#[[set it to counter-clockwise]]

[whisperedmeg]

COUNTER SERVICE ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x BAU!gf!reader

summary: spencer kissed you like a promise and fucked you like a prayer — right there on the kitchen counter, while dinner nearly burned behind him.

genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, kitchen counter sex, teensy bit of praise kink/soft dom spencer, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader sweetheart/angel/good girl, established relationship, they drink a lil wine, lovey dovey spencer, unrealistic risotto recipe (def would’ve burned in real life but just pretend ok), no use of y/n

a/n: personally I was envisioning later seasons spencer as I wrote this but could also see early seasons spencer so imagine what you wish 🙂‍↕️ also, if you enjoyed this, my requests are open!

The moment you saw the glint in Spencer’s eye, you knew you were in trouble.

He appeared in the doorway holding a folded sheet of printer paper like it was a briefing file, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a kind of casual precision that made it very difficult to focus.

“I’ve made a decision,” he announced.

You looked up from the couch, where you’d been reading a book with a cup of tea balanced precariously on your thigh. “Should I be nervous?”

“Definitely,” he said. “We’re making lemon risotto for dinner.”

“We?” you echoed, setting the book aside. “Spencer, you know I’m a terrible cook. And risotto is an hour-long, elbow-grease, constant-stirring kind of situation.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “It’s the culinary equivalent of an FBI stakeout. I thought you’d enjoy the teamwork.”

You stared at him. “You planned a date night that involves fifteen minutes of zesting?”

He shrugged. “The recipe says the aromatics really come out if you’re patient.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned and extended a hand to pull you off the couch. “Come on. I already started getting out the ingredients.”

—

Twenty minutes later, you were in full prep mode: barefoot, stirring lazily while Spencer hummed Debussy and lined up lemons like surgical tools. He measured everything with the precision of a neurosurgeon while you chopped shallots by feel, refusing to follow any of the instructions he kept reading aloud.

“The recipe says to use only the outermost zest,” he said.

“It also says to stir clockwise, which is insane. I’m winging it.”

“Winging it? While making something as delicate as risotto?!” he asked, clearly a little horrified.

“You knew what you signed up for.”

He passed you a glass of white wine. “True.”

You argued over whether the wine should go into the pot or your mouths first. He poured a little into the rice; you poured more into your glass. And somewhere in the middle of Spencer’s incessant reading of the recipe instructions, you managed to flick a bit of zest in his direction. It landed on his lower cheek.

“You’ve been tagged,” you said.

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “That’s food-grade sabotage.”

He stepped closer as you reached up to brush it away. Your fingertips grazed the soft skin beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment, everything else faded.

His eyes caught yours.

“Think you missed it,” he said quietly.

The air shifted. Something unspoken and familiar threaded between you, slow and deliberate. The kitchen wasn’t quiet — the stove was still bubbling — but it felt like the world had narrowed to this: you, him, the warmth between your bodies and the lemon-scented air.

He moved first, turning the burner down to low heat. One step, then another, until your back hit the counter and his hands found your hips.

“This feels like a dangerous way to cook,” you murmured, breath hitching.

“Who said we’re still cooking?”

His mouth met yours before you could answer — slow at first, exploratory. Then hungrier.

You reached up, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss. The countertop pressed into your back, cool against your overheated skin, and Spencer’s body curved in close, bracketing you in with careful hands and a hunger that was anything but cautious.

He tasted like citrus and something warmer underneath, and his mouth moved like he was trying to memorize you. His hands slid beneath the hem of your top, reverent and warm, fingers spreading across your waist like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

“Can I…?” he murmured, already kissing along your jaw as he tugged at your shirt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “All of it.”

Clothes came off piece by piece. Your shirt first, then his, then the rest of your clothes. He stepped between your legs and lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands never leaving your body. Your thighs parted for him instinctively, knees hooking around his hips, and he settled there like he belonged.

“You’re so soft here,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers just beneath your breasts. “Every time I touch you, I forget how to think.”

“Lucky for you, I like the rare occasions when you forget things.”

He smiled and bent to mouth at your collarbone. “Dinner can wait.”

“Mhm. Until much later,” you breathed, tugging him even closer by the waistband of his pants. “Much, much later.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Spencer looked up at you like you were a miracle. Like he had all the time in the world. His hands curled beneath your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs brushing soft, dizzying circles into your skin. You were already wet, aching, trembling — and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”

“Spence—”

“I know.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His mouth met you slow and steady, the first broad lick making you shudder. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, hypnotic patterns that made your spine arch and your hands fight for purchase in his hair. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He devoured you like he was studying the effect of every single flick and swirl, listening for the change in your breathing, waiting for the exact sound you made when he—

“Oh—fuck, right there, don’t stop,” you whined.

He groaned into you, the vibration ricocheting through your whole body. One hand tightened on your hip while the other slipped lower — fingers teasing at your entrance, then easing inside, slick and perfect and deep.

“Spence,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”

That was all you needed to hear. You came hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath catching on his name like a prayer. He worked you through it and didn’t stop until you tugged at his hair, until you were too sensitive to bear it, until you gasped his name again.

When he stood, his face was flushed, mouth slick, eyes blown wide with want. You pulled him in and kissed him — messy, grateful, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Need you,” you said against his lips. “Now.”

He helped you unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough, and you reached for his cock the second you could. It was already hard and leaking, flushed red at the tip, thick in your palm.

“Jesus,” you whispered, stroking him once. “All this, just from going down on me?”

He moaned, twitching into your grip. “You have no idea.”

You stroked again, a little firmer, thumb circling the head. “I think I do.”

He cursed softly, pulling your hand away and nudging your thighs apart. “Need to be inside you.” He pressed himself forward teasingly against your entrance, dragging the tip of his cock through the mess he’d made of you.

“Let me see you,” he said. “Look at me.”

You did. Eyes locked, he slid into you in one long, slow thrust, filling you so deeply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders.

“Shit, you’re so tight—so warm.” His head dropped forward, forehead resting against yours. “You always take me so perfectly, angel.”

He stayed there for a beat — buried to the hilt, breathing hard, like he was trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. You curled your legs around his waist and rocked your hips, coaxing him into motion.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please. I need you to move.”

He did — Spencer always did exactly as you asked, especially when it came to this.

The first few thrusts were slow, exploratory. Deep. He rolled his hips like he wanted to find every new angle that could make you fall apart, and god, did he find them. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, and started to fuck you in a rhythm that was steady and filthy and simultaneously so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

You felt every inch of him — every drag, every push — and you moaned into the open space between you as he pulled back almost entirely before sliding in again, harder this time.

“You feel so good like this,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

His lips brushed yours between words — a soft kiss, then a firmer one, then a pause where you just breathed each other in. You could feel him everywhere. The stretch. The weight. The press of his body into yours, solid and overwhelming in the best way possible.

You slid a hand between you and traced your fingers across his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “You always fuck me like you love me.”

He stilled for a moment — just to get a good look at you — and then his mouth was on yours, kissing you like a promise, like that was the answer.

“I do,” he murmured into the kiss. “I love you so much.”

Then he thrust into you harder, deeper, making you cry out. His rhythm picked up — more urgent now, more desperate, hips snapping forward in a way that made you clutch at him, panting into his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint.

“You,” you gasped. “Just like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He groaned — a raw, helpless sound — and adjusted his angle, shifting his hips just enough to brush something deep inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh god—fuck. Spencer, I—”

“Right there?”

“Right there.”

His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, the pressure just right, the rhythm relentless. Pleasure climbed fast and hot, coiling tight in your belly, stealing your breath.

Spencer kissed you deeply then pulled back to watch the way your expression was twisting. “That’s it, angel. Good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

Your climax crashed through you harder than the last, raw and overwhelming, your body tightening around him in waves you couldn’t stop. You were still coming when he groaned and fucked into you deeper, faster, chasing his own high through the pulse of yours.

“Fuck, you’re still coming, aren’t you?”

You were. Still trembling, still squeezing around him when his rhythm broke. You managed a nod in response.

“Come with me then,” he gasped, fucking you through it. “Please, sweetheart—oh, fuck.”

And you did.

Your orgasms crested over each other like lightning striking twice — sharp and hot and completely blinding. You held his face in your hands and kissed him as you both fell, his hips grinding into you, cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a groan that sounded like surrender.

And when it was over, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other, shaking and breathless, his chest heaving against yours.

—

Somewhere during the haze of afterglow, the pan on the stove let out a loud, angry hiss.

Spencer’s eyes flew open. “The risotto!”

You burst into laughter, still wrapped around him. “Oh no.”

He gently lowered you off the counter, half-dressed and glowing, and the two of you stumbled over each other trying to get to the stove. He grabbed a spoon and stirred furiously while you added a splash of broth, then another.

Miraculously, the rice hadn’t burned. Browned a little — okay, maybe a lot — but not beyond saving.

“I think we stirred just enough before we got distracted,” he said, a little breathless, still flushed from everything that just happened.

You leaned against the counter beside him, giggling. “Are you saying we successfully had kitchen counter sex without totally ruining dinner?”

He grinned, nodding. “We’re a statistical anomaly.”

Spencer helped clean you up before you both redressed in scattered pieces of clothing, keeping close watch on the pot and on each other. Spencer stayed barefoot in his dress pants, and you pulled on his button-down, which hung past your hips and still smelled like him.

He stirred the rice while you read aloud from the recipe, skipping half the steps and adding your own commentary.

“‘Let simmer on medium-low until the remaining liquid is absorbed,’” you said, voice exaggerated. “Or until one of us gets impatient and turns up the heat.”

“Do not mess with the starch development, woman.”

You laughed, stealing a spoonful when his back was turned.

—

When it was finally done, you both sat on the floor with the pan between you, backs against the cabinets, legs tangled, sharing bites straight from the wooden spoon. The risotto was shockingly good despite the way it had nearly burned — creamy and bright, with just the right amount of lemon.

“I hate that you were right about this,” you mumbled around a mouthful.

“Victory tastes like Meyer citrus,” he said smugly.

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He wiped a bit of risotto from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then kissed the same spot. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re still here.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’d cook with you again,” you said quietly. “Even if you do read recipe blogs like crime scene notes.”

“That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given me.”

He rested his cheek against your hair. Around you, the kitchen smelled like butter and lemons and wine and something warmer you couldn’t quite name. The dishes could wait. The future could wait.

Tonight, you had warmth, and starch and citrus, and even better — each other.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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[byhuenii]

YOU-ology

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Syonpsis Bucky has been trying to understand you—your habits, your silences, your smiles. You speak in gestures more than words, in shared glances and cups of coffee left just right.The problem? He doesn’t know what a “love language” is. It sounds like a literal dialect. So naturally, he puts on his reading glasses, makes a study binder, and asks Peter Parker to teach him Gen Z slang, but he knows one thing for sure: if loving you means learning everything—he’s ready to graduate with honors.

(Inspired by TXT 'Love Language')

Word Count 2.6k

Tags + Warning Soft misunderstanding / no angst, fluff overload, accidental confession via ASL, soft!bucky

— YOU-ology Researching you-ology, all about you, from A to Z

“I can’t read your mind,” he says, voice low. “But I want to.”

The sunlight hits just right in the Brooklyn apartment. You’re sitting on the windowsill, nursing your third cup of coffee, and Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen counter like the world isn’t tilting every time you look away from him.

You don’t speak right away. You’re used to silence. He’s learning that.

He watches as you stir your coffee absentmindedly. You always stir five times. Clockwise. Never more, never less.

He’s been keeping track of things like that.

Like how you always set out two mugs in the morning, even when he doesn’t sleep over. How you keep an extra blanket folded at the end of the couch even though he insists he doesn’t get cold. How you hand him a protein bar without asking if he’s eaten.

You don’t say much. But you do a lot.

And Bucky? Bucky’s trying to figure out if this—whatever this is—means what he hopes it does.

He’s never been great with feelings. Too many years pretending he didn’t have any. But with you, he wants to get it right.

“I think I might be speaking the wrong dialect of love,” he tells Peter Parker seriously. “Is there a Duolingo for romance?”

Bucky has fought in wars, survived brainwashing, outpaced death—and yet, nothing has confused him quite like you.

Well, you, and this strange thing Peter said over lunch the other day.

"Oh, love language? Yeah, it's like how people give and receive affection. You gotta know your partner's love language to really connect.”

Love language?

Bucky had blinked at Peter from behind his coffee, the words rattling around like marbles in a tin can. “There’s a language for that?”

Peter had shrugged like it was obvious. “Yeah, there are five. Physical touch, words of affirmation, quality time, acts of service, and gifts. You know… the usual.”

Bucky had nodded slowly, like he understood. He did not understand. He thought "acts of service" was a military term.

Back home, Bucky had pulled out his reading glasses (the ones Sam doesn’t know he owns) and Googled:

“What is love language.” “Love language translation.” “How to know if you’re good at love.”

Twenty tabs later, he had a headache, a notebook full of bullet points, and a tiny post-it with your name surrounded by little doodled hearts he definitely didn’t mean to draw.

STUDY NOTES:

☑ Quality time → you always wait for him after missions

☑ Acts of service → you make his tea how he likes it (2 sugar, no judgment)

☑ Physical touch → light shoulder pats, a knee against his under the table, casual-but-not-casual hand touches

☑ Gifts → brought him a vintage Captain America comic once. He almost cried.

☑ Words of affirmation → okay this one’s harder. You’re quiet. You show love, but don’t say it much. Still… he catches you looking. That means something.

He circles the last one twice.

—

One morning, Bucky shows up to your door with a homemade dictionary titled:

“You-ology: A Comprehensive Field Guide to Understanding You” (Vol. 1 — Beta Edition)

It’s leather-bound. Handwritten. Indexed.

There’s a doodle of you on page one that looks suspiciously like it was done by a man lying on his stomach with his feet up and his legs kicking.

You flip through it, trying not to grin. “You made me a… glossary?”

Bucky pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’ve been decoding your signals.”

“You’ve been—what?”

“You say things without saying them. And I figured maybe if I could learn your dialect, I could say things back.”

You’re stunned. Speechless. Warm all over.

“Bucky,” you say, “you’re literally learning a love language like it’s a spy code.”

He squints. “It’s not?”

Once Bucky learns that love languages aren’t actual dialects, he’s a little embarrassed. For five whole seconds.

Then he decides:

“Fine. Then I’ll try all of them. Just in case.”

And he does. With alarming dedication.

Words of Affirmation: You wake up to a note on your fridge:

“You’re the smartest person I know. Even smarter than Banner. (Don’t tell him.) - B”

And another on your coffee cup:

“You deserve the world. But I brought you coffee instead. I hope that’s okay.”

When you turn around, he’s leaning on the counter, flushed red. “Too much?”

Acts of Service: You offhandedly mention your sink is dripping.

The next day it’s fixed. And your drawer doesn’t stick anymore. And your laptop’s updated. And your favorite hoodie that you thought you lost? Folded on your bed.

He salutes you on his way out like it’s a secret mission. “All in a day’s work, ma’am.”

Quality Time: He clears a Saturday. No missions. No distractions.

You watch four movies, eat terrible microwave popcorn, and fall asleep on his shoulder.

He doesn’t move. Not for hours. His arm goes numb. He doesn’t care.

He tells Sam later: “Best damn day I’ve had in decades.”

Gifts: He leaves a flower on your desk. Not a rose. A tiny forget-me-not. The tag says:

“This reminded me of your laugh. Kind of small. Kind of magic.”

You keep it in a book. He notices. Doesn’t say a word. Smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

Physical Touch: He used to flinch. Now? He leans in.

You touch his hair once and he forgets how to breathe. Next day, he wears it slightly messy. Hopes you’ll do it again.

One day, you reach for his hand. He holds it like it’s fragile. Like you’re holding him. His thumb rubs soft circles into your palm.

“Just… letting you know I’m here,” he murmurs.

You squeeze back. “I know.”

Peter Parker ends up being his unofficial relationship coach.

“Wait—what’s a ‘green flag?’” “Peter, what does ‘simp’ mean?” “Is it normal to dream about their smile for six nights in a row or is that brain damage?” “Be honest. Am I down bad?”

Peter: “...You’re down astronomical, sir.”

—

One rainy night, you both get stuck in the Tower’s media room during a storm.

Bucky fidgets with the sleeves of his hoodie. You notice he’s scribbled something in the corner of his You-ology notebook.

You tilt your head. “What’s that?”

He doesn’t look up. Just says, “It’s… new vocabulary.”

He passes you the notebook.

 He wants to understand you like he’s memorizing a secret language only the two of you speak.

He clears his throat. “I’ve been… trying to study you. Is that weird?”

Your brows raise slightly in amusement. “Study me?”

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his short hair. “Like—figure out what you’re saying when you’re not actually saying anything.”

You look at him now, eyes softening. “You’ve been reading my… ‘you-ology?’”

He laughs. It’s a quiet, rusty thing. Rare. But so warm when it happens.

“I guess I have,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “I know you like your coffee sweet but pretend you don’t. I know you always hum when you’re nervous, and you’ll never ask for help, but you’ll stay up until 2 a.m. helping me.”

His metal hand flexes. Nervous.

“And I know you look at me like I mean something… but I don’t know if I’m reading it right.”

Your voice is soft. “And what if you are?”

He stops.

His heart stops.

The sun hits your cheek just right, your smile so shy it breaks something open in him.

“I don’t talk much,” you add, “because I never really had to. Not with the right people. But I make sure they’re warm. That they eat. That they know I’m there, even when I can’t say it out loud.”

He swallows hard.

“Then I guess,” Bucky says slowly, stepping into your space, “I’ve been speaking your love language this whole time.”

You smile, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist. You trace the edge where skin meets metal. He shivers.

“And you?” you whisper. “What’s your language?”

He thinks. He’s never been asked that.

Maybe it’s not words. Maybe it’s quiet, safe mornings and the way he remembers your favorite color. Maybe it’s standing between you and the crowd even when there’s no danger. Maybe it’s showing up. Not running.

“I think,” he says, “it’s time. Sitting with you. Watching dumb movies. Letting you talk or not talk. Just… being.”

You nod. “Then you’ve been speaking mine too.”

His hand curls around yours.

Chapter 6: When I’m With You, Everything Makes Sense

Coffee = comfort

Silence = trust

Laughter = home

You = safe

You = mine? (still unsure. researching.)

Your throat tightens. “You big dork.”

He glances up, hopeful. “But… like, a lovable dork?”

You kiss his cheek. “Fluently lovable.”

Weeks later, you hand him a little leather journal.

On the front:

“Bucky-ese: A Guide to Loving You Back (YOU-ology)”

He flips it open.

Page One:

“Your love language is: All of them. But especially being seen. And I see you.”

He presses the book to his chest like it’s holy.

Then: “You wanna watch that stupid baking show and drink tea out of mismatched mugs like we’re 80?”

He grins. “That’s my favorite dialect.”

There’s no grand declaration. No fiery kiss.

Just soft, sacred quiet.

But that’s the thing about love languages. You don’t always need to hear them. Sometimes, you just feel them.

And Bucky?

He feels you.

—

Lately, he’s gotten really into studying TikToks and music videos you like. You walk in one night and he’s watching TXT’s “Love Language” choreo on repeat.

He’s squinting at the screen, rewinding and mimicking one particular moment — where the members make the “I Love You” sign in ASL, fingers shaped just right.

He sees you enter and lights up like a puppy who just figured out how to sit.

“Hey! I think I cracked it. That hand thing—like, this?” He does it—thumb, index, pinky up. “It’s like, modern slang for love, right? Like Gen Z emoji but with your hands?”

You pause mid-step.

Your heart thuds.

“Bucky… do you know what that actually means?”

He blinks. “Yeah! It’s like, ‘you’re cool’ or something? Peter said it’s used in dances a lot. You know, like ‘🤟 vibes only.’”

You stare at him. He’s still holding it up—so proud, so casual—like he didn’t just set fire to your entire nervous system.

“James.”

Your voice is soft. He stops.

You step forward slowly, take his hand in both of yours, and gently lower it.

“That sign isn’t slang,” you whisper, eyes searching his face. “It’s American Sign Language. It means ‘I love you.’ Literally. Not ‘cool.’ Not ‘vibes.’ Love.”

Silence.

His eyes go huge.

His mouth parts—then shuts. Then opens. Then shuts again. He is rebooting.

“…Oh.”

Then—quiet panic.

“…Oh.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait. Wait, I’ve been doing that for, like, three days. To you. While you were making dinner. On the couch. That one time in the elevator—”

You nod, very calm. “Yes. You told me you loved me 17 times. And yes, I counted.”

He is bright red. Apocalyptic red. He looks like he might spontaneously combust.

“I—I didn’t know—*I mean I do, I mean not like—*I mean obviously I do—” He’s flustered and fumbling, hands waving.

You grab them. Hold them gently. Steady.

“You really do?”

His voice is barely a breath. “Yeah.”

Your smile cracks through the tension like sunrise.

“Then say it again.”

You release one of his hands. He looks at you—heart on his sleeve, nerves frayed.

And slowly, deliberately, he lifts his hand again.

Thumb, index finger, pinky.

I love you.

And this time—he knows exactly what it means.

BONUS:LATER THAT NIGHT!!

He flops onto your couch face-down and groans into a pillow. “I confessed on accident like some kind of boyband backup dancer.”

You’re sitting next to him, stroking his hair. “It was perfect.”

He peeks up. “You sure?”

You grin. “Fluently perfect.”

He groans again—but he’s smiling.

—

“You’re my safe place, and I think I just proposed to you using the wrong hand sign, oh my god—can we rewind time or am I gonna die here on this rug?”

Bucky has a Plan™️.

After accidentally telling you “I love you” 17 times in ASL (without realizing it) and then on purpose (with realization), he’s decided he wants to learn a full phrase.

Something simple. Something sweet.

Something like:

“I’m happy with you.” Or maybe: “You’re my home.”

So he goes to Peter. Again.

Peter, to his eternal regret, pulls out a basic ASL learning app and walks Bucky through the signs.

Problem is, Bucky’s fingers don’t cooperate yet. His muscle memory is stubborn. His brain is full of you and short-circuiting.

What he meant to learn was:

“You make me feel safe.” (“YOU — MAKE — ME — FEEL — SAFE”)

What he accidentally signs, in a combination of nervousness and fumbled syntax, is:

“YOU — MAKE — ME — YOUR — WIFE.”

He doesn’t realize it.

You, who actually knows ASL, absolutely do.

It’s a quiet afternoon in your apartment. Rain against the window. Music low.

Bucky has that look again—the one where he’s clearly been practicing something all day and is about to do it nervously but dramatically.

You’re curled up on the couch when he stands in front of you, face serious, eyes way too shiny.

He clears his throat.

“Okay. I’ve been learning more. ASL. Because I wanna speak it the way you do. With your hands. With your heart.”

You melt. Instantly. He’s fidgeting, biting his bottom lip. He looks like a storm in a sweater.

Then he signs.

Slowly. Carefully.

“YOU — MAKE — ME — YOUR — WIFE.”

You freeze.

Your eyes go wide. Your heart? Gone. Brain? Empty.

Bucky is beaming.

“Did I get it right?”

You blink. “Um. Almost.”

“Yeah?” He looks so proud. “I practiced for, like, six hours. I wanted to say you make me feel… y’know, safe. Like… like I’m home.”

There is a pause.

Then you start laughing.

Not a mean laugh—a breathless, overwhelmed, you-are-so-stupidly-perfect-how-is-this-my-life laugh.

Bucky’s face crumples. “Wait. Did I say something weird?”

You can barely get the words out. “James Buchanan Barnes—you just proposed to me.”

He freezes.

Like—winter soldier frozen mid-mission freezes.

“…Wait. I what?”

You take his hands gently and show him.

“WIFE.” You do the correct sign. “SAFE.” You show the actual one. “Different hand shape.”

Bucky looks between your hands and his own like they’ve betrayed him.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“…Did I really just—?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“…Oh god.”

He immediately flops to his knees, hands in his hair, face in his palms. He’s red everywhere.

“I didn’t mean to propose. I can’t propose like that—there was no ring, no speech, no flowers—you were in socks—”

You blink. “Would it have been better if I wasn’t in socks?”

“YES. I mean NO. I mean—GOD.”

He’s pacing now. “Do we take it back? Is it binding? Is this like vampire rules where once you say it it’s done—I didn’t even kneel on purpose—”

You walk up to him.

Cup his cheeks.

He’s still spiraling.

“…Was it weird? Was it bad? Was it too soon? Do you wanna break up with me and then date me again so I can do it right?”

You shake your head, smiling.

“Bucky.”

He stops.

You lean in, press your forehead to his.

Then you sign, clear as day:

YES.

He freezes.

“Wait. Yes what?”

You say it out loud this time. Soft. Steady.

“Yes. I’ll be your wife.”

His breath leaves him like someone knocked it out with a hug.

“…Even though I proposed by accident?”

You kiss his nose.

“Especially because of that.”

Bucky buys a ring the very next day.

He still does the ASL sign for “I love you” every time you leave the room. You never get used to it.

And one day, he signs perfectly:

YOU — ARE — MY — SAFE — PLACE.

You tear up.

And then, just to mess with him, you sign back:

MAKE — ME — YOUR — HUSBAND.

He drops his drink.

You both laugh so hard you forget the world.

(You've got mail!) well well well..WELL WELL WELLLLLLLL. this has been fermenting in my drafts so uh hereee. its very fluffy and cute and so much grandpa barnes code. i whole heartily believe hes such a cutie like you can not convince me otherwise. stream txt love language tho! i rmbered i had this while i was kinda making a txt series avengers masterlist so uhhhh yeah! ALSO I HAD NO CLUE THAT HUENING KAI WAS TRYNA LEARN MY YOU-OLOGY IM BLUSHINGGG

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets

[shiningjustforreid]

stains

glimpses through fem!reader and Spencer’s relationship, through four instances of spills.

word count: 3.5k ish

a/n: i love the idea that for some of us, our personalities are made up all the things we like about the people we know and see. the idea that we’re all little bits and pieces of the things we love, and our experiences. this sort of explores that. (also this was mildly self indulgent because much like reader i’m a klutz!) <3

warnings/tags: 18+ for implied intimacy and canon typical violence for cm, pet names up the wazoo, reader is lowkey clumsy, Derek Morgan being himself, reader gets injured but she’s fine, who’s Maeve?, anxious love confession, Spencer adores reader so so much, S1 and S6 (ish) Spencer, Spencer in and post prison, love letters, marriage, kids, and briefly mentioned pregnancy, girl dad!Spencer Reid my beloved

- ✩ -

coffee - the first stain

To be honest, at first, he’s appalled.

The mug you set down on his desk isn’t his, so God knows whose mouth was on it last. You - somewhat carelessly - plopped it down on the file he’s working on, grinning that thousand watt smile he’s secretly become fond of. You’re wearing a sweater he noticed that brings out your eyes - a berry colored wool garment that he wishes you’d wear more.

“Hey! Morgan said you were exhausted. Thought I’d make you coffee.”

You pick it up, and set it down again, for emphasis, and a few drops make their way down the side and onto his case file, surely creating a cinnamon toned half circle that Hotch will not love. You don’t notice, watching his face.

“I made it with a bunch of sugar. Just how you like it, right?”

Suddenly, he realizes he’s been staring up at you, and then his mouth is moving faster than his brain.

“Yeah, I uh, I am pretty tired, now that you say it. Didn’t sleep well, long night, you know?”

You nod, sipping your own coffee, fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

“I get that. Goes with the job, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, yeah, I- wait, Morgan said that? Did he— what else did he tell you?”

You grin, coffee mug to lips again.

Stop staring, Reid.

“Nothing, really. Just said you needed a boost. Thought I’d provide.”

Titling your head a tad, you look down, a mild panic crossing your face when you see you’ve stained his file.

“Oh my God - Reid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

He’s quick to shake his head, hands coming up to reassure, his eyes wide.

“No no no, it’s okay, truly, I-I made a mistake on that one anyways. I’ll need to have a new copy printed, honest.”

Frowning, you look him over, searching for a tell, something to let you know whether he’s lying or not.

“Are you sure? I can do it, I’m not that behind on mine, I could—“

Before he thinks - you’d assume, with all his brains, he would - his hand grabs your arm, that gorgeous sweater under his finger tips, his eyes locked with yours. He says your name, once, his tone more serious than he’d like.

“It’s okay. Thanks for the coffee.”

You blink, and then a slow grin takes over your face.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more.”

For a moment, neither of you move, the heat of his hand burning through the wool on your arm, until he lets go like you’re the one scorching his skin, like he’s just realized that he’s touching you. You laugh a little, awkwardly, and he grins with the same level of unpracticed nerves, and you head back to your desk.

He picks up the mug, and sips slowly, closing his eyes for a moment - it does have a mountain of sweetness, the saccharine liquid coating his mouth but soothing his senses. When he sets it down again, it’s on a part of his workspace not occupied by case work. Just as predicted, the file that once housed the beverage now bears a semi circle of dried java. His pointer finger traces the stain, clockwise and then counter, for a moment, before he glances up in horror to see Morgan, of all people, signature smirk in place.

“‘Thanks for the coffee’. I don’t what’s sweeter, that coffee you just got or-“

“Shut up.”

He mumbles, face flushed, small smile on his face despite the teasing. He traces the coffee stain one last time before he hastily tucks the soiled paper away in a drawer.

blood - the second stain

“What do you mean you aren’t getting a response from her on comms?”

He’s so scared, he can’t even stop to think just how breathless and afraid he sounds, as he turns to Hotch, who fixes him with a look that clearly says, Calm down, Reid.

“It could just be non-functional, or got knocked off, or caught.”

Hotch says calmly, almost maddeningly so. Spencer swallows back the protests, the arguments that swell up in his throat like bile.

They’d created, and given the profile, and once Penelope had narrowed down the couple possible properties their potential unsub owned, you, Morgan, and Prentiss had headed into an abandoned storage facility, silent and careful.

Perhaps not careful enough.

The voice in his head reminds him, almost sadly, and he grits his teeth inside tightly drawn and chapped lips. Shaky hands smooth over his slacks, again and again, as his eyes stay fixed on Hotch.

“Ask-ask Morgan again. If she’ll respond.”

He’s given a frown, dark brows pulling together in a very typical Hotch-like manner.

“Is there a specific reason you’re asking about her, Reid?”

Is there? God, he doesn’t know. You bring him coffee nearly every morning, but perhaps that’s just kindness. Then there’s the chocolate sprinkled donuts that start his work day from time to time - maybe you just enjoy pastry treats, and think of him, when you buy one. Oh, and heaven forbid he forget the way you’ll come by his desk, and ask for clarification on a piece of paperwork or a procedure - that you probably could’ve asked Hotch or Prentiss about. You listen, active listening too, eye contact, body still - when his explanations turn into rambles about statistics about this type of criminal, your eyes watching his face, your own voice quiet.

Is he deluding himself? Seeing phantom romance where there’s maybe merely nothing but platonic affection? Blinking, once, he shakes his head in response to his Unit Chief’s question.

“No Hotch. I’m just worried, she-well, she hasn’t responded, and Morgan has, and Prentiss has, and I—“

Speak of the devil, Morgan’s voice comes through, demanding and tense.

“I need a medic. Prentiss and I secured the unsub, but, not before—“

Oh God. Not before that bastard got to you with a baseball bat, to the back of the head, you unaware before your face met the concrete below. Spencer’s not even asking for permission, snatching the keys to an SUV off the desk nearby and flooring the gas pedal.

You can’t die. Not before I—

Driving there is like hell - his lungs burn like there’s smoke and ash polluting them, and fear feels like too tame a word to describe the overwhelming panic that seizes his heart the more he drives.

I’m a fool, he thinks wildly, as his knuckles grip the steering wheel like a vice. A damn fool if I don’t tell her-

He’s barely got the thing in park before he’s scrambling out the driver’s side door, Converse immediately coated from the dusty ground outside the facility.

When he finds Morgan, and you, head lolled to the side, eyes closed, face pale as his must be, he falls to his knees with little regard for his own pain or discomfort. Morgan watches, careful, his voice gentle when he speaks, trying to calm his terrified friend.

“She’s still out, Reid. Just a nasty whack to the back of her head, okay? Easy.”

Trembling thumbs trace and hold your face, like it’s made of paper, as he swallows hard to keep the ache behind his eyes from becoming tear tracks down his face. He spots the gash, trickling crimson down your ashy skin, onto his shaking hand, but doesn’t move from holding your face. A deep contusion, furious and violet-toned, on the back of your head, makes the air leave his chest like he’s been choked.

Beautiful girl, I couldn’t stop this.

He could sob, and he nearly does, until you make some sort of confused noise and force open your eyes. Light rushes through his heart, rekindled warmth as he meets your eyes, and yet, he finds himself almost frozen.

“Spencer? What, I thought-“

“Listen to me.”

He forces himself to speak - he has too. What if he doesn’t get the chance, and all he ever gets to associate you with is caffeine, sprinkles, and a listening ear? No, that won’t do. Not in the slightest.

You meet his eyes, hazy, but listening. Morgan’s brows furrow, as he protests,

“God, man, she just woke up, let her-“

Ignored, as Spencer often finds himself doing when there’s more pressing matters than banter, than propriety.

“You need to know. That I-care about you.”

Blinking, you swallow, and suddenly, the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is slightly dimmed.

“That I can’t let another sunrise or sunset go by where you don’t know that I’d give you the stars if you’d let me. Where I can’t touch you, where I can’t make sure you understand that I’ll protect the light you have inside you until I’m burnt from it. You absolute angel, I-“

He shudders, almost afraid of his own earnest, and says your name like it’s a prayer.

“I love you. Even if you don’t return it, my heart is yours.”

Morgan’s grin is wide, and he shakes his head, almost in amazement. Your own face is flushed, as you hear sirens and medics, your voice crackly and rough from pain, but still, that smile he’s grown to associate with his heart fluttering graces your face.

“My heart is yours, Spencer. Glad you’re finally realizing how absolutely in love I am with you, you goose, even if it took all this.”

He laughs a little, almost deliriously, and smooths his trembling hand over your face.

“Guess the doughnuts weren’t enough, huh?”

You manage, and he shakes his head, quick to push back.

“They were. You’re always enough for me, no matter what you do.”

Could he sound any more smitten?

Procedure says he can’t go in the ambulance with you - there’s no need, you’re just getting stitches and some ice and he can visit you at the hospital, okay? But as he heads back to the - oh dear, still running, he really was in a hurry, wasn’t he? - car, Morgan glances sideways at him, signature smirk in place.

“Pretty boy, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Spencer stares down at his hands in his lap. They’re stained, and a grimace floods his face when he realizes it’s not dirt, but your blood, coating his fingertips. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he bites back a nastier retort than his friend deserves.

“I guess I did. I can’t believe it took-“

Morgan sighs, stopping Spencer’s inevitable incoming guilt filled rambles.

“Hush. You told her. That’s what matters.”

Glancing down at Spencer’s fidgeting hands in his lap, he presses on the gas.

“Let’s get there, so you can get that off you. I’m shocked you got all dirty, with your germ thing.”

Spencer shrugs, looking out the window.

“For her? I’d-I think I’d do anything. No matter what it stained.”

Soap finds his hands at the hospital, but he finds you soon after, unable to stop the gentle press of his lips to your forehead, or the soft murmurs that follow as he tries to remind himself that much more of your blood didn’t spill.

ink - the third stain

Emily has to physically hold you back in the court room, when they take him out, his eyes fixed on you, and the team, almost hopeless.

“Then your client is a flight risk.”

You’re quite literally fighting her, suddenly terrified in a whole new way for your boyfriend, tears staining your face.

“Bail is denied.”

She’s got both arms wrapped around you, her soft, ‘I know’s, and ‘I’m sorry’s barely heard over your own pleas for her to let you go.

“Defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.”

You hear someone sobbing - angry, fear-filled wailing - and until Emily has you turned around, your face in her shoulder, comes the realization that it’s you.

“He’s-Emily, what are we going to do, he’s not going to be okay, I-I can’t—“

The days that follow are dark. Going to the BAU without Spencer, let alone waking up without him beside you, is enough to send you into a spiral. You try to remind yourself that he’s worse off, that whatever hell he’s experiencing is ten times worse than your quiet fear and loneliness. So, to try to combat the weight that squashes your heart, you write him letters. Daily letters.

Spencer -

We have a case in Florida. Emily says it’ll be quick, but the Florida ones never are. We’d solve it ten times faster with you, you know? Geographical profiles are much harder alone, that’s for sure. The plane ride is quieter without you, and no one’s saying anything - you’d be saying something if you were here. Maybe that’s why we’re quiet. ♡

Every day. You don’t relent. If you can’t mail them in whatever town you get stuck in for work, you mail them in one big envelope when you get back home.

Spencer -

That case was rough. I cried twice - once when I spent over two hours staring at the map at the precinct and couldn’t find anything new, and once when Rossi accidentally snapped at me. He said he was sorry, that he’s ‘on edge’ right now - but aren’t we all? Emily’s working really hard to try to get you home. I wish I could come see you. I hope you’re safe. I love you. ♡

When you learn that he didn’t put you on the list of people who can visit him in that concrete hell, you almost lose what’s left your nerve, breaking down in Emily’s office, shaking. You don’t know whether you’re furious, in despair, or numb to it all.

“Emily, why? Why doesn’t he want me to come see him? If it was me, I’d want to see him every day, I wouldn’t want him to leave!”

She sighs, her face tight. Twisting your hands in your lap, you search her face for answers. Nausea claws at your throat.

“Honestly, my guess is it’s just that. He knows that if you come, he won’t want you to leave. It’ll hurt too much.”

“But Tara, and you, and his mother, and-

Spencer -

I think I understand. Sort of. I feel like there’s this pressure in my chest, and I can’t ever fully breathe. Not since you’ve been away. The weight on my heart never goes away. Missing you more every hour. ♡

Despite the slew of handwritten letters that reach him, you only get one back, after you and the team search his apartment - you keep it in your purse pocket, folded safe, and read it whenever your throat feels tight and your eyes burn. His untidy scrawl is enough to make you feel like a part of him is actually inside this letter - like he’s reading it himself to you, interwoven in the fibers of the paper.

Angel -

I wanted you to know I’m in solitary now - I made sure of it. I know you want me safe, almost more than I do. I love you beyond what I can say, my beautiful girl.

Yours, Spencer.

One night, you’re curled up in Spencer’s apartment, writing him a letter, as is your nightly routine. The ink stains the side of your hand now - an ever-present reminder of the fact that your heart constantly feels ripped out of your body. After addressing the letter to him, your phone buzzes - Emily.

Oh God.

“Hey. We figured out that- oh, you don’t care about all that. He’s coming home.”

She doesn’t need to tell you twice. Paper and ink pen tumble to the floor as you shove your feet in shoes and snatch your jacket off the coat tree. Tension is coiled in your body the entire way there. Ink still stains the side of your hand, a permanent reminder that every time you needed to just tell him something - you had to pick up pen and paper.

Heart in your throat, you push open the door with shaking hand. There he stands, your Spencer. He’s still him, you think, although his face is tight, and sleep clearly hasn’t been something he’s seen much of.

Three months.

You walk in slowly, body trembling. One hand reaches up, runs through the curls that have grown so long.

“Your hair.”

You breathe out, voice barely audible. He nods, his face almost impassive. Tentative fingers trail down his cheek, make a path to hold his face. He nods, and then, you notice his eyes are misty.

“My angel.” He murmurs, almost in awe, and takes you in his arms with a fervor. Crushed against him, face buried in the cool fabric of his shirt, you bite back a sob, arms threaded around him.

“No. Cry, my darling girl, I’m— I’m tired of doing it alone.”

How could you refuse him? Just hearing his voice, let alone the relief you feel at being touched by him again, is enough to satisfy you for days, you think. For a bit, all that’s heard is uneven breaths, until he speaks, his voice rough and shaky.

“I need to see your face.”

He pulls back, face shining with tears, and you swallow back the lump that just won’t leave your throat.

Calloused hands - less soft than you remember - take yours, and then he frowns.

“Your hand.”

Your right hand is held up, inspected, like the blue on the inner side of it is red instead. You smile, laughing a little, still breathless.

“Ink, baby. Just ink. I was writing you a letter.”

He shakes his head, rubbing at the navy stain with his thumb, as if that will remove it.

“I would’ve kept writing. Never given up. You’d be sick of letters from me.”

“Never, sweet girl. There is no part of me who could ever find himself sick of you.”

After you’ve come home, he wastes no time in pressing less than tender kisses to your mouth and jawline and the column of your throat. It’s not until he’s reacquainted himself with your contours and the dip of your hipbones and the soft way you gasp out his name when he does that, that has you next to him, so he can see your face.

He needs to see your face.

Hand in his, still faintly stained from ink, he examines it, and then, softly, hesitantly, he meets your eyes.

“You know ink poisoning is actually rare? Pens we use are designed with non-toxic ink, to decrease any chances of fatal ingestion.”

You never mind his information sharing, but your eyebrows furrow tiredly at his timing.

“Spence, I’m not saying I don’t care, but we just— you just—”

“Please. Let me look at the woman I love and pretend for a few moments that my damn eidetic memory won’t play back the last three months of my life like some wretched tape.”

You let him, as he holds your cobalt-colored hand and your eyes droop, his soft voice telling you that rubbing alcohol will probably get that stain out. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

paint - the final stain

“Spence! Can you get paint water out of carpet with any amount of ease?”

You call your husband, turning back to your mildly sheepish five year old, whose water color adventure on the coffee table has quickly gone south.

In walks Spencer, not even noticing the overturned hard plastic cup or purpley-blue spill, eyes going straight to his daughter’s nearly finished picture.

“Beautiful, Penny. Looks incredible.”

He murmurs, bending to be eye level with a beaming Penelope, hand on her arm, before turning to you, mild tension and stress lining your face. His smile is gentle. It’ll wash out.

“Rubbling alcohol, angel.”

You nod, tension easing from your shoulders.

“We’ll go get it - we always clean our messes up, right lovely?”

He asks your daughter, lifting her with practiced care. She giggles, nodding, as they head from the room, letting you take a breath and set up the paints and picture in a new location - the kitchen table, with some newspaper tucked underneath because she’s five, and you of all people know spills happen.

Once she’s set up again - she really is so quiet when she’s engrossed in something - you find yourself curled up with Spencer on the couch, head on his shoulder, watching her paint and sing-song to herself.

“Think she’s lonely?”

Spencer asks, turning to you, his grin wide.

Troublemaker.

“Hmm. I think you just like me pregnant.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Maybe. Maybe I don’t want Penny to be sad, ever.”

Silence, then, for a bit.

“She’s so much like you.”

Spencer muses, his fingers drawing patterns on the side of your sweater. You smile, fondly.

“You say that because I’m clumsy. She was dancing around with that paintbrush, that cup of paint water stood no chance.”

“No, I say that because she shines like you. No matter what tries to dim her.”

That night, when you peek in your daughter’s door to see Spencer reading her A Little Princess, she’s propped up against him, hazel eyes barely open. Affection swells in your chest as his voice carries on, even though she’s clearly almost in dreamland. In you walk, pressing a kiss first to her forehead, then Spencer’s. He smiles gentle up at you - this is his favorite time of the day - and keeps reading.

“Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words, and everything in the world understands it.”

Once you’re back in the living room, you check on the earlier spill from today. All that’s left is a barely visible blue spot, no bigger than a quarter.

“No one will see it but you.”

Steadying, warm arms wrap around your ribs, and soft lips press against the side of your neck, washing away any insecurity about the state of your carpet.

“Besides, stains aren’t bad, sweet girl. They’re little reminders that things happened, good things, or bad things that brought us together. Memories, attached to splotches, attached to wounds, to paper, to skin. How convenient, to carry our most impactful moments like heaven-sent tattoos.”

[luvendiary]

in between

fred weasley x reader

summary: everyone knew you hated fred weasley and that he hated you back. but maybe, you need another form of distraction amidst umbridge's reign of terror. warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. 5.5k words. suggestive content ahead, foul language.

You hated Fred Weasley.

Genuinely, thoroughly, and without exception.

His smirk made your eye twitch. His laugh made your skin crawl. And the way he always had something clever to say—loud enough for everyone to hear—made your blood boil in ways you never admitted out loud.

He, of course, returned the favor. You were too uptight, too smug, too convinced you were always right. He lived to wind you up.

And it worked. Every. Bloody. Time. 

You knew he hated you back. It was undeniable, and pretty much the whole school was aware of the fact.

Usually careless and academically-driven Fred Weasley, somehow became an encyclopedia the moment you shared the same class as him. 

His favorite hobby?

Making sure everyone knew when you made a mistake.

It could be the smallest of things. Like miscounting the amount of counter-clockwise rotations it took for a potion to brew, or even posing a question the wrong way.

He was always there with the correct response at the ready.

You wanted to pluck every single one of his red hairs out of that dense head of his. 

The only thing stopping you, really, was the fact that Professor Flitwick had threatened to dock house points if you hexed him in class again.

So instead, you glared. Constantly. With full, seething intent.

And Fred? He basked in it. Thrived off it. Walked into a room and made a point to sit directly in your line of sight, just so he could smirk when you inevitably rolled your eyes. He passed you notes in class, folded into little origami frogs that said things like “Don’t be sad. I can help you open a book sometime.”

You never responded. But once, you slipped the note into your bag instead of ripping it up.

You told yourself it was evidence. Just in case you ever needed proof he was deranged.

Despite the constant state of anger he put you in, you were sort of thankful for your twisted dynamic. With Umbridge changing every possible thing around Hogwarts, your hatred towards Fred Weasley was a constant you could always count on.

And likewise, you could always count on him hating you just as much.

“So when are you and Fred Weasley getting married?”

You nearly choked.

“What?”

You were halfway through your toast when your friend had decided to conveniently drop her copy of The Daily Prophet and looked you dead in the eye.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Don’t act coy. Everyone knows that hate is just love misplaced. You’re more than halfway to passionately declaring your love for each other in the pouring rain.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“You two nearly started a war over a bloody ink spill in Charms yesterday. I’m just saying... the sexual tension was palpable.”

You scoffed, setting your toast down a little too forcefully. “There’s no tension. He’s just insufferable. And I hate him.”

“Mhm,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “That’s why he pulled your chair out in herbology.”

“He did it to distract me from the fact that he had enchanted a cactus to look like a mandrake.”

“He didn’t need to pull out that chair.”

You pressed your lips together and narrowed your eyes at her. “The point remains. I hate him, and he hates me. Simple as that.”

Your friend snorted. “And yet you always find him. Doesn’t matter what corridor, what time of day — if Fred’s nearby, you look like you’re about to draw your wand or kiss him senseless.”

“I would never—”

“Please don’t say ‘never,’” she interrupted. “Because if I have to watch another round of ‘Oh no, there’s only one seat left and we’re both angry about it but we’ll sit next to each other anyway’ without it ending in a snog, I’m going to hex someone.”

You gaped at them. “He hexed my quill last week!”

“And you tripped him into Filch’s mop bucket. You two are basically married,” Sarah said through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

You glanced back toward the Gryffindor table without thinking. Fred was mid-laugh, hair sticking up in all directions, gesturing wildly with his fork. George leaned into him to say something, and Fred’s head turned, just enough to catch your stare.

He grinned. Slow. Knowing.

You turned back around fast enough to give yourself whiplash.

“There is nothing going on between us,” you said firmly, grabbing your book bag like it had personally offended you. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Right,” she said as you stood up. “So when you go not meeting him near the third-floor broom cupboard before Transfiguration, tell him hi for me.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

You also didn’t slow down as you turned toward the corridor that led, inconveniently, to the third-floor landing.

You weren’t going to the third-floor corridor.

Obviously.

You just… happened to be walking in that direction. With your bag slung over one shoulder, and a very clear, very rational list of excuses prepped in your head — in case anyone asked why you were drifting entirely the wrong way from the library.

You’d gotten as far as the staircase when everything promptly went to hell.

You heard someone call out your last name. You almost didn’t recognize it, not with the sickly sweet voice that pronounced it.

You turned slowly to see Umbridge gliding toward you like a particularly smug pastry.

She blinked up at you with that same nauseating smile she always wore when she was about to ruin someone’s day. “What is the meaning of this?”

You frowned. “I’m… going to the loo?”

“Not where you’re going,” she said, voice going falsely sweet. “What is the meaning of this?” She gestured at you — more specifically, the faint wrinkle in your skirt and the fact that your tie was a little loose. You blinked.

“You’re reproaching me for my tie?”

Her smile thinned. “It’s important that students reflect the values of the school. Sloppiness is infectious.” She gave you a once-over, her eyes lingering on your undone top button like it was a personal insult. “I’ll be making a note of this.”

You ground your teeth. “Understood, Professor.”

“You’re welcome,” she said brightly, before flouncing off down the corridor, heels clacking like a metronome of doom.

By the time you made it to the third floor, you were fuming.

You weren’t even planning to stay — just walk past, glance around, maybe scoff if he was there — and go on with your day, all while pretending the small ache behind your ribs wasn’t disappointment.

But of course, he was there.

Fred Weasley, leaning against the wall like he owned it. Arms folded. Shirt rumpled. That infuriating glint in his eye that said he’d been expecting you — and that he’d bet actual galleons you’d come.

You stopped in your tracks.

He raised a brow. “If it isn’t my favorite buzzkill.”

You glared. “Don’t start.”

“Why? Did Snape give you something lower than an O?”

You didn’t respond. Just tried to shoulder past him. He stepped into your path with the sort of casual, practiced ease that made you want to hex him on instinct.

“You look tense,” he said, mock-concerned. “Should we snog about it?”

“I will shove you down the nearest staircase.”

He gave a low whistle, eyes dragging over you slowly. “Merlin. Someone did get told off today.”

“Let me guess,” you snapped. “You somehow dodged every dress code rule in existence again and still managed to convince her you’re charming?”

“I am charming.”

You scoffed, starting to walk again — or trying to. He fell into step beside you, because of course he did.

“You’re being unusually snippy,” he said. “Even for you.”

“Drop it, Fred.”

“Oh no. I’m invested now. Did someone crinkle your socks? Take points from your soul?”

“I said drop it.”

That made him pause. Just for a second. Enough to glance over and actually look at you. Really look.

You were stiff. Jaw set, lips thin, fists clenched tight around the strap of your bag. Your brow was still furrowed from that run-in with Umbridge, and your eyes — even under all that fire — looked tired.

His voice dropped, softened without losing its bite. “I hate her too, you know.”

You said nothing.

“You could yell at me a bit. Throw something. Always cheers you up.”

“I’m not in the mood to banter.”

He studied you for a beat longer — walking backward now, hands in his pockets, annoyingly steady.

“Fine. No banter.”

“Good.”

“We’ll skip straight to the snogging then.”

You let out a frustrated sound and moved to push past him again — but this time, he caught your wrist. Lightly. Not enough to hold you there. Just enough to stop you for a beat.

There was still that annoying twinkle in his eye.

“I know what it is,” he started, as if his previous agreement meant nothing to him. “All that ink from chewing your quill finally made it up to your brain.”

That did it for you. You snapped.

You turned to look at him sharply and nearly knocked the air out of him with your bag swinging along.

“You are the most insufferable—” you shoved him back against the wall, voice rising with each word, “—dimwitted, brainless, pathetically stupid person I’ve ever met, Fred Weasley.” You punctuated each insult with a sharp jab to his chest.

A smirk made its way up to his face.

You continued to jab his chest with every syllable, the rising tide of your temper pouring out like you’d been waiting weeks to unleash it.

“And arrogant! You walk around like you own the bloody castle, like every corridor is lucky to have you strut through it—”

“Well, they are,” Fred murmured, but didn’t move.

“—and your jokes? Not funny. Never funny. I don’t know how anyone can stand you—”

“You forgot charming,” he added helpfully.

That only made you jab harder. “You talk too loud, take up too much space, always there, always talking, and when you’re not, you’re just looking at people like you’ve already thought of five different ways to ruin their day—”

“That’s just efficiency.”

“You are a walking headache. An unbearable, smug, chaotic disaster of a human—”

“Big words,” he noted, nodding solemnly. “That quill ink really did make it to your brain.”

That was it.

You opened your mouth to deliver what was surely going to be your magnum opus of verbal takedowns, when he grabbed your face with both hands and crashed his mouth to yours.

It wasn't tentative. It wasn't gentle.

It was desperate. Infuriating. Unfair.

And incredible.

Your protest vanished in your throat. Your bag slipped off your shoulder. Your knees buckled just slightly as your eyes fluttered back, overwhelmed and knocked breathless by the sudden, heated contact. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting—suffering—for this exact moment. And Merlin help you, you kissed him back like you'd been waiting just as long.

The kiss deepened fast — too fast, too hard — teeth clashing in the scramble, hands pulling like you couldn’t get close enough. His fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your head back just slightly, and your hands fisted the front of his robes like you wanted to rip the very smugness off his chest.

There was nothing gentle about it. No easing in, no careful pacing.

It was all heat and teeth and frustrated breath.

He kissed like he argued — full-body, relentless, unyielding. And you matched him beat for beat, furious and flushed, pressing forward until your spine hit the stone wall and even that didn’t stop you. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, and it was only then you realized your entire face was burning.

You pulled back, just barely, lips bruised and breaths tangled. Both of you stood there— flushed, panting, wide-eyed. Neither said a word. Just stared.

And then, without thinking, without asking, you grabbed his tie, turned on your heel, and yanked him into the nearest classroom.

The door slammed behind you, echoing in the quiet space, and you didn’t wait. Your bag hit the floor, books spilling open like casualties. You backed him against a desk and shoved him down with one firm push to the chest.

He grinned like he couldn’t believe his luck. You straddled him before he could speak — legs on either side of him, fingers already curled into the collar of his shirt — and kissed him again.

Hard.

His hands found your hips immediately, grounding, anchoring. You kissed like you hated him. Like you were still yelling at him, only this time with your mouth pressed to his, your hands tugging at his hair, his arms locked around you like he wasn’t letting go.

You weren’t thinking. You weren’t planning. You were just moving, lost in the fire and the friction and the sharp thrill of giving in.

And he was just as gone as you were.

It didn’t stop after that.

In fact, that first kiss set a precedent neither of you dared to break.

Between detentions and breaks, you and Fred found each other. In empty classrooms, behind forgotten tapestries, once even in the locked supply closet near the Astronomy Tower. Always quiet. Always quick. Always careful.

It wasn’t romantic. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

It was stress relief — like cracking your knuckles or punching a wall. Only far more physical. Far more complicated.

Because Umbridge was draining the life out of the castle. Every corridor felt greyer, every rule more suffocating than the last. But in those stolen moments, with Fred’s hands in your hair and his lips on your neck, it felt like you could breathe again. Just for a second. Like you could fight back in your own way — messy, and impulsive, and hidden.

You still hated him, of course.

He still made pointed comments in class. Still tried to out-answer you, out-joke you, out-glare you in every shared space. And you gave it right back — sharp words, sharper looks. However, there was something different now. Behind every insult and sharp comment there was knowing. A secret you two held. Every interaction now came with the most imperceivable of smirks. Something just for the other.

 No one suspected anything. Why would they? You were oil and water.

But behind closed doors? You didn’t argue with him. You didn’t fight.

You kissed like it meant nothing. And maybe it didn’t.

Or maybe that was just another lie you were telling yourself.

It didn’t matter how loudly you swore you hated him — your body never seemed to get the message.

A week after that first kiss, he found you pacing outside the Charms classroom after a particularly grueling inspection by Umbridge. You were seething, lips pressed so tightly together they’d gone pale.

Fred didn’t say anything. Just brushed past you like he hadn’t noticed — then slid a note into your hand with the subtlety of a practiced criminal.

Third floor broom cupboard. Five minutes.

You almost crumpled it on instinct.

But five minutes later, you were pressed between the cold stone wall and the full length of his body, his breath hot against your neck and his hand slowly making its way up your skirt as he whispered, “Thought you weren’t coming.”

You tugged him down by his tie in response.

There were no pleasantries. No pretenses.

Your fingers fisted in the back of his jumper, and his mouth moved like he was trying to erase every trace of frustration off your skin. It was rushed and quiet and absolutely necessary.

The next time, it was in the stacks of the library — far back, behind the spell damage section no one visited.

Fred caught your wrist just as you turned a corner, pulled you into the shadows, and kissed you like he’d gone days without breathing. Which, knowing your collective stubbornness, he probably had.

He tasted like peppermint and ink, and you hated how easy it was to give in. How natural it felt to let his hands settle on your waist, slide under the hem of your sweater.

You broke apart only when footsteps passed too close. He rested his forehead against yours, breath ragged.

“I still hate you,” you murmured as you trailed kisses up his neck.

“Oh, I know,” he replied, his voice breathy and so deliciously needy. “I’m just incredibly tolerable with my tongue in your mouth.”

The candle’s flickering light cast restless shadows across the cramped room, illuminating the stillness in bursts. Between the rustling sheets and the low hum of breath, Fred’s hands moved over your skin with practiced ease. But something was wrong. His rhythm faltered, brow drawing in as he noticed your eyes fixed on the ceiling, unfocused and far away.

He’d been kissing his way down your chest, expecting the usual quiet gasps and soft sighs. Instead, silence. He lifted his head, searching your face.

“Hey,” he murmured, as he climbed up your body, “you’re miles away.”

You forced a tight smile, just enough to pretend. “I’m fine,” you lied, brushing hair behind his ear. “I just… need the distraction.”

You tugged him closer and kissed him — slow, almost purposeful — like you were trying to summon the feeling back. He kissed you back, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t fade. His hand stilled against your shoulder.

Fred didn’t say anything at first, but the hesitation in his touch grew heavier, more careful. He could feel it—the way you weren’t really here, the way your mind was somewhere else entirely. He paused, his hand still on your shoulder.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath.

You swallowed hard, the weight of the day crashing down all at once. You could feel tears starting to prick your eyes. So you turned your head away from him.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice breaking slightly. “You can go if you want.”

Fred stayed still for a moment, watching the faint tremble in your jaw as you looked away. He flipped over and laid next to you, staring at the ceiling. 

“I am tired too,” he said after a while.

You didn’t answer. Instead, your hands clenched the sheets, knuckles white. The tension in the room thickened.

“Of her, of Dumbledore leaving, of the stupid Ministry and the Minister…”

You chuckled sardonically. 

“But there’s one thing that helps me,” he continued as he moved his head to look at you.

“Yeah? What’s that?” you asked.

“You.”

You chuckled once again. 

Your cunt more like it.

“That’s nice Fred.”

“I mean it,” he said as he leaned on his elbow. “Not just this,” his hand traced your arm. “But every time you defy her, I watch a small part of her die inside. It’s beautiful.”

You silently turned to look at him. His hair was falling softly over his eyes —his beautiful green eyes— and his freckles looked like constellations.

You pressed your lips together. 

“Can I tell you something?”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours.

“Anything.”

A pause.

“I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I hate you anymore.”

His gaze flickered down to your lips. “We can...let that count for something,” he whispered before closing the gap.

This kiss was a first. 

So different from all the thousand others. This one was soft and full of longing and sadness. 

You reciprocated almost immediately, allowing his hands to roam up and down your body. Allowing him to explore it in a different way than he had until now. Slower and vehemently. More intentional, and without a rush. As if he was trying to memorize it. 

You felt him respond to every sound that escaped your throat, and to every movement you made. 

You could feel the fear still, creeping at the edge of your mind. But you pushed it away. More so, Fred did. There was no time for fear, not when his mouth made your mind melt.

You’d become very good at pretending.

Pretending to be busy, pretending to be tired, pretending you hadn’t seen him enter the corridor a few steps behind you. The truth was, ever since that night you’d been unraveling in silence.

It wasn’t supposed to be real.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like safety. Or comfort. Or like the weight in your chest had finally found a place to rest.

It was supposed to be heavy and quick and fleeting. Like a wave dragging you to shore forcefully. 

So you kept your distance.

You skipped the corridors he usually took. Sat far back in the library. Left breakfast before he showed up. It was easier this way. Safer.

Until it wasn’t.

You rounded the corner to the empty courtyard just behind the Astronomy Tower, expecting silence.

Instead, you walked right into Fred Weasley.

Literally.

He didn’t step aside when he saw you coming. He didn’t say your name gently or with restraint. His arms folded as you nearly stumbled back from the collision.

“We’re really doing this then?” he asked flatly. “Avoidance? That’s your grand plan?”

Your stomach twisted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” he said, dry. “You’ve just happened to be in a hurry every time I’ve come within six feet of you. You just conveniently forgot how to make eye contact.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced past his shoulder, already planning your exit.

“Don’t,” he said, stepping into your line of sight again. “Don’t run.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in. “And I get it. Trust me, I do. But you don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen. That night—” He paused, jaw tightening. “That wasn’t nothing. And I think you know that.”

Your mouth opened.

“Don’t even bother denying it. I was there, I remember.”

Fred’s eyes flicked down, as if he was assessing you. 

You looked up at him, trying not to break under his heavy gaze. Trying to put up the best defence. 

He just chuckled, as if your attempt amused him. You saw his tongue run over his teeth as he peered around the corridor with a sardonic smile.

“You made this sound—right here,” he said after a while, tapping his finger just under his jaw. “When I kissed your neck.”

Your cheeks burned instantly. “Fred—”

“And your hands,” he continued, almost conversational now, as if he were reciting a memory from a textbook. “Kept slipping under my shirt, like you couldn’t get close enough. I remember that part too.”

You turned sharply away from him, arms crossed tight, more to stop yourself from giving him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“You’re such an arse.”

He stepped closer.

“And when I went lower,” he murmured, like he was trying to piece it together aloud, “you couldn’t stay still. Had to hold you in place.” He leaned in a little. “And then you made that sound again.”

You closed your eyes.

He was too close. Too familiar. Too much.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

“Because you’re pretending it didn’t mean anything,” he replied, voice steadier than it had any right to be. “And I think it meant something to both of us.”

You bit your lip hard, like maybe pain would swallow the feeling in your chest. It didn’t. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you said finally, turning around to face him. Quiet. Honest. “Just tell me what you want.”

Fred didn’t smile. Not really.

He just looked at you and shrugged one shoulder.

“I want you to stop running. I want you to stop acting like I imagined it,” he said.

His voice dropped a little.

“I want you to want me when it’s not just about distraction.”

“Merlin…” you whispered, voice thick. “If I do that…what then? You want me to believe you’ll drop everything else? All of them? You know how the girls look at you. I’ve seen it. I don’t believe you’ll just leave all of that behind… for this.”

You were reaching now, digging for any excuse to keep distance. You could hear it in your own voice.

Fred’s jaw twitched.

Not with anger — with restraint.

He didn’t move aside.

He didn’t back down.

He stepped forward — right into the wall of distance you’d been desperately trying to hold up — until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“You think I give a shit about how they look at me?” he asked, voice low and edged now. “You think any of that means a damn thing to me when it’s you I keep looking for in every bloody room?”

You scoffed. “You say that now.”

“I’ve been saying it,” he snapped. “You just haven’t been listening.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t get it.” He jabbed a finger toward you, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You think I want easy? I don’t. I want you. Even when you’re pushing me. Even when you’re impossible.”

You looked away, jaw clenched.

“This—” you motioned between you two, voice rising, “this would never work. Look at us. Even now, we’re fighting.”

“Yeah,” he said. “We fight. You push. I push back. That’s who we are. So what?”

“Is that really what you want? We’ll be miserable!”

His face didn’t fall — but it sharpened.

And then he stepped even closer, crowding your space, his voice suddenly calm. Steady. Terrifyingly sure.

“That’s exactly what I want.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“That’s exactly why it would work,” he said. “Because I don’t want someone who’s going to sit quietly and nod along. I want someone who makes me earn it. Someone who tells me when I’m being a prat. Someone who’ll jab me in the ribs and call me an arse and still look at me like you did that night.”

You opened your mouth but he didn’t let you speak.

“You think I don’t know you?” he continued, louder now. “I know exactly who you are. You fight because you care. You push because you’re scared. And you run—because deep down, you feel something. And you think if you admit it, it’ll ruin everything.”

You stared at him, breath unsteady.

But he wasn’t finished.

“So go ahead. Push me again. Tell me I’m wrong. But it won’t make it untrue. And it sure as hell won’t make me stop wanting you.”

The silence between you crackled.

And then you did what you always did when you didn’t want to admit he was right — you shoved him, palm flat against his chest, more bark than bite.

“You’re still an arse,” you hissed, eyes burning.

He laughed — short and sharp, and genuine.

“And you’re still pretending that’s not why you like me.”

And just like that, something in you broke open. Not like glass, not sharp or shattered.

Like a dam.

You surged forward, fists curled in the front of his jumper as you kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up — and maybe it was.

Fred stumbled back a half-step from the force of it, then grinned into your mouth as his arms wrapped tightly around you, dragging you in with all the force of someone who’d never let go.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was messy and fast and a little angry.

And it felt like you.

Like something that might actually last.

[chilling-seavey]

I got a request for George, watching him teach your son how to play backgammon while you nurse your newborn daughter

↳ A/N The sweet vision this put in my mind just needed to be written down! I still feel like I didn't write it as nicely as I can picture it but I hope you guys enjoy <3 a little fluff for your Friday night

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 1.6k

↳ Warnings: None, it's unedited if that needs a warning lol

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the once vibrant blue sky softened into a gentle shade of periwinkle. The early evening was tranquil, with the rhythmic lapping of waves against the yacht’s hull filling the warm Mediterranean air with a soothing cadence.

You were surprised your son was still going after a full day of playing in the sun. He had spent hours leaping off the yacht into the crystal-clear ocean (only after you and George had spent at least an hour convincing him that no sharks would be involved), zooming around on the jet ski with George at a toddler-friendly speed, and concocting endless games on deck—games that always seemed to involve a lot of running. Despite a brief hour’s nap in the cabin, too excited to miss out on any fun, he was still going strong well past dinner.

With bedtime approaching, and in desperate need of winding him down, George struck a deal: he’d trade another swim in the sea for a fun game on the yacht. Out came the backgammon board—George’s beloved set, worn with years of use—ready to be set up on the deck table. Your son knelt on a chair, eyes wide with anticipation, his tiny hands eagerly reaching for the round pieces as George arranged them, trying his best to keep the game intact before it even began, while explaining the rules to your curious two-and-a-half-year-old.

You smiled fondly at him from your spot on the bench beside George—who was seemingly permanently shirtless on this vacation and in only his swim shorts—with your two week old baby daughter fussing in your arms. Her sweet face was scrunched up in displeasure, hungry and wanting to eat, until you finally got her to latch onto your breast with practiced ease and she quieted right down with a content sigh. You gently brushed your hand over her light downy hair and cradled her comfortably in your arms, supporting her head as she startled to suckle and swallow contentedly. 

From beside you, already a bit into describing the game to your son, George pointed to one of the two dice on the board, asking him, “How many dots is this?”

Your son stared at the two dice on the mahogany board, his little lips pursed in thought. He shifted on his knees on his chair before glancing across at George and mumbling a, “Two?”

“Yes, good boy, this one’s two.” George then moved his finger to point to the second one, “What about this one?”

“Three.”

“Not quite. Try again?”

“Five.”

“That’s it. That’s five.” George folded his arms on the table top, glancing down to the board set up between them, “So you can pick any of your white pieces and move them two spots or five spots to start. Which one do you want to move?”

The little boy analyzed the board for a moment, eyeing the way the white and brown pieces were so meticulously arranged in a pattern. Finally, he pointed to one of his white pieces, his little index finger poking the circle.

“Okay, and how many spots would you like to move that piece? Two or five?”

“Two.” your son said matter-of-factly.

“Two, okay.” George leaned forward again, resting his finger at the tip of the point on which the little boy’s choice piece was resting, “So we’ll count two triangles counter-clockwise to find its new spot.”

Although your toddler hadn’t the foggiest idea what ‘counter-clockwise’ meant, he nodded at the words of his father and followed him trustingly. When George moved his finger to the next point beside the first, the two counted together, “One…”

And then the next one, “Two.”

George moved your son’s chosen piece to that new point. The little boy beamed proudly. 

“Brilliant.” George told him, “Now you still have five spots to move. Which white piece do you want to move five spots?”

Another glance at the board and your son pointed to another random white piece, “That one”

“Okay, count five triangles with me.”

Again, George rested his finger at the tip of the chosen point, moving spot by spot as they counted together to reach five. Except, the point on which they landed, already held a collection of George’s brown chips. He looked across the table at the little boy with a flat, “Oh.”

Wide eyed, your son looked back at him, startled by the sudden shift in George’s demeanor.

George explained, “Daddy has pieces there so you can’t move there.”

“Why?”

“Because if the other person has two or more pieces on that spot, you can’t go there.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the rules.”

The little boy’s face scrunched up in annoyance, eyebrows furrowing over judging blue eyes. 

George licked away his forming smile, instructing him, “Pick another piece to move five spots.”

The toddler pointed to the same piece.

“No, buddy-” George laughed softly again, covering that line of white pieces with his hand, “These are the ones you can’t move.”

As if an avid problem solver at not even three, your son told him like it was the clear solution with a point to the other direction on the board, “Go that way.”

“You can only go this way.” George said, gesturing counter-clockwise for the boy.

“Why?” the toddler huffed.

“Because that’s how the game works.”

Your son pouted and flopped back onto his bum on the chair, crossing his little arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes at his father. George struggled to hold back his fond smile at the adorableness of his little boy no matter how mad and frustrated the toddler tried to appear. 

As George gently coaxed him to continue the game, you turned your attention to the baby nestled in your arms. She suckled contentedly at your breast, her long lashes fluttering against her full cheeks as she gazed up at you, fighting the pull of sleep. One tiny hand rested against your chest, her presence a warm, comforting weight. It was a true blessing, you thought, that both your children were the near spitting image of George from birth, with his big blue eyes and soft blonde hair that you wondered might darken as they grew up, just as his had. 

Your fingers gently traced the contours of her tiny frame, feeling the soft fabric of her frilly bathing suit, down to her chunky little legs, still naturally bent as if she were still trying to uncurl from nine months inside you. With a comforting pat on her bum, you smiled tenderly, listening to the faint sounds of her greedy gulps as she nursed, the swaying of the yacht helping to rock her in your arms. 

Then, from across the table, your son called you with a determined, “Mama.”

You tore your eyes away from the baby in your arms to look over at him, “Yes, sweet boy?”

He pointed an angry finger across the table at his father with a tattling, “Daddy’s mean.”

With a side-eyed glance to amused George beside you, you answered your son as seriously as you could muster, “How is Daddy mean?”

“He plays wrong.” 

George laughed, “Hey, I’m playing correctly. You’re just throwing a fit because I’m not letting you cheat.”

That got him a big pout directed back at him. 

You looked over at George, suggesting softly, “Maybe he’s too young to learn this game.”

George sighed with a fond smile at his pouting son, “Maybe so.”

The little boy stuck out his tongue at him. 

George stuck out his tongue back. 

“Okay, okay, you two,” you chuckled softly, resting a calm hand on George’s bare shoulder before sliding your fingers up into the back of his hair, “let’s pick a different thing to do before bed. Something less emotionally taxing on the both of you.”

Torn away from the game with his son, George’s attention was pulled to you and the baby in your arms. He broke into a grin and leaned in a little closer, reaching a hand out to gently caress her little cheek with the back of his finger as her jaw flexed as she fed. As he doted on your newborn daughter, you turned to your son. 

“What do you want to do now then, my love? Just a storybook and then bed?”

“No bed.” he whined, his pout deepening as he glanced at the baby in your arms, perhaps sensing the shift in attention.

Although George’s attention was on the baby with his finger gently tickling over her tiny knuckles, he spoke to you in a soft singsong voice, “Someone’s overtired I think.”

You continued to compromise with your son, “Bed soon, yes, but not right now.”

George chimed in, glancing towards him even as the baby wrapped her tiny fingers around his one, his eyes twinkling with affection, “We want to get lots of sleep tonight so we can go on more adventures tomorrow, don’t we?”

Your son seemed to ponder that statement for a moment before nodding reluctantly. 

“Okay,” George tenderly pulled his finger from the baby’s grasp and sat back, leaving you with a kiss to your temple before turning his attention back to your son, “come help Daddy pick out a storybook and you can help me read it to baby sister, sound good?”

The little boy broke into a bashful smile over the idea of being helpful with his new baby sibling while he struggled to familiarize himself with sharing his parents and his life with someone else. He held his hands up to George who scooped him up into his arms with a dramatic groan. From his higher vantage point, in the comfort of his father’s embrace, your toddler wrapped his little arms around George’s broad shoulders, hands clutched against his bare skin with a proud smile in your direction.

As they disappeared below deck to pick a storybook from the plethora that had been brought on vacation with you, you took that moment of quiet as the sunset to appreciate your growing family and the love that filled your heart.

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[nevertheless-moving]

So You Just Killed Palpatine

In Which, Much To Obi-Wan Kenobi's Surprise, While Dealing With The Consequences of One's Own Action's Can Be A Lot, It Isn't Always Entirely A Bad Thing

originally inspired by this and this from anon and husborth Part One, Part Two, Part Three ... Part Fo ... uh ... there's memes somewhere... Anyway Here's Part Five:

Obi-Wan blinked awake, head cloudy and body heavy, as if under unusually high gravity. But no, there was the all-too-recognizable ceiling of the temple healing halls, its mosaic ceiling drifting in lazy, clockwise circles.

What did I do this time? Wait, there was something I had to tell the rest of the Jedi...something important...

Oh dear, he was on the good painkillers, wasn't he?

“Obi-Wan?” someone familiar asked, voice and force presence ringing with a startling jab of hope.

“Bant?” he tried to reply, only to be met with burning pain in his throat. The only thing he managed to get out was an unintelligible coughing fit which pulled sharply at his gut.

“Take it easy!” she urged, moving into his blurry line of sight. “You’ve had extensive abdominal surgery, and your throat was — was crushed rather severely — it’s going to take more time for the grafts to heal.”

Obi-Wan nodded, chastened, before cautiously starting the process of pushing himself up in bed, Bant hovering nervously all the while. The effort made his muscles ache and the room spin faster, but things settled down once he was sitting up.

He looked around, sagging in relief at a small oily handprint on one of the otherwise sterile visitor chairs. Anakin had been here recently, and was in good enough health to be tinkering. Good, that was good. That was important.

He suddenly realized half his vision was obscured and sluggishly raised a hand to his face, only to find heavy cloth.

“I’m sorry, we weren’t able to save your eye,” Bant said softly. “Once you’re a little more healed we can discuss artificial or bioengineered replacement options.”

She plucked a cup off a counter overcrowded with a dizzying array of flowers. “Here, drink some of this if you’re feeling up to it, it’ll make talking a little easier.”

Obi-Wan accepted the drink, only to feel it slide out of numb hands. Bant gently closed her hands around his, helping to guide the drink to his lips. He grimaced at the taste.

“Bacta infused water,” she apologized. “You’re going to be drinking bacta infused liquids for some time, I’m afraid.”

A wave of exhaustion swept over him and Bant set the cup down as Obi-Wan sagged.

“Anakin?” he managed to rasp out.

“Anakin’s fine, he’s completely safe,” Bant said with a comforting squeeze of his shoulder. “He’ll be annoyed to know he missed you waking up, he very much wanted to be there.”

Obi-Wan was going to say something else, but sleep dragged him under first.

//

Obi-Wan opened his eyes — his eye — to the sight of Quinlan Vos scowling over a datapad. The dark spot on the left side of his vision was more noticeable than before. What the kriff did I do to myself?

He shifted, irritated at how lethargically his body responded. The pad fell to the ground with a clatter as Quinlan lurched towards the bed.

“Obi-Wan! Hold on, let me — you’re supposed to have the water before you try to talk.”

Quinlan helped hold up a cup and straw so Obi-Wan could take several short sips of the unpleasantly viscous and vaguely pineapple flavored water.

“How are you feeling?” Quinlan asked, hovering with uncharacteristic anxiousness.

Obi-Wan paused to think. “Weak,” he replied in a hoarse whisper. “How long have I been...”

Guilt flashed over Vos’s face. “You were in and out of Bacta tanks and surgery for a full two weeks. And then another week in an induced coma. And then another week in a self-healing trance. You had...a lot of internal injuries. I’m so sorry Obi-Wan—this is all my fault.”

Obi-Wan stared at Quinlan blankly for a moment. His face helped the memories to start trickling in.

"Yes..." he said slowly. "Yes — you knocked on my door... you said... Vos... please just... just tell me if I hallucinated anything — did I try to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic?"

"I'd say you succeeded," Quinlan replied, half-smiling, half-grimacing.

"Did I — did we think he was a pedophile, only—”

He had to pause, throat burning as he fought a coughing fit. He swallowed more disgustingly flavored water before finishing the thought.

“—only to discover that he was in fact not sexually grooming Anakin, but was doing a number of other terrible things? And did he... did he — did he electrocute me...”

Obi-Wan’s voice trailed off and he took several more sips, throat filled with an uncomfortable fizzing sensation.

Quinlan nodded, wincing. “I mean parts of that you know better than me but yeah, that matches with what I understand.”

“Hm.” Obi-Wan finished the cup, mulling it over.

Quinlan Vos muttered something under his breath that Obi-Wan couldn't quite make out, but the word "dramatic" almost definitely featured.

Grey crept in around the corners of his vision, then black.

//

When he opened his eyes — his eye, he'd have to get used to that — next, he was greeted by a convenient and increasingly familiar cup at his bedside, as well as Master Windu. Obi-Wan quickly reached for the water, clutching it in both hands and taking a long drink.

Spurred on by the sight of the Master of the Order, he also reached for the urgent thought from earlier, wanting to get it out before he slipped back under —

“Chancellor Palpatine’s a Sith Lord!!”

The corners of Mace’s eyes crinkled. “Yes, Knight Kenobi," he said. "We’re aware of that now. You’ve proved it to be the case quite publicly. And ended the threat with remarkable... thoroughness.”

Obi-Wan head fell back. “A Sith Lord... the Chancellor!” he said in amazement. He was relieved to find his throat only barely twinging at his outburst.

“It truly stretches the imagination,” Mace agreed tolerantly.

“You’re telling me!” Obi-Wan took another long drink, head spinning.

Master Windu smoothed a crease from his robe before saying, with extreme delicacy, “I don't wish to pressure you into speaking before you've healed... but I admit, we’ve all been wondering how exactly you knew.”

"He force choked me and electrocuted me with Sith Lightning. Lighting! I thought that was a myth!” He drained the cup, hands shaking slightly.

“Yes,” Mace said quietly. “The healers were amazed you survived so long... let alone had the strength to fight back with such strength. We’re all extremely grateful to the Force for keeping you alive long enough for us to reach you.”

Obi-Wan made a mental note to feel grateful later, but his mental space was a bit of a mess at the moment, and he wasn't entirely certain he had filed it away correctly.

Master Windu sighed. “We would have been there sooner but I’m afraid none of us had any idea that you were going to confront a Sith.” A twinge of reproach crept into Windu's voice, but Obi-Wan set it aside along with the gratitude, to be examined at some later date. Ideally when his head felt less full of bantha wool.

“I had no idea,” Obi-Wan said numbly.

“Well you figured it out before the Council at least,” Mace replied, not without humor.

He couldn't help but snort. “Yes, because he shot lightning at me. I mean the force choking happened first but... lightning. Lightning!”

Lines formed between Master Windu's brows as he looked down at him. “As much as it pains me, I understand the risk assessment in not telling the High Council about a Sith Chancellor of the Republic, and goading a public fight was probably the best political move possible. But why start the confrontation so privately? It seemed rather — apologies, we can debrief on that when you're rested. I presume you were trying to get a confession about the droid and clone armies?”

Obi-Wan stared at Mace Windu wide-eyed.

“The what.”

The lines on Master Windu’s face deepened. “The... Kamonian clone army — the clones of Jango Fett...”

Obi-Wan’s eyes got wider. “Jango Fett—you mean Galidrean Jango Fett? The Jedi Killer? Palpatine made a clone army of him?”

Mace was silent for a long while, staring at Obi-Wan as though he were a particularly concerning puzzle. Obi-Wan chewed on the straw, mind wandering to whether or not it would be appropriate to ask Master Windu for a refill. As unpleasant as the flavor was, the fizzing did make his throat feel better.

“Knight Kenobi...” Mace finally said, speaking very slowly. “Do you remember why Chancellor Palpatine attacked you? The soul healers were quite certain the Sith Lord didn’t breach your inner shields but I think you might be suffering from some memory loss...”

His left eye itched; he resisted the urge to reach for it. Obi-Wan sank further into the cushions behind him, trying to think. Were there gaps in his memory? No, as usual, it all seemed a fairly clear path from Quinlan Vos knocking on his door to Obi-Wan ending up unconscious in the healing halls.

“Why Palpatine starting attacking?" he mused. "I suppose he wasn't going to just dance around forever — force, when he dodged my blaster shot, I simply could not understand how — it all happened so fast, but the next thing I knew I was pinned against the wall by a Dark —”

“Stop,” Master Windu ordered, raising his hand. He took a deep breath, radiating calm into the force.

“Do you remember what Palpatine said immediately before you shot him?” he asked patiently.

Obi-Wan shifted, feeling a pang of awkwardness as he muttered the answer guiltily under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Knight Kenobi, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“He said, ah, ‘you’re a Jedi’ and ‘you can’t kill an unarmed man.’”

Mace Windu stared at Obi-Wan.

There was a long pause while Obi-Wan fidgeted with the straw. He was starting to feel that perhaps his thoughts were even less clear than he had assumed them to be, and he was not handling this conversation particularly well.

Windu took another deep breath, radiating slightly less calm then before.

“Knight Kenobi. Why did you shoot the Chancellor of the Republic?”

“...I was trying to kill him,” Obi-Wan said, looking down.

“Why?”

Obi-Wan mumbled.

“Kenobi, speak clearly.”

“Well—ah—it actually turns out that I had misunderstood...I mean it had certainly seemed like...but he wasn’t actually...doing exactly what I thought...”

Windu stared at the recumbent Knight, who flushed.

It occurred to Obi-Wan for the first time, that, considering his plan of running away and becoming a bounty hunter was no longer possible nor, perhaps necessary, he could have misrepresented some of the timeline of events vis a vis sith slaying. Or better yet, pretended to have memory loss.

In his defense, the whole experience had been extremely unnerving! For all that weeks had clearly elapsed for everyone else, Obi-Wan was still processing Chancellor Palpatine shooting lightning out of his fingers.

A wave of exhaustion flooded over him, and he sank into it with relief, recognizing now the sickly sweet painkillers pulsing through his blood, clouding his thoughts and pulling him under.

//

Unfortunately, Mace Windu was still there when he woke up. Kriff.

He opened his mouth to try and backtrack, but Windu raised his hand, cutting off any poorly thought out explanations.

Master Windu took a deep breath, radiating very little calm by this point.

“Let me get this clear. Nod if yes, shake your head if no, did you go into the Chancellor’s office with the intent to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic?”

Obi-Wan nodded.

“Did you know he was a Sith before you went into his office?”

Obi-Wan shook his head.

“Did you suspect he was a Sith?" Mace asked, slightly desperate.

Obi-Wan shook his head, cringing in apology.

“Before you went into the Chancellor’s office, were you aware that he was working with the Kaminoians to commission a clone army?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, biting back questions.

“Did you know he was working with the trade federation to commission a droid army?”

Another no.

“Did you suspect anything about these armies? Anything about a larger plot to destabilize the Republic? Destroy the Jedi? Become Emperor?”

Obi-Wan shook his head at each question, eyes widening with shock.

Mace Windu was radiating absolutely no calm at this point.

“Knight Kenobi...” he asked with a pained expression. “Did you... attempt to assassinate the Chancellor of the republic for personal reasons born out of some sort of misunderstanding? Only to inadvertently save the Republic?”

“I mean once I found out that he was a Sith... I of course changed tactics... and personal is a bit... but... that... Well. More or less sums the situation up, yes.”

Mace WIndu stared at Obi-Wan Kenobi, who wasn’t sure if he should keep talking or not. He didn't entirely trust his ability to explain things well at the moment, and ultimately decided to err on the side of silence.

Obi-Wan vaguely wished he could slip into sleep, but was fairly sure that it would be rude and possibly obvious to do twice in one conversation. His throat itched and he considered once again asking for more water, ultimately deciding against it.

Minutes passed, Master Windu staring blankly at the wall above Obi-Wan’s shoulders, while Obi-Wan's mind started to wander.

Who on earth had been paying to feed a clone army? How was Quinlan doing at getting Anakin to brush his teeth? Am I going to prison? Ohh that’s why the force was so insistent on killing Palpatine. Maybe that would help explain things to Master Windu? Though 'the force told me to' is  generally not considered a good excuse, in of itself, for acts of violence...though this is a rather unique situation...

Eventually Master Plo walked in, letting out a pleased noise.

“There he is! The Hero of the Republic!”

Mace Windu closed his eyes.

“Is that what they’re calling me?” Obi-Wan asked weakly, when it became clear Master Windu wasn’t ready to address everything wrong with that.

“Oh! Your drink is empty! Mace, Vokara was very clear with her instructions!” Master Plo scolded.

Mace Windu didn’t reply.

Plo-Koon snatched the cup, filling it up from a pitcher across the room and talking boisterously. “Well, the public is throwing around a lot of titles, but since you already had Sith Slayer...”

“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan said faintly, accepting the terrible water and drinking it for lack of anything better to do.

Plo-Koon patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. “I’m afraid to tell you it’s going to be very difficult for you to dodge commendations for your actions. Now that you’re awake you’re going to be faced with quite a backlog of requests for ceremonies and interviews—”

Obi-Wan choked. “Ceremonies?” he repeated in a higher pitch. He snuck a look at Master Windu. His eyes were closed, though he didn't appear to be meditating.

That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Yes, ceremonies," Plo-Koon said with far too much relish. "Turns out there are quite a lot of old traditions on the books regarding —"

Master Healer Vokara Che entered the room at brisk pace. “I thought I heard voices — I will remind you that before he is the ‘Sith Slayer Returned’ or ‘The True Chosen One’ or any such nonsense he is first and foremost my patient.”

She gave a sharp look to both Council Members. Plo-Koon nodded contritely while Master Windu continued to not say or do anything.

“The — no, no Anakin’s the chosen one —" Obi-Wan sputtered. "Anakin’s the reason — people aren’t actually calling me that, right?” he asked, drugs doing an admirable job at suppressing the panic he was fairly sure he was going to feel later. The device in Master Che's hand beeped faintly in answer.

“That and more, young Kenobi,” another familiar voice suddenly added, below his field of vision. “To collect your honors, expect to survive, you did not, mmn?”

“Master Yoda! No, I—I really didn’t expect... any honors... at most I was hoping that people would understand...” Obi-Wan protested weakly, shooting Windu a beseeching look which yet again failed to garner a response.

Che rolled her eyes, flipping a lek behind her somewhat sarcastically as she attached a glowing device to his chest. "Of course you didn't."

He barely refrained from wincing as several needles bit into him.

“Perhaps we would have had a better chance of understanding had you left us any of your evidence,” Master Koon chided gently.

“Put together the pieces we did, in our time,” Yoda added, hopping up on the nightstand to affectionately poke his shoulder.

Obi-Wan leaned back, feeling increasingly light-headed.

“Your vitals look good, all things considered,” Master Che said, sounding smug. “You should be back to getting into trouble in a year or so.”

Obi-Wan jerked his head in her direction, aghast. “A year?!”

“Busy, you will be, if work you wish. A seat, open there is for you. Comfortable chair, good company, important duties.”

Master Windu’s eyes squeezed further closed.

“What?” Obi-Wan asked, bewildered.

The healer scowled. “You were bleeding heavily into more or less all your major organs, including your brain. Really, it would be faster for me to list organs that weren't damaged. The fact that you recovered at all is only because Master Gallia conducted ill-advised on-scene amateur healing—"

"Is she alright?" Obi-Wan asked.

"—ill-advised, but successfully non-self-detrimental amateur healing, and I’m a miracle worker, and, credit where credit is due, you’re a stubborn bastard; not to mention your padawan has far too much energy to throw around — you really should consider enrolling him some healer’s courses—”

“Is he alright?” Obi-Wan asked, more urgently.

“He’s fine,” Master Plo reassured him with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Everyone is fine except for you. He just tired himself out a few times, but Knight Vos has been keeping a close eye on him, and Anakin understands that the best thing at this point is to let you heal under your own power."

“Can I see him?” he asked. His voice was growing hoarse despite the dutifully refilled cup.

Vokara’s face softened. “Of course. He’ll be stopping by after class, in another hour or so. He’s been very punctual.”

“Master Windu? Alright are you? Silent, you have been.” Mace flinched upon being prodded with a stick. He opened his eyes, pinning Knight Kenobi with a steely gaze. Obi-Wan shrunk back, but Windu just sighed.

“You...” he trailed off. He stood up slowly, as if the movement pained him.

"I —" he said authoritatively, quieting the room. "—am taking a sabbatical. Call me when—” Windu gestured vaguely. “—you all sort out this mess.”

He walked out.

A long moment passed. “What did you tell him?” Master Plo finally asked in a hushed whisper.

"Ah..." Obi-Wan paused, limbs heavy with fatigue. "Well — you see— " He closed his eyes, feeling slightly cowardly as he did so.

//

When he opened them again, the light hadn't shifted nearly as much as other inbetweens, and his bandages hadn't been changed. Master Plo was still there, speaking quietly with Yoda.

Shit.

"Not too long that time," Vokara said, pleased. "I've lowered the dose on some of your medications, it should make it easier to stay awake."

"Oh. Good," Obi-Wan replied.

"Young Kenobi." Plo-Koon moved closer. "I dislike pressuring you in your current state, but... Master Windu appears to have left the temple. We were wondering..."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering. His mind was, at last, starting to catch up with mouth. “He asked me... some questions. About how I came to suspect Palpatine," Obi-Wan said carefully. "It would appear I may have forgotten some details. About the evidence...Master Windu was — distressed regarding what I did and did not recall."

Vokara nodded. "Memory loss is completely understandable with the type of injuries you recieved."

"Alright, it is, if remember everything, you cannot," Yoda added kindly. "Our own investigations, ongoing are."

"So if I, ah, can't quite remember everything that led up to our fight," Obi-Wan asked, feeling guilty, but force, that blank look in Master Windu's eyes. "I mean I definitely remember the force willing me to decisively seek his end — really it was unusually loud about it," he added hastily. "If that helps."

Yoda nodded slowly. "This reason, understand we do. But, present to the public, perhaps not a good idea would be."

"Yes," Obi-Wan said. "I think — I'm not certain but I believe Quinlan Vos may have helped me collect some evidence..."

"Said as much, he did. Wait to confer with you, he wanted."

Obi-Wan sagged backwards with relief. "Yes. Yes! We had security concerns... Palpatine was so highly placed..." he trailed off.

"Considering Sifo-Dyas's and Count Dooku's entanglement in all this I can hardly blame you for hesitating to reach out to the council," Plo-Koon said, exhaustion audible even through his vocoder.

Obi-Wan choked on his spit; the following coughing fit was soon rewarded with a fresh bacta drink from Vokara.

Dooku?? Sifo-Dyas??

"Perhaps after I speak with him I'll be able to better assist with the current investigations," he offered hoarsely after recovering.

"Of course," Plo-Koon said gently. "Again, we apologize for interrogating you so early into your recovery but you really can't imagine the public and political scrutiny we've all been under —" He hesitated. "Master Windu was joking about taking a sabbatical right now, was he not?" he asked, sounding strained. "I know he's been under a lot of pressure, but surely you having memory issues couldn't—"

He was thankfully interrupted by the sound of small feet moving rapidly and a gangly body launching itself at highspeeds through the doorway.

Vokara just managed to snag the back of Anakin's robes before he crashed into Obi-Wan's medbed.

"Padawan Skywalker," she said, voice tight. "I believe I have mentioned the numerous injuries your master is recovering from and the need for —"

"Care in my movements," he said sheepishly. "Apologies, master, thank you."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, something in his chest relaxing at the sight of his dangling student.

"Obi-Wan." His padawan's eyes immediately started filling with tears.

Obi-Wan reached out instinctively. "Oh, Anakin."

"Give you a moment, we will," Yoda said, hobbling out, as Vokara sighed, then gently placed his pupil on the floor.

"Of course," Plo-Koon agreed. "Take all the time you need." He hurried to catch up with Yoda. Obi-Wan heard him begin to say, "Mace can't actually be leaving us to deal with this clusterfu—'' Then the door closed, and Anakin was weeping at his bedside.

"Shh," Obi-Wan said, tugging his padawan up, ignoring the protestations of his abdomen. "There, there, it will be alright."

Anakin crawled up, movements ginger and uncertain around Obi-Wan's numerous injuries. Together, they somehow managed to shift Obi-Wan enough for Anakin to fit beside him. His padawan shook with suppressed sobs, and parts of him were almost certainly hanging awkwardly off the edge of the bed.

Obi-Wan ran one hand through Anakin's hair, the other hand gently resting where he could reach without twisting too much, probably an elbow, though the boy was pointy enough these days that he couldn't be sure. If Obi-Wan was also shaking, well. There was reason enough.

"Sheev," Anakin finally said, oozing misery and an overwhelming tangle of other unpleasant emotions into the force.

"...I know he was your friend—" Obi-Wan said, after what was hopefully not too long a pause. This was another conversation that probably wouldn't be helped by painkillers.

"But he wasn't, really." Anakin curled up, even more miserable. "I know. I should let go."

The side of Obi-Wan's head throbbed. On second thought, painkillers were the way to go here. "That's not what I meant," he said. "He was a friend to you. He's gone now. Because of me, your master. And... I'm sure you've found out a lot while I've been asleep. I can't imagine a single padawan learner who wouldn't be struggling with their emotions right now. I'm struggling."

"I'm angry," Anakin said into his side. "Master, I'm so full of anger."

"You think I wasn't?" Obi-Wan asked dryly.

Anakin hiccuped a sob. "I'm angry at everyone."

"It's alright, Anakin," Obi-Wan soothed. "You'll work through it in time. I'll be here to help, whenever you want. Even when I'm the one you're angry with."

Anakin sobbed another minute, force presence roiling, before finally pulling himself in with a deep breath, and wiping his nose on the sheets. "You looked so cool when you were angry," he mumbled into Obi-Wan's side.

"Oh force," Obi-Wan groaned. "Of course there was holofootage. Of course you watched."

"Are you... still angry?" Anakin asked.

Fuck.

Obi-Wan tried to think of the right answer for a padawan learner. His head throbbed again.

"Honestly? Right now I'm mostly just tired. I feel like I was run over by a pack of bantha. It's never a good idea to try and deal with large emotional gnarls while you're this exhausted, remember that my young padawan."

"You've been asleep for years," Anakin whined. "How are you still tired?"

"Years?" he asked, amused.

"At least three," Anakin huffed, curling up against him.

Obi-Wan stroked his hair in peaceful silence for a moment.

"...Did you really smash in his skull with a metal chair to protect me?"

"I would do a lot of things to protect you," he confessed. "I'm sorry Anakin — I should have talked with you when I grew concerned with his behavior. I felt at the time I had to act swiftly, but I worry I only caused you more pain."

"It was a really cool fight."

"...Thank you, padawan."

"Can you teach me how to choke people with my ankles like that?" he sniffled.

Obi-Wan groaned internally. "Of course, as a Jedi, violence—" 

"Violence is our last resort," Anakin interrupted. "Right, yeah —but if it is needed—"

"—Such as when someone," Obi-Wan said over him. "After careful consideration, is found to be both politically insulated and positioned to commit great further harm—"

"Actually, I think you, the person who killed my trusted friend, lecturing me on why he was ultra especially irredeemably evil is traumatizing, even more traumatizing than all those holo compilations of you —"

"Oh force above, of course there's — oh. Oh no — please don't tell me—"

"The latest Jizz music," Anakin said, far too gleeful.

Obi-Wan groaned. Unfortunately, the extra movement in his chest triggered an admittedly ghastly sounding coughing fit and Anakin immediately lost the small edge of grace he had managed to cultivate during their back and forth.

"Master?" he asked urgently. "Master — hold on — I'll go get—"

"I'm fine," Obi-Wan rasped. "Any more of that —"

Anakin was already scrambling to fetch the pitcher.

Such a good boy, he thought affectionately, watching him pour and carry over a glass with the same care others might have when handling molten gold.

Obi-Wan drank with a reciprocal amount of delicacy, knowing his padawan was watching falcon-eyed for any wasted drops.

"Perhaps we should finish this conversation a little later," Obi-Wan said, once his airways calmed down.

Coughing should not be this exhausting.

"Of course," Anakin said, subdued, but he crawled back into bed readily enough when Obi-Wan patted it.

“Really, though —” Obi-Wan started to say, feeling it was duty to try and wrap up the lesson, but he was fortunately cut off before he was forced to figure out exactly what that lesson was.

“It’s alright,” Anakin chimed comfortingly. “We have time to talk about it, master. Can’t you tell?”

“Hm?” Obi-Wan replied, fighting the droop of his eyelids. 

“The force clears,” Anakin said, voice sonorous. “The dark retreats.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s eyes started falling closed. “That’s nice.”

“So we have time. To figure out the rest.”

 “Very nice,” Obi-Wan murmured.

His padawan curled against him, force presence like ocean waves rocking him to sleep.

“The force says it’s going to be alright,” Anakin whispered, wonderingly. “It’s going to be alright.”

Obi-Wan smiled, then once again slipped back to sleep.

[milkoomi]

live in tranquility. ᥫ᭡

life is full of ups and downs, right turns and wrong turns, and moments of joy and torments of anguish. we all desire to live a life that only ever brings us happiness and peace, but to fulfill that wish we must provide ourselves the diligent work to make our dreams a reality.

let’s begin …

୨ৎ — habits to incorporate

include a weekly reset

whether it’s a friday or a sunday, start incorporating a weekly reset into your routine! whether it’s doing a deep clean of your home/room or doing an everything shower and pampering yourself with an at-home spa day, or maybe a mix of both, start your week off with a good refresh of everything that you feel needs to be reset.

things to do for your weekly reset:

change your bedsheets

treat yourself with a face mask

give yourself a little mani-pedi

dust your shelves & clean your floors

wipe down your windows & change/wash your curtains

clean your mirrors

do laundry

journal & reflect on your week

plan for the week ahead

do/touch up your lashes

make your bed every morning

i’ve touched on this in a previous post where i discussed boosting daily productivity, but i also wanted to add this point in this post as well! not only does this habit make you feel more productive, but i find that making your bed can be something very calming. you’re freshening up your sleeping space and there’s something about making your bed look all nice and pretty that just releases some kind of serotonin in my brain!

this can be a really peaceful task. i’d recommend putting on your favorite music or a relaxing morning playlist while doing so to really set the vibe for yourself!

gratitude journal in the morning & at night

one of the first things i do in the morning is create a small list of things that i’m thankful for. whether it’s being able to wake up and live another or getting to see the sun rise, talk about what you’re thankful for at the start of your day. it soothes your mind and i find that it also helps to alleviate any stress that might be weighing my mind down. practicing gratitude and including that habit daily has helped me find all the joys in my life, no matter how big or small! it helps you find happiness and peace in even the smallest things, and i promise you that practicing gratitude will help you live a more peaceful life.

daily affirmations

sometimes we need to be the ones to tell us that we’re proud of ourselves or that we’re beautiful or that we’re strong enough. affirmations, either at the start or end of your day (or even both!) can help provide that extra motivation for yourself.

affirmation examples:

“i am more than capable of achieving my goals no matter how big or small.”

“i am enough for myself and those i love in my life.”

“i am proud of all that i have achieved.”

“i am worthy of love, especially from myself.”

make yourself a cup of coffee or tea

there’s something so calming about making yourself a cup of coffee or tea. whenever i do so, and i’m stirring the mix all my little ingredients together in my favorite mug, i always stir clockwise and repeat manifestations in my mind. in my own practices with my spirituality, i’ve learned that going clockwise brings forth your desires (and counter-clockwise releases anything you want to let go of). adding this into my morning ritual prepares me for my day and when i drink that cup of coffee/tea it’s as if i am absorbing the things i manifest for myself!

୨ৎ — release your emotions

bringing up journaling again here, but seriously, get all those negative thoughts and feelings out. do a brain dump of all that you’re thinking. take time to process your emotions. let it all out. maybe even put on sad songs to cry to, maybe ask a trusted loved one (but make sure it’s okay with them beforehand) to talk about everything you’re thinking/feeling, or— if you’re able to— seek therapy!

i feel like i live a much softer and more peaceful life now that i’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable with my loved ones, my therapist, and even myself. we’re allowed to have vulnerable moments and we’re allowed to feel the feelings we have, but we have to make sure we release those negative thoughts and feelings in a healthy manner.

i’ve been in therapy for almost 7 years and the growth i’ve experienced throughout all those years has truly been so refreshing. it almost feels magical, and i’m so grateful that i have the resources to help me manage my emotions and mental health.

୨ৎ — let go of unhealthy consumption

when we consume media that brings us down or when we surround ourselves with the wrong people, we just add unnecessary stress and negative feelings onto our plates. i have a post that discusses THE ART OF LETTING GO so i recommend checking it out for a more in-depth conversation on what to let go of and how to let it all go.

living a peaceful life means releasing yourself from gossip and drama, banning content/media that makes us sad or angry, and leaving people who make us feel bad about ourselves or who might influence us to partake in unhealthy or risky activities. you have to let go of those things that no longer serve you. we can always start with small steps, and the best place to start is with the media we consume.

media to consume:

self help books/videos

educational books/videos/movies/shows/podcasts

follow creators who motivate you to be the best version of yourself for yourself

watch shows/movies that make you happy

listen to music that makes you feel good

read books that bring you joy

୨ৎ — create vision boards

one way i love to manifest my dream life is by creating a vision board. i always create one at the very end of the year, but i want to try doing a vision board for each season! doing this can help you visualize what you want for yourself and your life, and most times when we don’t even realize it, we actually have those visions and dreams become a reality!

creating vision boards can also be a nice, little relaxing hobby for yourself too! getting your creative juices flowing can create and manifest so much inspiration and motivation!

vision board ideas:

yearly vision board

academic vision board

career vision board

lifestyle vision board

fashion/style aesthetic vision board

୨ৎ — final notes

what are some activities/habits that make you feel at peace?

a peaceful life is achievable! as with many things like gaining confidence, ace’ing exams, or getting promoted at your job, it takes work. if you truly want it, work for it! sometimes, the things we deserve are things we have to get for ourselves.

with lots of love, faustina 🌷

[digi-lov]

Digimon Card Template->

Hey guys, I finally finished the templates! A few words to read before using, and more words under the cut if you will. I'd love to see any and all cards you create, so feel free to leave me an ask or DM! Also if you feel like supporting me a little, feel free to stop by my ko-fi->

First off, all fonts you need for the template are in the "Card Template Fonts" rar file. Remember to install them first before opening the files. Second, I recommend working with the PSD file in Photoshop, if you can. It has more and easier customization. If you use CSP, do use the CSP files. The PSD Text layers don't work in CSP, as well as certain other settings. I did my best to adapt the file to CSP, and it should work fine!

The Files have "HELP" layers in certain folders, I recommend reading them! Some of the Information I will repeat under the cut.

HAVE FUN! I wanna see lotta cards!

Okay, below the cut I'll leave some notes on how the Digimon cards are designed, as of the num <03> era at least.

Digimon cards have seven different colors. Red, Blue, Green, Yellow, Black, Purple, and White. White cards are rare and reserved for special Digimon/Tamers, and usually don't interact with other colors. For easier reading, Yellow and White cards have black text in their colors, instead of the usual white text. On multicolored cards, card including Yellow (or white) have white text with a black outline. (before <03> if Yellow was the first color, the text was black with white outline instead, but they unified it with the update) The color on the left is considered the first color. Since the design update, the Card color is displayed in a color wheel around the Play cost. The digivolution cost bubble also recieved a color wheel, as well as the buble being split into the differen colors. Imagining it like a clock, the top color is the first, and then circling clockwise. Digi-Egg, or Lv.2 Digimon are always single color.

[tricolored cards have been introduced just recently and super rare. use sparingly]

Now to the Effects. The main effect is in white color with a black outline (also outlines on the keywords), while the Inherited Effect doesn't have outlines (unless it's a Yellow double color). If the Digimon has no Inherited Effect, there will be a small dash in the box.

Only white cards have black text in their main effect.

The effect text will start in the lower bottom of the image, not all the way at the bottom, and go down from there. If the Effect is too long it will move up.

Besides the regular evolution requirements, Digimon may have special "Digivolve" rules in their effect. This can make an evolution from a specific digimon cheaper, allow X Antibody Digimon to evolve from their normal counterparts, serve to overlook color requirements, or to allow evolution from certain traits, etc.

Some Digimon may also have an extra "Rule" in the bottom corner.

Ace Digimon will always have [Hand][Counter]<Blast Digivolve> effects. Most of them have no inherited effects. They also have a significantly cheaper play cost than comparable Digimon, but in turn have the Overflow mechanic. EX6 introduced Blast DNA Digivolution, which specifies the required Digimon by name, and not just Level and color.

Lv.6 Digimon usually don't have inherited Effects, some might though, if they were made with Lv.7 evolution in mind. Furthermore Lv.6 Digimon pop out of their frame, even on the normal arts.

Now Tamers originally had neither traits, nor inheritence effects. But certain Tamers now do! Tamers with Mind Link effects, or the kids from Frontier for example, will have Inherited Effects.

Option cards have a grey backdrop for their effects, and the effect text is black. This black effect text carries over to full/alt arts, regardless of color. The have a (use) cost instead of a play cost. They can also have traits or rules, but it is rare.

[bratzkoo]

WGM final episode | dk

final episode

Author: bratzkoo Pairing: seokmin x reader Genre: fluff Rating: PG-13 Word count: 3.4k~ Warnings/note: thank you so much for reading until the end! till the next fic 🫶🏻 also anyone who wants me to continue the wgm series with other members, comment or message me! Many thanks xx

summary: WE GOT MARRIED is back. Seokmin and Y/N pairs up to shoot 10 episodes for a special. Turns out, there are more things happenings off-camera than what meets the eye.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): @ateez-atiny380 , @aeerio . @vernons-wifey12 , @odevote118 , @btskzfav , @codeinebelle , @syluslittlecrows , @minghaofied , @ikbennatas , @armycarat2612 , @smiileflower

requests are close, but you can just say hi! | masterlist series masterlist | previous episode

[Opening sequence: Highlights from Episode 9, focusing on their coastal trip, deep conversations, and culminating with their rain-soaked kiss on the boat]

Narrator: "After their emotional farewell trip, our couple returns to where it all began for their final episode of We Got Married!"

---

The baseball stadium was empty.

Seokmin stared through the van window, his mind struggling to process the sight of the massive venue standing completely vacant. The last time they'd been here, thousands of fans had filled these seats, the energy electric, the noise deafening. Now there was only silence, broken occasionally by the distant sounds of the production crew setting up equipment.

Is this a metaphor? Is the universe trying to tell me something about emptiness and endings? Or am I just overthinking again? Definitely overthinking. Focus, Seokmin!

"They rented the entire stadium?" Y/N asked beside him, her voice pulling him from his spiral of thoughts.

"Apparently," Seokmin replied, trying to sound casual despite the butterflies performing an entire choreographed routine in his stomach. "The PD must have connections. Or blackmail material. Possibly both."

Y/N laughed, the sound still doing dangerous things to his heart rate even after all these months. He wondered if that would ever change—if he'd ever get used to the effect she had on him. He hoped not.

The past few days since their rain-soaked confession had been simultaneously the best and most torturous of his life. Best because every text from Y/N now carried the weight of acknowledged feelings, every "goodnight" imbued with new meaning. Torturous because their schedules had immediately pulled them apart—him to SEVENTEEN's comeback preparations, her to fittings for an upcoming drama—leaving them with only digital communication and one brief, electrifying phone call that had left him staring at his ceiling for hours afterward, grinning like an idiot.

And now, here they were, about to film their final episode in the place where their journey had begun. The symmetry made his poet's heart ache, even as his pragmatic brain reminded him that this was just television—the real story was just beginning.

As they exited the van, the PD approached with his clipboard and that slightly manic gleam in his eye that Seokmin had come to recognize as his "big episode energy."

"Welcome to your final mission," he announced, handing them each an envelope. "Today, you'll walk the bases, counter-clockwise. At each base, you'll share memories from your time on the show. When you reach home plate, you'll exchange farewell letters you've written to each other."

Farewell letters. Seokmin felt his ears heating up at the mere mention. He'd spent five hours writing his letter last night, producing seventeen drafts (the members had found this hilariously on-brand) before settling on a version that seemed to strike the right balance between television-appropriate and genuinely heartfelt. The crumpled evidence of his efforts currently filled his trash can back at the dorm.

"After the letters," the PD continued, "we'll film the official farewell ceremony where you'll return your rings and officially conclude your time on 'We Got Married.'"

Return the rings. End the show. Go back to their real lives. Seokmin nodded mechanically, aware of the cameras already tracking their reactions. He caught Y/N's eye, finding in her gaze the same mix of emotions he was feeling—the understanding that this was necessary television closure, even as they both knew their personal story was just opening its first chapter.

"Ready?" the PD asked, gesturing toward the players' entrance.

No. Not even close. How is anyone ever ready to publicly end something that privately just began? This is too weird. Too meta. Too—

"As we'll ever be," Seokmin heard himself reply, somehow managing to sound normal despite the chaos in his head.

They entered the stadium through the tunnel, emerging onto the green expanse of the field. The emptiness of the venue created an almost dreamlike atmosphere, their footsteps echoing slightly as they walked toward the baseball diamond where a white carpet had been laid along the baseline.

"This is surreal," Y/N murmured, taking in the abandoned stands.

"Like we're the last two people on Earth," Seokmin agreed, his imagination immediately constructing an entire post-apocalyptic scenario where only baseball stadiums remained intact. "We could rename the show: 'We Got Married: End of Days Edition.'"

Y/N laughed, the sound bouncing off the vacant seats. "I'd watch that."

"I'd star in it," Seokmin replied, grinning at her. "As long as you were my co-lead."

Co-lead. Partner. Girlfriend? Were they at that stage yet? What exactly were they? The rain-soaked kiss had established mutual feelings, but they hadn't exactly had time to define the relationship. Was it too soon? Too presumptuous? WHY IS DATING SO COMPLICATED?

"Shall we?" he asked, pushing aside his internal panic to gesture toward first base with what he hoped was a gallant bow rather than the awkward hunch his nerves were trying to produce.

"Lead the way," Y/N replied, falling into step beside him.

---

FIRST BASE

They stood awkwardly on the white square that marked first base, both suddenly hyperaware of the cameras positioned around them, the boom mic hovering just out of frame, the expectant gaze of the PD waiting for television-worthy reflections.

Just be natural. Which is literally impossible when someone tells you to be natural. How does anyone act natural on command? What even is natural behavior? And why am I overthinking AGAIN?

"This reminds me of our first meeting," Seokmin finally said, breaking the silence before his brain could spiral further. "When I could barely string two words together without internally combusting."

"You winked at me," Y/N recalled with a laugh. "I still can't believe you winked."

"It was a nervous reflex!" Seokmin protested, feeling his ears immediately betraying him by turning red at the memory. "My brain went completely offline and my face just... did whatever it wanted."

"You know," Y/N said, her voice softening, "I was so terrified that day. I kept thinking I'd been paired with THE Lee Seokmin and I was going to embarrass myself in front of millions of viewers."

"And I was thinking the exact same about being paired with THE Y/N Y/L/N," Seokmin countered. "I nearly passed out in the bathroom before filming started."

"You did not!"

"Ask Jeonghan-hyung. He had to talk me down from a full panic attack."

They smiled at each other, both remembering those two nervous strangers who had no idea what they were starting.

"We've come a long way since then," Y/N observed, her eyes saying much more than her words.

"A very long way," Seokmin agreed, fighting the urge to reach for her hand. They'd decided to keep the more overtly romantic gestures minimal during this final episode, letting the viewers wonder rather than confirming everything on camera. Some things, they'd agreed, they wanted just for themselves.

Though that resolution was being severely tested by how pretty Y/N looked in the soft stadium lighting, her hair catching the sunshine in a way that made his poet's heart want to compose extremely embarrassing sonnets.

"Ready for second?" he asked, reeling his thoughts back in before they could show on his face.

She nodded, and they moved on.

---

SECOND BASE

"The cooking disaster," they said in perfect unison as they reached second base, then laughed at their synchronized response.

"I've never seen anyone burn water before," Y/N teased.

"I was trying to impress you!" Seokmin defended himself, the memory still making him cringe. "Which, clearly, backfired spectacularly. Literally, in the case of that dish towel."

"But then you ordered my favorite takeout without me even telling you what it was."

"I may have asked Saemi beforehand," Seokmin admitted, feeling oddly shy about the confession.

Y/N's eyes widened. "You planned to mess up the cooking?"

"No! That was genuine, unplanned incompetence," Seokmin laughed. "But I had a backup plan. I'm not completely hopeless."

"You always do, don't you?" Y/N said, something warm in her expression. "Have a backup plan?"

"I try," Seokmin replied, suddenly serious despite himself. "Especially for things that matter."

Like us, he didn't say, but he could see in her eyes that she understood. He'd been making plans—tentative, careful, hopeful plans—for how they might navigate a relationship amid their chaotic schedules and public scrutiny. Backup plans upon backup plans, because this mattered more than anything had in a long time.

---

THIRD BASE

At third base, Y/N spoke first.

"The wedding," she said quietly. "When you sang instead of saying your vows."

"Was that too cheesy?" Seokmin asked, the question genuinely bothering him in retrospect. "The members all said it would be romantic, but I spent weeks afterward wondering if it was actually mortifying."

"It was perfect," Y/N interrupted firmly. "I still remember every word."

"Even though it wasn't real?" The question escaped before he could stop it, his careful barrier between show and reality crumbling slightly.

Y/N held his gaze, something resolute in her expression. "It felt real in that moment."

The simple honesty of her words made Seokmin's heart constrict painfully in his chest. How many moments throughout their filming had felt real despite the manufactured setting? How much of what they'd built had been genuine from the start, just waiting for them to acknowledge it?

The PD called for them to move on to home plate, saving Seokmin from the overwhelming emotions threatening to show too plainly on his face.

Just get through this part. The official goodbye. And then we can start the real hello.

---

HOME PLATE

At home plate, several chairs had been arranged for them, along with a small table. The PD handed them each the envelope containing the other's letter.

"Your final mission," the PD explained. "Read the letters silently. Your expressions will tell the story."

Oh great. Just my emotions on full display for the nation to see. No pressure. I'm sure my face will be very subtle and not at all reveal that I'm completely, absolutely, pathetically in love with her.

The cameras zoomed in as they opened their letters. The microphones were turned off, giving them privacy even in this most public moment.

Seokmin's eyes moved across Y/N's neat handwriting, his heart racing faster with each line:

Seokmin,

How strange to be writing a farewell letter that doesn't feel like goodbye at all. When I signed up for this show, I expected an acting challenge—pretending to build a relationship for the cameras. What I didn't expect was to find something real within the pretend.

You've taught me more than I can express about authenticity, about finding joy in small moments, about not taking myself too seriously. You've shown me what it means to be fully present with another person, cameras or no cameras.

As this chapter of our story closes for the viewers, I find myself more excited than ever for the chapters that only we will read. The ones without scripts or missions or PDs directing our movements.

This isn't goodbye. It's just the end of our public story and the beginning of our private one.

Until our next adventure (off-camera),

Y/N

Seokmin looked up, finding Y/N's eyes already on him, a small smile playing at her lips as she read his own letter. He hoped his words had conveyed even a fraction of what he was feeling—the gratitude for their shared experience, the excitement for what came next, the certainty that whatever had grown between them was worth nurturing beyond the show's conclusion.

And he hoped the cameras weren't catching the fact that his eyes were definitely getting misty, because the members would never let him hear the end of it if he cried on national television.

When they finished reading, they carefully folded the letters back into their envelopes, each keeping the other's words as a tangible reminder of this transition point in their relationship.

"And now," the PD said, moving back into the frame, "the formal farewell."

They turned to face each other. The script called for a bow, a thank you, a formal acknowledgment that the "marriage" was concluded.

Seokmin took a deep breath, willing his voice not to crack with the emotions swirling through him. "It was an honor to be your husband, even if only for the cameras."

"Thank you for being the perfect partner in this journey," Y/N replied, her practiced words somehow still containing genuine warmth.

They bowed to each other, exactly as rehearsed.

"Cut! That's a wrap on 'We Got Married'!" the director called. "Great job, everyone!"

The crew began packing up equipment. Staff members approached with congratulations and small parting gifts. There were photos to be taken, final interviews to be recorded. Through it all, Seokmin maintained his professional smile, saying all the right things about what a wonderful experience it had been, all while his mind was fixed on the moment when the cameras would finally, finally stop rolling.

---

The last interview complete, the final photograph taken, Seokmin found himself with an unexpected pocket of semi-privacy as the crew focused on dismantling the more complex camera setups around the field. Y/N had disappeared with the stylist to return some accessories, leaving him momentarily alone with his thoughts.

He wandered to the dugout, sitting on the bench and trying to process the swirl of emotions competing for dominance in his chest. Relief that the public performance was over. Excitement about what came next. Lingering anxiety about how they would navigate the transition from reel to real.

"Mind if I join you?"

He looked up to find Y/N standing at the dugout entrance, changed out of her filming outfit into casual clothes, looking somehow more beautiful without the styling team's efforts.

"Please," he said, moving over to make room beside him.

She sat down, close enough that their shoulders touched, sending a jolt of awareness through him even after all they'd shared.

"So," she said after a moment, "that's it. Ten episodes, all wrapped up with a bow."

"Seems too neat, doesn't it?" Seokmin replied. "Like real life is ever that tidy."

"Definitely not," Y/N agreed with a small laugh. "Real life is messy and complicated and filled with schedules that never align."

"Speaking of real life," she continued, her voice dropping to ensure they wouldn't be overheard by the distant crew members, "was any of it real for you? Or was it all for the show?"

The directness of her question, especially after their rain-soaked confession, caught Seokmin off-guard. Could she still be uncertain? After everything?

But then, maybe that was the point—after months of blurring the lines between performance and reality, how could anyone be sure where one ended and the other began?

In answer, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tattered baseball ticket from their first date.

"I kept this," he said simply, holding out the worn stub. "Not for the cameras. For me."

Y/N's eyes widened, then softened with understanding. She reached into her own bag and pulled out a small, pressed flower—one of the blooms that had been woven into her hair during their wedding ceremony.

"I kept this too," she admitted. "For the same reason."

They looked at each other, the pretense of the past months stripped away, leaving only the genuine connection that had grown beneath the surface.

Say something romantic, Seokmin's brain urged. Something poetic and meaningful. Something that captures this perfect moment.

"So, um," he began eloquently, his brain-to-mouth connection failing spectacularly, "do you want to maybe get dinner sometime? Like, as real people? Without cameras? Or PDs? Or missions? Just... us?"

SMOOTH, SEOKMIN. VERY SUAVE. THE PINNACLE OF ROMANCE.

To his relief, Y/N's face broke into a brilliant smile. "Are you asking me on a date, Lee Seokmin?"

"Yes," he confirmed, his ears burning but his voice steady. "The first of many, I hope."

"In that case," Y/N replied, "my answer is yes. To dinner, and to whatever comes after."

The simple acceptance made Seokmin's heart soar. He stood, offering her his hand. "The show's over now," he said softly. "But maybe... we don't have to be?"

Y/N took his hand, rising to stand before him. "I'd like that."

They stood facing each other in the empty dugout, the moment stretching between them, charged with possibility. Seokmin was acutely aware that most of the crew was still present, though focused on their tasks rather than on them. This wasn't complete privacy, but it was as close as they'd gotten in months.

"I've been wanting to do something," he admitted, still holding her hand.

"What's that?" Y/N asked, though the knowing glint in her eye suggested she already had an idea.

"This," Seokmin said, and before his nerves could get the better of him, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Unlike their rain-soaked kiss on the boat, this one was unhurried, soft and sweet and deliberate. His hand came up to cup her cheek, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and for a perfect moment, the rest of the world fell away—no cameras, no audience, no performance. Just them.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N was smiling, her eyes bright with a joy that matched the bubbling happiness in his own chest.

"Was that for the cameras?" she teased softly, nodding toward the distant crew.

"No," Seokmin replied, his voice low and certain. "That was just for us."

As they walked out of the stadium together, hands still entwined, Seokmin felt lighter than he had in months. The show was over, the pretending done. Whatever came next would be real—complicated and messy and wonderful in its authenticity.

And that, he thought as Y/N squeezed his hand, was better than any script the PD could have written.

---

ONE YEAR LATER

A different variety show. The host was interviewing Seokmin about SEVENTEEN's latest comeback.

"And your personal life?" the host asked with practiced casualness. "Fans are curious if you've kept in touch with Y/N after 'We Got Married' ended."

Seokmin smiled, thinking of Y/N who was probably watching the broadcast, possibly still in his apartment where she'd been curled up on his couch when he left for the studio this morning. He thought of the drawer that had somehow become "her drawer" in his dresser, the extra toothbrush in his bathroom, the way his members teased him mercilessly about his dopey smile whenever she texted.

"Some things," he said to the host, still smiling, "are better left off-camera."

The host laughed, recognizing the polite deflection and moving on to questions about the group's upcoming tour.

Later that night, as Seokmin slipped his key into the lock of his apartment, he was greeted by the sound of Y/N's laughter from within. He entered to find her exactly where he'd left her—curled on his couch, script in hand, wearing one of his hoodies—but now Hoshi was there too, apparently in the middle of telling her some ridiculous story that had her in stitches.

"—and then Seokmin tried to convince the manager it wasn't his fault the rice cooker exploded, but there was rice stuck to the CEILING—" Hoshi was saying, breaking off when he noticed Seokmin in the doorway. "Oh, speak of the devil!"

"Betraying my kitchen disasters?" Seokmin asked, dropping his bag and crossing to the couch.

"Just keeping your girlfriend properly informed about what she's gotten herself into," Hoshi replied cheerfully, standing and stretching. "I should head back to the dorm. Thanks for the coffee, Y/N."

After Hoshi left with a knowing wink that made Seokmin roll his eyes, Y/N patted the spot beside her. "So, a rice cooker explosion?"

"Lies and slander," Seokmin insisted, dropping onto the couch and immediately pulling her against his side. "How was your day?"

"Better now," she said simply, fitting herself against him with the ease of long practice. "How was the interview?"

"They asked about you," Seokmin admitted. "If we're still in touch."

"And you said?"

"That some things are better left off-camera."

Y/N smiled, turning to press a kiss to his jaw. "Good answer."

As they settled into the comfortable routine they'd built over the past year—takeout ordered, day's events shared, quiet affection exchanged in the privacy of their own space—Seokmin marveled at how far they'd come from those first awkward interactions in front of cameras.

The show had given them a beginning, but what they'd built since—the inside jokes, the silent understanding, the safe harbor they'd created in each other's lives—that was entirely their own creation. Something real, lasting, and completely camera-free.

And that, Seokmin thought as Y/N laughed at something ridiculous he'd said, was the best finale he could have imagined.

THE END

[fishfooddude]

No Phone Policy 5.0

Trigger/Content Warning: DV themes to an extent, prayers, lots of anxiety mentions, abandonment?

I feel like I got a little too angsty with this one, but remember, y'all permitted it.

The Bear MasterList

Directory

Part 4

Before the Policy (Technically the part I wrote before this part)

You were frozen. One of Carmy’s arms was draped around your waist as he slept peacefully. All you could do was stare at the wall and wait for Wolf to cry so you’d have an excuse to leave the room. But the cries didn’t come. The room was filled with the white noise of the overhead fan and Carmy’s soft snores. You swallowed and tried to focus on anything besides the twinge of pain Carmy had inflicted on your wrists. What were you going to do? Carmy had never done anything like this before. All the after-school specials and PSAs you’d seen as a kid said that domestic violence starts small. The abuser tests the waters - see what they can get away with. You were the perfect victim in some way.

A month postpartum, maybe $500 to your name, some family but not many friends… but Carmy wasn’t an abuser? Was he? You racked your brain for hours trying to compartmentalize the last five years of your life. Was Carmy the perfect friend? No. He wasn’t always the ideal boyfriend, fiance, or husband, as evident by how he’d been ignoring you the weeks prior to you giving birth, but he wasn’t that kind of man. He wasn’t the kind of man who had to hurt people to feel significant or noteworthy. He wasn’t the kind of man who had to manipulate or lie to people to get what he wanted. Hell, it took months of you asking before he dared to smack your ass in bed- he wasn’t the type to lay hands on you. As you lay in bed with him, your brain racked with any other times Carmy may have done something subtle, something you missed that could have been a predictor of what happened. You were brought out of your downward thought spiral when Wolf’s soft cries came over the baby monitor. Fear washed over you when you felt the weight of Carmy’s arm disappear. 

Carmy mumbled something before getting out of bed and slowly exiting the master bedroom. When he was gone, you rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. “1,3,5,7,11,13,17,19…” you counted under your breath as you watched the ceiling fan slowly turn in counter-clockwise circles, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference…” you whispered to yourself. As you took another deep breath, you heard footsteps approach the bedroom. You closed your eyes and rolled back to your previous position. 

As Carmy got back into bed, you felt your stomach twist, “She’s okay, baby. Just needed a diaper change…” he whispered as his arms snaked around your waist. You felt like you were going to throw up when he pulled you to meet him in the middle of the bed. 

~

“So all it took was havin’ a kid?” Cerico laughed as he read the email Carmy had sent the night prior. “Hey, it’s sweet. He’s growin’ up.” Natalie commented as she scrolled through the email on her laptop, “Also, I don’t know how he spelled ‘special’ wrong four times with spell check.” 

“Okay—updates for the menu… so we are doing a singular special every night. It’ll highlight whatever produce is fresh from the farmer’s market. We'll make weekly menus instead of changing the menu every night. We’re also switching food vendors, so if you want extra hours, we’ll need an additional couple of sets of hands to unload the orders.” Syd explained this to the wait staff during their daily meeting before the dinner service. The sense of relief in the room was palpable; Richie thanked Syd for explaining the changes before taking the lead for the rest of the meeting. 

Carmy was sitting in the office that night when Richie found his way inside. He immediately noticed a picture of Wolf pinned on the corkboard above the computer, surrounded by post-it notes and various unpaid bills. He grinned and pulled a chair to the desk, “What’s good cousin?” 

Carmy looked up from his notebook when he heard Richie’s question. He shrugged, “I’m off the next couple of days… tryin’ help Syd out with some special ideas.”

“How are things at home?” Richie probed. Carmy shrugged again, much to his annoyance. “Y/N still pissed at you?” 

“We’re good. Babys good. Everything is okay.” Carmy answered as he ripped the page from his notebook and stuck it to the corkboard before getting up from his chair. Richie’s brow creased at Carmy’s explanation. There was no way ‘everything is okay’; he missed the birth of his child. While he hadn’t known for that long, he knew there was no way you’d just let Carmy off the hook like that. 

Carmy walked through the front door and heard noises coming from the kitchen. He smiled to himself as he found his way into the kitchen. Your back was turned to him; Wolf sat in her pastel Bumbo seat on the counter, babbling. You laughed along with her babbling as he stood in the doorway watching you wash dishes and continue your ‘conversation’ with Wolf. Carmy came into the kitchen and hugged you from behind, startling you. He felt you swallow hard as your body tensed. He pushed the concern out of his head and greeted you with a kiss on the cheek. 

“How you doin’ baby?” he asked as he let his arms fall and turned his attention to Wolf. You clenched your fist behind your back, watching Carmy lift Wolf out of her seat and cuddle against him. You shrugged, “Goin’ great. She napped like a champ, and I got some work done from home.” 

Carmy smiled as he rubbed Wolf’s back softly, “That’s great, baby.” You nodded in agreement and returned to finishing what you’d been doing before Carmy had gotten home. It had been a few weeks since Carmy did what he did, and you still felt conflicted about the entire situation. He was trying to be present and involved with all things parenting, but you couldn’t shake the way he’d hurt you. He pretended like it never happened. 

~

“How’d her appointment go?” Carmy asked as he entered the bedroom with a towel around his hips.

You locked your Kindle before meeting his gaze. “She’s good. She got four shots and was super pissed at me for like an hour, but she’s good now.” 

Carmy chuckled, “Did Feyre and Rhysand finish rebuilding the night court yet?” he asked as he got a pair of underwear from his drawers. You rolled your eyes at the question, “Not yet. I got to a good part, though.”

“How’d work go?” you questioned as Carmy got into bed. He shrugged, “It wasn’t anythin’ special. Just missed my girls…” his voice had dropped an octave as he scooted closer to you in bed. You felt your body tense as he snaked his arms around your waist. You glanced at the baby monitor, praying for Wolf to start crying. The idea of being intimate with him made you feel cold and clammy.

“Carm…” you trailed off as you tried to wiggle out of his grip, “I-I-I” you stuttered as you felt him press a kiss into the exposed skin of your shoulder. You squeezed your eyes closed as Carmy moved to hover above your body. The hair on your arms stood when you felt Carmy’s thumb run across your jaw. “I miss you baby… I know I fucked up, and I’m gonna spend the rest of my life tryin’ to make up for it… let me make you feel good…” he cooed. 

Before you could answer his demand, his lips were on yours. Blood rushed to your ears as he feverishly kissed you. Carmy was desperate to alleviate the frustrations that had been building since you came home from the hospital. Watching you take care of his baby left him feeling feral. The desire to ravage you had met its breaking point this evening when you strolled into the living room in those silky pajama shorts with the lacy trim. The pastel green popped against your skin; the material was tight around the fat of your thighs and beckoned for him to take you there and then. He just had to wait for the baby to go down.

Your stomach twisted as Carmy’s lips made their way down your jawline and neck toward your collarbone. As he sunk his teeth into the sensitive skin, you felt as if you were going to throw up. “Carmy,” you sniveled as he pushed a hand under the band of said silk shorts, lacing his fingers in the band of your underwear. You went unheard as Carmy sucked a hickey into your collarbone, “Carmy!” you cried as you brought your palms to his chest to shove him aside. 

Carmy was perplexed but concerned when he realized you were hyperventilating. “Baby- baby, are you okay?” he asked as he reached for you. You pushed yourself off the bed, stumbling as you rushed into the bathroom, desperate to get as far away from Carmy as quickly as possible. Carmy’s brow tensed as he scrambled to get out of bed, pulling on a pair of gym shorts that had been discarded on the bedroom floor before he got into the shower. 

Carmy knocked on the door before trying the doorknob. The door was locked, and he could hear your heavy sobs from the other side of the door. “Baby- Y/N, baby, talk to me. Did I do somethin’ wrong?” 

“LEAVE ME ALONE, CARMEN!” you chastised him through the door as your body shook. You sought comfort in the corner of the bathroom by the bathtub. With shaky fingers, you tried to tap against your skin to ground yourself, but the coping skin proved unsuccessful. 

“Baby? Please open the door,” Carmy pleaded shakily. “Y/N? Let me help you, baby.” He rested his forehead against the door as he jingled the doorknob. You didn’t respond to his pleas. Carmy took a deep breath. “Baby, please. " He begged and bargained for you to open the door. 

“CARMY, JUST-JUST GO AWAY!” Your voice cracked as you yelled through the bathroom door. You didn’t care about waking Wolf; you just wanted him to leave. “Baby, let me in. Let me help you,” Carmy demanded as calmly as he could. You took a deep breath before pushing yourself up from the floor. If you did this, it had to be quick.

The door flung open to Carmy’s surprise. You pushed past him and ran out of the bedroom. “Baby?!” he called after you as he tried to catch up with you. “Baby?! What the fuck! Talk to me!” he yelled as you reached the top of the stairs. He reached out and managed to get a hold of your wrist. Your eyes were wide as your mind flashed back to the last time he’d grabbed you like this.

You yanked your wrist out of his grip and quickly blinked away the tears welling in your eyes. You had to get away from him. “Y/N!” Carmy yelled as you stumbled down the stairs, tripping on your way. You landed on your hip hard, as a hiss of pain came out of your mouth as Carmy joined you at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Baby? Are you okay?!” Carmy sputtered as he pushed your hair out of your face. You shook your head and tried to push him away from you as he helped you sit at the bottom of the stairs. “Fuck Y/N! Let me fuckin’ help you!” Carmy protested as you pushed yourself away from him and up from the ground in a swift movement. 

“LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE CARMEN! I FUCKIN’ HATE YOU, ASSHOLE!” you screamed at the top of your lungs as you grabbed your bag from the table by the door. Wolf’s cries echoed throughout the house as Carmy watched you storm out of the house. 

“What the fuck?” Carmy grunted as tears started rolling down his cheeks. He sat momentarily on the stairs to compose himself before getting up to go into the nursery. 

“I’m sorry, princess…” he cooed as he picked Wolf up from her crib. She wailed louder as Carmy brought her to his chest. As he bounced her in his arms, he couldn’t shake the thoughts of something bad happening to him. “Mommy’ll be okay… I got you right now…”

Part 6

[northopalshore]

What is Derivative astrology?

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊

Derivative astrology is a method that pulls information from certain houses in your chart in order to get specific details regarding that area of your life. In theory, it's like saying everything in your life can be derived from your natal chart.

It's sort of like a simplified persona chart in a way but it doesn't require any additional calculations or settings. Just read your chart counter clockwise from the point of interest.

It's done by placing a house (of which holds the subject of your inquiry) as the ascendant while the following houses become the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and so on. Planets in those houses follow the same flow.

For example:

౨ৎHow will my financial journey be?

Look at your natal 2nd house and read it as the first house in this scenario. Planets in your second house become planets in the 1st house now.

౨ৎWhat are my parents like?

Look at your 4th house and read it as the ascendant.

౨ৎWhat's my first child like & how will I be as a parent?

Look at your 5th house and read it as the ascendant.

౨ৎWhat are my in-laws like?

Look at your 9th house and read it as the ascendant

౨ৎWhat's my (future) spouse/partner like?

Look at your 7th house and read it as the ascendant

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊

@northopalshore 2024 derivative astrology.

[fatherdearest-kink]

daddy please I have been so wet thinking about your blog, checking it every time im high. Can you please tell me how I should touch myself? 🥺

Of course dear. Such a good girl, touching herself to my writings!

Here's what you must do to feel real good when masturbating:

Don't just start touching immediately. You have to set the scene. Make sure to crave it badly before you touch it.

Use your hands to softly caress your chest, your hips, your thighs. Imagine it's an older man doing it, slowly getting you more and more excited as your pussy starts getting wet from the expectation, and your little clit begins throbbing, wanting to be played with as well.

Imagine yourself in Daddy's care. Depending on your kinks, add different things to your starting routine: Move one hand to your neck and squeeze it softly as you imagine Daddy giving you a little scare as he grabs you by the throat and make you think he's about to choke you. Caress your cheeks or your head as if he was lovingly embracing you. Push your fingers inside your mouth and imagine Daddy making you lick them like a good girl, or slap your own face as you picture Daddy showing you what a dumb little whore you are, putting you in your place before he breeds you.

In-between, make sure to tease your breasts as well, to an intensity you find comfortable. Grab them, squeeze them, claw at them, simply be as rough with them as you'd like Daddy to be. Same with your nipples, tease them well, pull them, pinch them, bully them a little, or a lot. Make yourself feel used even before you get to the main event.

After you can not handle it anymore, it's time to go down to your needy hole that's been waiting desperately all this time.

Spread your legs and start using one finger to rub that needy clit. Press down on it and rub in a clockwise circular motion. As you go on, switch it around a little. Go counter-clockwise, up and down, left and right. Put your index and middle finger together, straight them up, and start using them to slap it as hard as it feels good, or use a different object to slap your clit nicely.

Still while teasing your clit, slide your hand down every so often, touching your labia on your way down and barely sliding your fingers inside on your way up, before going back to rubbing. Keep doing this until you can't handle it anymore.

Depending on the way you cum, you can simply tease your clit until climax, or push your fingers in.

If it's the latter case, push them or your object of choice gently at first. Make sure not to let your pussy coerce you into giving it the full pleasure it wants just yet.

You must learn to be patient, push those fingers in, and slowly grow in intensity as your wet hole squelches lewdly as you go, faster and faster until your mind starts going blank.

Closer and closer to cumming, simply keep fucking yourself at the best speed you can handle at that point, and cum just for me.

Alternatively, switch between fingering yourself and teasing your clit, anything that feels best.

Just.

Keep.

Going.

When you feel closer, remember that you must cum only when I allow you to. Because of this, you must count down once you feel close enough.

Count down from 10. Imagine it's Daddy doing it, and hold it as best as you can while the countdown is ongoing; you are NOT allowed to cum until you go past 1.

And so, count down:

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

Hold it there, just for a little bit.

Just a little longer.

And...

Cum. Cum my sweet girl, climax just for Daddy.

Just like that, good girl!

Of course, after cumming, don't forget to thank me out loud for allowing you to do so.

And just like that, you came by following my instructions like the good little girl you are. Good job, my darling!

Now, if anyone reading followed these instructions, you must reblog, so I know who's a good girl who read this far and actually obeyed.

[gillytweed]

Gem Played Vintage Story

So Gem played Vintage Story, and I'm so happy cause it's such a good game, but also while there's a lot of similarities with Minecraft, there are some pretty brutal mechanics that might blindside some newer players who only play Minecraft. For that reason, here's a list of random things that will help any new players that decide to buy the game.

If you have never played before, I recommend changing these settings: Change when monsters spawn to a couple days after your first day (they will kill you, give yourself a little to figure out the mechanics before the murder starts), Allow sleep during Temporal Storms (trust me), Turn on keep inventory (for your first play through, there are enough mechanics to learn that its just easier to keep your stuff when you die. Cause you will die), turn on colour accurate map (it helps with finding specific resources once you know what you're looking at)

Character class doesn't overly matter imo, choose what you want to focus on in your play style and do whatever.

Follow the tutorial, it gives you the barebones mechanics to survive your first night.

Inventory can be expanded, look up baskets and backpacks.

Mark things on the map, you won't remember where you found that clay deposit.

There's fall damage

Temporal Rifts move, so if you find one, it will disappear eventually

Don't go in the rifts, if you do you go insane (literally, your character has a time.) A few seconds is fine but don't stand in it.

Lower your temporal stability, the more danger you're in. Pay attention if your gear starts spinning counter clockwise.

Making a bed doesn't set your spawn point, you need a temporal gear.

The handbook is a godsend, use it.

Caves are scary, but can have good stuff. Bring a light source.

Wolves and Bears will kill you, you can't tame wolves in this.

Temperature is a thing, as time goes on you will freeze, prep for it.

You need a bowl to get cooked food out of pots.

For the creatives, look up chiseling, you'll love it.

Now go play Vintage Story, it's so good.

[atlaculture]

hiii! i was just wondering are there any traditional thai dances that could be incorporated into a firebending character? i’m trying to make a very heavily thai inspired oc but im worried, as im not thai myself, that i may make a bad choice and use something that shouldn’t be used.

thank you!!

Thai Dances with a Fire Nation Vibe - Part 1

Going to split this post into two parts...

Before I delve into detail, I want to establish my lack of credentials on the matter, haha. I'm of Cambodian heritage, and while there's a lot of similarities between Thai and Cambodian culture due to a shared history and geographic proximity, I don't want to set myself up as a Thai cultural expert. Also, I grew up in America and in a fairly secular environment at that. My family would go to the Buddhist temple for holidays and funerals, but I don't necessarily have the best sense for what would be considered offensive in a Hindu-Buddhist context.

With that disclaimer out of the way, there's actually a Thai dance known as Fawn Tian (กวางเทียน) or "The Candle Dance". It's very ethereal and it reminds me of Zuko and Aang's firebending adventure. This type of gentle firebending would definitely have been banned in a post-Sozin Fire Nation. According to Wikipedia, the female dancers pay homage to the divinities that protect the eight cardinal points of the Earth, asking them to pass through the candlelight.

There's also Wai Khru Ram Muay (ไหว้ครูรำมวย), which roughly translates to "Mentor-Honoring Boxing Dance". Wikipedia put it best:

...the Ram muay is a series of choreographed movements often performed before a Muay Thai bout to show respect and gratitude to the fighter's teacher, parents, and ancestors... Upon entering the ring, fighters circle the ring in a counter-clockwise direction and pray at each corner. They bow their heads at every corner three times in salutation to Buddha, Dharma, and the Sangha of monks... The ram muay is a personal ritual, ranging from the very complex to the very simple, and often contains clues about who trained the fighter and where the fighter is from.

I could see this being a ritual performed before an Agni Kai, pre-Sozin. I imagine that dance was phased out of Fire Nation society because it doesn't center the Fire Lord or the nation as the object of respect.

Similar war dances (wai khru ram/ไหว้ครูรำ) are performed when wielding weapons. Below is one for dual-sword wielders, called "Standing Bhramma, Four Corners". I could see Zuko doing this one before doing anything Blue Spirit-related.

Here's two guys doing some ritualized dual sword fighting:

In part 2, I'll go over some bouncy Thai dances that are reminiscent of a flickering fire and some dances that I think the Fire Nation ladies would enjoy.

[bunny-claws]

types of spells and ideas for methods of casting [long post]

attracting

fill a small jar with honey and add a written statement of intent to the jar - seal and set the jar in direct sunlight to manifest your intent

stir your morning coffee or tea in a clockwise motion while focusing on the intent of what energies you wish to attract for the day

fill a jar with herbs and crystals that represent what you want to attract and add a statement of intent

charge a crystal and wear on your person to attract certain energies

create a sigil and either draw it on yourself or on paper and keep in your pocket

create a talisman, charge it, and wear it to attract various energies

banishing

take an item that represents what you wish to banish and: throw it in the trash, flush it down the toilet, burn it, bury it, drown it

burn the item and sweep the ashes out the back door or bury them

carve the name of what you want to banish into a black candle and let it burn down completely - bonus points if the candle is anointed with herbs or a binding oil

transmute negative energy into a stone (preferably a black stone like onyx) and throw it over the fence in your backyard (or whichever direction is south in reference to your home)

stir your morning coffee or tea in a counter-clockwise motion while focusing on the intent of what energies you wish to banish for the day

using incense that is associated with banishing negative energy, walk around your space in a counter-clockwise motion with the lit incense in your hand

binding and sealing

wrap a string around a poppet or other representation of the target or item you wish to bind

put the poppet or other representation in a plastic bag filled with water and freeze it

place the item in a black box and seal it - store in a dark place or bury the box in your backyard

write the item you want to bind on paper and seal with wax - keep safe until the bond is broken

perform a tie-breaking spell

blessing and consecrating

anoint an object with holy or blessed water/oil

use spring water to bless objects

place the object in a dry bath of herbs or flowers that are known for blessing

pass the object through incense smoke that is associated with blessing

use a censer to consecrate a place or a room

cleansing

leave the item in the path of direct moon, sun, or starlight

place in a dry bath or herbs or flowers that are associated with cleansing

place the item in a bowl of sea salt

pass the item through incense smoke that is associated with cleansing

pass the item through running water

anoint the item with a cleansing oil or charged water

bury the item in soil for 3 days so it may be “reborn” when unearthed

place a cleansing crystal on top of or next to the item

hang a wind chime outside of your home to negate negative energies before they have the chance to enter your home

physically clean and freshen your space - dust, mop, open the windows and let some fresh air inside (you can view this as an "out with the old and in with the new" situation)

cursing

fill a poppet with baneful herbs and crystals, seal it, and store in a black box

add baneful herbs and crystals to a jar with a piece of paper that states the target’s name or a description of them and seal it

create a poppet or other representation of the target and destroy it (commonly by burning)

utilize martian or saturnian energy for baneful magic

stab the poppet with pins and needles

curse an item and "gift" it to the target

dreams and sleep

fill a sachet with herbs associated with restful sleep and peaceful dreams and hang above your bed

place the sachet under your pillow

wash your bedsheets and sleep clothes with a few drops of lavender or chamomile essential oil

alternately, choose fabric softener that is lavender scented to wash your sheets or sleep clothes with

create a sigil for peaceful dreams or dream recall, charge under the light of the moon, and place it under your pillow before you go to sleep

utilize lunar or neptunian energy in dreamwork

mugwort, peppermint, or valerian root tea before bed for vivid, lucid dreams

chamomile tea before bed for restful sleep

lemon verbena (vervain) tea before bed for dreamless sleep

when bathing at night, create a sachet that matches your intent and place in the bath or shower

glamours

utilize energy from venus and pluto for beauty and transformation but also neptune for illusions, mysticism, and confusion

anoint the containers of beauty and hair products with venus (beauty) or pluto (transformation/metamorphosis) water/oils/herbs

leave the item you wish to cast a glamour on under the full moon

charge a talisman with the effect you wish to have on others and wear when you go out for the day

add pluto water/oils/herbs and moon water to a bath for a full body glamour (write your intent with bath crayons on the tub or shower wall for an extra boost)

create an energetic shield over yourself in which the outside mirrors what you want others to perceive of you

goal and wish manifestation

write your intent on a bay leaf and burn it

turn your intent into a sigil and store it in a jar filled with herbs or other items that represent said intent

place a written description of your goal or wish in the center of a crystal grid using stones that are associated with manifestation and power

place a coin in moon water while focusing on your wish or goal (leave container under direct moonlight overnight so that it may charge)

light a candle whose color matches your intent and while focusing on your goal or wish, blow out the candle

add a catalyst to your spell

use energy from mars (power) or jupiter (luck)

personal power and effects

create or enchant a talisman that represents your intent, charge it, and wear it on your person

add herbs that are associated with personal power to a ritual bath

create a potion from herbs associated with power and drink in the morning for a boost during the day (think caffeine)

use a catalyst in the aforementioned activities

utilize whichever planetary/cosmic energy you see fit

warding

sprinkle a mixture of protective herbs around the perimeter of your home while walking clockwise

leave protective crystals at each corner of your space

hang a protective amulet above the door to your space; wear a protective amulet for personal protection

create a protective witch bottle and bury near your front door

plant herbs or flowers that are associated with protection outside at each corner of your home

draw a protective sigil or symbol on the outside of your front and back door with saturn or protective water/oils

hang witch balls or a witch’s ladder near your front door

create an energetic shield and place over yourself, your loved ones, or your entire home

wealth, prosperity, and luck

craft a money bowl and place it at the farthest left point away from the entrance of your home

involve mercury or jupiter in your spellwork (luck, money)

anoint candles with mercurial or jovian oils and/or herbs and burn on wednesdays or thursdays (ruled by mercury and jupiter)

use prosperity/luck runes or craft sigils to carve into candles

on the first of the month, you can do the following: say "rabbit rabbit" for good luck all month and let that be the first thing you say when you wake up; blow powdered cinnamon into your front door from the outside or place a cinnamon stick above your front door for prosperity

craft a crystal grid using prosperity/lucky crystals - where you place it is up to you

please be wary:- of putting essential oils directly on the skin or on items that your skin may come in contact with- of leaving crystals in prolonged sunlight (might fade) or exposed to liquid (might dissolve, might become toxic when dissolved)- of blowing cinnamon into a home or using incense that has pets, or humans with respiratory issues- ingesting/burning/touching herbs/plants/etc. that you are not familiar with (could be toxic, could affect the efficacy of your prescribed medications, could be harmful for pets or other members of your household)

compiled from my personal grimoire & based on my personal associations & research

© 2025 bunny-claws

[deepperplexity]

Prompt 6: Wrapped Tightly [OS]

Pairing: Young Severus Snape x Young Female Hufflepuff You

Set in: Year Seven of Yours and Severus’s Hogwarts time

POV: Second, Reader

A/N: I wanted to write something sweet, something cute, something fun and warming in a one-shot to take a little break from the serials of Brandon, Gruber, and Turpin that I have going on so far this Rickmas so here we are with a young Snape 🥰 Now, it was supposed to be short but… umh, yeah… 👀 P.S the potion in this story is completely made up.

Also, side note, we had a family Christmas crafts day at work (the library) today and there was so much happening I feel like I've been in a whirlwind and I need to finish tomorrow's prompt but I'm all drained after the super-energy at work 😅

Tags/TW’s: Mutual Secret Pining, Young Love, First Kiss, Hand Holding, Knight In Shining Armour Vibes, Illegal Potion Making, Rule Breaking, Sneaking Around After Curfew, Disastrous Potion, Slight Banter/Teasing (fun kind!), Nervousness, Low Self-esteem

Abbr.: Y/N - Your Name | Y/L/N - Your Last Name

Word Count: 4.6k

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Wrapped Tightly

Your hands ached, your mind solely focused on counting the stirs of the cauldron. …forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one… On and on it went, you would count until you hit eighty-three and then stir the potion counter-clockwise sixteen times before setting it to simmer for the upcoming eleven hours — perfectly timed for when you’d return from breakfast the day after. You’d have to get an early breakfast to make it in time but curfew was coming closer for this Friday evening so you had no choice but to make it at this time.

What you were doing wasn’t exactly allowed, but then again, no great things are discovered or created by strictly following rules and regulations, right? There, switch to counter-clockwise and one, two, three, four, five… It was a relief to move your arms in the opposite direction while you focused on counting — trying not to let the potentially disastrous outcome of brewing an illegal potion in a restricted tower of your school could yield; especially if the potion didn’t go as planned.

You pulled the wooden spoon of honey-waxed oak out of the potion at the exact right time, staring into the still-swirling potion for any signs of it changing colour for a long minute. It did not, and you let out a sigh of relief. The icy blue liquid was thick and white fumes with what looked like minuscule crystals wafted up from the cauldron as you adjusted the burner beneath it. Nothing happened, the potion remained the same and you clapped your hands giddily.

Before leaving the cold room with a slight shimmer to their walls as the fumes filled the space, you cast another three secrecy charms and a trespass hex for good measure. Rather someone gets a bit of a headache than discovering what you were up to, honestly.

The clock struck nine, the giant clock tower not far from the tower you occupied boomed it out and you closed the door to get yourself back to Hufflepuff quarters. You were on the wrong end of the school, and at the top of it which also happened to be opposite to where your dormitory was. Hufflepuff wasn’t as deep down as Slytherin in the dungeons but still, like the badger representing your house, you were down below.

You sneaked down the swirling staircase of stone, staying close to the inner wall, and made sure to keep your steps light and quiet. The curfew was in effect and now, with the halls lit with more candles and dressed in sparkly globes of magical ice, your reflection could be spotted as well if a teacher on patrol happened to pass nearby.

“Miss Y/l/n,” came a quiet voice and you halted while stiffening. “Perhaps you should take a left, lest you run into old Filch in a minute,” it continued as you turned your head only to find Sir Nicholas peaking his head out from the wall, literally just the head and the tiny flap of skin holding it attached to his shoulders which were hidden within the wall or perhaps behind it — you weren’t sure how thick the walls actually were. “Sir Nicholas,” you whispered. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the teachers’ side?” He smirked, his moustache twitching. “Oh, I like a good joke as much as anyone and what you’re brewing will be a fantastic one.”

You scrunched your brows. What you were brewing wasn’t intended for any joke. “What do you mean?” “Come now, he’s nearly here.” You looked around. “I can’t walk through walls,” you whisper-hissed. “No, but you can open the door,” he chuckled and disappeared. Door, what door? “In here,” came a voice you knew all too well. Your heart quickened at the dark drone and you looked slightly behind you. “Severus?” “Come on,” he said and a hand shot out through the wall— no, through a crack in the wall that suddenly opened wider. A hidden passage? I thought I’d found all— woah! You got yanked through the second your hand landed in his and darkness wrapped tightly around you along with stale air and an eerie quietness.

He pulled you closer, you stumbled on the uneven stone floor and planted your face against his harsh chest in the process of nearly falling face-first. He smelled too good. Sage, peppermint, and a scent all his own. Your heart leapt anew and your pulse quickened rapidly. “Sch,” he hissed as you were about to apologise for stumbling into him.

Footsteps moved past the other side of the wall— erh, door. You both stood absolutely still and you could not help but inhale his scent deeply, feeling that ever-growing warmth in your gut once more — as you did each time you lay eyes on the young man who a year ago had fully caught your attention when he saved you from a potion about to explode in class. It hadn’t been your potion, but the benchmate you sat next to. Had Severus not pulled you away and down from the bench next to you on the other side you would have ended up in the Hospital Wing for weeks, like Mr Biscy (the boy who was brewing) had.

You’d liked Severus before that, mostly by his appearance and this strange allure he had. You’d chalked it up to the bad-boy-vibes and the utter lack of interest he seemed to hold in anyone — even the world — and that was something you were fascinated by. Fine, alright, given your badger status, you were also quite happy to make friends and drag those friends along for the crazy ride that was life. To see people realise how not docile Hufflepuff people were was like the icing on the cake, to be honest.

“He’s gone,” Severus said, the dark drone even deeper with your head so close to his chest. You almost whined a complaint as he let your hand go and stepped back. Your eyes had adjusted to the darker space but it was still hard to see much of anything. “Thanks,” you said with a wide smile. “Why are you out beyond curfew?” he asked, and you could have sworn his brow arched and his face hardened a smidge. He was so pale and his hair and clothes so dark that the features were actually visible even in the gloomy space. “Wouldn’t you like to know."” “I would not have asked otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes, the saying going over his head apparently. “It’s my business. I could ask you the same question, you know.” “True.” He turned and began walking, you followed quickly. "But I am not the one nearly caught. Good for you Nicholas told me.” “Wait, he told you? What did he tell you?” Please, nothing about the potion for Merlin's sake. “That you were about to get caught by Filch. I can come out of that unscathed, you, however, could not.” The drawl of his voice nearly sounded smug.

You knew the squib and Severus had some strange form of friendship, or even a bond perhaps, but there was never a chance for you to ask anything about it. Hell, you barely got a chance to ever speak to or even be this close to Severus — he was a bloody expert at keeping distances… Annoying. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to admit that you truly fancied him, because there was no happiness to come from that given Severus barely acknowledged anyone's existence — yours included.

“There should be rules about teacher pets,” you said quietly. “True. It would not have any effect on the caretaker of Hogwarts, though. Would it?” he said, again, a hint of smugness to his voice you could not quite remember ever having heard before. “You’re awfully smug, bit of a git behaviour that,” you said in a we’re-talking-about-the-weather kind of voice. “Smug? No.” “Then, what?” He stopped, you nearly crashed into his back before he looked over his shoulder at you. “Happy…” he murmured before speeding off in long strides while your brain misfired and your legs had to start sprinting on instinct to follow the leader - so to speak - as you had no idea where you were or where the small hallway was taking you.

Happy? Why happy? Have I never heard him happy before? I don’t think I have. Why is he happy though? Is it me— pfth, don’t be daft. But why? You caught up to him as your brain fired thoughts at you in rapid form. “Happy?” you asked. “Why? What makes you happy? I love it, but why?” you rambled while walking as fast as your shorter legs would carry you. Severus took such long strides you had to fight to keep up as the hallway twisted and turned, sometimes going down a few steps, and sometimes going up.

“I could help you,” he said quietly, his words barely audible. “Help me? Well, yeah, Filch would have caught me so I’m very thankful for the help.” It looked as if he nodded at your words but you weren’t quite sure in the gloom. Come on, get him talking, this is your chance! But Severus beat you to it. “Why are you… sparkling?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You held out your hands and arms, well, shit, you hadn’t thought about the fumes sticking to you as well as the surrounding area. “Erh, glitter bomb?” Severus snorted. “Sure, glitter bomb. Engineer a better excuse.” “Unicorn farted on me?” you said with a whitheld laugh. “Better. Try again.” What, no laugh out of that? “Fine, a Christmas elf sprayed me.” He sighed. “Try again. Careful, steep drop here,” he said right after and slowed his steps.

Severus stepped down, turning him a few inches shorter than you which looked so odd. “Here,” he said, holding out his hand. You hesitated for a moment while your fingers tingled with the prospect of getting to hold his hand. You grabbed on, he took a sturdy grip with those long fingers, and you stepped down the high step with a bit of manoeuvring. “Where are we?” you asked and he released you. “Almost by Hufflepuff.” “What?” “Yes.” “But we were over on—” “Hogwarts has many passages and secrets.” Severus glanced back at you. “Now, another, better, excuse.” How about the truth? “Alright, I was brewing the Dragon Ice potion and the fumes got all over the place.”

Severus halted, you crashed into his back with an oomph! and a thud. “You what?” he asked, turning to face you. “Brewing the Dragon Ice potion—” He grabbed your upper arms. “Are you completely out of your mind?!” he hissed. “Where’s the potion? Where are you doing it?” “Southwest tower, the restricted one with the—” “Idiot. Come on,” he said with exasperation and annoyance mixed with urgency. “What? No, it’s not done until eight in the morning, it’s simmering for—” “For eleven hours as per the recipe in the restricted section, yes, but that’s the incorrect recipe!” he snarled, grabbing your hand and pulling you back the way you came.

You dug your heels in. “What? But it says the same thing in all three books,” you said, halting all movement. “Yes, and they are all incorrect to keep people from brewing it!” “What?” you asked, worry beginning to gnaw in your gut despite the warmth and absolute joy it was to have Severus so close. “What will happ—” “It will explode, turn everything in close vicinity to ice.” “You say that as if you’ve done it before.” “I have, and I learned,” he said. “You’re about to learn that you don’t brew dangerous, illegal potions at school where, if things go wrong, the evidence is in everyone’s faces. Y/n, what were you thinking?” he asked, anger and frustration seeped through his voice but he was not quite mean to you. “I need the money.” “So brew less dangerous potions!” “No, I need a lot of money.” “Don’t we all…” he muttered

“Come on, we need to break the potion cycle before it turns half the castle into an ice cube.” “Wait, what?” He jerked on your arm and you both began moving again. “Yes. The fumes are already turning your clothes hard, aren’t they?” When you thought about it, yes, your cloak felt stiffer than usual and your skirt wasn’t moving as swiftly around your thighs. “I’m becoming ice?” There had been no bloody warning about that in the books. Severus snorted. “No, of course not. It’s more like your clothes being covered in frost, not ice. It stops after a few minutes. The potion, however, is another matter.”

You both walked at a brisk pace all the way back to where you came from. Sir Nicholas appeared just in time when you reached the wall that was really a door. “Back so soon?” “Dragon Ice,” Severus said, and Sir Nicholas smiled and chuckled so his head nearly toppled to one side. “Yes, quite the jester our Miss Y/l/n.” He glanced at me with weird eyes of mischief one usually didn’t see in them. “It will be so much fun when—” “No, Sir, it’s the wrong recipe, half the castle will turn to ice if it explodes. And it will.” Sir Nicholas stiffened. “Oh dear, Miss. Quite the pickle we’re in now.” But there was definitely mischief in his eyes, it looked wrong on this specific ghost but not in a necessarily bad way.

He floated backwards, out of the wall, and then reappeared again. “All safe, onward mighty students, to stop the botched potion!” he said with fanfare as if you two were knights in shiny armour. It was endearing but the bravado was a bit too much at the moment. “Let’s go, Severus said and pushed open the wall— door, before grabbing your hand anew and pulling you close behind him toward the entrance to the tower.

You started up the swirling stairs, rushing up them. Truth be told, it was hard to be fast when Severus held your hand, but you had no incline to let go. Who knew, perhaps you’d never get to feel his fingers squeeze around yours ever again after tonight? It felt as if you were in a whirlwind — there was so much happening that you barely had time to reflect on the fact that you were with Severus, holding his hand, nearly running with him and that he’d spoken more to you in the past fifteen minutes in one go than ever before. And he said he was happy… But you had no time to think any more of it as you reached the door.

“Good hex,” he said, grabbing at his forehead with his free hand while you drew out your wand and undid it. “Thanks, it was in—” “Uncomfortable Spells For Protection, restricted section.” You chuckled. “Yeah.” “And here I was, thinking you badgers were sweet, none rebellious creatures,” he said, that smug sound in his voice once more but now you knew better. “Aren’t you serpents supposed to be greedy, evil people? Not ones to help those in need with diffusing disaster potions and keeping people out of harm?” “Touché.”

You chuckled before pushing the door open with the back of your wand-holding hand and arm. “Shit,” Severus said, seeing the room filled with a blue-tinted fog that wasn’t at all the type of fumes you’d left it filled with not too long ago. “It didn’t look like—” But Severus let go of you and rushed toward the cauldron, looking into it and interrupting you. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he muttered before starting to search through the pockets of his robe. “Where is it, where is it?” he muttered further as you moved closer in the freezing room with walls, ceiling and floor covered in a thin sheet of ice and small icicles were forming across the ceiling, too.

“Well, this is bad,” you said, not sure if you were panicking or having a laugh at the whole thing. “Yes, bad, very bad,” Severus muttered distractedly, still searching his robes. “Maybe we should get a teacher?” “No, this will not end well for us.” “Us? You haven’t done—” “I’m here, aren’t I?” True… “But you haven’t done anything, you can go to the dungeons while I get a teacher.” “No time for— Shit! It’s going!” Severus snarled, nearly tearing his clothes apart when ripping at the pockets.

Panic surged through you as the cauldron began trembling and creaking while the potion swirled like a whirlpool. A very beautiful whirlpool of glitter, silver, and blue. But ominous. “Get out, Y/n!” “No way!” you shouted back. “This is my fault!” “We’ll be pop-sickles in a minute!” Had the situation not been so grave you would have burst out laughing. But Severus looked far too serious. “We’ll melt eventually!” you shouted over the sudden storm-like winds spinning around the room, coming from the cauldron. Small flecks of ice scratched at your skin and forced you to squint.

Severus grabbed his wand, shouted something, and a small cluster of purple twigs with white leaves flew from a pocket and into his hand. “Get down!” he ordered and you ducked as he threw the material into the cauldron before covering you with his own body. Your heart hammered, your pulse raced and in the midst of whatever was going on with the potion and dire situation you were in some bizarre form of heaven with Severus holding you tight while half laying over you to protect your head and back was there too, wrapping itself tightly around your heart.

The cauldron exploded. You gasped and whimpered from the shattering sound before the noise of splattering liquid came a second later. Another second passed and quietness took over. No more storming winds, no creaking cauldron. Only the odd dripping noise now and then along with the drumming of your own pulse in your ears and the feel of Severus’s heart against your back with his harsh breathing fanning over the top of your head.

After another moment you both straightened. The room was an absolute mess of darkly blue goo. A dense liquid closer to slime than anything else covered everything, including the wide-eyed Severus standing before you. He had protected you from most of it. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice gruff and low. You nodded. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” you replied while looking around the room before landing back on him again. “You’re not though, your hair, it’s turning blue…” “Blue?!” He reached up and grabbed at the long black strands turning blue from root to tip like the black lake freezing over.

“It’s not so bad—” He gusted out a harsh breath through his nose while glaring at you. “Not, so, bad?” he snarled. “I’m blue, Y/n. Blue.” You couldn’t stop the giggle as all that had been black on him turned blue. A vibrant blue to boot. “It’s pretty, very, umh, Christmasy,” you said, endeavouring to hold back the laughing. But, in your defence, he looked like a blue gnome with porcelain skin. “Christmas is red and green, if you’ve not noticed.” “No, it can be any colour you—” “By Merlin, if you say one more word about it I will hex you, Y/n.” “Well—” you stepped closer, loosening the tightly gripping fingers out of his own hair “—hex away if it makes you feel better, I owe you big time for this… I mean, I could have been blue. Can you imagine a vibrantly blue badger? Nope, nope, nope. Blue snakes exist, so, no worries there.” “Pacifying me with facts, are we?” he asked, but he seemed less angered and softer as you brushed away some blue hair from his face and adjusted the now blue coat that had been askew.

Looking up at him, you found his onyx eyes mesmerising. He looked slightly alarmed, but there was something to say for being the focus of his attention. Your heart certainly had a say about it, it galloped along like reindeer across the Christmas night sky rushing to bring the sleigh of Santa all around the globe.

“Purple,” you said. “Purple?” “Plum purple, now that would suit you splendidly. Perfectly matchable with black, too, mind you.” He arched a brow. “Plum purple?” You nodded. “Make plum juice next time then, badger.” “Next time?” you asked, your knees turning slightly wobbly. His eyes hardened and widened a bit at the same time. “Or not, not like I care either way.”

His voice trembled ever so slightly, a lightness to it — as if he was suddenly embarrassed or something along those lines. You were too occupied with wondering what he meant to think much of it.

“You know, it’s not nice to say you’ll stick around if you have no plan to do it. I keep my friends, forever. Unless they do something shitty I can’t forgive,” you said. He glanced away for a second and then looked back at you. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting friendship.” You tilted your head, trying with all your might to understand if he was rejecting you despite having helped you immensely or if this was his way of saying he felt something for you as you certainly did for him. You had hinted at it, you had tried to get closer to him — but Severus, well, he wasn’t one to allow distances to shrink.

“Severus, are you saying I should keep my distance or are you asking me out on a Christmas date?” you asked, throwing caution to the wind and diving in head first. The blue hair shimmered as he glanced all around the room except at you. “Maybe…” he muttered, redness creeping up along his neck and covering the tips of his ears peaking through the still-moist hair.

You sighed, trying to find his gaze with your own. “Maybe what? Maybe a date? At Madam Puddifoots next weekend with some sweet treats and hot drinks in the corner booth?” “Something like that, perhaps…” His voice was so deep, so low, you barely heard him. “Will you still be blue? Should I match?” you asked, unable to hide the warmth and giddiness in your voice despite trying to lighten the mood as the poor bloke seemed absolutely stressed about the potential of going on a date. Pfth, it's probably more just talking and being with someone and admitting to feelings and all that stuff but bloody hell I am right now damn thankful for potions going wrong.

Severus still hadn’t said anything, he just looked at you. “Well? Will you still be blue?” “Are you— Are you making fun of me now?” he asked and the depth of his voice turned uncertain. “Absolutely not.” “You will go on a date, in public, with me?” he asked, his features tight but his eyes soft. Better be clear here… “Yes.” “I didn’t think you actually liked me.” “I’ve been trying to show that for a year now, you're very difficult, you know.” “Too difficult?” “HA! There is no such thing as someone too difficult to love, Severus.” “Love?” he asked, alarmed. “Well, I’ve had a crush on you since Biscy nearly landed me in the Hospital Wing with his potion exploding.” Severus snorted. “How he messed up so grandly I’ll never understand.” “Perhaps not, but you noticed before anyone else did. I’ve always found you interesting, you know.” “Have you?”

You smirked, wiggling your eyebrows at him while the atmosphere softened and eased. “Well, yeah, I’m a friend collector and I always want to rope in as many kinds of friends as possible — you certainly are one of a kind, helpful, too.” “Why does that sound incredibly ominous, badger?” “’cus it is. And if you’re my boyfriend, well, all the more fun things I can rope you into doing. Do you think failing a Dragon Ice potion is the only mischief I’ve ever been up to?” you asked, laughter and mirth in your voice as Severus’s eyes widened in alarm. “I believe I am about to find out…” “We badgers are on a whole other level. Like the time the cups turned into mice in the great hall, that was us. The singing trees in the dungeons, also us. The ice rink in the hallway on the fourth floor, also us. Remember that time everyone started floating about as if gravity went haywire?” Severus nodded. “Well, that was me. Who knew messing with gravitational spells to create a new one could make such a bloody mess of everything?” “Anyone with two brain cells to combine,” he snarked and you smirked at him, he wasn’t serious or harsh about it — it sounded as if he were joking with you, to be honest.

“Think you can handle it?” you asked, stepping closer. “Obviously. I may be blue, but we’re alive and the castle is whole, no thanks to you.” Severus looked down at you as you inched even closer, feeling all tingly as his eyes warmed a bit. “So, knight in shiny armour it is,” you said, grabbing his hand and squeezing. He arched a brow, not impressed apparently. “Shiny armour?” “Ugh, fine, black knight,” you conceded and reached up on your toes.

Before he could react, or step back, you planted your wanting lips atop his and kissed him with everything you believed he could handle. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it certainly appeared to be his as he stiffened and did not so much as soften his lips — it was sweet, endearing even. When you leaned back he looked paler than a ghost but he didn’t appear to particularly dislike what you’d done.

He stared at you for a long moment while your hands warmed each other. “You kissed me,” he said, eventually. You smiled widely. “Supplying me with facts?”  “I wasn’t prepared.” “Oh, shall I do it again on the count of three?” you asked, joking and smirking at him. His eyes flickered from yours to your lips and then up again. “If— If you want to…” His ears turned scarlet red at that and your heart absolutely melted. “Three, two, one,” you said quietly as you leaned closer and then you kissed him again. This time, he softened and tentatively kissed you back while his hand turned utterly warm around your own.

When the kiss broke, Severus seemed as shocked as before. “You did it.” “Well, yes, I wanted to,” you said brightly. “Now, will you still be blue for our date and the breakfast tomorrow?” “No. It will pass in about six hours with a good shower and new clothes.” “So no matching then,” you said with a smile. “And no plum purple,” he replied. You laughed as he smiled carefully. “You’re quite the hoot, you know that?” “Perhaps you hit your head when you ducked?” You laughed again. “Perhaps, perhaps, but at least my head isn’t blue.” “Touché,” he replied before turning to look at the mess of the room. “This will take time to undo,” he continued. “Nah, a few spells and we’re good. On toward the next mischief.”

You never did tell him why you brewed the potion, or why you needed the money only illegal and dangerous potions to sell could bring in. That was a future discussion; if the relationship led to something more serious. For now, you’d enjoy a Christmas with the Slytherin you’d wanted for over a year — even if he were currently very blue you had no qualms about kissing him for a third time when he undid his cloak and rolled up his sleeves to help with the cleaning. The fact he stiffened and his ears reddened this time, too, only made you feel as if he was the sweetest thing that you’d eventually corrupt with shenanigans, of course.

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Well, this was fun 🥰👏 It really was supposed to be a short thing, just like a small tidbit of fun teenage shenanigans and then boom - inspiration hits and you gotta type type type 😂👌

I hope you’re enjoying this first week of Rickmas - which character is your favourite to read about when it comes to Alan? 😍❤

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