#... for that flower he needs to hand over as well...

[sayangrafayel]

LADS men and you doing the "My boyfriend wants to show you his _____ collection and you better be nice!" Trend

Please I've been seeing this trend and they're all so cute and wholesome, so here's what the boys would show in the video.

Sylus, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Caleb.

Sylus (jewels)

"Hey guys, my boyfriend wants to show you his jewels collection, be nice!"

Sylus happily show the camera his collection of jewels he had won in auctions, along with Mephisto who would fly around and fetch each jewel he mentions.

"Tell them how much you spent on each jewel!" "Why? They won't be able to afford it." "Sy, be nic- yeah you're right."

Xavier (baking progress)

"Hey! My boyfriend wants to show you his progress of making the perfect bread and-" you whisper menacingly "you better be nice."

Xavier, covered in flour shows his.. perfect bread. The audience can clearly see the burnt side but Xavier quickly say "These little burnt spot makes the bread yummier and more authentic, unlike Charli-" "Xavi!!" "My bread is better." "Yes it is, my star."

He tore a little piece for you to taste and you ate it.. it was actually good. Well, not as bad as batch 27. "Mm! It's true what people say, the 50th time is the charm!"

Rafayel (paints)

"Hello! My husband wants to show you his collection of paints and I know you all adore him so be nice, alright?"

He shows the camera the 50 different yet looks very similar shade of purple. Yet Rafayel insists each one of them is different from the other, telling the audience how exactly he got those colors.

"Now this one, I got from a flower called Wisteria.. this one is from a Lavender. They appear the same but you can see that the other one is darker. Can you see it?" You tried your best to look intimidating in the background. He is just too cute.

Zayne (ice animals)

"My boyfriend is about to show you the ice animals he made from his evol, so be nice. Go ahead, love."

Zayne had five ice babies in his arms, he starts explaining each of the little animals' background. "This one is a seal.. it's the seal I gave her when we met again." You nod happily. "This one is a little cat.. I saw one and I scared it off, so I made a mini version to keep..."

You happily pat the little babies, the ones Zayne hands to you after he's done showing it to the camera.

Caleb (model airplanes)

"Heyho~ My sweet darling boyfriend wants to show you his model airplane collection so," you lean in dangerously close to the camera, "be nice."

"Alright!" Caleb immediately takes over, his natural charming self makes you question whether or not it was necessary for you to be intimidating when you're sure he can win over everyone easily. But you digress.

Each model airplanes he shows, he tells the audience the price and how long it took him to assemble, how you've helped him built many of them. You giggle, going down the memory lane along with him.

Ok at first I want Caleb to show different types of apples but but but model airplanes won, baby needs to get his nerd on.

[b1eedthefreak]

Hii I just wanted to submit a request! <3 I love your fics btw. Could you write something about Daryl struggling with intimacy because of his scars on his back and the reader reassures him and stuff. Thanks <3

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Scars

⌇daryl dixon x reader

summary⌇daryls never shown you his scars, but tonight you saw them

warnings⌇smut (just a little bit), body insecurity (daryl)

word count⌇0.9k

a/n⌇i’ve been wanting to do this request for like a month i’m sorry this took so long bae i hope you like it :)

You’d learned, early on, that love with Daryl Dixon was quiet.

It wasn’t flowers or grand declarations or touching under the stars. It was smaller than that. Quieter. A fresh apple slid into your hand on a rough day. A blanket folded neatly at your feet without a word. A grunt in place of goodbye, or hello, or I missed you more than I can stand.

And you were okay with that.

You didn’t need noise. You’d been too loud in past lives, too bright for people who never really knew how to hold something soft. But with Daryl, you could be still. You could be gentle. He made you want to whisper.

That’s why you’d never pushed.

Not when the nights passed with barely a kiss. Not when his hands stayed on your back, your waist, your shoulders—but never strayed lower. Not when you crawled into bed beside him and he curled around you like a shield but never let the last layer of armor fall.

You’d known, somehow. There was something in him that feared being seen.

You just hadn’t expected to see it like this.

The moment had been so ordinary, so easy. A teasing smile, the sound of your towel dragging across the floor, your voice light as it drifted back toward him.

“Wanna join me?”

He hadn’t looked up. Just shook his head, head ducked, hands still moving across the bow he was cleaning. It was his way of saying no, and you knew the language well enough by now.

“Suit yourself,” you hummed, walking over to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “Don’t go to sleep without me.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. You could feel the way his shoulders relaxed just a bit when your lips touched his hair.

And that was the last ordinary moment of the night.

——

The shower was longer than usual. Maybe because you were humming to yourself, letting the water run warm against the curve of your spine. Maybe because it had been a long day and your bones were tired, or maybe because, in your softest heart, you wanted him to change his mind and slip in behind you.

He didn’t.

But what you found when you stepped out, hair damp, towel clutched at your chest—was something you weren’t prepared for.

He didn’t hear you. You could tell by the way he stood frozen in front of the mirror, shirt discarded, back bare.

It stopped you in your tracks.

The scars weren’t just lines. They were stories. Stories he never told. Pale against his sun worn skin, some old and faded, others deep and jagged. They climbed across his shoulder blades, dipped below the waistband of his jeans, layered themselves like a language only pain could write.

You remembered them. From the prison. Just once, a flash of his back as he changed his shirt and turned away before anyone could really look.

But you had seen.

And you had never said a word.

Not because you were scared of him, never that. But because you knew, somehow, that silence was the greatest act of kindness you could offer then.

Now, though—seeing them again, seeing the way his jaw clenched when he spotted you in the reflection—your heart ached.

He turned, eyes wide like a boy caught stealing. Not angry. Just ashamed.

He grabbed for his shirt like it burned him to be seen, tugged it back on with jerky hands and wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You turned away gently, giving him the illusion of privacy he needed.

“Didn’t see anything, Dar,” you murmured.

A lie. A loving one.

When you looked again, he was already under the covers. Still as stone. Facing the wall.

You moved slowly, quietly. Put your towel away, slipped into one of his old shirts that hung down to your thighs, and padded barefoot across the room. The sheets were cool when you slid in beside him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Until you did.

“I saw them once. At the prison.”

He didn’t move. Not even a breath.

“I didn’t say anything then. I figured you didn’t want me to. And that was okay.”

Still nothing.

But you could feel it. The way his body was holding tension like a rope pulled tight.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Daryl.”

His voice came quiet. Broken.

“Ain’t nothin’ you need to see.”

You shifted onto your side, your hand hovering above his ribs before resting gently on them. Warm. Steady.

“I want to,” you whispered. “You’re beautiful to me. All of you.”

That made him turn. Slowly. His eyes were darker than usual. Not with lust—but with something heavier.

“Ain’t nothin’ beautiful about me,” he mumbled.

You leaned in. Not to argue. Just to kiss the corner of his mouth. Soft. Tender.

“Let me show you what I see.”

——

It wasn’t rushed.

There was no fire in it. Just warmth. The kind that builds in the hollow of your chest and spills out through every gentle movement.

You kissed him. Soft lips against rough skin. You climbed into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, and waited for him to say no. He didn’t.

He just stared at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You helped him take his shirt off again. This time slower. Your eyes never left his as you let your hands trace the planes of his chest, the line of his collarbone, the healed ridges of old wounds.

He flinched when you kissed one near his shoulder.

“Hey,” you whispered. “You’re not broken. You survived.”

His eyes flickered shut.

You kissed another. Then another. Down his back, along his spine, until he was trembling under your touch.

“You’re not just worthy of love,” you said against his skin. “You’re mine. And I love all of you.”

When you slid down between his legs and kissed the insides of his thighs, he gasped like he’d never been touched like this. He hadn’t. You knew it. You could feel it in the way he shivered, in the way he whispered your name like it was too big to hold in his mouth.

When you finally let him sink inside you—slow and deep, wrapped around him so gently he nearly sobbed—you cradled his face between your hands and kissed his lips through every second of it.

“You’re not disgusting,” you breathed. “You’re beautiful. You’re mine.”

He came with a broken sound and your name on his lips, forehead pressed to yours like he was clinging to the only lifeline he had.

tag list! @xx-lostgirl-xx @darylsdelts @ye-ooo @t-folklore13 @madyb17 @dead-sirens @theskinniestjackson-denny @littlelovingideas @angelically-yours

[rileygorski]

shameless fluffy kingdon + frank’s kids and a birthday surprise

“You guys okay back there?” Frank asks looking through the rearview mirror. His kids have been awfully quiet for the past five minutes and it’s causing him panic.

“Fine, Daddy.” Olivia’s voice calls out. “We planning.”

Frank laughs because they’ve already planned the surprise. Bought the balloons and the cake and the present and placed it in the passengers seat.

“Do you remember what we’re gonna do, Liv?” Frank checks, pulling into the employee parking lot of the hospital. Coincidentally, the spot next to Mel’s red Honda is available and if that isn’t a sign it’ll all work out, he doesn’t know what is.

“‘Prise, Mel-y.” Liv says, confidently.

“Gotta keep it a secret from Melly, Liv. Top secret!” Tanner replies back, fingers to his lips in a ‘Shh’ motion.

“Just until we see her, okay?” Frank says, unclipping his seatbelt and looking at the rearview again for a nod of confirmation satisfied when he gets a thumbs up and a nod from the both of them.

He exits his vehicle, unbuckling Tanner and then walking over to Olivia’s side to help her out. He opens the passengers side door, handing each of them items.

“Okay, Livy. You hold the present and Tanner’s got balloons.”

Seeing as he doesn’t have both hands available, with the cake in one hand and flowers in the other, he’s thankful that his kids are well behaved enough to follow directions in a parking lot and up until they reach the employee entrance to the hospital.

They make their way through trauma bays and empty rooms, cautious and careful for any sign of Mel. When a few of the co workers give Langdon a look of surprise because they don’t expect him to be here on his day off, he merely nods in acknowledgement, walking swiftly to the nurse’s station.

Dana’s eyes widen once he spots the trio, a mix of confusion and surprise, but it’s only for a minute before she’s smiling so wide and squatting down.

Olivia is practically shaking once she sees Dana but isn’t sure where to put the present. Frank sets the cake and flowers down on an empty computer desk before helping her empty her hands. Little feet pads across the floor and straight into Dana’s waiting arms, the older woman placing kisses on her cheeks with a smile.

“Oh Livy, girl. What are you doing here?” She asks releasing her and ruffling Tanner’s hair. She eyes the cake and the balloons and the present suspiciously. An eyebrow raised at Langdon. “Somebody’s birthday?”

“Surprise, Melly.” Tanner responds in a whisper. “Happy Birthday, Melly!”

“Pee Birthday, Melly.” Olivia repeats just a little louder than her brother which earns her a ‘Shhh.’

Dana’s jaw opens in shock. Behind her, Princess and Perlah exchange glances. “You’re joking. She never uttered a word. Princess, Perlah—you had any idea it’s Mel’s birthday?”

“Not a clue, Dana.” Perlah replies. “We’re just as shocked.”

Langdon isn’t surprised. Mel hates the spotlight, would rather give it to someone else if it made them happy. She offers kindness and love so easily and freely and abundantly, that she hardly saves enough for herself but it’s okay, she says, the world needs it a little more.

So, if Mel King can give away her love and kindness like oxygen, he can do the same for her—wants to do the same for her. Frank Langdon makes it his life’s mission.

“Woah, whose birthday?” Robby asks, slowing his speed and changing direction, now headed towards the crowd. He slides his glasses onto his face then nods in Frank’s direction before looking down to hi-five the kids.

“Mel, apparently.” Dana replies once he’s back up.

“No fu—fricken’ way.“ With a shake of his head, he turns to Dana. “How did no one know?” And then at Langdon. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Langdon shrugs. It isn’t his place to, he thinks. “She nearby?”

“Last I saw, she was herding a couple med students to north 2.” Dana says looking around.

A tug at his shirt sends Frank looking downward to where Tanner is pointing, frantically. “Melly!”

He sees the familiar braid he did this morning—after ruining it the first time—instead of her face. Mel’s followed by four other people, med students no doubt.

Frank smirks and squats down next to his kids, back pain be damned. “Ready?”

Olivia squeals in response, excitement rattling in her bones. Tanner assumes a running stance. When Mel is close enough and finally turns around, Frank commands, “Go get her.”

They’re squealing down the short distance, barreling right into Mel’s legs with a force that makes her stumble back in shock. She’s only held in place by the grip they’ve got on her.

“Tanner? Liv? Oh my god. What are you guys here? Where’s—” She scans the room. Frank’s heart threatens to jump out of his chest at her extremely adorable confusion. Her eyes meet his and he thinks he might faint or die.

Tanner and Olivia relinquish their hold on her legs, looking up at her eagerly. She smiles back down again at the both of them. There’s softness in her gaze that quickly shifts to realization.

“Oh!” She turns back to the confused group. “Take a quick break everyone.”

When everyone disperses Mel waste no time pulling the two children into her arms with the biggest grin on her face. They laugh into her. “I missed you guys. What are you doing here?”

“Happy Birthday, Melly.” Tanner says like he’s rehearsed all his lines like a pro and is now center stage. He plays his part well.

They both take Mel’s hand to lead her to the desk where Frank, Robby and Dana are. The former watching with a dopey grin on his face which Dana rolls her eyes at, affectionately. Mel spots the little set up, mouth open in awe.

“What is this?” She asks quietly. Frank knows it’s directed at him.

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.” He replies, matching her tone. But adds a little louder, “We love you.”

When she finally looks at him, he can see the tears forming in her eyes. Affection bubbles in his chest. This sweet girl deserves the whole world and he’ll make a plan to give it to her but for now, he reaches out to take her hand in his and promises her comfort.

*

*

They’ve moved the small party to the staff lounge where each staff become aware of the special day one by one. Each one greeting her Happy Birthday before they take their cake and leave.

“Mel, what the f—reeak,” Santos says, eyeing Langdon’s kids sitting at the table, both of them each face deep in chocolate cake. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?!”

Mel takes a napkin to wipe Olivia’s face, gently. All she can do is offer a smile.

“Ugh, next ladies night we’re celebrating and I’m not taking no for an answer, CocoMelon.”

She finds she doesn’t mind this time.

Olivia perks up from her cake, hope written in blue eyes. “CocoMelon?”

Mel bites back a laugh, running her fingers through her thin blonde locks. “Not now, sweetie but we can back at the house.” She turns to Tanner. “How’s the cake, Tan?”

He replies with a thumbs up, eyes focused on Frank’s phone in front of him. She’s just about to sit back down but there’s someone leaning on the doorway that has her attention. So, she walks over, telling Trinity to keep an eye on these kids that aren’t hers but she loves them like they are.

She doesn’t miss the way his eyes follow her every movement (she thrives on it, really). Mel doesn’t say a word, just takes his wrist in her hands and drags him away from prying eyes. He follows her anywhere.

They’ve reached a secluded hallway when she turns to him, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss him, soft at first and then the heat rises. Her kisses becoming more and more frenzied.

Frank, surprisingly, is the one to pull back. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed when he tells her, “Sorry, baby, even I’m opposed to sex in the hospital. It’s filthy.”

Embarrassment floods body and she composes herself but doesn’t pull away, arms going over his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you, you know that?”

“I’d like to think you do.” He jokes just to hear her laugh. “But I love you, too. Every day and more after that.”

“Every day.” She repeats, against his lips.

They stay like that for a few more seconds when Frank kneels down abruptly. Mel’s breath hitches, static in her brain and nerves shooting throughout her entire body for the second time today.

“Frank, what are you—get up, please. Oh my god.” Her breath gets rapid, hands fidgeting together as she looks around the room.

“Huh? Why— Oh, Oh, OH.” He’s immediately back on both feet in a speed that cracks his knees. “Mel, sweetheart, baby—I wasn’t—there was a dollar on the floor.”

Mel exhales. “Okay.”

“Sorry. Not here.” Not yet he thinks.

“Okay.” She repeats. Taking his hand in hers again.

“I’d like to think I’m a little more romantic than that.” He tells her, playfully.

And he is, the next day they’re out on the beach with the kids and Becca in tow when he actually gets down on one knee, rose petals everywhere and a speech that leaves them both crying in the sunset glow.

[guillotinesandroses]

Royal Loyalty; Leona Kingscholar + Male Reader

You know you have no need to follow him. So he has told you many times, again and again. Even so, you still wind up right by his side regardless of where he goes. He held off on accepting his admission to Night Raven College, and so did you. When he decided to go after a year of waiting, you followed suit. 

His lethargy sends pained shocks through your body time and time again. Where he could be taking the world by storm, he wastes away in his bed, in the gardens, wherever he feels like sleeping. You wonder what his dreams are like. Knowing him as well as you do, you have a hunch that he wears a crown of gold, roaring commands from his throne. Back when you were children, this desire was satiated by the flower crowns you made him. He would grin and tell you what to do, making you his right hand man who he fought with. 

Unfortunately, such grandiose dreams are quick to shatter with time. Due to birth order, it did not matter how powerful or intelligent he could become. He would never be king. Leona did not just give up on his dreams of becoming king, he gave up on life altogether. After that you did everything in your power to help him change his perspective with no success at all. 

This was far above your realm of influence, as often as he sought your advice. Still when he finally gained an interest, drive to succeed at just  this one thing, your brows scrunched to show your inner conflict. "This isn't like you, I have to say." 

"Are you doubting me now, (Name)? Will you turn against me?" 

"No, I won't. I'm only making an observation. Usually you would look down on foul play like this." 

"I'm only doing this because I have to. If you're not going to help me, then stay out of my way." 

"I do intend on helping you. I merely wanted you to know I disapprove of this. 

Although he did not back down from his plans of sabotage, you could tell your words had affected him. There are very few times you have questioned his judgement after all. Still he went through with it, and still he sank with his flawed ship. You watched it go down and helped him up, pulling him back to the disappointing, sandy shores of reality. 

His tired eyes turn to yours, words falling from his parted lips with shallow breath. "Will you leave me now, (Name)? After all I've done..."

"I'll always be here. Wherever you go, whatever you decide to do." 

"Then stay... stay with me. That's an order." 

His consciousness does not hold long after that. You remain by his side as requested, even when prompted otherwise. Some of your friends wonder why you would put up with such a thing, why you would go the extra length. You know better, know that was giving you permission rather than issuing an order. He knew you would have been worried sick had the doctors barred you from seeing him from time to time. 

Holed up by his side in the nurse's office, it is quiet for once as you turn the page of your potions book. Although you managed to have your wish to stay with your friend granted, you still had to keep up with your schoolwork. Being a model student has its perks. Teachers are much more lenient if you have no history of misdemeanor. The silence is more than welcome, only broken by his soft breaths and rustling of paper. 

Eventually you place your books aside, leaning over him beside his bed. Brushing a dark strand of hair away from his face, you admire his peaceful, handsome features. Before long, emerald eyes peer open, staring into yours. 

"About time you realized I was awake," he grumbles. 

"How long were you waiting for me to do that?" You let out a soft chuckle. 

"I wasn't waiting." He huffs before leaning into your touch. A tender moment passes before he speaks again. "You know already that you don't need to be here. You can return to Sunset Savannah. No matter what my brother says about it, I'll be fine on my own." 

"I wasn't ordered to do this, Leona. I formally requested to be sent here." 

He blinks in almost concealed surprise. Casting his gaze aside, he frowns in an uncharacteristic manner. "All I do is waste the chances I'm given. You'd be better off serving him or some other royal family. At this point you have the qualifications to go anywhere." 

"I have more than enough money to retire by now, Leona." You laugh. "Even if I were to leave, this is not the line of work I would continue in." 

"Why are you still here then?" 

"You're the only one I want to serve. If I can't do that, I'd sooner try something else altogether." Your smile stuns him to silence. 

He stares at you, and a minute passes. Eventually he shrugs, grumbling half to himself. "I guess I have no choice. Loyalty like this is hard to come by." 

"No choice but to do what-?" You yelp as he drag you in by the arm. Head hitting the covers, he soon cradles it and guides it to his chest. Your face burns up as your eyelashes brush against his skin. 

"To court you. You're fine with that, right?" He murmurs into your skin. 

Squished up against him, you try to compose yourself by clearing your throat. "I... I am... this is just a bit... sudden. Though if this is your way of confessing... I feel the same way." 

He lets out an unassuming breath, but you recognize it as a sigh of relief. "Good. Expect a promise ring after about five dates. That's as far as my patience goes- I've waited long enough for you." 

[maria021015]

The One Time She Said Yes

Fred Weasley x FemReader

All of the times Fred Weasley asked y/n to marry him. And the one time she said yes.

Warnings: Angst, Canon Character death

———————————————————————

The Burrow always smelled comforting. Like cinnamon and sun-warmed grass.

It was a golden afternoon in late summer, and the mismatched garden behind the Burrow buzzed with dragonflies and laughter. Well, had buzzed, until about ten minutes ago, when a small girl with grass-stained knees and a pout bigger than the sky had been told by Charlie and Bill that “this game’s for big kids, sorry.”

Now she sat beneath a sagging old apple tree, chin in her hands, eyes watery and red-rimmed. Her little floral dress was wrinkled and half her hair had come loose from the ribbon her mum had carefully tied that morning.

That’s how Fred found her.

He’d only come out to tell her that Molly said it was time for juice and treacle tart, but when he saw her sitting there all small and sad and scrunching her fists like she was about to cry again, everything else kind of melted away.

“Hey,” he said softly, crouching down beside her. “D’you wanna play with me? We’ve got a dress-up box. George says he wants to be a prince, but princes are boring.”

She sniffled and looked over at him, lashes wet.“You don’t think I’m too little?”

Fred scrunched his nose. “You’re not little. You beat Percy at Exploding Snap twice last week.”

That earned the tiniest smile. “Okay,” she mumbled.

They trailed into the Burrow hand in hand. Molly barely blinked at the trail of glitter, mismatched fabrics, and toy swords they left behind as they rummaged through the dress-up box. By the time they reemerged, Fred was wearing a wizards hat and an oversized waistcoat that dragged behind him like a cape, and she wore a tulle skirt over her clothes and a flower crown that slipped too far to one side.

“You be the fairy queen,” Fred said importantly, striking a pose with a crooked plastic wand, “and I’ll be the wizard knight who saves you from the goblins.”

“But I don’t need saving!” she said proudly, puffing up.

Fred grinned, a little gap in his front teeth where one had fallen out last week. “Alright, then I’ll be the goblin.”

They ran around the garden for ages, casting spells, banishing invisible trolls, and laughing until their cheeks hurt. Eventually, breathless and tangled in old tulle and the buzz of imagination, they collapsed onto a patch of soft grass near the gnome-warren.

Fred was quiet for a moment. Then, with the kind of sudden gravity only a six-year-old like him could muster, he turned toward her and asked, “Will you marry me?���

She blinked. “What?”

“Marry me. Like Mum and Dad. I’ll build you a castle with fairy lights, and we’ll eat chocolate frogs for breakfast.”

She giggled, the sound sticky-sweet and sunlit. “That’s silly, Freddie.”

“Is not!”

“You can’t marry people when you’re six.”

He frowned, pouting. “Why not?”

“Because we’re too little,” she insisted, like it was obvious. “But…ask me again when we’re big. Maybe I’ll say yes then.”

Fred beamed. “Okay. I will.”

And he meant it.

———————————————————————

The living room at the Burrow looked like a battlefield.

Dice lay scattered across the rug like fallen soldiers. Game cards were stuck under couch cushions. The air smelled like biscuits, old books, and the distinct electricity of a thunderstorm rolling in beyond the hills.

They’d been playing for hours. The rest of the Weasley siblings had already given up and moved on to different activities, but not y/n and Fred.

Fred sat cross-legged across from her, his nose wrinkled in concentration as he narrowed his eyes at the board between them. She was chewing the end of a sugar quill, gaze locked onto her final move.

“Don’t do it,” Fred warned dramatically, throwing out an arm. “It’ll end in tears.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re losing.”

“I’m saying that because I’m about to lose, and I can feel it in my spleen.”

“You don’t even know what a spleen is!” She giggled, eyes bright with triumph as she placed her final piece.

The board groaned, a puff of confetti burst from the centre, and the enchanted scoreboard flashed her name in dancing letters that sparkled obnoxiously in pink and gold: GRAND VICTOR: Y/N!

Fred fell back with a loud groan, covering his face with both hands. “NOOOO. Not again!”

“That’s three games in a row,” she said smugly, twirling the sugar quill like a wand. “You said you were going to crush me this time.”

Fred peeked between his fingers. “I still won though.”

“In what universe?”

“Because you played with me. You know, I won in a romantic sense.”

She froze, blinking.

Fred immediately sat up, flushing as if he only just realized what he said. His ears were turning pink, and he picked at the frayed hem of his jumper like it might offer him a way out.

“Wha…what does that even mean?” she asked slowly.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “Just…y’know. I still have fun playing with you even when you beat me at everything.”

“You’re weird.”

Fred puffed out his chest. “My dad says the best people are.”

She rolled her eyes and stood to start packing away the pieces. Fred helped, quietly at first, then asked, not quite casually, “D’you remember that time I asked you to marry me? When we were little?”

She looked up from folding the scoreboard. “Yeah. In the garden. You said we’d eat chocolate frogs for breakfast.”

“Still a solid plan,” he grinned. “So. I was thinking…now we’re older, maybe I should ask again.”

She blinked, startled. “Wait, now?”

Fred shrugged one shoulder, gaze flicking up but not quite meeting hers. “You’re my best friend. And if I’m gonna marry anyone someday, I want it to be you.”

There was no laugh this time. She studied him for a beat too long, then broke into a grin. “Fred, we’re ten.”

“I know. I’m not actually proposing! It’s just…practice. Y’know. For future proposals. Gotta start somewhere.”

“Well then you need to practice losing,” she teased, flicking a game piece at him. “That was the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

Fred clutched his chest like she’d mortally wounded him. “You wound me.”

“You dramatic toad,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “But fine. Ask me again when you’re much older. Like seventeen.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Seventeen?”

“Yeah. You’ll be all tall and mature by then, right?”

Fred’s mouth quirked. “Debatable.”

“Then we’ll see,” she said, already turning away.

Fred watched her go, chest fluttering, and whispered under his breath to the empty room, “Seventeen it is, then.”

———————————————————————

The summer sun was blistering, a relentless orange blaze overhead that turned the Weasleys’ backyard into a sweltering arena of cracked grass, scattered broomsticks, and discarded jumpers. The garden smelled like honeysuckle and sweat, mingled with the distant aroma of smoke from the kitchen. Molly must’ve started dinner.

Y/n’s family was visiting again, as they always did during the summer. Except now, y/n also got to see the Weasley children at Hogwarts, where they all attended school. She and the twins were in their third year now, and little Ron had also just finished his first year at school. He was nowhere to be seen now, though. Probably off writing a letter to his new best friend, Harry Potter.

Y/n and the twins had taken their time to play a rather long game of quidditch in the field. Fred hovered above the makeshift pitch in a lazy loop, sweat matting his hair to his forehead, his broom handle warm beneath his palms. Below him, George was shouting something incoherent about cheating, but Fred wasn’t listening.

His eyes were on her. She rocketed across the sky like a streak of starlight, her clothes clinging to her frame in the wind, hair whipping in all directions. She leaned into her turn, cut through the air, spun hard, and smack! The Quaffle went sailing straight through the middle hoop like she’d done it in her sleep.

“HA!” she shouted triumphantly, fists thrown in the air as her broom dipped and coasted toward the ground.

Fred’s jaw dropped.

George groaned. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m retiring. I can’t keep being destroyed like this.”

“You’re just mad she’s better than you,” Fred teased automatically, still watching her as she touched down, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes sparkling with pride.

“Better than you, too,” she said, turning to him with a smug look. “I believe that was my fifth goal.”

“I wasn’t even keeping score,” Fred said, half-defensive, half-in-awe. “It’s hard to count when I’m being dazzled.”

She arched a brow, brushing sweat-damp hair out of her face. “Dazzled?”

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was. “Yeah. By your…uh. Aerodynamic excellence.”

George made a gagging noise somewhere behind them. “I’m going inside. Mum! They’re being weird again!”

The door slammed behind him. They were alone now. The wind had picked up slightly, brushing warm air across the field, fluttering the edges of her sleeves.

Fred cleared his throat and kicked at the dirt with one scuffed trainer. “You were really good today.”

She glanced at him sideways, suspicious. “What do you want?”

“Nothing!”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe I do want something,” he admitted, grinning.

She smirked and leaned against her broom, letting it rest across her shoulders like a bat. “I’m listening.”

Fred took a step closer, the sun catching on the reddish highlights in his hair. “I just…was thinking. You’ve got killer aim, a terrifying poker face, and you’re possibly the coolest person I know.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the compliment hidden in his joke. “Fred—”

“And,” he cut in quickly, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, “I think you should marry me.”

There it was. Out again.

She snorted. Loud. “What?!”

“C’mon,” he said, shrugging one shoulder but watching her closely. “Just imagine it! Quidditch every weekend, breakfast food for dinner, and I’ll let you win every board game if you say yes.”

She gave him a look, eyes narrowed, but there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You’d let me win?”

“I always let you win,” he said, deadpan.

She took a slow step forward, letting her broom fall to the ground as she closed the distance between them. “You’re an idiot.”

Fred grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

“No,” she said, laughing now, shaking her head as she walked past him. “It’s a you’re-an-idiot. When are you going to stop joking about that?”

He turned to follow her, something flickering in his chest. “Who says I’m not being serious?”

She paused, just for a second. It was the kind of pause that lingered longer than it should’ve. Like maybe the words had landed deeper than either of them expected. Her gaze met his, and he couldn’t read it this time. There was something guarded there. A flicker of something just out of reach.

Then she smiled, crooked and careless. “Because you never are. You joke about everything.”

Fred watched her walk away, barefoot and fearless, as the wind lifted her hair from her shoulders.

He wanted to call out after her. Tell her that he would never joke about her.

He didn’t.

———————————————————————

The night hung heavy and velvet-black above the castle, stars scattered across the sky like spilled secrets. It was late - long past curfew - but the Astronomy Tower had always been their place. The highest point at Hogwarts, cloaked in quiet and cool wind, forgotten by prefect patrols too lazy to climb that many stairs.

She pushed the wooden door open with a creak, the chill night air slipping over her skin as she stepped out onto the stone platform. Fred was already there, perched on the edge of the low wall with one leg swinging carelessly into the dark. A half-empty bottle of Firewhisky dangled from his hand, glinting amber in the starlight.

“Nice of you to show up,” he slurred, grinning when he saw her.

It wasn’t odd for her to find him up here. It was one of the only times she’d see him at school without George by his side. It also didn’t surprise her to see the bottle of grog in his hand. It had been a stressful year, after all. Umbridge had made sure of it. In fact, if the witch were to catch them up her she was sure they’d be severely punished. Maybe even expelled.

“You said it was urgent,” she replied, arms crossed, voice dry. “I thought one of your inventions went wrong. Not that you’d climbed onto the roof with contraband.”

Fred wiggled the bottle invitingly. “Not just contraband. Premium bad decisions.”

She sighed, stepping closer. “How much have you had?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Enough to finally be brave, I think.”

“Brave or stupid?” she muttered, taking the bottle from him and setting it down safely on the stone ledge.

Fred didn’t answer. He was looking at her with a softness that made her stomach twist - eyes half-lidded, hair wind-tousled, face flushed from the Firewhisky and the cold. “George and I are leaving. Tomorrow. We’re not coming back. Can’t put up with that vile toad anymore.”

She pursed her lips as something in her abdomen churned uncomfortably. “I was wondering when it would finally happen.” She admitted. She’d noticed that the twins were at their wits end lately. Really it was only a matter of time before they took off, leaving her behind.

“You should come with us.” Something behind his gaze almost begged her.

“You know I can’t. I need to finish school,” she shook her head. But she wished she could say yes. He nodded, taking another solemn swig from the bottle.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, “you look like the moonlight’s in love with you.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his borderline nonsensical words. “You’re drunk.”

“Drunk. Not blind.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she fought to keep her voice steady. “Okay, that’s it. You’re going to bed.”

Fred reached out, caught her wrist before she could move away. “Wait.”

She stilled. His fingers were warm. His grip gentle. Hesitant.

“D’you remember,” he said slowly, “that summer when we were ten? We were playing board games and I asked you to marry me. You told me to wait til we were seventeen.” Fred smiled, boyish and unsteady, but somehow painfully sincere. “So…am I tall and mature yet?”

She didn’t speak right away. Her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped snitch.

“Fred…”

“I’m serious,” he said, eyes locked on hers now. “I know I joke all the time, but I’m not joking now. I want…I want to marry you someday. Properly. I’ve wanted it since we were five. Since that stupid game in the garden. Since always.”

Her throat tightened. “You won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

“Yes I will,” he insisted, voice rising with stubbornness. “I will. I’ll write it down. I’ll carve it into the back of my hand if I have to.”

She laughed, but it came out watery. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he whispered. “Not about you. Never about you.”

She swallowed the ache in her chest and slowly crouched in front of him, tucking a windblown curl behind his ear. Her fingers lingered there longer than they should have. “You’re drunk, Freddie.”

“But I love you,” he said, quiet and sure.

She closed her eyes for half a second. Just one half-second of weakness. “I know.”

Silence hung between them like breath before a kiss. And then, she shook her head.

“You’re going to bed.”

“No—wait, please—just—”

She tugged gently on his arm, helping him down from the ledge. He stumbled a bit, and she caught him, letting his weight lean into hers as they started the slow descent from the tower.

His voice, sleepy now, mumbled against her shoulder. “You said…seventeen…”

“I know what I said.” She didn’t let him see the way her eyes burned, the way her lip trembled.“I just didn’t think you’d be asking me when you could barely stand upright.”

Fred let out a soft breath, something like a laugh. “Still gonna ask again. Next time maybe you’ll say yes.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him that part of her - maybe most of her - wanted to say yes right there. Had wanted to for years. But not like this. Not with whisky on his breath and wobble in his knees. Not when she couldn’t trust that he still meant it. Not when he was leaving tomorrow and she would be stuck here at Hogwarts. Not when she had no idea where either of them would be this time next year.

She got him to bed, helped him out of his shoes, brushed the hair from his forehead as he blinked up at her with glassy eyes and a crooked, hopeless smile.

“You love me too,” he whispered.

Her heart cracked. She leaned down, pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and shaking. “I do.”

But he was already asleep.

———————————————————————

The Burrow had never looked so magical. Golden lanterns floated like fireflies above the garden, casting a warm, flickering glow over rows of white-draped tables and dancing guests. Strings of enchanted fairy lights tangled around tree branches around the floating marquee. Fleur looked radiant, Bill dashing, and everything - the laughter, the wine, the music - felt like the start of something instead of the end of a world teetering on the edge.

She stood near the fringe of the celebration, a half-full glass of champagne in hand and the soft hum of the wedding band playing behind her. Her dress was a deep shade of emerald that made her skin glow in the candlelight, her hair pinned up with little sprigs of baby’s breath.

It was one of the few moments in recent memory where she didn’t feel like a war was looming just beyond the trees.

And then—

“Merlin’s beard,” came the familiar, amused voice from behind her, “they let you into a place like this looking that fancy?”

She turned. Fred Weasley was standing there. Clean-shaven, hair wind-tousled as always, a slightly askew bow tie hanging loose at his collar and a glass in his hand that was suspiciously not his first. He looked older than the last time she’d seen him, but then again, he was. His smile was crooked, but his eyes were soft, and they scanned her like she was a memory made real again.

“Fred,” she said, her breath catching a little.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips. “Still as full of yourself as ever.”

“Absolutely,” he said proudly. “Although, I’m still trying to recover from the emotional trauma of seeing you walk in tonight. I mean, bloody hell, you’ve grown up.”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“Oh, flattered,” he said easily, stepping closer, his gaze lingering on her just long enough to make her cheeks warm. “Definitely flattered.”

A moment passed, too long to be casual. Then he tilted his head toward the dance floor. “Wanna dance?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to - she did, and desperately so - but because her heart had spent too many years pretending it didn’t still skip at the sight of him.

But she nodded anyway. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

He offered his hand with an exaggerated bow, and she took it, letting him lead her into the sea of swaying bodies and floating lanterns. The music was soft and old-fashioned. A violin wept gently above a lilting piano. He held her hand in his and settled the other lightly against her waist. They fit together like a memory.

“So,” he murmured, “Healer, huh?”

“So you’ve been keeping track?” She smiled up at him. “St Mungo’s. Spell damage ward. Long hours. Screaming patients. You know, glamorous.”

He grinned. “Saving lives and breaking hearts, I imagine.”

She nudged him with her hip. “And what about you? I hear Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes has lines out the door.”

“Oh, we’re wildly successful,” he said dramatically. “Money. Fame. Adoring fans. It’s exhausting, really.”

She laughed, and his smile softened.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, after a pause. “That you’re happy. You and George…you deserve it.”

Something flickered in his expression. “Yeah. We’re lucky.”

The song slowed. The light caught in her hair. And for a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, “I missed you,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened. “I missed you too.”

“I thought about writing,” he added, his voice low. “But I figured you were busy becoming a real adult and didn’t have time for a clown like me.”

“You’re not a clown,” she said. “You’ve never been.”

Their eyes met. There it was again, that same pull, that unspoken thing that had been dancing between them since they were seventeen and drunk on the Astronomy Tower.

“We should’ve tried,” he said suddenly. “Back then. When we had the chance.”

“I know,” she whispered.

His hand slipped lower on her back, his forehead nearly brushing hers. “We could try now.”

Her heart stumbled. “What?”

“There’s still time for you to marry me.” It wasn’t a joke.

There was no teasing grin, no punchline waiting. Just Fred, holding her like she was something fragile and burning, saying the words like they’d been waiting in his mouth since they were kids.

“Fred…” she whispered.

“I mean it.” He gave a breathless laugh. “Look at us. You’re stunning, and I’m…well, at least I’m charming. That’s gotta count for something.”

She stared at him, mouth parting to answer. And that’s when it happened. A bang cracked through the garden, loud and unnatural. The music stopped. People screamed.

A silver otter Patronus shot across the air, swirling above the crowd. “The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

Gasps broke the quiet. Plates clattered to the ground. Wands were drawn. And then, before anyone could move, black figures began to appear at the edge of the clearing - hooded, masked, radiating menace.

“Death Eaters!” someone screamed.

Fred pulled her behind him without thinking, wand out in an instant. “Go!” he shouted to her over the panic. “Get out of here!”

“No! Not without you—”

“I’ll be fine,” he lied. “Just go—”

A jet of green light sliced the air between them.

Fred flung a shield charm, but the blast knocked them apart. She hit the ground hard, vision spinning. In the chaos - spells flying, guests screaming, tables flipping - she caught one last glimpse of him, red hair flaming under the dark sky as he dueled back-to-back with George, fearless.

She shouted his name. He didn’t hear her.

And as another curse exploded far too close, she was yanked backward by Charlie Weasley, who wrapped an arm around her and Disapparated them both out into the cold, dark night.

———————————————————————

The air was thick with smoke and fear. Spells lit the night like lightning. Screams echoed down every corridor. The world was ending one brick at a time, and she was tearing through the rubble like a ghost in search of a tether - desperate, driven, breathless.

The last year had been hard on everyone. War had torn families apart, sent people into hiding. Y/n had been on the run, fleeing death eaters left and right, there had been no time for anything else but surviving to fight another day. She hadn’t seen the Weasley twins - hadn’t seen Fred - since Fleur and Bill’s wedding.

Her feet pounded across the flagstone floor of the Entrance Hall, boots soaked in something too dark to name. She ducked behind the crumbling statue of Gregory the Smarmy, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out, like it needed to find him too.

Fred. She had to find Fred.

The war was deafening, duels flaring all around, bodies falling in corners she didn’t let herself look too closely at. All she could see, all she could feel, was his face the last time they were both here. That sleepy grin from the Astronomy Tower. The way he said, “You love me too.”

He was right. And she was going to tell him.

“MOVE!” she yelled, pushing past a stunned first-year being ushered toward the Great Hall by a terrified Hufflepuff prefect.

A shockwave rattled the windows as something exploded above the grand staircase. Dust rained down like ash. Somewhere in the chaos, she heard Bellatrix Lestrange laughing, and her skin went cold.

But then she caught sight of Molly Weasley, stood near the base of the stairs. Her wand was raised, her hair wild with battle and her robes scorched at the hem. Her chest heaved with exhaustion, but when she turned and saw y/n, her face crumpled in sudden relief.

“Oh, thank Merlin—” Molly surged forward, grabbing her into a fierce hug.

“I came back to fight,” she gasped into Molly’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Molly pulled back, cupping her face in both trembling hands. “Of course you did, love. Brave girl.”

“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice sharp and panicked now. “Fred. I need to find Fred. I need to tell him—”

Molly paused, and something gentle came into her expression. Something knowing. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes shining.

She nodded rapidly, too choked up to speak. “I can’t wait anymore. I just…I love him. I always have. And I can’t…if something happens before I—”

Molly wrapped her arms around her again, tighter this time. “You go, darling. You go tell him. He and George were defending the Room of Requirement - the passageway to Hogsmeade. He’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, eyes wet, throat tight.

“Go,” Molly said, tears in her voice. “Go get our boy.”

She didn’t hesitate. She took off running again, weaving through chaos, through bodies and broken glass and echoing cries. The castle was bleeding. Its stone walls cracked and scorched, its staircases broken, its portraits either vacant or weeping. But she kept going, dodging curses and dodging death, clutching her wand tight to her chest like a compass pointing north.

Fred. Fred. Fred.

That was her mantra.

The Room of Requirement was near. She could hear shouting - his voice, unmistakably loud even under duress.

She rounded the corner just in time to see him. He stood in front of the shattered stone doors that led to the Room of Requirement, wand at the ready, George beside him and blood streaking his cheek. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts as he cast spell after spell, holding the line like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even now, even covered in dust and sweat and blood, he looked like home.

She stumbled forward, heart in her throat. “FRED!”

He turned at the sound of her voice. Their eyes locked across the broken corridor, over the sea of chaos.

BOOM.

The world went white. A violent spell tore through the stone above them, and the ceiling exploded. The wall beside the Room of Requirement collapsed inward. Screams erupted. A flash of heat, of light, of fire.

“No. NO!” she screamed, sprinting forward as the debris settled, a thick cloud of dust rising like smoke from a pyre.

George’s voice rang out first, raw and panicked. “FRED?!”

She dropped to her knees, hands already digging through the rubble, ignoring the searing pain in her arms, the gash on her temple. She ripped at the stones, pulled away wood and plaster and whatever else had buried him as George’s wand went to work doing the same.

“Please,” she sobbed, fingers bloody. “Please, no, not like this—”

A hand, still warm, reached out through the rubble.

“Fred, Fred, I’ve got you. Don’t move—” She uncovered his face, half-buried beneath broken stone. His eyes fluttered open, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. She let out a strangled sob, brushing the dust from his cheek, her hands trembling. “Don’t move. I’m getting help. Madam Pomfrey…someone—”

“No,” he whispered, catching her wrist with what little strength he had left. “No time. Just…stay. Please.”

She shook her head violently, blinking tears from her eyes as she tried to clear more debris from his chest, from his legs, from the place the wall had caved in and crushed him. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay, I swear—”

“Look at me,” he rasped. She froze. His eyes were unfocused. But they were on her. “Don’t kid yourself,” he said, voice quiet, slurred with pain. “You know I don’t have long. I just…I just wanna look at you. One last time.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

Fred blinked slowly. “Told George you’d show up…didn’t believe me��”

She cradled his face in her palms, brushing the blood away, the tears falling freely now. “You idiot. You absolute idiot. You don’t get to die before I tell you.”

“Tell me what?” he rasped, barely audible.

“That I love you.” Her voice cracked. “That I’ve always loved you. That I was waiting for the right time, and I was wrong. There’s never a right time. I should’ve told you when we were kids, when you asked me again and again and I kept saying no. I should’ve said yes.”

Fred smiled through the pain. “Finally. You know I’ve got to ask—”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head again, tears falling freely now. “Don’t you dare…don’t you dare say it.”

“I have to,” he insisted, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth where blood was bubbling past his lips. “It’s tradition.”

“Fred—”

“Please,” he said softly. “Let me ask one last time.”

And then, through the pain, through the blood, through the smoke of a burning world, he looked at her like he always had - like she was the only real thing that had ever existed - and said: “Will you marry me?”

It shattered what was left of her heart, the shards puncturing her lungs and stealing her breath.

All the years. All the laughter. The stolen glances. The nights spent side-by-side pretending not to feel what they both did. The almost-kisses. The failed timing. The jokes that weren’t really jokes at all.

He had always meant it. And she had always loved him.

“Yes,” she whispered, lowering her forehead to his, tears falling onto his shirt, her hands cradling his face. “Yes. I’ll marry you. I love you.”

Fred let out a soft sound, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Took you long enough.”

His hand found hers, fingers tightening with the last of his strength. His eyes stilled. And the warmth left his fingers.

Her breath caught. Her body locked. She stared down at the boy she had loved since childhood, the boy who had asked her six times - and the one time she’d said yes, the war had already taken him.

The castle was still imploding around them, but all she could hear was silence. She pressed her lips to his forehead. Her tears dripped onto his skin.

She didn’t scream. There wasn’t any breath left in her.

She just leaned into his chest and sobbed in silence. Not because she didn’t want anyone to hear her grief, but because no sound in the world could hold the weight of losing him.

Nothing could pull her mind away from replaying those final moments. Not when George - shaking and crying - pulled her away from him. Not when the fighting stopped. Not when they carried Fred’s body back to the great hall. Not when Molly hugged her and broke down. Not when George and her fought side by side until Dawn broke. Not in the hours after the battle ended. Not for days. Weeks. Months.

Even years later she would never forget Fred Weasley. He was always hers. Until the day they would finally meet again.

[munipe]

helloooo pumpkin! i luv ur writing! i was thinking about something very cute an silly for saiki.! Imagine when Saiki tells his partner about his powers. about what he goes through. Dude is NERVOUS. But instead of being surprised, excited, or anything, they look at him for a while before speaking in a quiet tone and saying something along the lines of; "That sounds incredibly difficult for you, please tell me what I can do to make you feel comfortable after dealing with all this." thank youuu! ^^

I was getting through finals studies—I’m writing this after I’ve finished my first final. This was simmering in the drafts :3

YOU ALWAYS found it weird how Kusuo, your boyfriend, always knew what you needed. Whenever you were down, he’d weirdly, always, have your favorite candy. Whenever you were thirsty, he oddly had an extra can of juice from lunch. It was all odd coincidence that every minor inconvenience you had with him, just dissolved within seconds. Kusuo was no fool to your skepticism, though.

He admits, maybe he did pamper you slightly. Perhaps he’s too often solved all of the small pokes in your back than he has let you solve it yourself. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t, though. After all, you are so tolerant of him. You accept when he doesn’t want to be touched, or when everything is too loud for him. Hell, he even remembers when he felt so tired and you bought him coffee jelly and some tea. He could’ve done it himself, but it tasted sweeter when you made it.

Kusuo admits, as well, that perhaps he’s let you in maybe too much. Maybe he’s ‘sensed’ too many things for it to be passed off as “boyfriend instinct”. He can feel your stares—your internal questions. He thought, maybe, he should play dumb and go about as usual. In that case, you’d be incredulous—how crazy would you have to be to believe your boyfriend has powers? Then Kusuo would feel bad in that event. Would it be best to come clean? He figured you would freak out if he did, who wouldn’t? But he couldn’t risk you feeling crazy, either. He had been so deep in thought and contemplation, he hadn’t realized you were worried.

***

“Kusuo?” The both of you had been dating for not long, actually. It was spontaneous, at a festival. Yet, he felt as comfortable as ever hearing his name from your lips. You were lying on the floor together—you said it felt better on your back, so he accompanied you. He turns his head to signal he was listening. “Are you okay?”

He nods, you furrow your eyebrows. With a small chew on the inside of your cheek, you relent. Your boyfriend was a master at avoiding conversation, you wouldn’t win. “M’kay.” You scooted closer, placing your head on his shoulder—his arm wraps around you.

It was pure warmth. He loved your weight on him, it solidified the idea you were real and with him. He glanced down to your curled up form, and he could feel himself caving. He was sure you had been peeling at his defenses, layer by layer. You were reaching to the core of his being—sooner than he’d like. It was worrying. He was so fortified, he didn’t know what else to do. They say love is like a flower blossoming in spring, but what will he do when his winter comes? When he slips up? He wasn’t sure. He only found himself wanting to bear it to you. He would show the deepest parts to you. Maybe he shouldn’t do that with his first relationship, but he didn’t care.

“You want a cat.” He started, speaking with his mouth. “You want…three. One ragdoll, one siamese, and the other is debatable.” All things you’ve thought about, but never said. “You sometimes want to hold my hand whenever I’m irritated, but you never do because you think I’ll get upset. You think my bed is more comfortable than yours but you never tell me to scoot over when you’re over.” His hands felt clammy when he felt your gaze.

“How do you know all that?” You whispered to him. You swore you could see a genuine expression of anxiety on him for the first time

“I can read your mind. I can do a lot of things. I can…use telekineses, I can turn invisible, I can hear everyone’s thoughts in a certain radius. I can’t throw a ball because I can’t control myself. I have x-ray vision, so I can’t actually see your face.”

You turned warm at the notion. So he knew you liked him way before?

He answered your thought. “I did know. You started liking me after we worked on the Chemistry project together.”

…

The silence was killing him. He looked down to your form, only to see it curling into him. “That sounds…rough. You can hear everyone’s thoughts? You can’t see my face? You…” He wad a strong man, you thought. You’d go crazy if you constantly heard everyone’s thoughts—nobody could be two-faced with him. You gently maneuvered to lay on him. “Tell me what I can do to make you comfortable when I can, okay? That sounds constantly overwhelming….”

He looked down at you in curiosity. You weren’t freaked out or angry. You were…gentle. How endearing.

“Just stay.” He answered. So you did.

I’ve written ‘Saiki’ too much it’s starting to look like mumbo jumbo

[emmiesoverthemoon]

AISLE BE DAMNED

two: closer than my comfort allows

wc: 6.3k ss count: 8 < previous | navigation | next >

friday, 2:50pm

the florist studio is tucked into the edge of the city like it belongs somewhere else entirely— glass walls half-swallowed by ivy, a hand-painted sign that reads blush & thistle, and the thick, heady perfume of fresh blooms rolling out onto the street like it’s trying to pull you in.

you’re early for once, as opposed to being just on time.

you stand just outside the doorway, one hand shading your eyes from the afternoon sun as you scan the carefully curated front window: a spiraling bouquet of peonies the color of spilled champagne, ranunculus with edges kissed in soft coral, and something vaguely poetic and wispy in cream. the arrangement is asymmetrical in the way only the most meticulous hands can make look effortless.

it smells like the kind of life you never admit to wanting.

you close your eyes for a breath, let it catch at the back of your throat. it already smells like the wedding. like the version of it you can see in your head— soft, decadent, wild around the edges but structured just enough to hold its shape. like magic, but orderly.

a place where nothing gets dropped. where the timeline bends without breaking. where everything just works.

“i knew you being early as a concept was real,” comes a voice behind you. dry. familiar. amused. “but seeing it in person? shocking.”

you turn without even flinching.

“oh my god,” you say, deadpanning. “you’re early and funny. someone write this down. it needs an entire section in the history books that will be studied for generations to come.”

minho steps beside you without looking over. he’s dressed more casually this time— well, casual for him. a slate-grey sweater layered cleanly over a collared shirt, coat folded neatly over one arm, sleeves already pushed to the forearms like he’s bracing to fix something broken. even now, he looks like a walking google calendar. somehow both timeless and scheduled.

he doesn’t glance at the flowers, just pushes open the glass door and steps inside like he’s done it a thousand times.

you follow behind him. “you didn't tell me this place was so fancy.”

“you never asked,” he replies, voice low as his eyes sweep across the shop’s glossy floors.

inside, the florist is already setting out samples on a long oak table— velvet-lined trays of boutonnières arranged like jewelry displays, pale rose bundles rising from glass cylinders in perfectly staggered tiers, tall taper candles resting in antique brass holders that glow soft gold under the skylights. it’s as close to sacred as a planning space can feel.

you catch your breath for a second.

minho, naturally, doesn’t blink.

he slides his coat onto the back of a nearby chair with surgical precision, then rolls up his sleeves and starts flipping through the sample binder like he’s clocking in at a job he plans to outperform.

you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re awfully comfortable.”

he shrugs. “i like efficiency.”

but then he pauses. his fingers stop mid-turn over a page showcasing a trailing jasmine installation, its shape loose but elegant— intentional, but not rigid. something about the mess that makes sense.

he taps the page once.

“this one,” he asserts.

you blink. “…really?”

“your cousin will love it,” he replies simply. “you were right about the overgrown romantic thing.”

you stare at him.

not just because he said it. but because he said it like it cost nothing. like you being right was a given, not an anomaly. like you weren’t supposed to be on opposite ends of a never-ending argument.

“mark the calendar,” you mutter. “lee minho said something nice and no one has died.”

he rolls his eyes. “yet.”

the walkthrough begins in earnest. the florist leads you both through timelines, options, backup options. you follow her across the studio, scribbling in your notebook, nodding in all the right places, but your eyes keep drifting back to minho.

he’s not watching you. he’s not really watching anything.

he’s tracking.

when your pen slips from your notebook, he catches it mid-fall and sets it silently beside your hand. when the florist struggles with the ladder, he steps in without hesitation, holding it steady with one hand while helping rearrange a stubborn garland with the other. when she asks if you'd prefer the jasmine woven through the arch or draped more freely, you pause, unsure— and minho just says, quietly, “the drape. it catches the light better.”

you watch him without meaning to.

watch the way he folds his sleeves again as they start to slide. how he wipes his palms on his pants before handling delicate pieces. how he does things without being asked, does them well, and says nothing afterward.

it’s infuriating.

it’s— kind of amazing.

he’s not just good at this. he’s quietly good.

the kind of good that doesn’t need credit. that doesn’t point to his work when he’s done. that just makes sure the thing gets finished the way it’s supposed to.

you hate how the chaos seems less sharp when he’s near it.

you hate that you didn’t see it sooner.

you hate that you are seeing it now.

and you really, really hate the way your stomach flips when he steps back from the archway, nods at the florist, and says, “better. now it looks like it was meant to be here.”

what the hell is this supposed to mean?

later, as the florist talks through delivery dates, you find yourself zoning out just enough to realise how close the two of you are standing now. how his shoulder brushes yours each time he shifts weight. how he doesn’t seem to mind.

he notices everything, and yet— he doesn’t step away.

you’re not sure what that means.

you’re not sure you want to know.

you scribble a few final notes. mostly for show. your brain is a fog of jasmine, candle wax, and the smell of minho’s cologne that is unfortunately expensive and effective.

the florist asks for a final decision on what centrepieces and small motifs you’d like to order for the dining tables.

you open your mouth to speak, but before you do, minho leans forward, just slightly.

“she wants the low ones,” he affirms. “so people can see each other across the tables.”

the florist nods while ticking a section in her binder, then turns away.

you look at him.

not annoyed. not defensive.

just—

“how’d you know that?”

he shrugs. doesn’t look at you. “your eyes hovered over that section of the page for almost a full minute.”

you blink.

“…what?” he questions, catching your stare.

“nothing.”

“you’re doing the face.”

“what face?”

“the one where you realise i’m useful.”

you scoff. “i’d rather die.”

he grins.

not smirks. grins.

full, unguarded, slightly lopsided, but bright across his whole face. not for show, not for spite.

just for a second.

just for you.

and it hits you somewhere low and warm. something small but deep and entirely unprepared for.

you look away. immediately.

the florist clears her throat gently. you say something vaguely articulate.

he doesn’t look at you again.

when the meeting wraps, he helps pack the samples with the same quiet competence. he holds the door for her, thanks her for her time, checks the time and murmurs “on schedule, good” under his breath.

you linger by the car after. watching his hands as he scrolls through his calendar. efficient. focused.

you try not to notice his sharp knuckles or the veins raised along his wrists and hands that contorted with each of his movements.

you fail.

you used to think he was cold.

now you’re starting to wonder if he’s just careful.

and if maybe—just maybe—there’s more under that surface than either of you are ready to say out loud.

friday, 8:14pm

saturday, 12:48pm

sunday, 4:23pm

he should have said no to meeting at her place.

he should have said no the second the words “you can just come over, i have snacks and post-its” appeared in his texts like that was a normal thing to offer your co-planner. like it was a completely neutral suggestion to invite someone you had spent the past week or so bickering with into your living room with snacks and oddly aggressively colour-coded planning boards.

he told himself it was fine. he would stay an hour, maybe less. they would rearrange the seating chart, double-check the RSVPs, confirm vendor follow-ups, and move on. he wasn’t there to hang out. or linger. or notice things.

but now he was standing at your door, folder under his arm, coffee in his free hand, staring at the crooked little magnet on your front door that read:

no bad vibes (and also no men with opinions)

he stared at it for five seconds.

then knocked.

the door swung open on the second knock. you were already mid-sentence, wild and animated, one sock bunched halfway down your ankle like you hadn’t stopped moving all morning.

“ignore the mess,” you spoke quickly before he could get a greeting in, backing up into the apartment. “i’ve been in wedding-brain for three hours and i’m down a glue stick and most of my dignity.”

he stepped inside.

the first thing he noticed was the smell. vanilla and paper and something faintly like clean linen or lotion. the second thing was the absolute chaos spread across your living room floor. cushions tossed around a coffee table covered in seating cards, floor plan sketches, colour swatches, and the remains of what looked like a very enthusiastic snack run.

it looked like a storm made of washi tape had landed here and been told to get married.

“you said this would be a working meeting,” he said.

“this is a working meeting,” you replied, nudging a space clear on the floor for him to sit. “it just happens to include a little pizazz. and comfortableness. essentials!”

he didn’t roll his eyes. not outwardly.

but he did hesitate before lowering himself onto the floor beside you.

close. too close, maybe. but the coffee table left no room for distance.

“we’ll be quick,” he informed, opening his folder. “just seating and caterer reconfirmation. no need to—”

“minho,” you interrupted, reaching across him for a pen. “i designed laminated name tags! see?”

he blinked.

“you… laminated them?”

you held one up like it was a trophy, waving it proudly. “mhm, we’re not animals in this household.”

he didn’t respond. but he felt the corner of his mouth twitch once. involuntarily.

they settled into the work slowly.

or rather— you settled. you were cross-legged, phone propped against a jar of markers, flipping through guest notes and muttering about which side of the family was “least likely to start a scene,” or who was most incompatible with the elders of the family. your handwriting was neat but frantic. your mind, faster than your mouth.

he sat straighter. made notes in real time. watched your process like it was a foreign language he almost understood.

and slowly—almost annoyingly—he found himself syncing to it.

you spoke in half-formed ideas. he filled in the blanks.

you reached for one name, he already had it sorted alphabetically.

you frowned at the spacing when it felt off, he adjusted the layout with three quick gestures and no fanfare.

he didn’t ask questions. he didn’t announce when you had made a mistake. he just fixed it, no questions asked.

and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

sometime between the third snack break and the fourth round of placements, he started noticing things.

like how you always tapped the side of her pencil twice before suggesting a change.

how you rechecked the same line of the guest list even after he’d confirmed it.

how you would squint at the chart with the intensity of someone trying to win an argument without saying a word.

and also— how your knee kept brushing his.

not deliberately. not flirtatiously. just the accidental contact of two people sitting too close for too long, both pretending not to notice.

but minho did notice.

he noticed it every time.

and the longer they sat there, the more aware of you he became. not in a distracting way. not even in a romantic one.

just… aware.

your perfume. faint. sweet. nothing showy. just you.

your fingers. always moving. fidgeting. rearranging.

your voice. lower when you were focused. softer.

your laugh, when you let it slip between sentences— unconfined, quick, like it surprised even you.

he didn’t want to learn these things. he just did.

“what if we moved table six next to the head table?” you suggested suddenly, breaking his spiral. “it’s awkward now, having these people out by the fireplace. it’s too far.”

he looked down at the map. then up at her.

you were biting the corner of her lip. unsure, for once.

he took the name cards. shifted the pieces around. slid your proposed change into place.

“you’re right,” he agreed.

you blinked. “i am?”

he nodded. “it balances the room.”

you smiled then— soft and easy. the kind that didn’t feel defensive or smug or rehearsed. the kind that made something buzz low in his throat.

“you’re not bad at this,” you hummed.

“you sound surprised.”

“just impressed. you didn’t even sigh once this time.”

“yet.”

you laughed again. this time, he let himself smile too.

they sat in that hush for a long moment. paper around them like flower petals. warm yellow light spilling from the lamp above. your shoulder barely brushing his. his thumb tapping absently against the corner of a card.

he didn’t say the thing in his throat.

the one that sounded a lot like you’re easier to be around than i thought. i like this more than i’m letting myself admit.

he didn’t say anything at all.

but when he reached for the final place card and your fingers met his halfway, neither of you pulled back.

not for a second.

then—finally—you stood, and stretched your arms above your head.

the moment broke like sugar glass.

“i’ll finalise this tonight,” you spoke. “unless you want to triple-check everything in your sleep.”

he stood too. adjusted his folder. gave you a look.

“only twice.”

you rolled your eyes.

he watched you without meaning to.

in the car, on the way back to his side of the city, he stared out the window.

not thinking about anything.

but not not thinking about you.

that was new.

monday, 10:02am

wednesday, 1:27pm

friday, 5:11pm

the sky is a melted spill of lavender and peach, the last sun-glow dipping behind the treetops. the breeze is warm for winter, dusted in late golden hour, and you’re adjusting the strap of your dress with a pit in your stomach and a buzzing under your skin.

you smooth your dress again. fix the collar of your coat. stare at your reflection in the hallway mirror like it might give you instructions.

just take a deep breath.

it’s just minho.

just minho, who once called your table styling “visually exhausting.” minho, who adjusted the itinerary once because your bullet points weren’t “uniform enough.” minho, who made planning feel like a chess match played with garden shears.

except tonight, you are fairly certain he is in a suit.

you do not know that for a fact, but you’ve heard him say “semi-formal” in the exact same tone most people say “murder,” and if he took it seriously—which he would—then he is absolutely out there right now dressed like a warning label for heartbreak.

you are not nervous. you are not. you are just slightly flushed from the glass of white wine you definitely did not drink to calm yourself. and maybe your hands are a little cold, and maybe your thoughts are not particularly safe for work, but—

you peek through the front window.

he’s here.

minho. suit-clad. leaning against the side of his car like he stepped out of a magazine editorial called brooding elegance. charcoal grey jacket and black slacks, tie tied almost too perfectly around his neck. his sleeves are rolled just slightly, enough to reveal forearms and a glint of silver watch that should not make you feel the way it does. his hair is still damp from a recent shower, the ends curling just above his temples.

you grip the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping your knees upright.

and then— your phone lights up. his name. your thumb hesitates above the screen before you answer.

“i’m outside,” he informs, voice smooth, low. irritatingly calm.

you nearly drop your phone. “be down in a sec,” you reply, breathless. “hold your horses. or whatever it is you drive.”

the door opens.

he turns.

you descend the steps one by one, heels soft against the concrete, coat draped over your arms, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes catch— how they stay fixed. the way he straightens up as if jolted by electricity.

he blinks. once. twice.

and then— he swears under his breath. quietly. reverently.

he’s trying to stay neutral. to act like your presence in that dress isn’t causing minor system failure. but he is not fooling anyone. especially not himself.

he opens the passenger door for you.

“you look—” he begins, but then his voice cuts out like he changed his mind halfway through.

“you’re driving?” you deflect, half-laughing, already sliding into the seat.

“i can legally operate a vehicle,” he feigns offense, but his mouth twitches into a smile. he sits in the drivers seat. “don’t act surprised.”

“no, it’s not that. it’s just…” you exhale and give him a pointed once-over. “you. suit. behind the wheel. how dare you.”

“oh how dare i, hm?”

his hands tense around the wheel, knuckles white.

“the way you said that. oh that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you murmur to yourself, quietly enough so that he doesn’t hear.

he does hear it.

the rest of the ride is quiet. not silent, not comfortable, charged. like someone turned the volume down on the world but turned the brightness way, way up.

his cologne coils low in your throat. something clean, something subtle, like cedar, cold water, and a hint of heat beneath. you keep your eyes ahead, fingers fidgeting in your lap, trying not to notice the line of his thigh pressed close, the way his hand flexes on the gearshift. the flick of his gaze toward you at every red light.

he doesn’t speak. but he feels. like static across your skin.

friday, 5:44pm

the venue is glowing when you arrive— fairy lights strung in loose constellations through the trellises, draping low over the courtyard like starlight caught in a net. soft instrumental music filters through hidden speakers, just shy of orchestral, just shy of overwhelming. it pools into the golden hour like it belongs there. like it was written to gild the edges of a night like this.

it’s elegant. lush. dizzying.

it’s everything you had wanted for your cousin. it’s everything you had drafted in sketches, pinterest boards, and blurry midnight notes in your phone.

and it feels real now.

you step inside. and minho is beside you.

not ahead, not trailing behind— just there. shoulder to shoulder. like the rhythm has been established and neither of you are willing to break it now.

you both field questions like co-hosts. not just efficient— seamless. one unit split between two bodies.

he defers to you on décor. you defer to him on vendor logistics. a glance is all it takes for a decision to be made.

people notice.

they always do.

someone’s aunt knocks over a glass of wine with a too-wide gesture. you both move at once— him for the glass, you for the napkins. he catches it mid-fall. you’re already blotting the linen. he holds the glass steady as you reach for it. your hands brush— barely.

neither of you says anything.

but your pulse thuds behind your ears.

he disappears at one point and reappears moments later with a new drink, no explanation. he does not ask if you want it. just places it beside your elbow like it belongs there. there for you if you were to want a fresh glass. he would be unoffended if you left it, you know. he just wants you to have what you want.

obviously only in the context of ease and convenience. nothing else.

you do not thank him out loud.

you just hand him a new place card for table five without being prompted.

this is how it goes now. reflexive. unspoken. comfortably in swing with each other.

you do not touch.

but you almost do.

when you reach across him for the floral sample, your sleeve brushes his wrist.

he doesn’t move.

at one point, you bend to fix the ribbon placement along the sweetheart table. he kneels beside you, adjusting the arrangement opposite your hands with quiet precision. you’re close— close enough to see the shadow of his lashes, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he concentrates.

you glance over to him.

he’s already looking at you.

and for one full second, neither of you look away.

your breath sticks.

his fingers pause mid-placement.

then—too fast—he clears his throat and shifts back like nothing happened.

“you handled that toast well,” he compliments—almost smugly—later, voice just behind your shoulder.

you turn your head, slightly.

he’s close enough that the scent of his cologne fogs your senses. warm. dark. something spiced that makes your head hum.

“was that a compliment?” you murmur, lips tilted.

he blinks once. then—quiet, like it’s an accident—he says, “maybe.”

you don’t answer.

but you also don’t move away.

you stand like that for a few long beats. shoulder to shoulder in the half-lit hallway, the sound of laughter echoing off the walls from the next room. the party goes on without you. but your body is tuned to him, now. to the static, the charge, the sharp ache of whatever this is becoming.

friday, 7:32pm

the courtyard is warm with late sun and champagne. the soft glimmer of fairy lights makes the air feel a little enchanted— like something impossible might happen if you just stepped a little farther into the gold.

you step back instead.

a soft breeze trails through the stone archway as you slip away from the bustle, away from the table setup and the politely enthusiastic relatives and the never-ending sea of questions. you don’t go far— just near the fountain, where the string music fades into a gentler hush and the flowers curl around the trellises like they grew just for tonight.

you breathe.

a moment. just one.

and then, your cousin appears. she’s still in rehearsal whites, hair pinned up loosely, glowing with that particular kind of joy that only belongs to the week before a wedding. when she sees you, she smiles like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

"you look like you needed rescuing," she laughs softly, linking her arm through yours.

you breathe out a soft laugh. "i was hiding."

"same thing."

you stand like that for a moment. the breeze is just warm enough, the laughter from inside low and soft like it's part of the décor.

she pulls back slightly to look at you. "so… how are things going with my two favourite planners?"

you snort. "we haven’t killed each other. yet."

"interesting," she hums, tilting her head, clearly playing innocent. "because it looked a lot like i saw minho refill your glass and brush the hair off your shoulder and laugh at something that was not remotely funny."

"he didn’t—"

"mmhm."

you blink, suddenly aware of the residual warmth in your chest. of the way you’d caught yourself watching him earlier— adjusting the lighting chart, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. how he’d glanced over like he felt it too. like he was watching you back.

"he’s just being polite," you dismiss finally.

"he’s never been polite a day in his life."

you glare. "do you want me to plan your wedding or not."

she grins, completely unbothered. "just sayin’. you two are… something."

"something?"

"something. simmering."

a moment passes.

she rests her head briefly against your shoulder, voice gentler now. “thank you. for everything. i know this past time has been hell, i know how he can be to deal with sometimes. i know i dumped you into this on the spot when i asked you.”

you shake your head. “no, you didn’t. i said yes. and… i’m glad i did.”

“even with him?”

“…maybe especially with him.”

she smiles. then, her head perks up like she’s just remembered something.

"anyway—before i forget—do you have next weekend blocked out?"

you furrow your brows. "uh. no? what’s next weekend? i didn't think i had forgotten something was on..."

"oh no, you didn't forget. i just booked this yesterday. it's a super crazy catering presentation, with that chef group you picked out—great taste, by the way. it’s at their fancy vineyard estate a few hours out. the head chef wants you and minho to sample the full menu and sign off."

"that sounds…" you trail off, suspicious.

"delicious?" your cousin offers.

"inconvenient."

"it’s in the evening," she says, all fake-cheerful. "they’re serving everything as a full-course dinner. with champagne pairings. and the estate insists on overnight guests to ‘ensure palette clarity’ or some crap."

"girl—"

"relax. i already booked the room."

"the room? singular?"

"the one room they had left."

you stare at her.

she smiles like she just got away with a crime. "it’s all they had on short notice! i said you were very close coworkers."

"you’re going to hell."

"worth it."

you cover your face with both hands. she hugs you sideways.

"you’re welcome," she smiles into your shoulder. "only good can come from this."

friday, 9:17pm

the champagne goes straight to your head.

not a lot. but just enough.

you’re perched beside him on a low stone ledge in the garden, empty glasses between you, the air full of murmuring laughter and distant violin.

you’re tipsy. not sloppy. you’re still completely in control, just loose around the edges.

your cheeks are warm. your guard’s cracked.

you glance sideways. he’s got one arm draped across his knee, suit jacket folded neatly over a nearby chair, dress shirt unbuttoned just slightly at the collar, tie abandoned to his pocket.

“you look really—” you start. pause. sip your drink even though it’s empty. “—stupid hot tonight.”

minho stills.

you don’t look at him when you say it. you stare straight ahead. pretend it was a joke. a mistake. a side effect of the alcohol.

but he turns slowly.

you feel the weight of his gaze like a hand on your throat.

he says nothing.

he doesn’t need to.

the air shifts. tightens.

his knee brushes yours.

you don’t move.

he should say something. you should say something.

instead, you both just sit in it. the weight of what was said and what wasn’t. the electric hum under your skin. the way your eyes catch on the curve of his mouth every time he exhales.

someone calls you both back, instantly shattering any moment you both were in. minho helps you up and aside to let you reenter the building first, his palm lightly brushing the centre of your back to guide you.

you almost thank him.

you almost reach for his wrist as you pass.

but neither of you breaks the silence.

instead, you fall back into step.

like gravity.

like a pattern already written.

and in every step beside him, in every look passed between wine glasses and candles, the truth lingers beneath the surface:

you are not pretending to hate each other anymore.

but you are still pretending not to want.

and that’s worse.

so much worse.

friday, 10:01pm

it’s later that night, and the party is starting to splinter— guests leaving in soft clusters, heels in hands, speeches echoing in their laughter. minho stands near the exit, nursing the last half of a drink that’s long since lost its chill.

minho does not look for you.

he’s been doing that all night. too much. too obviously.

so now, he’s looking at the chandelier. or the gift table. or absolutely anything that isn’t the swing of your dress across the room.

"you’re brooding," comes a voice to his left.

he turns slowly, and sees the groom looking back at him.

"i’m standing," minho replies.

"brooding while standing, then." his friend clinks their glasses together. “what’s going on with you and my fiancée’s cousin?”

minho exhales through his nose. “nothing.”

"mhmm. and yet here you are, glowering into your whiskey like a tortured protagonist.”

"we’re working."

"you’re working,” the groom echoes, nodding with mock seriousness. “working together. respectfully. professionally. with all that almost-hand-touching and deep eye contact."

minho sips his drink and says nothing.

"anyway," the groom says, smirking now, "the missus told me i was meant to give you a heads-up."

minho raises a brow.

"about next weekend. the vineyard. she booked you both in for the catering run-through."

“right,” minho nods. “the dinner thing was mentioned to me earlier in passing.”

“it’s a whole presentation now,” the groom replies. “chef’s running a full-course mock-up— wine pairings, menu tasting, all that. they’re trying to make a night of it. impress you.”

minho nods once. this was practical. expected, even.

then the groom adds, far too casually: “and they’ve got a room ready for you two.”

minho pauses. “a room?”

“mhm. they only had one left. something about peak wedding season. it's been booked already.”

there’s a beat of silence. the music has shifted— slow, distant, some soft piano instrumental echoing through the space like the tail end of a love story.

minho sets his glass down with a little more force than necessary.

“it’s not weird,” the groom offers, attempting nonchalance. “it’s a huge room. i think. probably. big vineyard. rustic charm. candles and shit. very aesthetic.”

“why would i care,” minho says, voice tight. his attempt to cover the fact that he in fact does care is futile.

the groom’s expression shifts— just slightly. “you shouldn’t. obviously. but you do look a little…”

"i don’t."

“…weirdly tense about it.”

minho closes his eyes for half a second. opens them again.

“we’re professionals,” he breathes evenly. “we’ll manage.”

"mm. you do seem like you're managing. especially when you aren’t staring at her for three minutes straight across the bar."

minho doesn’t reply.

he picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. straightens the collar. and ignores the grin spreading across his friend’s face.

"if it helps," the groom remarks, one last parting shot, “from the time that i've known her, i think she likes working with you.”

minho freezes for half a breath.

then leaves. the silence swells around him, full of everything he didn’t say. didn’t ask.

she likes working with you.

he lets the words sink in.

one room.

one dinner.

not a problem.

not a problem at all.

this might be a problem.

friday, 10:37pm

on the way back, the silence is unbearable.

minho drives.

his right hand stays steady on the wheel, knuckles tight with restraint, the other resting uselessly on the gear shift as though it needs something to grip— anything to ground him. the interior of the car smells like you. your perfume, the faintest trace of champagne on your breath, your laughter still echoing somewhere in the seams of the leather seats.

you do not speak.

you do not dare.

your body is turned slightly toward the window, knees angled just enough to look casual, but not distant. the air between you is vibrating, humming with the static of everything that did not get said. your thigh brushes his once—accidental. then again, more like a whisper. more like your skin asking a question it cannot voice.

he does not flinch.

you are thinking things you are not supposed to think.

what his mouth would taste like— how it would feel to pull him in by the collar and kiss him like you mean it. what sound he would make if you said his name like a secret. if his hands would hesitate or devour. whether his tie is still tucked into his coat pocket and whether he would ever let you tug on it just once.

you grip the hem of your coat tighter in your fists.

outside, the streetlights paint passing gold ribbons across your thighs, your cheek, the line of his jaw when you steal a glance.

a red light.

you risk it.

you look at him.

and he is already watching you.

his eyes are dark, unreadable. but something inside them flickers— something raw and wrecked and wanting. his jaw is tense. his mouth parted like there are words balanced right there on the edge, waiting to tumble out if only he could bear to say them.

he opens his mouth.

your breath catches. you feel it— feel the shift, the second the air grows tight and ready to snap. your lips part too, like maybe this is it. maybe this is the moment everything gives way.

but then—

the light turns green.

he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours.

and he drives.

he walks you to your door because he is polite. because he is eighty-five percent sure you're still tipsy, and you actually don’t know what you’re doing. (you do know). because if he leaves without seeing you inside, he will worry. because if he leaves without one last look, he will break.

you fumble with your keys.

your hands shake a little— not obviously, not enough for him to comment, but you feel it. the adrenaline of something almost-born still stuttering beneath your ribs. you glance up once, open your mouth. the words are right there, tucked beneath your tongue. i wanted to kiss you. i don’t hate you anymore. i don’t want to pretend.

but he speaks first.

“goodnight.”

simple. even. too smooth to be accidental.

you blink.

“…goodnight,” you echo.

neither of you moves.

he stands there, hands in the pockets of his coat, chest rising slowly. you think he might lean in again, just slightly, barely perceptible— but you see it. you feel it. like the universe is teetering forward with him.

his gaze traces the outline of your lips.

your collarbone.

your eyes.

you are all heat, all pulse, and all maybe, and he is looking at you like he might do something unforgivable.

but then— he tilts his head. just a fraction. and steps back.

“see you soon, get some rest,” he mutters, voice thick, rough around the edges like it scraped against everything he did not say.

you nod. even though you are not ready. even though your mouth aches with every unspoken thing you swallowed down instead.

the door closes softly behind you.

you lean against it. then slide down to the floor in your stupid pretty dress and too-warm skin and heartbeat that does not know how to calm down. you press your palm flat to the hardwood flooring, like if you stay there long enough you might still feel the echo of his footsteps through it.

you want to tell him to come back. say something. scream.

instead, you just sit there, clutching your coat like it might explain anything.

outside, he does not move.

minho stands under the porch light, eyes fixed on the crack between your curtains, trying to convince himself to turn around. to breathe. to forget.

but he can't.

his hands curl into fists inside his pockets, like they’re holding him together. like if he loosens one finger, the whole thing might break.

minho doesn't sleep that night.

and neither do you.

both of you lying in separate beds, in separate parts of the city, thinking the exact same thing:

i should have said something.

i should have kissed them.

but the window of opportunity has closed. and the night has carried on, leaving you in the dust.

saturday, 11:04am

the morning is too bright.

you wake with your cheek pressed into your pillow and your hand curled beneath your chin, the imprint of last night’s makeup faint against the fabric. your mouth is dry. your hair smells like champagne and something floral.

you do not open your eyes right away.

you are remembering things. not dreams— real things.

his hand on the small of your back, guiding you inside like it was nothing.

the look he gave you when you stepped into the car.

the silence between you, thick enough to drown in.

you should have said something.

you roll onto your back with a hefty sigh, blanket kicked to the floor, one arm draped across your stomach like it might hold the ache there still. it is not a romantic ache. not a lovesick one. it is sharper than that. brighter. like your body is still buzzing from a voltage it was never allowed to discharge.

your phone is facedown on your nightstand. you consider ignoring it.

you do not.

the screen lights up in your palm— no messages from him. no messages to him, either. not yet.

your text thread from yesterday is still open, like it’s waiting for one of you to admit something.

it mocks you.

you type out thanks for the ride

then delete it.

you type what would you have done if i brought you inside?

then delete it.

you type did you get home okay?

then delete that too.

you lock your phone and toss it gently across the bed.

in the kitchen, your kettle sputters to life, and you lean against the counter, waiting, eyes still swollen from too little sleep. your dress is still pooled on the chair. your heels by the door.

you don’t feel bad.

you just feel… unsettled.

as if something important almost happened.

as if it still might.

somewhere across the city, minho sits on the edge of his bed, tie still crumpled in the pocket of his coat, phone in his hand. his thumb hovers above your name, unread messages unsent.

he’d meant to text.

he’d meant to say goodnight, or you looked beautiful, or what would you have done if i leaned in?

he doesn’t text any of those things.

instead, he gets up, drags a hand through his hair, and stares at the mess on his desk— your invitation designs, your schedules, your ceremony timings.

everything in its place.

everything but this.

he thinks about your perfume.

the way you looked at him when you said that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.

how your fingers almost touched his at the stoplight.

how he almost said i wanted to kiss you and instead said nothing at all.

he makes coffee, and proceeds to not drink it.

he tells himself to let it go.

he knows he won’t.

you sip your tea slowly.

you scroll through photos you do not remember taking— random areas of the venue, family members you haven’t seen in too long, and only one of minho. it appears to have been taken in a random room at the venue, you think he was speaking with some vendors? the memory is foggy. it’s a candid image, and your slightly blurred-drunken photography gives it a dreamy look, making him appear even more ethereal than you remember.

you stop on that one and stare at it for a long time. it’s like you’re frozen in a daze, he’s so capturing.

then, you open your messages with him and him the image.

just that.

no message. no caption. no follow-up.

you leave your phone on the counter and walk away.

when you return five minutes later, there’s a reply.

your heart stutters once.

you close the thread.

and smile. freely.

you’re alone, and you’re sick of pretending he isn’t the reason for it.

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thanks for reading chapter two! keep hanging around for chapter three and beyond <3

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[satori-runa]

—Honey on your hands

Summary: You got used to your new cannibalistic cottage core life and took a step further in life.

Words: 1k

Tags: Murder, Blood, established relationships, female reader

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You weren't sure when it became official.

It wasn't a fairy tale. There were none of those romantic kisses under the gentle moonlight, where he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer into his chest. Nor did he mutter a sweet confession into your ears behind closed doors, when his brother remained asleep at night. Just the slow shift of your kidnapped life filled with a strange intimacy.

His silence softened the edges. The way William hovered close to you, whenever you did the chores around the house, his eyes lingering a bit longer than usual while meeting in the garden. He even joined you in bed after you fell asleep and would rise before you woke up.

Maybe it turned so naturally, when you started to stitch his wounds. Or perhaps it was around the time, when he stopped hiding the blood on his hands.

Dating William wasn’t like anything you’d read in your little books back at home. There were no flowers,because you picked those by yourself. No love letters, because he barely spoke unless necessary. But he brought you bones cleaned of meat, and you turned them into wind chimes that clinked gently in the breeze. It was a weird match, but still fitting in its own way.

He brought you a deer once.

Still warm. Still twitching. His brother sewed some additional limbs to it, in a not so pleasing way. You blinked at it lying across the table, heart hammering, but you didn’t scream. You just looked at him and said quietly, “Do you need help skinning it?” It was a genuine question. His eyes widened, just slightly. Enough to notice.

“No,” he said. “But… you can watch.”

So you did. You sat across the room, flower crown crooked on your head, humming quietly as he worked. You weren’t disturbed. Just thoughtful. Later, you took the cleaned bones and lined them along your garden beds like little guardians. You got creative with the bones you got.

William watched you kneel in the dirt, your white apron dusted with soil and petals.

“You make everything beautiful,” he said, almost like it hurt to admit.You looked up, smiled soft and sunlit. “Even you.”He didn’t believe it, but he let you press a dandelion into his palm and kissed his jaw anyway.

Soon enough there came a day that started like any other day that you came across. You were in the garden, humming quietly one of the records that played in the livingroom and you fixed the apron bow that was tied behind your back. An apron that William gave you, stolen from another poor unfortunate victim. A fine smell of herbs hit your nose and you turned around to the kitchen window, the soup in the pot was just starting to bubble, herbs from the woods, meat from…well from William and Jackson. The house smelled better than ever.

And then the scream came. It was sharp, panicked and male. The fitting description for the poor unfortunate guy that crossed paths with Jackson and Williams' weird new pig. It resulted in Jackson kidnapping the guy, probably to turn him into another one of the cows. But the scream was enough to let you freeze. Your hand hovering over the petals of a foxglove.

He wasn't supposed to be awake yet.

Jackson and William were gone, hunting. And it meant they left you alone in charge.

And somehow, things were going downhill now that one of their victims woke up and was probably loose in the house.

You didn’t panic.

You untied your apron, left it draped over the bloody chair, and stepped into the hallway barefoot. The scream had come from the upper floor, and now… now there were footsteps. Frantic ones. A slam. A crash. Something knocked over. The screen door creaked. He was running.

You followed. Not quickly. Not loudly.

Like a shadow with soft hair and a steady breath. You were at an advantage, since you were sure that he wasn't aware of your presence. You found him near the edge of the woods, shirt half-torn, face scraped from falling. His wrists were raw from where the bindings had been. He looked back and he didn’t scream this time. He just stared.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You’re another victim? God thanks, I think I know the way out..” You tilted your head. You were still in your soft house dress. You probably looked harmless. He took a step back. “You…They’re monsters. You don’t have to be here. You can escape with me.” You blinked slowly. "Escape?"

You looked over your shoulder, back toward the little cottage. The herbs. The fireplace. The books, the tea, the bloody knives soaking in the sink. William.

"No," you said gently. “I’m already home.”

He tried to run again. Poor thing.

You moved quickly,faster than you thought your body could. The knife you grabbed from the kitchen still had flour on the handle. You weren’t William. You weren’t precise or clean. But when it was over, and the forest was quiet again, you knelt beside the body and pressed your fingers to his still-warm neck. Your breath came steady.

You returned home barefoot. Quiet. Streaked with red. The soup still simmered. You washed the blood off slowly, carefully, like you were rinsing jam from your hands. You set the table for two. Lit a candle. And you tied your apron again. When William came through the door, eyes tired, coat damp with fresh kill, he stopped when he saw you. His eyes flicked over your dress. The red at your collar.

"...What happened?" he asked, voice low.

You looked up from your knitting, warm smile on your face. “One of them got out.” A beat.

“And?” he asked.

You didn’t stop knitting. “Handled it.”

A longer pause.

Then, you felt it before you saw it, he stepped forward and knelt by your chair. His cold fingers touched your ankle, traced a faint smear of red on your skin.

He didn’t ask for details.

He didn’t need to.

That night, he kissed you for the first time.

And it distracted you from the fact that there was blood on both your hands.

[orellazalonia]

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 7)

Summary: You hide a growing illness until a high fever sends you spiraling into a regressed, terrified state. Steve and Bucky care for you throughout it all, and by morning, you cling quietly to their comfort. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. Kidnapping. Panicking/Panic attack. More references to Labs/Experimentation. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 2k+

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

You notice it the moment you open your eyes.

A strange ache behind them. Dull and pressing like someone pushing from inside your skull. Your throat is dry and rough, each swallow feeling like it scrapes something raw. Still, you don’t say anything.

Because this morning matters.

You’ve been good. You’ve followed the rules. Bucky said you were getting close to earning another trip to the balcony, outside. You can’t mess this up.

So you get up quietly, even though your limbs feel like sandbags. The room tilts slightly when you swing your legs off the bed, but you keep going. You shuffle to the pile of soft clothes Steve laid out last night, pink overalls and a white shirt with embroidered strawberries, and you dress yourself before he even comes in to help you.

It takes you twice as long. Your hands fumble with the buttons. But you do it.

You sit neatly on your blanket nest and clutch Mr. Bun tight against your chest, willing your body to stop shaking. It’s fine. It has to be fine.

The door creaks open.

Steve walks in, smiling instantly when he sees you. “Well look at you,” He says softly. “All dressed and ready. You must’ve been excited today, huh?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm, yeah.”

Your voice comes out scratchier than you expected. You watch Steve blink at the sound, but he doesn’t question it. He crouches beside you and brushes your hair gently behind your ear.

“You feel a little warm,” He murmurs after a moment.

You stiffen.

“No,” You say, too quickly. “I’m okay. Just woke up fast, ‘m not sick.”

He blinks, eyebrows pulling slightly. “I didn’t say you were, sweetheart.”

You curl your fingers into the fur of Mr. Bun, heart pounding. Too much. That was too much.

But Steve only gives you a small smile and stands again. “Well, you let us know if anything feels icky, okay? It’s alright to have off days.”

You nod, but your mouth is dry.

You manage to keep up the act through breakfast. You sit in your seat, wobbling only once when the room spins too suddenly. Steve spoons warm oatmeal into your mouth, and you swallow slowly, carefully, even though your stomach turns. Bucky sits nearby, flipping through a book, occasionally looking over at you like he’s reading your every movement.

You smile once, just once, hoping it softens the glassiness in your eyes. And they don’t say anything more. But your skin is damp. Your back sticks uncomfortably to your shirt. You can feel a fever rising like a tide under your skin.

Still, you color during playtime. You sit on the mat and trace flower petals with your crayon even though your hand shakes and the lines blur. You laugh, a soft, hoarse sound, when Steve shows you a silly hand puppet and pretends it has a voice.

You lean into Bucky’s side during “quiet time” when he sits next to you on the couch, going through a picture book for you. He doesn’t move, just lets you rest there like he doesn’t want to spook you. And you want to stay there. Not because it’s warm. But because you’re trying.

Because you need them to think you’re still their good girl.

Even if your skin is buzzing. Even if your eyelids feel like they weigh ten pounds each. Even if something is deeply, quietly wrong inside your body and you’re too scared to say it.

The day continues to drag though.

You’ve never noticed how long an hour can feel when every breath scratches your throat like sandpaper. Or how loud the clock becomes when you’re trying to keep your body still, when every movement sends a spike of heat through your body.

Your head pounds. But you keep your posture straight as you sit with your sticker book, peeling off tiny stars and carefully placing them onto a cartoon animal page. You don’t look up when Bucky passes behind you. You don’t want him to see your glassy eyes.

“You need water?” Steve asks gently, crouching near your side.

You shake your head too fast. The room tilts as you bite your tongue to stay upright.

“I’m okay,” You rasp, wincing at your own voice. “Promise.”

Steve frowns.

“You’re flushed, sweetheart,” He murmurs, brushing the backs of his fingers across your cheek. “And you’re sweating. That’s not nothing.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for another sticker. Your hand trembles enough that you misplace it, the corner crooked.

Bucky’s voice comes from across the room. “She’s not fine.”

Steve looks up. “I know.”

“She’s pale. Look at her hands.”

You look down. He’s right. Your fingers are clammy, the tips faintly blue.

“Sweetheart,” Steve says more firmly now, “We need to check–“

“I’m fine,” You snap, voice cracking.

Silence. Even you freeze.

The room hangs heavy for a moment before Bucky’s boots move across the floor. He stops behind you, looming quietly for a second before kneeling at your side.

“Look at me,” He says.

You don’t.

“Now.”

You force your head to turn. Everything in your body feels like it’s moving through syrup. Your vision swims.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “You’re sick.”

You shake your head weakly, but it’s a pitiful denial. Your lips are too dry. Your forehead’s burning. Even your teeth ache now.

Steve sighs as he moves in beside you, sliding a steady hand around your back. “You’re allowed to be sick, baby girl,” He says softly. “But hiding it like this? That’s dangerous.”

“I didn’t wanna ruin it,” You whisper. “I was gonna be good today. I was–“

Your words break off into a cough as you double over slightly, and both their hands move to steady you. Steve rubs slow circles on your back while Bucky shifts in closer.

“You think we’d stop loving you because you have a fever?” Steve murmurs.

You nod without thinking. Or maybe it’s just your body swaying.

“You think this is a test?” Bucky asks, lower. His voice isn’t angry, it’s something else. Sharper. Like it’s cutting at the idea.

You blink through the tears. You’re too hot. Your body’s too heavy. Everything’s spinning faster now.

“I just wanted to go outside again,” You mumble. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Steve’s heart breaks a little in the silence that follows. You can feel it in the way he holds you tighter.

“Oh, honey,” He whispers, voice thick with something warm and aching, “You didn’t mess anything up.”

Bucky sighs. His hands move beneath your arms, lifting you without a word. You don’t even resist this time. Your limbs dangle limp against his chest.

“You’re burning up,” He mutters. “Steve, get a thermometer and a cold pack.”

Steve moves quickly.

You close your eyes.

Even as you’re carried from the nursery, as your cheek rests against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt and the heat floods your skull, you cling to one thought: You didn’t mean to get sick. You just didn’t want to lose the little bit of light they gave you.

You don’t remember how you ended up in their bed.

You’re barely conscious of the way the sheets cling to your damp skin, or how many pillows they’ve propped under your head. You barely even feel the cold cloth on your forehead. All you know is heat, dizziness, and fear.

The fever spikes hard.

You twist beneath the blankets, breath coming in short, frantic gasps. Your hands claw blindly until one is caught in Steve’s. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, holding your hand tight, whispering low things you can’t understand. His voice is soft, grounding, but your mind is unraveling too fast for it to reach you.

“No,” You croak, barely audible. “Don’t–don’t do it again.”

Steve’s head lifts. “What, sweetheart?”

You turn your head weakly toward him. But you’re not looking at Steve. Not really. Your eyes are wide and glassy, pupils dilated with fever and panic.

“Please,” You whisper. “I was good. I didn’t fight this time. Please don’t put the needles back in. Don’t make me forget again.”

Steve’s breath catches. Bucky, standing by the foot of the bed, freezes.

Your hand curls tighter in Steve’s grip. “Don’t wipe me please! I’ll be good… I—I can still remember my name–“

Steve’s voice breaks as he leans in closer. “You’re not there anymore, baby. You’re here with us.”

You shake your head, tears now streaming. “They said that last time too, said I was safe, said I passed. They lied, it hurts—”

Your voice climbs, panicked and high-pitched, like a child. Not like the girl who’s been obedient all week. Not the silent one who colors with shaking hands and forces smiles.

This is something raw. Something real. And it scares them.

You start to kick at the blankets, sobbing harder now. “No more. I don’t want–I don’t wanna forget—!”

Steve drops down beside you, gently gathering you into his arms. “Shhh. You’re not gonna forget anything. We’re not gonna let anyone do that to you again.”

You struggle weakly in his hold, limbs too hot and too heavy to really fight. But it’s instinct, desperation.

Bucky moves toward the bed, crouching down beside you both. His expression is unreadable, jaw clenched, and eyes locked on you like he’s trying to find something buried deep beneath the shaking.

“You think we’d ever let someone hurt you like that again?” He says lowly. “You think we’d let anyone put those damn wires back in you?”

“I don’t know,” You whisper, voice cracking. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

Steve rubs your back slowly. “This is real. We’re real.”

You tremble in his arms, shrinking smaller, curling up against his chest. Bucky helps prop your stuffed bunny beneath your arm. And for a long while, no one speaks. Just your sobs, quieting slowly into hiccups. Just the sound of your breathing against Steve’s chest. And Bucky, still crouched by your side, says nothing, but stays right there.

Morning comes slow and quiet.

You don’t want to open your eyes at first. Your body feels like it’s been folded too many times and left in a dark, cramped space. Your skin is cooler now, but every muscle aches like it’s been pulled too tight for too long. The soft weight of Steve’s hand still rests on your forehead, steady and gentle like a silent promise.

You stir, blinking up at the dim light filtering through the curtains. The edges of your vision is blurry, like you’re still somewhere between dreams and waking.

Steve’s voice is soft, careful.

“Hey, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?”

Your throat is scratchy. You swallow slowly, eyes fluttering shut again.

“Better,” You whisper, even though your whole body protests.

Bucky is sitting nearby, arms resting on his knees, watching you with a look that’s hard to read. His metal hand twitches like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if you want him to.

Steve shifts closer, smoothing your tangled hair from your face. “You did really good last night, baby. You held on.”

Your don’t say anything.

“Want some juice?” Steve offers, holding out a small cup with a straw.

You nod, voice still fragile. “Please.”

They help you sit up slowly. Bucky moves to steady you from behind, his grip firm but careful, like you might break if he’s too rough. You take the cup, hands shaking slightly, and sip the cool liquid. It soothes the dryness in your mouth, but the weakness in your limbs doesn’t ease.

Steve watches you with soft eyes. “We’re going to keep taking care of you, alright? No more hiding things.”

Bucky’s voice is low but steady. “You’re safe here. We’re not gonna let anything happen to you.”

You want to believe them. You want to trust the warmth in their voices. But the memories are still tangled in your mind: the needles, the cold lights, the straps.

Still, you let your head fall against Steve’s shoulder as they help you lie back down. Mr. Bun is tucked against your side, and Bucky reaches out to pull the blanket up.

You close your eyes again, breathing in the quiet, the care, the fragile space between fear and comfort. For now, that is enough.

Taglist: @the-ruler-of-death

[lost-in-fandoms]

hii esi!!

birch tree 🌳 for June prompts if you want to!!!

Hello tysh!!! Ngl I don't know what this is at all. Just vibes I guess.

Prompt from here.

There's a weird crack in the bark of one of the birch trees this morning, and Max does not like the look of it. He doesn't like it all.

The trunk looks almost silver in the faint dawn light, mist raising from the dewy grass in a lazy haze, swirling in the air behind Max's steps.

"I don't like this," he announces to the silence of the morning, fingers tracing the crack over and over, tingling slightly with the memory of whatever caused it.

He steps back, crouching down to study the roots of the tree, to touch the place where it splits into his twin, to look for one other unwanted crack between all the very natural very good cracks in the bark.

He finds none.

"You're being a weirdo," comes a voice behind him. Max doesn't jump, because he felt the grass shift since Daniel stepped out of the house, bending the delicate blades and creating new swirls in the humid fog, but he does pull his fingers away.

"There is a crack," he replies, craning his neck to look up at Daniel, or at least at his silhouette, traced by the raising sun against the lilliac sky.

"Babe, I don't know how to tell you," Daniel says, and Max is already huffing, knowing he won't find the rest of the sentence funny, "but these trees have more cracks than a hundred monkey asses."

It's not funny, it really isn't, but Max is helpless, unable to stop himself from barking out a laugh anyway, too loud and too sudden in the stillness of the early morning, startling two birds into flying away.

He doesn't need to see Daniel's smile to know it's smug and self-satisfied, and he knows that the only way to right the situation is to reach forward and pinch his tight, eliciting a yelp.

"You are so dumb, Daniel, of course I know the trees have cracks. Even if," he adds, considering, "I don't know what monkeys have to do with it."

"Then why are you being all weird about it?" Daniel asks, and this time Max can tell he's being serious about it, moving his coffee mug from one hand to another to reach out, fingers hovering a few inches away from the strange crack.

Max would like to point out that he didn't tell him which one was the weird one, and Daniel could tell right away, which means that it is significant, thank you very much, but he doesn't want to waste the time fake arguing with Daniel. Even if it's one of their favorite activities, he has more important things to do today, like looking at all the trees in their birch circle.

"It feels weird, don't touch it, and the circle shifted."

He points at a patch of flowers, dimly glowing in the lingering shadows of the night. It's about one foot away from the closest birch trees and Max knows, just as doubtlessly as Daniel does, that yesterday it was well within the circle.

He can feel the shift in the air as comprehension finally dawns on Daniel, his fingers clenching around the mug, as he takes a step closer to Max, still crouched next to the tree.

"Someone trying to get in?" he asks, voice low, despite knowing that nobody outside the circle would even be able to see them, no matter hear them.

"Or something," Max nods.

He finally stands up, tracing the weird crack one last time, the feeling of it fainter than before. Something is scratching the back of his mind, a memory or an instinct, something that will have him spend a few hours buried in their books later today.

"I don't like it," he repeats, more for himself than for anyone else, but Daniel nods, shifting closer until their shoulders brush, his familiar aura mixing with Max's.

They keep looking into the woods until the sun breaks between the trees, warm light bathing the white trunks in golden, dispersing the last of the mist and welcoming the chirping of the birds instead.

Nothing moves beyond their birch circle, the protective hum of it louder now in the light of day, but Max knows that it doesn't mean there is nothing out there.

He shakes himself off, the warmth of the day already seeping under his skin, and he takes Daniel's hand, guiding him away from the border. They have work to do.

[marauder-misprint]

Hey sweetie, it's me again - Cora

I know it's mostly patchers + Regulus, but since I read Good Aim, I couldn't get it out of my head.

So, I was here… and I guess I need a Barty Crouch Jr. x Fem!Reader story. Also, the reader can be a Slytherin.

I know we don’t have that much information about Barty’s school years, but honestly, I feel like he’s another version of Sirius—just darker. Which probably means… we can dive into some toxic love, right?

I don’t know. I just really love your imagination. If you’re writing this, I’ll be truly grateful. 🖤

Cora ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ So sorry that this took so long. I had this idea for friends of benefits that crashed and burned but then I couldn't get the friends with benefits idea out of my head. But it has come to together! ❤︎

Hope you enjoy ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Convenient

Barty Crouch Jr. x Slytherin!reader

2k words

cw: angst, slight fluff, friends to lovers (i guess), NSFW ideas mentioned

You had no right to be jealous. That’s what you told yourself as you leaned against the cool stone wall of the Slytherin Common Room, swirling your drink around in your cup. You and Barty weren’t anything. Not really. So he was completely allowed to have a girl, who wasn’t you, straddling him on the couch with their tongues down each other’s throat. 

And you pretended that it didn’t light an angry fire somewhere deep in your gut.

You believe it’s your fault that you caught feelings for Barty, one of your closest friends. You shouldn’t have kissed him during that game of seven minutes in heaven in the fall. You shouldn’t have let him kiss you a week later in his dorm when you were supposed to be studying. And you shouldn’t have let it go farther. But you did. There were sexual favors in broom closets between classes. Your clothes got scattered across his dorm’s floor whenever one of you felt like it. 

But you weren’t dating. You were just friends. Well, friends with benefits. So you couldn’t be angry that Barty had someone else in his lap swapping saliva. You didn’t have that claim to him. You weren’t his and he wasn’t yours. 

You had thought that when Barty kissed you back that forest time that maybe he did feel the same ways you did. You weren’t sure yourself until you kissed him and liked it way more than you should have. But he had really kissed you back. And then he was the one who kissed you next. You thought that meant something, but you never talked about it. You never discussed if that meant that there was an “us.” So there wasn’t. There were no dates. You were just friends who kissed and shagged from time to time. 

So that left you trying to look away from Barty and scanning the room for a distraction. The drink in your cup wasn’t doing enough. The dance floor didn’t look inviting. There was no one you wanted to hook up with other than Barty. 

You sighed heavily. You handed your drink to some younger student standing near you. You mumbled something about going to bed to your friend Adelaide and then crossed the common room to disappear into your dorm. 

In the morning, you got up earler than you usually do. You grabbed a quick breakfast before holing up in the library. You didn’t have a ton of homework, but you could drag it out. Maybe you’ll fall asleep in a sunbeam like a cat. Maybe you’ll doodle a garden of flowers on your parchment until the whole thing is full. Who knows?

The next day, you were up just as early. With no homework, you wandered. You walked around the bell tower, you walked the staircases, you go from the old detention hall to the Astronomy Tower. By the end of it, your feet ached. 

The whole time, you were thinking. This “friends with benefits” thing you had with Barty wasn’t enough for you. And if he liked you in the same way that you like him, you’d be dating by now. So, logic says you should get over him, rather than hanging on and torturing yourself with the little bits of affection that you can pretend mean more than they do. 

You decided that you need to end the benefits with Barty.

Monday morning, Barty sat next to you at breakfast, slinging an arm around your shoulder. It’s nothing new. You tried not to react.

“Didn’t see you ‘round all weekend. Where’d you been hiding?”

“Out and about.”

“And no invite for me?” he asked with a faux pout. 

“Alas, no.”

Barty gave your shoulder a squeeze. “If you’re upset with me, doll, I can make it up to you before class.” His tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his lips.

Your stomach clenched. You almost agreed out of habit, but you caught yourself before you said anything. Instead, you shrugged his arm off of you.

“Too bad I have to meet with Sprout before class,” you said uninterestedly. 

“Between classes then,” he offered.

“Can we not talk about your acitivites at breakfast?” Dorcas asked snippily from a few seats away. “I’d like to keep this down.”

“Sorry,” you said, sending her an apologetic smile. Then you stood up and left the Great Hall.

Barty looked at Regulus. “We do have Herbology first, yeah?”

Regulus nodded. 

You didn’t really need to talk to Sprout, but you had nowhere else to be so you stood around outside the greenhouses until your classmates started arriving for class. 

Throughout your lessons, you tried to react less to Barty’s antics. You held in laughter at inside jokes and his ridiculousness. You couldn’t help the upward twitch of your lips, but that would come with time. You also refused to walk next to him in the corridor. You knew that if you did, you’d end up in a broom closet with him. And that wasn’t your goal for once. 

He pulled you off to the side as your friends walked to dinner. The rest continued on, not batting an eyelash at the two of you stopping. 

“You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, crossing your arms. 

He narrowed his eyes, not quite believing you.

“Is it your time of the month? You know that doesn’t bother me.”

You scoffed. “It’s not, but thanks for the concern.”

You turned to continue towards the Great Hall, but Barty grabbed your arm. You pulled it out of his grasp.

“Leave it, Barty.”

He was usually one to argue, to tease, to make things worse. But he let it. He figured you were just having an off day, following a possibly stressful weekend. He wasn’t sure what was up with you, but he was fairly certain that you’d be back to normal by tomorrow. 

Except you weren’t. Any miscellaneous advances he made were turned down, and you didn’t make any yourself. That continued all week. It was more than that though: you were spending more time with Adelaide and Lucinda and what felt like literally anyone besides him. 

After a second week of you avoiding him, Barty had started running possible excuses through his head. He liked knowing everything. And the reason his favorite hookup suddenly put up a wall was something he didn’t know. 

He casually walked over to your station in Potions. Leaning his hip against the table, he picked up one of your knives and ran his finger over the blade. You didn’t even look up from your finely chopping of some dittany root.

“Have you gotten yourself a secret boyfriend?”

Your chopping slowed. 

“No? Why would you ask that?”

He put a finger on the tip of the blade in his hands, spinning it with just enough pressure to prick his skin. 

“You haven’t touched me in over-”

“Don’t fucking bleed on my knotgrass!” you snapped, your eyes flicking up to his hands.

You snatched the knife out his hand and covered the prick with your thumb, applying pressure to stop the bleeding – which wasn’t even dribbling yet. You glared at Barty. 

“I’m touching you now. Happy?” you hissed.

“No.” 

“Shame, because this is all you’re getting. 

“But what? We were fine and now we’re whatever the fuck this is.”

“I’d say we’re still fine. I’m just not the convenient girl you turn to whenever you need to get your rocks off in a hurry. Find someone else for that.”

Barty’s brain short-circuited. “Convenient? You think you’re-”

“Mr. Crouch, please return to your cauldron before your potion burns,” Professor Slughorn demanded, standing next to Barty’s bubbling cauldron. It looked especially grim next to Regulus’ extraordinary looking one.

A few more days passed. You were studying with Adelaide in the common room, testing each other on Transfiguration terms and wand movements. You hadn’t seen Barty since dinner. That didn’t bother you. But then Regulus was leaning against the couch you were sitting on.

“You need to go to my dorm.”

You and Adelaide both look at Regulus with odd expressions.

“Excuse me?” you asked. 

“Junior wants to talk to you. And he’s not coming out here.”

“And he needs to talk-” You glanced at Adelaide and rolled your eyes. “-now?” 

“Yeah.” 

You groaned loudly before standing up. “I’ll be back.” You slammed the boys’ dorm door open and glared at Barty, who was rocking his desk chair on its back legs. “Junior, I was studying for McGonagall’s exam.” 

“The hell? You don’t call me that.”

A beat. “What?” 

“Junior,” he said with disgust. “You’ve never called me that.”

“Okay and?” You crossed your arms.

“I need you to tell me what changed. All this-” He gestured to your whole body. “-thinking you’re just convenient? Calling me Junior? Not laughing at my ‘sí, muy lumioso’? What the fuck is up with you?”

You clicked your tongue. “Right. Is that all?” 

“No. Don’t even think about leaving.” 

He stood up and walked over to you. He closed the door and then placed his hands on your hips. 

“Did you hit your head or something?” 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull out of his touch. Barty saw that as a win. He had missed having you close. You had a certain warmth to you that no one else had and he realized he had been craving it.

“My head is fine, thank you very much.”

“I mean, I’d say your head is fantastic.” He grinned at you.

“Course you would.”

You tried to pull back slightly, but Barty tightened his grip on your hips. 

“Love, there’s something up and you’re telling me. I’m not asking.” 

You sighed but relented. “I’m protecting myself.”

Barty’s semi-concerned expression turned worrisome. “Protecting yourself? From what? Who’s dumb enough to try to hurt you?”

“You,” you said quietly, looking anywhere but at Barty’s face. 

“Me?” He took a half-step toward you so that your bodies were almost touching. “How have I hurt you?”

“It’s not completely you. I just… I can’t do this anymore.”

“This? What is this? Being friends?”

“Being friends with benefits,” you said. “I, erm, I like you too much for that. It’s better for me to have none of you than to tease myself.”

“Friends… with benefits…” Barty repeated, as if he had never considered that that was what you were. “And you like me too much? Like I’m too good of a fuck?”

You laughed, but it sounded partially strangled. You knew that if you didn’t get out of this room soon, you’d start crying. Barty didn’t like how your laugh sounded. Usually he loved your laugh, but this one hurt him. He didn’t like that.

“Not that your ego needs it, but you are a good shag. You’re great at everything. You’re a great friend. But I don’t want to share all of you with everyone. I want you to myself. But, come on, I’m not daft. I know that’s not happening so it’s better, for me at least, to stop.”

Barty let go of your waist with one hand and grabbed your chin to make you look at him. 

“What if I said you’re daft for not asking me?” he asked.

“What?”

“You never asked me if I’d want to be only yours.” 

“Because I know you.”

“Do you?” 

“Yes.”

“Not as well as you think, doll.” He let go of your face. “I’m all yours, only yours, if you say the word.”

You stared at him wordlessly for what felt like a minute.

“Are you… not going to say the word? After all that?” he asked, deflating slightly and his grip on your hip loosening. 

“I, uh, you, what?” you sputtered out. “You would?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How come you never said before?”

“You never said either.” 

“You never asked me on a date?” 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

“But you’d drop everyone else? For me? And we could… be more?”

“I would. We could.” 

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that, Barty.”

He grinned widely. “Fantastic. Now, I believe I have some making it up to you to do.”

tags: @navs-bhat, @faceache111

[imaginedreamwrite]

since Monday is usually John & Gaz’s day, can you post something about that winter soldier/volunteer brides thing?

I figured I better post it now before I lose all train of thought, so..

The women that are chosen to be the 141’s partners are well suited for them, based off what the organizers think they need. These women aren’t just picked off the streets they’re taken from a large pool of women that wanted to volunteer

They’re kept in a secure housing, think like an apartment complex with only four large and spacious units that are highly secure. The women are chosen with the expectation that they can’t have any contact with their families for the safety of the soldiers and themselves. They’re given everything they need, with very health wages that come with the cost of being the 141’s partners

The organizers find women that suit each of their needs:

John has someone he can come back to and settle in with, a woman who is neither too soft nor too stubborn—someone who can allow the Captain to settle back into John Price

Simon has someone who is softer around the edges, a naturally comforting person who can aid the stoic and cold lieutenant feel like he’s cared for—a woman who lets Simon be open and emotional (which is a struggle) without compromising his need for control over his life

Johnny would have someone who’s stubborn and will not bend easily. He needs a woman who will make him settle down, who will make him take a breather and relax after a mission—it takes a lot to get Johnny out of the soldier mindset and his partner/woman needs a strong backbone

Gaz would have someone who’s a mix between John’s girl and Simon’s—someone comforting who doesn’t mind Gaz taking charge but knows when to make the sergeant take a step back. Gaz would have a partner who likes working with their hands (cooking, sculpting, gardening etc.) because it gives Gaz something to do, something to shut his mind off

I’m still debating whether the codenames for each woman will be flowers/colours/different animals but they will each have a codename for themselves

And the 141 will be willing to live and die for their partners, these women that volunteered to help them. They’re still highly skilled and deadly soldiers (like the inter soldier) without the torture and breaking of their minds—they see these women as theirs, and they are

If you have any suggestions for their nicknames/codenames etc, my ask box is open!!

[tubborucho]

***

The wind chime soft sound picks up Lukey's attention from a scientific paper he was reading behind the counter.

It's another Monday, he opened the shop barely twenty minutes ago and did not expect a customer for at least an hour. Mondays are always slow.

However, there is someone here, and it takes Lukey only a few seconds to recognise the guy from a week before – thanks to his honestly ridiculous orange hair. But this time the guy seems much more chill, carefully walking into the shop and meeting Lukey's gaze – he can see his bright blue eyes this time around – with a shy smile.

Lukey finds himself smiling back. Not in a 'customer service' way.

"Need another 'fuck you' bouquet, mate? Because I do have a couple more ideas", he jokes, straightening up and putting away the paler to pay attention to the customer.

The guy chuckles, his face flushing just slightly, and he walks up to the counter, not even looking at the flowers around.

"No... no more rude bouquets", he shakes his head. "Don't think I thanked you the last time, by the way, so thank you for the help..." the guy looks down at Lukey's chest in search for the name tag.

"Lucas. Or Lukey, either works", Lukey introduces himself.

"Pangi", the guy stretches his hand out and Lukey shakes it, snickering quietly. This is so awkward but also kind of fun.

The handshake is firm, and Pangi's hands are surprisingly warm compared to Lukey's.

"Well, you are welcome, Pangi. Glad I could be of help", he releases the other's hand, that Pangi immediately hides in his pockets. "Speaking of, what can I help you with today? Anything special?"

"Oh", Pangi shakes his head lightly, like he just realised he completely forgot about something. "Oh, yeah, actually. I need a normal small bouquet. For my godson's 9th birthday".

Lukey coos quietly. Wow, this is a sharp contrast to the first request, that's for sure.

"No problem. Any thoughts on which flowers he would like?"

Pangi shrugs.

"I was... I was kind of hoping you would do the flower language thingy again? I think he would enjoy it".

Lukey bites his lip, thinking it over. Now, he's sold quite a few birthday bouquets to know which flowers are good wishes, but those were always for moms and wives and other adult female relatives, so they might be just a bit too much for a young boy.

"Let me think", he tells Pangi and goes around the counter to the main display, looking over their stock with a criticism of an artist.

On the back of his mind he notices that Pangi follows him step by step, trying to be as quiet as he can. He still can feel his warm presence next to him though. Lukey doesn't think on that further.

"Okay, how about we make those mini yellow roses a centrepiece for joy and 'good luck' wishes, and fill it up with daisies for youth and innocence and feverfews for protection. And finish it with lemon leaves. Not really because of a meaning, I just think they would look good here", Lukey quickly collects everything he said to show Pangi how it would look together, and finds the other looking at him with fascination.

"Yeah, this is unironically a cool bouquet", he answers. "I am sure Dapper will love it. So uh... how much?"

Lukey, pleased with getting it right, goes back to the counter to check Pangi out. When it's all well and done, Lukey hands him a bouquet – decorated with black paper, which is surely a choice for someone's birthday, but honestly, it looks sleek that way.

"Pass a 'happy birthday' from me to your godson, okay?" he tells Pangi with a smile, getting a bright smile back, which makes the other's objectively handsome face even nicer. Wait, what?

"I will", he promises. "Thank you again, Lukey".

"You are welcome, Pangi".

Pangi leaves, and Lukey doesn't remember what the scientific paper he was reading is about.

It's a normal day at the 'Poppy of the valley' flower shop.

Well, normal by Mondays standards, because it's the only day Lukey works a shift here to give Newt – the owner and his very best friend/roommate – a day off (that he would otherwise refuse to take).

He accepts the supply of chrysanthemums, asters and anemones, wraps a couple of random bouquets for the showcase and sells two kids a rose for their mom's birthday. Overall, Lukey is dying of boredom, because practically nobody needs flowers on Monday at 11am at the start of April.

That until a guy slams the door open, finds Lukey behind the counter and crosses the shop in two seconds to forcefully place a twenty euros banknote in front of him.

"How do I say 'Fuck you, I hope you die' with flowers?"

or, I decided to try to write a Pangkey Flowershop AU as a reblog thread fic

[weeklyhotchniss]

hiii do you have any fics (or more so oneshots) about hotchniss + jack? maybe hotch finally telling jack he’s dating em or smth idk lol

Hi! 💜 I couldn't think of specific fics in which Hotch tells Jack that he and Emily are together, so to make up for that, here are some of my favorite takes on Hotchniss + Jack.

i hear her voice in the morning hour (NR) by @leavemurph

"Turn that... thing down, it's... really loud," she manages to get out, the words tumbling awkwardly, her tongue tripping over itself. The only word that lands with any clarity is ‘loud’. Kid doesn't look away from the TV but raises a single hand in acknowledgment. A wave? A swat? A dismissal? Hard to say. "Jesus, mom. One sec. Top ten situation here." Top ten situation. Okay. Now that makes so much sense why his face is so... familiar. And why the house is familiar. And why is it that everything seems perfectly in place—everything except her? Mom, he said. She's someone's mom? What happened to her. She forgot her own son? God, this feels weird. Loud. Noisy in ways it shouldn't be. Maybe she needs to sit down. Or just—lie down? Five minutes. Five minutes of eye shut. Things will be fixed then.

Building Blocks (G) by @sequinsmile-x

He’d started calling her mom years ago. A slow transition from calling her Emily into the moniker that meant more to her than she’d ever care to admit. Even now it still warmed her from the inside out, made her feel happy in a way she thought she was never destined to experience. They’d tried to add to their family, tried to give Jack a little brother or sister, but it had never happened for them. It still made her sad sometimes, the slightly out-of-focus image of a child that was half her and half Aaron always just out of her grasp. It made her relationship with Jack, the little boy who she knows she couldn’t love more even if she had carried him herself, all the more precious to her. “He actually wants to talk to you about something,” Aaron says, a knowing smile on his face that makes her stomach flip. It was how he’d looked at her before he proposed, a nervous edge to it as if he’d thought she’d ever say anything other than yes. She frowns in confusion as he tucks some of her grey hair behind her ear, and it only makes his smile wider, “Come on, he’s in the living room.”

Just About Jack (G) by innerslytherin

"I don't know how to do this," he blurted, looking at her. Emily stared at the flowers, then up at him. She felt a smile spread across her face. Had it really been this easy all along? "This is a really great start," she said, taking the flowers. She curled her other hand around his, pulling him into the apartment. As soon as he closed the door behind him, she slid her arms around his neck, pulling him close. She pressed her forehead against his jaw, drinking in the scent of him. His arms closed around her, gentle and strong. "I couldn't believe Dave when he said..." Aaron murmured. "What?" she prompted, lifting her head to look at him. "You...don't just want Jack?" he said hesitantly. "You want me too?"

+ some extras

I try not to plug the same author more than once per post, but I'd be remiss if I didn't say that SequinSmile does pivotal moments in Emily's relationship with Jack (and therefore, in Emily's relationship with Hotch) so well. Building Blocks is just one example of that - there are plenty more feel-good, fluffy, 'first time calling her mom', sick day comfort fics where that came from!

Also, you specified oneshots and I already broke from that with leavemurph's fic (I just had to! It's so unique and sweet!), but should you feel like reading something equally as long, I love the way @eyesontheskyline writes Jack in every right thing. It's a 5+1 that fits into her reckless universe, and trust me - that +1 will make your heart ache in the best way.

Happy reading!

[dioslesbianwife]

hiii, i really like your writing with oneshots, so can i ask for a jodio x reader in a university au with reader being an arts student, jodio still dealing with the drug stuff and it’s basically a love story thing until they confess to each other and kiss <3 thank you so much!!

hii, thank you! sure, i love jodio sm lol he’s fun to write for, thank u for requesting and i hope you enjoy 🧡

The first time you meet Jodio Joestar, you think he’s in the wrong place.

The hallway outside your painting studio always smells like acrylics and turpentine, a little bit like rot and a lot like ambition. You’re crouched on the floor, trying to balance a four-foot canvas and a cup of paint water, when he steps over your supplies like he’s trying not to step on a mine.

Blue hoodie. Baggy jeans. Bangs in his face. 

He looks at you with this unreadable face- half-bored, half-cautious- and you smile up at him anyway.

“You here for critique?” you ask, teasing. “You look like you wanna punch a professor.”

He blinks. “I’m… looking for my brother. They said they were in the ceramics wing.”

“Ohhh,” you nod, standing up and accidentally smearing yellow across your chin. “That’s next building. Unless they meant metaphorically, in which case we’re all in the ceramics wing. Life is fragile, you know?” 

He stares. You can’t tell if he’s amused or just completely overwhelmed.

“…Okay,” he says finally, lips twitching a little. “Thanks.”

You don’t see him again for a few weeks. But when you do, he’s standing just outside the dining hall with his hoodie pulled low and his eyes scanning the sidewalk like he’s trying to make sure no one sees him being seen.

You walk by, backpack lumpy with sketchbooks and three types of snacks.

“You’re Jodio, right?” you ask, pausing beside him. He looks up, surprised.

“…How do you know my name?”

“You have the aura of someone who hates group projects.”

His lips twitch again. You smile. You’re starting to enjoy coaxing those out of him.

He doesn’t answer, but you catch him watching you walk away.

After that, it’s not rare to see him hovering at the edges of campus. Not with anyone, but not hiding anymore. You run into him at the vending machines late at night. On your way back from late-night print lab sessions. Once, inexplicably, inside a laundry room that doesn’t even belong to your building.

“Are you even a student here?” you say once, squinting at his lack of ID badge. “You’re like a ghost. A hot ghost. But still.”

Jodio doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he shrugs and says, “You don’t need to know everything.”

You should probably be creeped out. But you’re not. There’s something about his stillness that feels protective. Solid. Like he’s watching everything so you don’t have to.

You keep seeing him.

You keep looking for him.

And soon, he starts to stay.

Sometimes he leans against the doorframe while you paint. Silent, unbothered. You hand him a granola bar once, and he eats it like you just gave him a secret. You ask if he wants to try painting sometime.He pretends to hate it but secretly keeps the canvas.

One rainy night, you find him pacing outside the studio, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

You tilt your head. “What’s up?”

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

“Okay,” you say, standing beside him. “But you are.”

He’s silent.

“…I’m not like you,” he says finally. “I do shit I’m not proud of. I have people who expect me to get it done. I don’t have time to sit around painting flowers and weird surrealist shit.”

You don’t flinch.

Instead, you say, “Well. Joke’s on you. I was painting a decapitated angel, actually.”

He blinks.

You continue. “You think you’re dangerous. And maybe you are. But you’re also here. Watching me paint. Showing up. Taking granola bars. That means something.”

His breath hitches like he doesn’t know how to respond to someone believing in him.

You step closer.

“You want to kiss me, don’t you?” you murmur, just to mess with him.

He goes very still.

“…Would you let me?”

You blink.

Now you’re caught off-guard.

His voice is low. Cautious. “If I kissed you right now… you wouldn’t push me away?”

Your heart is pounding. Your cheeks flush like spilled ink. Still, you lift your hand to his jaw, brushing your thumb across.

“No,” you whisper. “I’d kiss you back.”

And you do.

You kiss Jodio like you’ve been waiting for him to arrive. Like maybe he was supposed to be part of your life from the start. His hands are trembling, still in his hoodie pockets. Yours are covered in paint and find his face anyway.

It’s a little messy. A little breathless.

But he kisses you like he’s never kissed anyone before.

And when you finally pull back, he doesn’t run. He leans into your hand and whispers:

“…You make me want to be softer.”

You smile.

“You make me feel safe.”

[n0vabyte]

I NEED YOU GUYS' OPINION. I want to create an Omori AU (yes, another one, I know) of Deltarune, but I'm having trouble deciding whether Dess or Asriel would be Mari.

On one hand, Kris and Sunny are somewhat alike in their mannerisms, their stoic nature, and how pretty much everyone around them perceives them as weird. Plus, Kris is literally the protagonist! So that must mean that Kris would be Sunny, making Asriel, Mari, right?

However, Asriel reminds me so much more of Hero, and Asriel and Kris's dynamic reminds me a lot more of Kel and Hero's. Let me explain why. For starters, Kris is constantly compared to Asriel, and Asriel is brought up in most of the interactions they have when Kris interacts with almost anyone, and Toriel and Asgore seem to favor (I don't believe they realize it, but it's certainly there) Asriel a lot more.

My main example of the slight favoritism towards Asriel is Asgore's interaction with Kris in Chapter 4, with Asgore telling Kris about how he had brought flowers, in an attempt to get Toriel back so they could all be together for when Asriel comes to visit from college, while Toriel doesn't seem to have any issue at all with dancing and getting drunk with Sans in front of Kris and Susie. The two of them seem to have no problem with Kris having to witness their family fall apart, but want so desperately to keep it together for Asriel's arrival.

Plus, there is the main issue that everyone in the fandom LOVES to bring up, which is Kris and Asriel's bedroom. Asriel's side of the room is filled with all kinds of trophies and awards; his bed, blanket, sheet, rug, and pillows are colorful, while Kris's is barren; their sheets are plain, their blanket is a dull shade of dark grey and the only kind of decoration they have is a wagon with a cage on it. The computer in their room doesn't even belong to Kris. It is Asriel's too.

Similarly can be said about Kel and Hero as well. When you get to Faraway Town, and Kel starts to interact with the townspeople, Hero is almost always brought up (there is literally a SANDWICH named after Hero), Kel's parents more obviously than the previously mentioned siblings favor the older brother over the younger, the main example of it being the graveyard scene (The parents immediately went to comfort Hero, but didn't notice Kel was crying too, and didn't comfort him).

And, almost EXACTLY like Kris and Asriel, Kel and Hero share a room as well, with Hero's side of the room full of trophies and awards, and decorations, while Kel has none. (he has posters at least..?)

For a better comparison of the two pairs of siblings' rooms, here are the photos!

Here is Kel and Hero's room! (at least Kel got decorations unlike Kris..?)

And here is Kris and Asriel's room! (poor Kris... at least Kel has decorations and a desk, sobs. BRO DOESN'T EVEN HAVE AN ALARM CLOCK. THEM SHELVES EMPTY AS HELLLLL)

Another detail I noticed about both Kel and Kris's rooms is that both of their beds are not made, and there is a clear contrast in colors between both sides of the rooms (GOD TOBY FOX IS A GENIUS AMONG MEN).

Sooooo, there may be a clear winner for who the Mari of this universe would be (and it may not be Asriel)

Do you guys want a yap session arguing the opposite, so this doesn't seem biased?

Let me know!

(there will be art of this coming up when I decide, trust.)