#subtle flirting

[sundaysconsort]

Since your reqs are open hehe 🤭

I would like to make a request for a blue birdie 💙 and domestic fluff 🤭 (i have nothing specific in mind, so I'll leave it to your beautiful creative imagination!! 💖🤭 Take your time with this req, hehe!)

Also, my first time making a req- 🧍‍♀️

Entry: " Recipe to Reminisce "

Pairing: HSR! Sunday | Reader

Information: After the incident in Penacony, it would take time for everyone to settle back into life on the Express. However, some crew members find adjusting harder than others, particularly their new addition, Sunday. Wanting to make him feel welcome, you research how to make one of his favorite dishes that you overheard him longing for. | 4.6k word count.

Tags: Domestic, Fluff, Slow Burn, Light Teasing, Tenderness, Pinning, Admiration, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, Appreciation, Subtle Flirting, Praise, Unestablished, Misuse of ingredients.

Though you had never mastered the delicate craft of baking, the absence of time spent in the pursuit had never bothered you. Life among the stars kept you perpetually on the move, grappling with the cosmic currents of your adventures on the Astral Express. After your long and exhaustive trek from Penacony, your intrepid crew found a moment's reprieve, a rare stillness in the ceaseless tide of your travels as plans for the next voyage to the enchanting land of Amphoreus began to take shape. This lull in activity stretched over the span of a week, and amidst the maps and charts spread out like a celestial tapestry, you recognized a golden opportunity. It was the perfect chance to warmly welcome the newest addition to your diverse crew, ensuring he felt at home among the swirling constellations and the unfamiliar chaos of life on the express.

You find yourself in the dimly lit confines of the Trailblazer's room, surrounded by the tantalizing scents of fresh ingredients as you prepare a heartfelt welcome gift for Sunday. A deep sense of apprehension fills the air, as you worry about the possibility of him wandering in and catching you off guard during your clandestine preparations. The thought of March discovering your secret and spreading the word sends a chill through you—this moment is meant to be a tranquil escape, a chance not only to prove your baking skills but also to convey to Sunday that he is no longer alone in this journey.

As you glance downstairs, the vibrant camaraderie of your friends echoes in the background, their laughter and chitchat filling the atmosphere with warmth. Himiko is lost in her world, savoring the rich aroma of her coffee, while March and Stelle are caught up in animated conversation over their sugary drinks. Despite their delight, you can’t shake the longing that gnaws at you—a yearning for the comfort of fresh meals, something sorely missed during your travels with the express, where dining means waiting until you reach the next destination.

Determined to turn your cravings into something special, you made the journey back to Penacony three system hours prior, gathering the necessary materials to craft the perfect sweet dessert. The excitement of creating something from scratch fills you with purpose, especially after having asked Pom-Pom to install a kitchen ahead of time. Thankfully, the kitchen arrived just in time for this culinary adventure, providing you with the perfect space to channel your creativity and affection into a dish that will surely bring joy to Sunday’s heart.

Tonight's mission was set in your mind: bake a delicious tray of Pudding Tarts to brighten up Sunday! You pictured the silky custard filling nestled in crisp, golden pastry, and the thought made you smile warmly to yourself, filled with anticipation for the delightful treat you'd create.

As the night wore on, the vibrant sounds of laughter and chatter from your comrades began to ebb away, leaving the bar enveloped in a tranquil hush. The lively atmosphere faded, replaced by the soft hum of the fridge, a soothing backdrop to the stillness that settled in. In the quiet, you found solace, relishing the companionship of Shush, who stood silently by, patiently awaiting the moment to craft a drink.

Seizing this opportunity to take the lead, you crept down the staircase with the stealth of a cat, your heart racing with excitement. Balancing a precarious stack of ingredients, you maneuvered carefully, each step a delicate challenge as you fought to keep everything in your grasp. At last, with a triumphant lift, you placed the colorful array of bottles and mixers onto the bar, a small victory that made you beam with pride.

As you scroll through the contents on your phone, a familiar recipe catches your eye—it’s the one you saved for Tarts. A sudden realization washes over you: you mistakenly prepared for Cream Tarts instead of Pudding Tarts. Surely there can't be much of a difference, right? You murmur this to yourself as you tidy your workspace, surrounded by all the ingredients you’ve assembled.

You take a moment to check your supplies: the refrigerated pie crust dough looks perfectly chilled and ready to work with, check. The instant chocolate pudding mix sits in its packaging, promising a rich indulgence, check. Milk, creamy and cold, is prepped next to the dry ingredients, check. You have the whipping cream, fresh and inviting, check. The powdered sugar, nestled snugly beside it, will add the perfect sweetness, check. Finally, you eye the grated chocolate, a decadent touch for garnish, check.

With everything in place, it's time to dive into the baking process.

You follow step one by preheating the oven to an appropriate temperature. Taking the chilled pie dough you prepared in advance, you began rolling it out on the surface you lightly floured, cutting out twelve 3-inch circles.

"Keep an eye on the dough scraps,” you remind yourself, knowing they will come in handy later for re-rolling to create the final circles. You think aloud, clapping your hands together, and watching as a delicate cloud of flour billows and settles softly over the dough. “Seems simple enough!” you muse, encouraged by the process.

Moving on to the next step, you carefully press each dough circle into a mini tart pan, ensuring they fit snugly against the sides, creating a perfect little vessel for the filling to come. The cool, smooth texture of the dough molds easily beneath your fingers. With a fork in hand, you proceed to poke small holes in the base of each tart shell, a crucial task to allow steam to escape during baking, preventing any error during bake. The rhythmic tapping of the fork against the dough fills the kitchen, a satisfying sound that echoes your anticipation for the delicious tarts to come.

Unbeknownst to you, a solitary figure had remained hidden within the confines of the room. As the soft sounds of your baking filled the air, he lifted his head, sharp golden eyes fixated on your delicate movements. He watched intently, every detail of your actions captured in his gaze, as he remained cloaked in silence to ensure he did not disrupt the rhythm of your culinary endeavor.

As moments passed, it became increasingly apparent to him that you were blissfully unaware of his presence. With each step he took, his feet barely whispered against the floor, a ghost gliding nearer to you from behind.

Suddenly, his voice broke the quiet, smooth yet edged with authority: "Hm. And what do we have over here?" The sound sent a shiver down your spine, for it belonged to none other than the last person you had hoped to encounter at this moment—drawing you from your creative sanctuary into the light of scrutiny.

His first reaction is one of surprise and curiosity, the corners of his brows lifting as he takes in the sight before him. You attempt to mask your baking efforts, going to great lengths to hide the evidence without making your fabrications too glaringly apparent. A flush of embarrassment creeps over you at the thought of being discovered by Sunday, your heart racing as you navigate the tension between your secret and the other person's inquisitive gaze.

You keenly attempt to spin a complex web of deception, artfully dodging the conversation’s focal point. Yet, your evasive tactics only serve to heighten his curiosity, drawing him deeper into a labyrinth of intrigue over your peculiar unease about the possibility of him uncovering your creation. After all, if your carefully crafted work were truly meant for the rest of the express members, he muses, there would surely be no reason for you to obscure it from him. He is not the type to divulge secrets about your playful mischief, especially if you wish to keep this particular matter under wraps.

As he begins to connect the seemingly disparate dots, a flicker of comprehension dances in his eyes; he starts to assemble the fragments of your intentions, gradually deducing the true identity of the intended recipient of your work.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” he says, his voice calm and sincere, each word carefully chosen. The seriousness of his expression reveals a deep understanding of the situation at hand, you didn't enjoy it despite his polite mannerisms. “I mean no harm. Would it be better if I step aside?” His gaze is piercing, filled with an awareness that suggests he has already unraveled your intentions, leaving you feeling exposed under the weight of his judgment, or perhaps, it's your mind raising the intensity on its own.

"I would appreciate that, though I—never mind." You shook your head, a sigh escaping your lips as your gaze fell away from his piercing eyes. Instead, you focused on the delicate pastry resting on the counter, its surface glistening under the warm kitchen lights as you awaited the oven’s familiar melody signaling that it was ready. A rush of conflicting thoughts swirled in your mind. Would it be more suspicious to ask him to leave, to disrupt the uneasy tension that thrummed between you? Or if you invited him to stay, would he see through your facade and guess that it was merely an attempt to quell his rising suspicion? It felt like a mental chess game, and with this man, there seemed to be no winning move.

Choosing to remain silent, you relinquish control and let him proceed as he wishes. As you turn your attention back to your work, an unsettling awareness creeps in, sharpening your senses to the weight of his gaze fixed intently on your creation. A flurry of questions swirls in your mind—had you inadvertently erred in some way? Does your work meet his expectations? You had felt confident in the process up until now, the steps seeming straightforward and manageable… but now, doubt tugs at you—what if you overlooked an important detail?

♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~

Placing the tart shells in the oven upon its chime, you'd crouch to the ground and eye your pastries closely through the tinted glass. It is recommended to bake for about five minutes or until they turn golden brown.

At last, your gaze drifts back to Sunday, where you find him deeply immersed in the well-worn pages of the book he carries everywhere. With a hint of curiosity, you step away from the warmth of the oven, your attention drawn to him. Despite the tumultuous events that unfolded in Penacony, a smile spreads across your face. Sunday appears remarkably transformed, his previous burdens all but lifted. No longer confined by the weight of his family legacy, he has shed the label of "Bronze Melodia." Instead, he stands before you as Sunday of the Astral Express, exuding a newfound sense of ease and self-assurance, while still carrying internal troubles which leech off of him. His ideology captured your interest when you first stepped foot in his dream, and you recall your initial instinct being that he couldn't possibly be a villain. Perhaps misguided, yes—most certainly—but not inherently bad.

"Sunday? I hope this doesn’t come across as insensitive, but I’ve been pondering something for quite a while now…" Your voice finally cut through the hush of the bar, like a soft breeze on a still evening, as you summoned the courage to speak.

"Hm?" he responded, the sound a gentle hum, his gaze lifting from the pages of the book he had been lost in. The warm light that filled the room caught the edges of his halo, causing it to shimmer ethereally, casting a golden glow that framed his features in an otherworldly light.

"What exactly is the burden that comes with being Bronze Melodia?" you asked, your curiosity intertwining with a hint of hesitation. It felt like a delicate subject to bring up—like disturbing the surface of a still pond, unsure if it would ripple out with unintended consequences.

"Ah, it is to bear the weight of listening to the myriad problems and vexations of the Dreamscape’s residents, offering them the guidance they seek. That was my solemn duty as Bronze Melodia," he answered, his voice steady and calm, yet a veil of unresolved emotion lingered in the air. It was challenging to decipher the depth of his feelings—he often cloaked himself in silence, guarding whatever turmoil may lie beneath that serene facade.

"What about you?" You could feel empathy radiating from you, a warm pulse of connection amidst the flickering shadows of the bar.

"Me?" Sunday questioned, his voice softening into an uncertain whisper. It was as if your inquiry had plucked at an untouched string within him, revealing a vulnerability he rarely displayed. No one had ever ventured to ask him such a straightforward thing; it was a simple question made complex by the weight of expectation. Who, after all, saves the savior? Who brings comfort to the strong? Destined to fend for themselves, he ponders your implication.

♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~

"You need not carry the weight of others any longer, Sunday," you urged softly, your voice a gentle reminder amidst the bustling kitchen. "Take care of yourself for the time being; you truly deserve it, no matter what doubts you harbor." As you finished speaking, you sensed his intense gaze lingering on you, a mix of contemplation and vulnerability reflected in his eyes. With a heavy heart, you turned away, the aroma of baked goods wafting from the oven guiding your steps, feeling the warmth of his gaze on your back as you walked away, leaving him to ponder your words in the stillness that followed.

As you open the oven door, a rush of warm air escapes, carrying the enticing fragrance of freshly baked pastry that dances around the kitchen. You carefully extract the delicate tart shells, their golden edges glistening under the soft light, and gently place them onto the wire rack you’ve prepared, allowing them to cool and crisp. The sweet and buttery scent envelops you, a tantalizing promise of the delicious creation that awaits.

Suddenly, Sunday’s voice cuts through your reverie, warm and inviting. You glance over at him, noticing the subtle change in his expression—now softer, almost tender. A flutter of warmth fills your heart, stirring emotions you hadn’t anticipated. Yet, despite this newfound gentleness, a hint of hesitation lingers within you. Your gaze flits between him and the bustling preparations surrounding you; uncertainty clings to your tongue.

Before you can gather your thoughts, he speaks again, his tone earnest and encouraging. “It would be an utmost pleasure to help. You’re making tarts, aren’t you? I have experience with this process if you’d allow me.” His offer hangs in the air, filled with an unexpected promise of collaboration, leaving you to ponder the implications of letting him in.

"Sunday, I genuinely appreciate your eagerness to lend a hand, but… I want to handle this myself. Is that alright with you?" You feel a surge of determination as you envision impressing him with your baking skills, knowing that every detail is crafted with him in mind. Moreover, you smile softly, adding, "Didn’t I mention you should look after your own needs? I promise I’m perfectly fine on my own." The warmth of his thoughtful gesture touches you deeply.

With a nod, Sunday recognizes your longing for independence and hesitates momentarily before stepping back, allowing you the space to carry on. Yet, you notice a flicker of conflict in his eyes, as he tussles with your desire to prioritize his own needs while he is left wanting to ensure you’re truly okay.

You let out a relieved smile, the tension in your shoulders easing as you grab a large mixing bowl. With determination, you begin whisking together the rich, velvety chocolate pudding and cold milk, your hands moving in stirring circles. However, the absence of an electric mixer quickly becomes apparent; the task proves to be far more laborious than you anticipated. Within minutes, your arm begins to ache, the constant motion wearying and unyielding. You can only imagine how effortlessly the mixture would have transformed into a thick, luscious consistency had you only plugged in the machine.

Frustration wells up, and you set the bowl down with a soft thud, letting out a groan that echoes in the quiet kitchen. It doesn't go unnoticed—Sunday, with his unwavering attention, shifts his focus toward you. You take a moment to rub your tired face, finding solace in the brief respite. When you open your eyes again, you’re met with a sight that leaves you momentarily speechless. He quietly steps in to continue the task, his movements determined and graceful, a stark contrast to your earlier struggle.

His gaze finds yours, conveying an unspoken message full of insistence, urging you to take a break. Somehow, it makes you realize that both of you deserve a moment of pause—even as you remind him that he should do the same.

Once you feel prepared, you gently lift yourself, ready to tackle the task once more. With a playful nudge, you encourage Sunday to shift aside. Though he hesitates for a moment, a subtle smile dances across his face as he shakes his head in mock reluctance, ultimately giving way. With a sense of accomplishment, you carefully pop the now perfectly whisked chocolate pudding into the cool embrace of the refrigerator, the two of you working in delightful harmony.

After allowing the rich pudding to chill for a tantalizing ten minutes, anticipation bubbles within you as you dash to the fridge. Once back at your workstation, you dive in with enthusiasm, scooping a generous spoonful of the creamy filling into each delicate tart shell. As you work, you catch sight of Sunday thoughtfully tidying up the supplies you’ve set aside, effortlessly managing the clutter without any prompting. You can’t help but appreciate his consideration; perhaps his arrival in your kitchen wasn’t an obstacle but rather a serendipitous opportunity to deepen your connection in this serene moment.

In a separate, spacious bowl, you pour in the glistening whipping cream, its surface shimmering in the light. Gradually, you add a dusting of powdered sugar, the fine granules drifting like soft snowflakes into the bowl. Sunday takes charge of the electric mixer, the rhythmic whirring filling the air as he beats the mixture. You watch with a mix of pride and longing as it transforms into a thick, airy concoction, soft peaks forming elegantly. Yet, a frown tugs at your lips, a small shadow crossing your heart. Sunday catches the shift in your expression and looks momentarily puzzled, though his expression is somewhat hard to distinguish due to its subtlety.

With a pastry bag graced with a star-shaped tip in hand, you take a moment to admire the cloud-like whipped cream before you begin piping it atop the chocolate pudding. Each swirl is an artistic flourish, an invitation to indulge. Finally, with a flourish of your wrist, you sprinkle finely grated chocolate over each tart, letting the shards fall like dark confetti, completing the dessert with a touch of opulence. The tarts shimmer under the kitchen lights, each one a masterpiece waiting to be savored.

“What exactly is it that’s left you feeling dissatisfied?” Sunday’s voice is gentle, almost coaxing, as it weaves its way through the heavy air of disappointment that briefly clouds your expression. You take a moment, inhaling deeply, as though the breath might help you gather your thoughts and ease the sting of regret that’s been lingering ever since the mishap.

“I accidentally made the wrong pastry,” you confess with a hint of sorrow threading through your words. The realization washes over you like a cold wave, and you feel a mix of frustration and regret bubbling just beneath the surface. “Pudding tarts should have that perfect, rich custardy filling—something dense, comforting, and evocative of home,” you explain, your voice trailing off as the weight of your disappointment seeps into the atmosphere around you. Despite the undeniable beauty of the creation before you, it feels tarnished by the expectations you had set in your mind.

The tart glistens under the soft, warm light, the delicate surface boasting intricate patterns and hues that speak volumes of your skill and dedication. Yet, instead of pride, you find yourself marred by the haunting presence of your error. “But instead, I ended up with a lighter, smoother pastry cream…” Your voice falters, “I—I wanted to present you with a pudding, not this…” The words escape your lips softer than intended, almost like a whispered secret, and you feel a pang of anxiety rip through you, praying he hadn’t caught the slip of your tongue—the inadvertent mention of 'pudding' that hangs in the air, uninvited and heavy with unfulfilled intent.

The tension in your chest tightens painfully as you await his response, your heart racing. You wish more than anything you could snatch back the moment, rewind time, and recapture the perfect sentiment you had hoped to convey. Each passing second feels stretched, laden with anticipation, leaving you to grapple not only with the pastry but the delicate thread of expectation that now hangs between you.

“Haha—” Sunday chuckled softly, the familiar sound wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His tone, soothing and free from mockery, eased the tension in your chest. “It seems the use of coercion is unnecessary; you’ve openly admitted that your actions were motivated for me. Though, I wouldn't consider myself somebody worth this effort,” You felt your cheeks flush as you lowered your head, a mixture of embarrassment and defiance flooding through you. With a sigh, you crossed your arms tightly, trying to adopt a façade of nonchalance, though inside, you were anything but calm. ", I appreciate this, and while I may have my perceptions of who I am and how to make amends for my past, I'll make an effort to be open towards your guidance and support."

Even amidst the uncertainty of his potential error, he showered you with praise, his voice rich with warmth and encouragement. As his gaze lingered on you, a gentle glow sparkled in his eyes, illuminating the kindness within. Yet, there was also a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, a mischievous glint that ignited something within you. With a swift and daring sense of rebellion, you lifted your head, your hands dusted with flour from your latest baking adventure. In a moment of light-hearted defiance, you playfully swiped the white powder across his cheek, leaving behind a mark of your shared joy.

Sunday's expression transformed into a mask of confusion, his wings twitching in response and his eyebrows arched high as he sensed the powder settling onto his skin like fine dust. The Halovian slowly raised a gloved hand, fingertips brushing against his cheek, and stared at the pale residue now clinging to them, bewilderment etched across his features, as if he were piecing together a puzzle that made no sense. “That’s for laughing at me.” you declared, attempting to veil your embarrassment.

You quickly shifted your stance, the flour dusting your hands as you brushed them on the kitchen towel that hung over the oven, accompanied by a pair of well-worn mittens. A soft huff escaped your lips as you turned to look at him, unable to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Here,” you said, your voice laced with a hint of embarrassment. “I... I’m sorry for, um, this.” With that, you handed him the towel, offering him a chance to clean himself up from the minor chaos that had erupted in the kitchen.

As he took the towel from you, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach. A foreign affection blossomed within his proximity. You turned your attention to the nearby counter, reaching for a plate that gleamed under the warm light. Carefully, you arranged a couple of freshly baked tarts atop the plate, their golden crusts glistening invitingly. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of the moment making your heart race. “Welcome to the Astral Express, Sunday,” you finally said, your voice steadier now, filled with a mixture of excitement and a touch of apprehension about sharing this special place with him.

The weary man stood with his wings, once a proud emblem of paradise and hope, now curling protectively toward his lips, as if concealing a smile that flickered with the subtle brightness of a distant star, shimmering deep within the hazel depths of his eyes. Each gesture you made seemed to awaken a long-buried emotion within him, one he had long since surrendered in his ascent to the formidable role of family patriarch.

The crushing weight of responsibility had created an immense chasm between him and the warmth of joy he had once embraced so freely, a chasm that had only widened with the recent separation from his beloved sister. Memories of their laughter and shared dreams haunted him, leaving a palpable void that echoed with the yearning for those lighter, cherished moments of their youth. The gleam of hope he had once held dimmed, overshadowed by the ache of loss and the burdens of duty, yet as he looked at you, an ember of that joy flickered, igniting the faintest hint of a smile.

Sunday chuckled softly, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “You know, I appreciate this more than you realize. But there is no need to go through all this effort just to make me feel welcome,” he said, the warmth in his voice evident.

“I think you're worth it,” you replied with a smile, your eyes sparkling as you lifted the tart to your lips. The rich, chocolate flavor enveloped your senses, sending a wave of sweetness through you. As you savored the moment, you caught a glimpse of nostalgia flickering in Sunday’s eyes.

He stared into the distance, lost in thought. “This reminds me of my sister and those afternoons in the kitchen,” he began, his voice low and distant. “We’d whip up all sorts of things, but I always went straight for the pudding. I remember getting scolded for sneaking too much—” He chuckled at the memory, a light blush creeping across his cheeks. “I just couldn’t help myself. The way it melted in my mouth…”

You leaned closer, intrigued. “What did she say when she caught you?”

“She would get this stern look on her face, arms crossed. ‘Sunday, save some for everyone else!’” He recited her words, and the image was vivid; a younger version of him with a cheeky grin, caught in the act. "It had a considerable impact on my singing voice," he explained, his tone relaxed as he recounted the experience. "Because of this, my instructor urged me to avoid certain habits and practices, emphasizing the importance of preserving my vocal quality so that I could perform at my absolute best." He chuckled softly as he continued, "Our teacher referred to me as a duckling, a nickname that stuck with me throughout my lessons."

You both smile, the moment stretching comfortably as you take another bite of the tart, the chocolate-rich and decadent. The room felt warmer, filled with the echoes of shared memories and the sweet taste of connection. “Here’s to the pudding bandit,” you teased, raising your tart in a mock toast.

Sunday couldn't help but shake his head at the fond absurdity you displayed before playing along. "To the pudding bandit," he echoed, clinking his tart against yours, his eyes twinkling with delight. You both took a bite simultaneously, savoring not only the sweetness of the dessert but also the deeper bond forming between you—one chocolatey bite at a time.

Fin.

A/N | I pray I wrote Sunday accurately... I made it long to make up for my lack of Sunday content. I was afraid I'd write him poorly, and even now, I try my best to stick to what I know and describe more than include dialog. I fear writing them ooc. Sobs.

[tulipzcorner]

WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT?

INT. CHRIS’S GARAGE – LATE AFTERNOON

Chris was elbow-deep in an engine when Honey waltzed in, rocking a crop top that barely covered anything and shorts that left little to the imagination. Her grin was pure mischief, and Chris barely glanced up, wiping grease off his hands.

Honey (teasing)

"hey mechanic . Whatcha working on?”

Chris didn’t miss a beat.

Chris (dry): “Just fixing your dad’s old car. Not sure if it’s gonna survive, kinda like your attention span.”

Honey laughed, twirling a lock of hair.

Honey: “Ouch. You’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna keep up with me.”

He set down his tools and leaned against the workbench, eyes narrowing playfully.

Chris: “You’re twenty, Honey. You’re cute, but don’t mistake that for experience.”

She stepped closer, brushing a stray strand from his forehead.

Honey: “Maybe I’m a quick learner.”

Chris smirked, heart beating a little faster than he wanted to admit.

Chris: “Just keep your hands clean around me, alright? Wouldn’t want to mess up my reputation.”

Honey winked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

(Later on at dinner)

INT. DINING ROOM – EVENING

The table was set perfectly, candles flickering softly, Dad sitting at the head, arms crossed with a mildly suspicious gaze as Chris and Honey sat opposite each other. The tension was thick—not just because of Dad’s watchful eye, but because Chris and Honey were both trying their best (and failing) to keep the flirtation on the down-low.

DAD (clearing throat): “So, Chris, how’s work been? Still fixing cars, or have you taken up any other… hobbies?”

Chris smirked, brushing a crumb off his sleeve. He glanced sideways at Honey, who was twirling her fork absentmindedly, eyes sparkling with mischief.

CHRIS: “Yeah, mostly cars. Though I’m thinking about picking up cooking. Heard it impresses the ladies.”

Honey’s eyes darted up, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

HONEY (mock-serious): “Oh yeah? Better start with something simple, like boiling water. You don’t want to set the kitchen on fire on your first try.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “I could cook you dinner anytime, babe. But you’d have to promise not to burn down my place if I mess up.”

Honey leaned forward slightly, voice low and playful.

HONEY: “I’m a patient girl. As long as you promise to kiss the burns better.”

Chris’s eyes flicked to her lips for a beat too long, before he caught himself.

DAD (clearing throat louder): “So, Honey, how’s school going? Still the top of your class?”

Honey’s grin didn’t fade as she glanced at Chris, who gave her a subtle wink.

HONEY: “Yeah, Dad. I’m doing great. But if I had a tutor like Chris, I’m sure I’d do even better.”

Chris smirked, voice low enough only for Honey to hear.

CHRIS: “I’m full of extra lessons.”

Honey stifled a giggle, shooting her dad a wide-eyed “innocent” look.

DAD (eyeing them): “Extra lessons, huh? You two seem very… close lately.”

Chris gave a quick, smooth smile.

CHRIS: “We’re just good friends. I’m like the big brother she never wanted.”

Honey elbowed him lightly under the table.

HONEY (whispering): “Big brother who can’t keep his hands to himself.”

Chris shot her a warning glance, voice low.

CHRIS: “Behave. Your dad’s watching.”

Honey’s eyes sparkled with devilish delight.

HONEY: “Oh, I behave.”

She pressed her fingers to Chris’s hand on the table, squeezing just enough for him to notice.

Dad’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but before he could say anything, Honey smiled sweetly.

HONEY: “Pass the potatoes, please.”

Chris glanced at her, grinning.

CHRIS: “Always the lady.”

The subtle flirtation between them continued under the polite conversation—glances, touches, and smiles only the two of them understood. Dad might be watching, but neither of them were going to stop.

[howdoesone]

How does one flirt with someone who's deeply engrossed in a book, without disrupting their literary journey?

Flirting with someone who is deeply engrossed in a book can be a delicate and intriguing endeavor. The goal is to express your interest without pulling them out of their immersive literary experience. Achieving this balance requires a subtle approach, respect for their space, and a touch of creativity. Here’s a comprehensive guide on how to flirt with a book lover without disrupting their reading…

[mathelaw]

sharing my favorite type of cultural misunderstanding that i barely see between these two

[thhouseofblack]

During the Trojan War years, Diomedes ends up falling down with a terrible fever after some battle. He is constantly pushing himself to his limits and its something that his body just can't keep up with or handle, which he doesn't realise.

The reason his fever worsens so much is because he assumes it is but his usual post-battle exhaustion and carries on, and the people closest to him (re: Odysseus and Sthenelus) are familiar with how he pushes himself during battle, and assume the same.

It is only when Odysseus wakes up one morning to Diomedes' skin burning and the man not waking no matter how much Odysseus tries to get him up, that it is found out just how ill Diomedes has been.

Everyone panics, seeing Diomedes of all people so unwell, but none moreso than Odysseus himself, who then proceeds to spend his days on his knees by the side of the bed Diomedes has been given in Machaon's camp for the wounded and ill.

No one can call the King of Ithaca away from the King of Argos' side, Ithacans, Argives - even Sthenelus at one point tries to coax Odysseus away from Diomedes' bedside and rest for a bit. The other Kings and War Commanders try, so do Machaon and the other medics, yet Odysseus doesn't heed any of their words, so consumed in his terror and fear for Diomedes' life.

Odysseus doesn't eat properly, doesn't sleep properly, doesn't fight in any battle during the time - just day in and day out taking care of Diomedes, ensuring that all the herbs he needs to take are given to him appropriately, making his men sacrifice a few rams to Lord Apollo for Diomedes' health, praying to all the Gods that he can think of to preserve Diomedes' life.

(if anyone brings up Odysseus' near constant weeping besides Diomedes sickbed, they are promptly hushed up)

Anyway, Diomedes wakes up two very long weeks later to his right hand tightly clutched in between Odysseus' hands, and to the sight of an incredibly pale and gaunt Odysseus, with swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks, asleep in what looks to be a very uncomfortable position.

(Odysseus never talks about it after, but Diomedes hears all about it from everyone else, and well, he can't help but pick up and enjoy the way Odysseus has turned so incredibly attentive afterwards, looking after his health constantly)

[papier-ciseaux]

I want this guy to start enacting french rural courtship tradition. Like putting a whole tree by someone's window in the night.

The tradition is mostly known as "l'arbre de mai" [may tree] but the trees can also just be called "Mais". You may know the german "Maibaum", but it's also a tradition in France, with variants depending on where you live. Basically, in the night of the first of may, young men will bring decorated trees (usually birch in germany and beech in france, but some trees can have additional meaning) to the window of unmarried girls from their village. This is done anonymously and the girls can try to figure out who did that. It's also linked to marriage.

In some region, instead of a small tree, all the young men bring a large tree to the village center and use the branches to make bouquet to leave on the window sill of girls.

There are many variants.

[rakiah]

[breath in, breath out] …… Can we talk about those lines?

[bubblybloob]

The moment I realized Scarlet Hollow had romance options after thinking the flirting stuff was just for shits and giggles and I had flirted with everyone at least once without realizing it could lead to something more until Stella invited me into her house on day four, that was the funniest shit ever and I’m a colossal dumbass.

[bylerpining]

just going to leave this here

[smallidarityfan]

completely normal wild life things i guess

[radiance1]

"You," Pariah Dark began, pointing at Clockwork. "Have your claimed." Clockwork nodded, staring at the Ghost King as Pariah pointed to himself. "So, I believe it is only fair I get to have one as well."

"I suppose that is true." Clockwork agreed as a knowing smile appeared on his face. Though he isn't going to say anything, yet. "Do you already have one, or are you still looking?"

Pariah silently reached behind his head, pulling out a small boy-who looked confused more than anything- as he held the child up before the Master of Time. "This is Billy. He is my claimed, I found him on the street." Pariah preened, a smug and self-satisfied smile on his face.

Clockwork could barely stop the snicker that threatened to turn into full out laughter. "This is your choice?" He coughed, clearing his throat. "Of all the choices, he is who you choose to claim?"

"Yes." Pariah answered immediately with full, overwhelming certainty.

"Oh my dear, dear king," The Master of Time purred, leaning against his staff as he stared with half lidded eyes. "Can you not see the boy to have already been claimed? I don't believe such a thing could have escaped your notice or," He tilted his head slightly. "Have you chosen to ignore it and act as if it wasn't there in the first place?"

Pariah's silence was very, very telling. To those that had known him well and could decipher it at the very least and Clockwork, being one of those few, knew well that this specific silence was a guilty admittance more than anything else.

He floated over to Pariah's side, resting his arm on the King's shoulder as he looked him in the eye. "Oh, my liege, you haven't changed one bit it seems. Still so stubborn as you always were, even in our ghostling years." He leaned close to the King's ear, dropping his voice to a whisper. "How lucky for you then, that I just so happen to be so entranced with that trait of yours..." He leaned back as quickly as he leaned in, gaze still locked with the king.

Pariah stared back with a very, very pointed gaze, the tips of his hair already igniting in green embers, and, after a few moments, he opened his mouth to speak-

"Can you guys get a room already?" The boy, Billy, interrupted before the King could speak, giving the ancient ghost pause. "I'm still here you know!"

Pariah blinked down at the boy with a face so bewildered, that Clockwork hadn't seen it in eons. Not many had the gall to interrupt him as the boy had done and oh, oh did it fill the Master of Time with such delight to see it.

Billy stared at the king with a face that spoke volumes of how done he was with the situation at hand and, as Pariah's shifted into one as if he had swallowed something sour.

Clockwork cackled.

[srnileforme]

“Shall we start over? Let's forget everything that's happened. I forgive you.”

JACK & JOKER (2024) | EPISODE 5

[aventurineswife]

👀 Valentine’s Day is coming up, can we get a date between Reader and Aventurine?

All in, Sweetheart

Summary: When you challenge Aventurine to plan your Valentine’s Day date, he turns it into a high-stakes gamble—one where the currency isn’t credits, but secrets. What starts as a playful game in a lavish casino soon becomes something deeper, as each round peels back a layer of his carefully guarded persona. But when you finally win, the real question remains: is Aventurine ready to reveal what truly scares him?

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff with a Hint of Angst, Slow Burn, Gambling as a Metaphor (for Emotional Walls), Subtle Vulnerability, Witty Banter & Flirting, Mutual Pining, Secret-Keeping & Unraveling Layers.

Warnings: Mild Gambling Themes (No financial consequences, just for storytelling), Mentions of Trauma & Emotional Guardedness, Light Angst (But with a resolution), Aventurine Being a Smooth Yet Emotionally Repressed Disaster.

You should’ve known better than to let Aventurine plan your Valentine’s Day date.

It had started as a casual remark—half a joke, really—when you’d teased him about whether he ever did anything sincerely romantic. His response? That signature grin, all mischief and mystery.

“Why don’t you leave it to me, sweetheart?” he had purred, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. “Let’s make a little wager. You trust me to plan our date, no questions asked. In return, if I manage to impress you… well, I’ll think of a suitable prize later.”

And now here you were, standing at the entrance of a lavish, high-stakes casino in the heart of an IPC entertainment district, dressed to the nines because Aventurine had sent you a cryptic message demanding you “look like you belong in a game of fate.”

The lights shimmered overhead, reflecting off opulent chandeliers and the golden accents of the room. The scent of expensive cologne, spiced drinks, and polished leather filled the air, and a hum of conversation mixed with the occasional triumphant cheer or groan of a gambler losing it all.

At the center of it all, Aventurine stood waiting for you at a VIP table, leaning lazily against the velvet-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes gleamed under the soft glow of the ambient lighting, the black slits of his pupils narrowing when he caught sight of you.

“Ah, there you are,” he mused, his grin widening as he gave you a slow once-over. “Looking dangerously good tonight, my dear. I might just lose my edge if I’m not careful.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the way your heartbeat quickened at his smooth tone. “A casino, Aventurine? Really?”

He chuckled, tapping the side of his cheek. “Come now, did you really expect me to take you to a candlelit dinner and serenade you under the moonlight? That’s far too predictable.” He gestured to the empty seat beside him. “Take a seat, darling. Tonight, we gamble with something far more interesting than credits.”

You arched a brow but sat down anyway. “And what, exactly, are we gambling with?”

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, his smirk widening. “Why, secrets, of course.”

Your breath hitched slightly. Aventurine wasn’t the type to share much of himself. He deflected with charm, misdirection, and laughter. But now, he was offering—no, wagering—a piece of himself.

“I win a round,” he continued, “and you have to answer a question truthfully. No dodging. No half-truths. But if you win…” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper, “I’ll do the same.”

You studied him carefully. His posture was relaxed, but his fingers twitched near his stack of chips. He was taking this seriously, even if he pretended otherwise.

A challenge. A game. A moment of honesty disguised as a gamble.

You exhaled, reaching for your own chips. “Alright, Aventurine. Let’s play.”

The night stretched on in a series of wins and losses, each round peeling back a layer between the two of you.

You learned that Aventurine hated sleeping in silence. He needed the soft hum of music or the distant sound of activity to keep his mind from wandering to places he’d rather not visit.

He learned that you kept a tiny lucky charm in your pocket, something sentimental you never let go of.

You learned that he had once conned a corrupt IPC official out of a fortune—not just for profit, but out of sheer spite.

He learned that, despite all his maddening qualities, you had never once truly doubted him.

By the time the final round rolled around, you were neck and neck. One last hand. One last chance.

Aventurine slid the last chip forward with a flourish, his golden rings catching the light. “All or nothing, sweetheart.”

You met his gaze, the challenge clear between you. Your fingers hovered over your cards, your heart pounding. If you won, he’d have to answer one last question. Something real. Something raw.

You took a breath and flipped your hand.

A royal flush.

Silence. Then—Aventurine laughed, the sound rich and full of something almost… relieved. “Well, well,” he murmured, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Seems luck favors you tonight.”

You tilted your head. “A promise is a promise. Tell me something real, Aventurine.”

For the first time that evening, his smile faltered—just slightly. Then, instead of answering, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours before curling around your hand.

“Something real?” he echoed, his voice quieter now. “Alright, then.”

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. His grip was warm, steady, and despite everything—the games, the deception, the walls he built around himself—there was something achingly genuine in the way he held you now.

“I suppose,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin, “the realest thing I can tell you… is that you terrify me.”

You blinked. “What?”

His eyes met yours, unguarded for just a fleeting moment. “Because you’re the one thing in this world I can’t bluff my way through.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Then, just like that, the moment was gone. He grinned, slipping his glasses back on, masking whatever vulnerability had been there before. “Now, how about we celebrate your victory properly?” He stood, offering you his arm. “A toast? A dance? Or, if you’re feeling particularly daring, another round?”

You shook your head with a chuckle, threading your arm through his. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

His smirk softened. “Not when it comes to you, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the game continued.

But tonight, just for tonight, you weren’t playing against each other.

You were playing together.

[nite-puff]

this was what their dr:s interaction was originally gonna be. trust me. i’m mr. danganronpa

(no cuz seriously. how are you gonna have them interact and then forget that hiroko canonically has a bit of a thing for takaaki?) (i say this like the dr:s writers even knew who the other captives were)

[gifs-by-renegadesstuff]

KATE BECKETT & RICHARD CASTLE in CASTLE, 3x10 “Last Call” 💜

[bipdf]

in a world full of jupiters with multiple moons, i'll be your earth, and you my only moon.