audible from the phone. He’s probably queueing at the checkout.

“Can I get a wall clock to hang in the living room?”

“Sure,” you reply softly.

Another silent beat. 

“I’m up. Talk to you later, sweetheart.” 

“See you later.”

The line is cut. You stare into your phone, slowly placing it facedown on your desk.

Did he just call you sweetheart? 

You blink, focusing back on your monitor, failing miserably. 

That nickname has to be a side effect of being alive for so long. He lived through, what, all the wars since the Civil War. It doesn’t mean anything, just a thing they called the ladies back then. Don’t read into it.

The echo of his voice remains, nevertheless. It takes you five minutes to lock back into the document you were reading.

There is an off-white wall clock hanging in the living room when you arrive home. Logan works fast.

You are in the midst of eating some apples—the ones in the fridge, no doubt the spoils from his grocery shopping trip earlier—when you hear the keys turn. The man in question walks through the threshold.

His simple presence made the space feel so much more comfortable, it’s almost scary.

“Hey,” you smile from your seat on the island, wondering what he did on his day off. “Did you go out for dinner?” 

The first concerning sign is that there is no sliver of acknowledgement: not a nod, a grunt, and certainly not the rare small smile. He doesn’t immediately reply to you, closing the door and just standing there. Gaze taking in the bare walnut floor, before it sweeps onto you.

The second sign is his eyes. There’s something unrecognizable in them, like he got hurt but he let it happen.

“Logan?” you call out softly, unease woven in your expression. You stand up from your seat.

He takes off his boots at the entryway before moving closer to you, though not quite close. His lips part, and you can tell he’s deliberating whether or not to speak. 

“I… went to AA,” he says, voice low. The words are hushed, void of his usual belligerence, a little scratchy from a dry throat. 

You look at him, surprise taking over your face.

Wade has made references to the monumental drinking problem he found Logan in when they first met, but from what you can tell, Logan’s been doing much better lately. In gatherings he mostly steers clear from wherever the bottle is. Asks if dessert’s gonna be boozy. Even declines offers for beer.

His relationship with alcohol is clearly a complicated one. And it’s Logan. The fact that he not only reached out for help but also told you about it…

There’s a moment of silence, and then your feet closes the distance, walking towards him until he’s an arm’s length away.  

You look up at him, almost timid. “Can I hug you?” 

The hard expression on his face melts. You wonder if he thought your reaction was going to be something else other than acceptance.

All it takes is a short nod for you to gently wrap your arms around him, hands settling at the center of his back. For a moment, he’s all you perceive: the warmth of his body, his breathing, his scent.

And then there’s a gentle sensation of his own arms reciprocating the gesture, his movements slow, as if wanting for you to stop him if you’re uncomfortable. You allow yourself to lean in, a signal that it’s okay.

His chin lands softly near the top of your head, arms tightening just the slightest, and your heart just about burst.

“I’m so proud of you,” you say, muffled by his flannel shirt.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he replies.

There it is again. The second time he’s called you that today, and this time, you can feel the rumble of those two syllables from deep within his chest. It shouldn’t intoxicate you the way it does, not when this moment is about him. 

You force yourself to pull away. 

“We should celebrate,” you suggest, smiling.

His face morphs into an amused look—a little kink in one eyebrow and the lightest lopsided pull of his lip. At least it doesn’t seem like he’s despondent.

“Save it for the coin,” he counters.

“You know people don’t just celebrate achievements, right?” you grin, letting go of the hug. “Come on. A nice meal. We can celebrate moving in, too, just… let me treat you to something.”

His jaw clenches playfully at your insistence, biting back his own smile.

“You’re a stubborn one.”

You take that as a win. Pleased with yourself, you saunter to the kitchen, looking for something to ingest as a commemorative treat. Perhaps a bag of potato chips will do for now.  

“There’s this Mexican place down the street, it looks nice—”

He calls your name, and you look over your shoulder. 

“Hm?”

There’s that deliberating look on his face again that makes you stop rummaging the cabinet. When he speaks this time, he sounds almost… bashful?

“Could you, uh, cook instead?” 

Your eyes widen. He wants you to cook?

“Are you sure you’d like that?” you stammer. 

He places a hand in one pocket, eyes still looking into yours. “The fried rice you brought to the potluck was good.”

The potluck last month for Al’s birthday. True, the container was cleaned out by the end of the night, but you didn’t think Logan particularly enjoyed it enough to remember it.

He shakes his head, looking away, voice tight. “Forget I asked, don’t wanna bother—”

Crap, you must’ve stayed stunned for a second too long.

“No please, it’s no bother! I just… I didn’t realize you liked it.” 

He looks at you sternly, pausing for a moment. “It was good.” 

You nod, convincing yourself that this is real and happening. “Okay. I’ll cook, then. We should invite Laura. Wade too—”

He looks away. You examine his face, registering a change.

“Have you told anyone else?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

You feel a dangerous warmth seep into your bloodstream, travelling to your hands and feet and god forbid your cheeks. How did you end up becoming the first person to know about this, this, this exceedingly vulnerable thing that he did? 

“I’ll tell Laura in a bit. Wade…” he falls silent for a moment. He hasn’t been vocal about his gratitude to the merc. It’s for a good reason, or at least that’s his excuse—a simple ‘thanks for everything’ would probably make Wade combust and blabber a series of orgasm-related jokes. 

Despite that, though, he really does owe everything to the damn motor mouth. Including the fact that he’s standing in your living room right now, as your roommate, asking you to cook for him—fuck, did he really ask you that?

“I’ll tell Wade when I get the coin,” he decides firmly. The last thing he wants to do is let down yet another important person in his life.

He puts his hand back in his pocket, clenching a fist. That being said, he doesn’t want to disappoint Laura either… and certainly not you. Funny how he finds himself caring about your opinion—the person he’s known for the least amount of time.

You nod, feeling a little overwhelmed from the conversation—the good kind of overwhelm.   

“Just Laura then. Can you ask her what food she’d like?” you say. “Something to go with your fried rice?”

He nods. 

“How’s Friday for dinner?” 

He nods again, pulling out his phone. Probably texting Laura.

“I’ll prep the stuff on Thursday then.”

“I’ll help,” he replies quickly, eyes meeting yours. When he speaks again, it’s a little softer. “I’ll buy the ingredients. And I ain’t a chef, but I can chop.”

“Please, there’s nothing much to do.”

“Then I’ll clean up,” he adds. 

You frown. “Logan, the dinner’s for you, remember?”

“Just let me clean up. Least I can do.”

You put a hand on your hip, shrugging. “Fine. Leave the food to me.”

A roguish smile on that handsome face almost makes you so weak, you have to steel your legs for a second. His voice is once again that smooth, guttural baritone.

“’preciate it, sweetheart.”

Third time’s the charm. You huff, trying to appear relaxed.

“I’m going to shower,” you announce, escaping the room.

It’s a little past ten.

Logan lies in bed. His hands are holding up his phone that looks too small for him. The light from the device is almost blinding, but he doesn’t bother—not like his eyesight can get ruined or anything.  

He has a text typed out. Staring at it for a few more seconds, he presses send.

Went to AA today.

There’s no immediate response, not that he expects one.

It’s really no surprise if Laura is busy.

She’s probably got it harder than him: young with a hunger to find her place in the world, mature beyond her years but still having so much to learn.

This new universe might not be that different from hers, but the struggles aren’t the same—because it’s her first time in community college. He doesn’t remember what it feels like being a student, but working and studying at the same time sure sounds like a hell of a life.

He blinks. A series of three animated dots appear on the screen as she types a response.

Just like that, they’re gone. He frowns. 

And then the dots are there again, only for a second, replaced by Laura’s reply.

i’m really proud of you

Another message.

seriously, i mean it

congratulations

He allows himself a smile in the privacy of his room, before resuming to text Laura about the celebratory dinner you insisted on having. When she’s free, what she wants to eat…

She turns out to be good with Friday—less resident assistant work and assignments for her to worry about.

The answer to the second question is pulled pork. Haven’t tasted a good one in a while.

i can bring the salsa

it’ll be like a deconstructed burrito but with fried rice

Your fried rice was not just good, it was excellent. God, he hopes he didn’t cross a line, blurting the request out of the blue like that.

It was instinctive. Completely unplanned. Why did he do that, anyway? The Mexican restaurant would’ve been nice, something Laura would like.

But it’s outside, it’ll be crowded and loud… He’d rather have a conversation without the background noise. Plus, you just moved into an apartment of your own. Wouldn’t dining outside be a waste of space? 

Maybe he should’ve suggested takeout instead of inconveniencing you. But you said it was your treat, and his stupid old heart betrayed himself by saying what it wanted without running it by his brain. 

And what a selfish thing to want, too. A kind of gluttony that torturously gnaws at him. It’s getting harder to ignore despite his special brand of stubbornness, honed by the long, long decades. He has a feeling it’s exactly the stubborn part of him that is making this feeling grow, too.

It wants more of you.

For now it’s content with little scraps: the glimpse of your shoes at the entrance, the sight of your toiletries in the bathroom, your scent lingering around the house…  

But who knows what it’ll demand next. A little more.

You, smiling at him, laughing at something he said.

Your thighs pressed against his on a crowded couch.

Your plush bottom lip between his teeth as he bites it, drinking in a small sound of pleasure that bubbles out your throat when his hand runs up your inner thigh— 

He locks his phone as the conversation with Laura concludes, a cue for him to snap out of it. His mind turns elsewhere, and decides to mull over the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting he attended earlier.

That meeting was about as difficult as a thousand and one sleepless nights. At least, it felt like that when he had to walk up to the library. Adamantium bones never felt heavier.

There were about seven of them when he finally walked in, and another seven arrived after. A mixed group. Reminded him of the family he used to know. There were almost a handful who were older than him—though he’s undoubtedly the oldest despite his looks—and others who looked like they barely hit twenty.

Amidst the chatter, they were polite, asking if it was his first time and giving him a rundown of what would happen. He wasn’t the only new face, which brought him slight relief, and they assured him he didn’t have to share if he didn’t want to.

Then they sat in a circle. The chair spoke the preamble smoothly from memory—just how many meetings has he been in?—and people began introducing themselves.

His eyes are half-lidded, recounting the memory with his head on a soft pillow, but the reality felt like hard concrete.

He remembers how dry his throat felt when the room looked at him, how clammy his palms were against the roughness of his jeans.

Tension.

And yet it was a kind that he wasn’t accustomed to. Instead of one that threatens to spring violence loose, it demands a calm release.

Above comfortable sheets, he can still hear his own voice battling shakiness as he spoke.

I’m Logan… and I’m an alcoholic.

Those few words were cathartic then, but somehow he felt it more intensely as he relives the moment through memory. Pressure builds behind his eyes and in his jaw.

He knows this feeling. Why now?  

Emotions wash over him in waves that build, growing stronger and taller—shame, guilt, rage, fatigue, hopelessness, the most damning anguish any man has ever experienced. Each of them sits heavy in his bloodstream, overcoming his body as his heart paces. It reminds him of that time he went back to the school, too late to save anyone.

Thump. Anger. Thump. Agony. His chest heaves.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Logan cries.

Did he cry for his friends when he saw their bodies in the mud?

Scott, Jean, Storm, Charles, Rogue, fuck, Rogue—

Or did he dive straight into the massacre, letting hatred blind him?

It’s patchy, his recollection, but the tears fall quietly into the sheets, and he allows them. He’s past the point of stopping himself.

There is no sound. Just a broken dam as he quietly shakes, tremors rushing through his body as the tears wet his cheeks and nose. He looks up at the ceiling.

Amidst the violent purge, there’s a heaviness deep in his gut, a sense of stability. The same feeling that prompted him in the morning, the little whisper of a disfigured sensation he’s long discarded. Maybe this time he’ll let peace take its place. 

The same feeling when he felt the matter and antimatter currents surged through his body, each cell in him screaming as they are killed and reborn over and over again, before it stops.

The same feeling when saving Wade’s little world.

The pillow is damp now, but he doesn’t mind, because the more he lets go, the lighter he feels. A knot unravelled slowly in his chest. The memories grow kinder. Dinners with Wade’s friends. Trading stories with Laura.

Ororo laughing at something Jean said. Scott looking at the redhead—even with the vizor, you can tell he’s in love.

Meeting you. Sharing that pizza together. 

He falls asleep at the memory of the hug you gave him earlier.    

When he comes home from work the next day, dust all over his heavyweight t-shirt, he notices something hanging on the back of the door.

A small whiteboard. To its side is a marker, affixed to the board with a magnet.

“Hey,” you greet from the kitchen. 

“What’s that?” he gestures with his chin.

“Oh.” You turn to the entryway to look at the whiteboard. You hung it up not ten minutes ago. “I thought we’d need it to write notes. Things to buy, chores to do, stuff like that.”

Heading towards the door, you grab the marker. “But I guess you can write whatever you want.”

He watches as you stand in front of him, the marker squeaking under your strokes.

You turn to him, smiling before walking away.

Logan’s heart clenches painfully—an occurrence far too often for his health, seeing that it’s barely three days since moving in with you.

He stares at your handwriting for the first time.

Have a great day ahead :)

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested @duckyyyx

next chapter

[cece693]

Clean and Tidy (Brahms Heelshire x GN Reader)

Since it's October, I want to provide at least a fic for some of my like (not love) slashers. First in line is Brahams from the movie The Boy (2016.) Beware it's short and not my best work.

Summary: The Heelshire's never posted that nanny ad. After all, you were perfect for the job. Not only were you Brahms's nanny, but you were also the caretaker of the house when the Heelshire's were away.

tags: neat/clean freak reader, Malcolm gets killed, never liked him tbh, Brahms is a kitten with claws

The house stood still and silent, a heavy darkness pressing against the tall windows. Outside, the mist clung to the forest like a second skin, thick and immovable, drowning the world in a damp chill. The Heelshires were away again, leaving me to keep the sprawling estate in order. It was a duty I took seriously—order and cleanliness were my sanctuary against the madness that sometimes threatened to swallow this house whole.

And, of course, there was Brahms.

"Come on, Brahms," I said, crouching to examine the muddy footprints he'd left in the kitchen. "You know the rules. No mud in the house."

There was a rustle, a shift in the shadows, and he emerged from behind the pantry door. His face, obscured by his mask, tilted downward like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. "I’m sorry," he said, voice muffled and low. "It was raining."

"Well, it’s still no excuse. Upstairs, now," I ordered, pointing toward the staircase. "Shower, and I’ll clean this up."

He hesitated only momentarily before nodding and slipping away. I watched him go, a mixture of fondness and exasperation warming my chest. He could be dangerous, I knew that. But with me, Brahms was different. Gentle. Almost eager to please.

Everything had been routine, until that night.

Malcolm had come by with the groceries. He was the delivery boy from town, bright-eyed and persistent, always lingering longer than necessary. I’d noticed the way his gaze lingered on me, the way his smiles grew bolder over time, but I’d never encouraged him. Yet, that night, as I was wiping down the kitchen counters, he cornered me, his hand slipping over mine.

"You know," he said, voice low, "you don’t have to stay cooped up here all the time. I could take you out—just the two of us. No one would have to know."

I pulled my hand away, disgust churning in my stomach. "I’m fine where I am, Malcolm. You should go." He didn’t listen. He moved closer, his hand reaching for my waist. I froze, my mind whirling, caught between indignation and the sudden sense of danger that flared hot in my chest. Then I heard it—a soft rustling, a creak from behind the pantry.

"Malcolm, I’m serious." I warned, my voice sharp. "Leave."

But before he could say another word, Brahms was there, stepping out from the darkness. He moved with a speed and ferocity I had never seen before, slamming Malcolm against the wall. There was a flash of panic in Malcolm’s eyes, a gasp—cut off too soon. It was over in seconds. Brahms was breathing hard, his body trembling, and Malcolm lay crumpled on the floor, his eyes wide and unseeing. Blood stained Brahms' crisp white shirt, bright and stark against the fabric. I should have felt something—fear, horror, anything—but all I felt was a strange calm.

"Brahms." I whispered. He turned to me, the mask hiding his face but not the hunch in his posture. He was waiting for a reprimand, for anger, for anything that would push him back into the shadows. Instead, I stepped forward, my eyes narrowing as I took in the crimson staining his shirt. "Look at you," I said, my voice almost a sigh, "you've ruined your shirt. How many times have I told you to be careful?"

His head tilted, confusion and a flicker of relief warring in his eyes. "I’m sorry." he whispered. I didn’t answer. I turned away, stepping around the body without a second glance, moving to the kitchen sink to wet a rag. Behind me, Brahms watched, still as a statue, his gaze never leaving me as I crossed the floor to him. I began wiping the blood from his hands, my touch brisk and efficient.

"I'll have to dispose of that shirt and the body, which is on the verge of staining the carpet—"

"I’ll clean it." Brahms offered quickly, his voice hoarse. He was eager to please again, desperate for approval.

"Good." I met his eyes, my expression stern but gentle. "But next time, Brahms, be more careful. Bloodstains are a nightmare to get out."

He nodded, something like a smile hidden beneath the mask. There was a glimmer of gratitude, of understanding that I wouldn’t send him away, that I wouldn’t abandon him like the rest. I didn’t say another word as I watched him slip off to dispose of the evidence, like a cat slinking off with its prize. The house was mine to care for, and that meant caring for Brahms—the strange, broken boy who, for reasons I couldn’t quite name, trusted me to stay.

[pomefioredove]

There was only one bed troupe w/ Rollo and/or Neige? Maybe we got forced into a road trip again and crowley, the genius he is, didn't order the rooms correctly, and now we have a couple room. Good bc big room, but . 1 bed. Shenanigans/pining or something ensue ❤️

actually scrumptious idea I'll take ten more of these /lh throwing in che'nya as a special treat

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ only one bed

type of post: blurbs characters: rollo, neige, che'nya additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

Night Raven College is hosting its own cultural event, and everything has been going... strangely well. Seriously! No overblots, no evil schemes, just a day of food, festivities, and fun.

Then then sun sets. And then, of course, everything goes wrong.

"Prefect!" Crowley says, throwing your door open. "Something terrible has happened! A complete fool has miscounted the number of beds needed to accommodate our guests!"

You don't like where this is going. "...And?"

"Since the other rooms in Ramshackle are currently under renovation, I told our guest they could stay with you!"

"A complete fool?" a cold voice asks. "If I recall correctly, Monsieur Crowley, you said you were the one who arranged the rooms."

Crowley laughs nervously and steps aside, letting Rollo Flamme in.

"Yes, well... ah, um... good evening!" the headmaster says, dismissing himself.

Rollo waits until he's gone out the front door before turning to you.

"Hello... again," he says. "I apologize for this... reunion. I'm aware these arrangements are completely improper."

You look around awkwardly. "No, it's... okay. You can come in,"

"You're a poor liar. But thank you,"

When it comes time for sleep, Rollo puts an unnecessary amount of distance between the two of you, nearly hanging off the edge of the bed with his back turned towards you. He's stiff.

It looks uncomfortable. "Are you sure you-"

"I'm well, thank you," his tone is sharp, but there's no malice in it.

You fall asleep before him, but he does eventually relax.

You know this, of course, because when you wake up, he's moved across the bed. His face is buried in your side, his arms tight around your waist, as if he's afraid you'll leave.

It's almost cute, in a way. And you let him be.

He looks like he could use the rest.

You can almost see the rays of sunshine before Neige comes in, a cute little suitcase under his arm.

Crowley wishes you a good night and books it before you can ask any questions, leaving you with the boy.

"...My, this is a very dirty place," he says, studying a cobweb in the corner.

"I've been working on that,"

Neige turns back to you with the brightest smile. "Oh, I can tell! You've made a wonderful home here."

It's weird, a compliment without the bite. You don't even know what to say.

After Neige fusses and coos over Grim for a while, he gets in bed at 9:30, an unsurprisingly early time. You follow, exhausted from the day, anyway.

He doesn't ask to cuddle, but he keeps looking at you. Those big, doe-like eyes are even shinier in the dark.

Eventually, you give in. "...Alright,"

Neige smiles, absolutely delighted, and you have to remind yourself that he's not just getting closer to pick your pockets. He just likes it. Your arm rests around his shoulders as he clings to your side, warm and comfortable in his handmade pajamas.

When you wake up the next morning, he's made you (and Grim) breakfast in bed with what little he could find in your collapsing pantry.

And, inexplicably, the entire house is clean.

"Hello again, you~" but the voice is coming from inside your room.

You flinch in surprise, and Che'nya giggles.

"Wha- Che'nya?" you ask, and turn back to the headmaster. "Wouldn't it make more sense for him to stay at Heartslabyul?"

"Nothing "makes sense" about that boy," Crowley sighs. "Well... good luck with that!"

And then he leaves. You stand there in defeat as Che'nya starts looking through your personal belongings.

He also seems to prefer looking at you, rather than sleeping.

"This house is rather drafty,"

"It's winter," you sigh. He's been staring at you for the past hour.

He hums. "I wonder if the snow loves the tree and fields, that it kisses them gently?"

More nonsense, you think.

Finally, you give up. "If you're cold, you can lay on me,"

You can tell that Che'nya likes that, not only because he immediately curls up, purring with his head on your stomach and his limbs taking up half the bed, but because he stops talking.

At least you can sleep in peace.

[ms-sasa]

Random HC for domestic 141 x reader

Reader got that random high motivation for deep cleaning the house when they come home.

No its not proof read, ne English is not my first language, yes it was a spontaneous idea

Yes i have to deep clean the house because we are getting guests....

Price

-would come home expecting his partner to run to the door greeting him but nooo not today...

Today the reader got really pissed off by a coworker/friend/stranger and had to get that angry energy out off their system.

So what would be better than going for an angry cleaning free...

Reader would curse and throw around the laundry while sorting it in the right baskets, slamming the door of the washing machine shut and pressing the few dress shirts he had like they are burning their enemies with the hot iron.

Price decided that it would be the best to retreat to his office and wait for the storm to pass by...

Later that evening he heard a soft knock on his door and a calm and tired reader entered.

"better luv..?'

"hmhm..." They walked over to him hugging him

"welcome home..."

"thanks... Do you want takeout and tell me what happened?"

"yea... And cuddles"

Simon

Simon would come home to open his flats door just to be blocked halfway through. Some furniture was standing in front of the door

Reader had noticed the sand in the hallway when they walked around barefoot. And boy no way that was acceptable... How often did they tell simon to put his damn boots off at the door.

So what started as a quick vacuum of the hallway ended in lifting the shoe rag , rolling up the carpets and dusting off the Skirting boards.

Hence why Simon was now blinking confused why the fucking dresser was standing in the hallway.. in front of the entrance.

"luv'...?"

"si! Good you are home!! I need your help.."

The dresser is moved and he was pulled inside. After a quick kiss on the lips and a warning to take his fucking boots off at the door he was ordered to move the couch....

That's how he ended up seated on the disassembled couch waiting for his love to finish with the living room, ranting about the sand that was just EVERYWHERE. Simon made a mental note to make sure to take off his boots at the front door from now on....

Johnny

Johnny was glad to be home again. The mission was okay and he even got to shower at base before coming home but still...

It was good that he showed at base because when he unlocked the door he was greeted by the smell of cleaning supplies and something that looked like his bathroom had thrown up all the little pots and bottles into the hallway.

"lass... What...?" He walked into the flat peeking into the bathroom and grined.

Reader was wearing shorts, a tank top and cleaning gloves. Added to that was a pair of Bluetooth headphones and they were dancing around and singing (badly) to some 90's pop song.

So it was obvious what he was gonna do next .. right strip down to his boxers, connecting the phone to the home speaker blasting the pop songs on them and joining the cleaning party.

"johnny!!! What are you doing??"

"helping yer lass now move over and give me that sponge"

They ended up with a beautiful clean bathroom, a good hot shower together and a noise complaint from the neighbors.

Kyle

Kyle was hungry when he came back from work this time. Hungry and tired but when he enters the flat and hears the clutter of pans and pots on the floor he knows dinner had to wait.

"babe?" He rounded the corner and almost tripped over a stack of plates "what in the..."

"oh hey love.. uhm we are gonna need to order food..."

Kyle looked around at the completely empty kitchen. Every pot, glass, plate or knife they owned was spread somewhere in the living room. The cabinets empty and even the pantry was bare of everything that wasn't canned or otherwise securely closed.

"babe.. why??" Then something flew past him and he noticed it in an instant groaning. food moths...

"yea... Sorry love." The reader got up and got over to him kissing him hello "how about you go and get some new essentials and some takeaway for dinner? I'll finish here"

Kyle sighed and nodded... No home cooked goods for him tonight

[cameronsbabydoll]

SCC!READER SCHEDULE + OUTFITS

monday

– slow wake-up after rafe leaves early for a meeting
– watered the garden barefoot
– ran errands (target, dry cleaners, smoothie stop)
– came home and reorganized the bathroom cabinets
– got her nails done
– made lemon chicken pasta for dinner

tuesday

– pilates at the country club
– iced lavender latte after class
– popped into sephora and anthropologie just to “look”
– folded laundry in the upstairs sunroom with a true crime podcast
– went to trader joe’s with her reusable floral bags
– rafe got home early so they sat outside while she journaled and he smoked

wednesday

– school drop off + drive-thru coffee
– made banana bread and brought it to her neighbor
– cleaned out the fridge (so proud of herself)
– organized her pinterest boards (that’s self-care)
– grilled salmon for dinner and rafe said “you finally made it right”
– bubble bath with candles while he watched sports downstairs

thursday

– early morning walk with a green juice in hand
– deep cleaned the pantry and made a list for costco
– took polaroids of the backyard flowers she grew
– read her book on the porch for 2 hours uninterrupted
– made steak salad and peach cobbler for dinner
– rafe scolded her for climbing on the counter barefoot

friday

– got dressed up “just because” and did a full face
– took the kids to the splash pad, came home exhausted
– ordered lunch from their favorite deli and watched a cartoon with them
– rafe took everyone out for pizza that night

saturday (family day)

– made pancakes and fresh juice for breakfast
– whole family went on a picnic at the lake
– rafe grilled, the kids ran around, she read her book under an umbrella
– stopped at a local ice cream shop on the way home
– family movie night with popcorn and baby cuddles

sunday (soft reset)

– slow sleepy morning with cinnamon rolls
– she deep cleaned the bathroom while listening to music
– went to whole foods for her weekly “treat haul”
– put everything away with her headphones in
– prepped dinner early (chicken parm night)
– fell asleep on rafe’s chest during a documentary

[starsinthesky5]

What’s their night routine like? Glasses on and books

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

their night routine is soft and quiet and so them it almost hurts to think about. it usually starts with her in the bathroom, perched on the counter with her legs swinging while she does her skincare, clay mask on, headband holding her hair back, humming whatever song is stuck in her head. joe walks by brushing his teeth, gives her a little nudge with his shoulder or leans in to kiss her temple even though her face is covered in goo.

they both wear glasses by the end of the night, hers big and a little crooked from being tossed in bags or on nightstands, his always slipping down his nose because he forgets they’re on when he lays back in bed. she opts for one of his old shirts, maybe a bengals tee or an lsu long sleeve that’s two sizes too big, and he’s usually in boxers and nothing else, hair damp from the shower, skin warm, clean, and smelling like her rose bodywash.

before bed, he always does his little walk-through. checking that the front door’s locked, that the stove is off, that all the lights are out. only now, he does it with her wrapped around his back like a koala, arms slung over his shoulders, giggling as he carries her room to room like it’s the most normal thing in the world. she whispers commentary like they’re on a nature documentary—“and here we see football superstar joe burrow in his natural habitat, checking if he accidentally left the pantry light on again while grabbing a s’mores pop-tart for a midnight snack,”.

they crawl into bed with their books, hers would likely be a romance novel and his some science book she ordered for him, legs tangled, her head on his chest. the tv’s usually on in the background—muted news or some random show they’ve seen a dozen times. she reads until her eyes get heavy and the book slips from her hands, and he gently marks the page and sets it aside for her. sometimes they fall asleep like that, glasses askew, limbs overlapping, hearts full.

it’s not fancy. it’s not anything overly complicated. it’s just love. soft and simple and steady. their favorite kind of ending.