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brunchable · 7 months ago

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Under The Mistletoe | B. B.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x F! Reader Themes: Fake relationship, forced proximity, enemies-to-lovers(ish), rom-com Summary: When your meddling family won’t stop asking about you love life, you roped your arch-nemesis Bucky into pretending to be your boyfriend for Christmas dinner at your parents house. It was pay back for the massive favor he owes you, so he had no choice but to agree. A/N : This oneshot is part of my 4K Follower christmas themed celebration. I hope you enjoy this first one! Thank you so much for reading my stories! Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The smell of pine and cinnamon wafts through the air as you adjust the cuffs of your sweater, glaring at the man currently making himself at home in your parents’ living room. James Buchanan Barnes—your nemesis, your tormentor, the human equivalent of a lump of coal—lounges on the couch like he’s been a part of your family for years. Your mom already adores him.

“James, more eggnog?” she chirps, holding out a festive mug.

“Of course,” Bucky replies with a smile so charming, you almost believe it’s real. Almost.

You, on the other hand, are clinging to your sanity by the thinnest strand of tinsel. He’s only here because he owes you. Big time. And because your family won’t stop asking when you’ll finally settle down and find someone “worth bringing home for Christmas.”

When you roped Bucky into this charade, you expected the bare minimum. A few fake smiles. Maybe holding your hand once or twice. What you did not expect was him waltzing in here, winning over your family, and actually knowing things about you.

“Y/N hates marshmallows in her hot chocolate,” Bucky says smoothly, stopping your dad mid-scoop. “She’s all about the whipped cream.”

You freeze in the doorway, clutching a tray of cookies like a lifeline. How does he know that? You never even told him that. Your dad raises an eyebrow at you, impressed, while you try to recover from the shock.

“Right,” you stammer, narrowing your eyes at Bucky. “Because you’re so attentive.”

He smirks, the twinkle in his eye more annoying than any Christmas light you’ve ever seen. “It’s a gift.”

× × × ×

The cozy living room, aglow with soft Christmas lights, feels oppressively warm. Not because of the crackling fire or the wool socks your mom forced everyone to wear, but because Bucky’s presence next to you is positively suffocating. His thigh, firm and annoyingly warm, is pressed against yours, and every time he shifts, your nerves jolt like a live wire.

“You’re twitching again,” Bucky murmurs under his breath, leaning closer so his lips almost brush your ear. “Relax. If you keep acting like this, your mom’s going to think I broke your heart or something.”

“Maybe I should tell her you’re insufferable, so she kicks you out,” you snap, voice low enough not to disturb the room. Your family is fully engrossed in Elf, but you swear Bucky’s gaze burns hotter than the fire.

“Go ahead,” he whispers back, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m her favorite now, you know.”

You resist the urge to stab him with the candy cane you’ve been holding for the last ten minutes. Instead, you muster your sweetest fake smile and clap your hands. “Well, Mom, it’s getting late, and I think Bucky has a long drive ahead of him—”

Your mom, standing with a tray of cookies like some sort of Christmas matriarch, freezes mid-step.

“What?” she exclaims, her eyes wide and full of betrayal. “You’re not staying, Bucky? But I prepared Y/N’s room for the two of you!”

The room goes dead silent.

Bucky’s head swivels toward you so fast, you hear a faint crack.

“She didn’t tell me about that,” he says, his voice strangled with barely concealed panic. He offers you a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t know we’d be, uh, bunking together.”

You grit your teeth, your face burning hotter than the fireplace. “That’s because I didn’t know,” you hiss, shooting a glare at your mom that could melt Frosty the Snowman.

“How could you make your boyfriend drive all the way out here just to send him back into the snow?” your mom demands, hands on her hips like a Christmas tyrant. “Absolutely not. He’s staying. Come on, Bucky, I’ll show you two to your room.”

“Our room?” you squeak, but your mom is already bustling out of the room, and Bucky, to your utter horror, is rising from the couch to follow her.

He pauses just long enough to lean down and mutter, “This just got a whole lot more interesting, sweetheart.” The grin he flashes is wolfish, and you resist the urge to throttle him with your flannel sleeve.

The room is straight out of a Hallmark Christmas special. The fireplace is lit, the bed is perfectly made with a festive quilt and decorative pillows, and the faint smell of pine fills the air. There’s even mistletoe hanging in the corner, mocking you.

Bucky steps in, glancing around, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and terror.

“Wow,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Cozy.”

Your mom claps her hands together, beaming. “I knew you two would love it. Oh, and don’t worry, honey, I put the extra pillows in the closet in case you need them.” She winks at you, winks, before spinning on her heel and leaving you to your doom.

The moment the door clicks shut, you whirl on Bucky. “Don’t say a word.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, doll,” he drawls, wandering over to the bed and plopping down on it like he owns the place. He stretches out, arms behind his head, and sighs dramatically. “Comfy. We’re gonna have a great night.”

You stare at him, horrified. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

He raises an eyebrow, patting the quilt beside him. “I don’t think your mom would approve.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his face, which he catches with infuriating ease. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault? You’re the one who dragged me here.”

“You owed me!”

“And I’m paying you back,” he says with a grin, tossing the pillow back at you. “With interest, apparently.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

Bucky leans forward, his grin softening just a touch. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just one night. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Somehow, that promise doesn’t reassure you in the slightest. You glare at him one last time before grabbing a blanket from the closet and stomping to the couch by the fireplace.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you.

“To sleep.”

“Suit yourself.”

You don’t have to look to know he’s smirking again. You grab another pillow and resist the urge to launch it at his stupidly handsome face.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

× × × ×

The fire had long since died, leaving the room shrouded in a cold that no amount of decorative holiday cheer could banish. You’d been curled up on the couch under a threadbare blanket that smelled faintly of cinnamon and humiliation for hours, but now you were shivering so hard you were worried your teeth might chatter loud enough to wake the whole house.

You shot a death glare at Bucky, sprawled out on the bed like a smug prince in his flannel pajamas, the quilt pulled up to his chin. The nerve of him actually letting you sleep on the couch while he hogged the bed like he didn’t owe you his very existence—or at least this ridiculous favor.

Finally, when your toes felt like icicles and you were seriously debating setting your pride on fire just to warm up, you caved. You untangled yourself from the blanket, muttering curses under your breath, and tiptoed toward the bed.

It would have been stealthy. It would have been smooth. Except your foot made direct, agonizing contact with the solid oak footboard.

Pain exploded through your toe, and you bit back a screech so feral you probably looked like a Christmas banshee. Instead, you crumpled to the floor, clutching your foot and mouthing a stream of silent profanities that would make Santa's naughty list blush.

“Mother F—!” you hissed at yourself, wincing as you hobbled the rest of the way to the bed. You crawled onto the empty side like some kind of injured burglar, trying to be as silent as possible. Your toe throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but you focused on one thing: the warm cocoon of blankets just inches away.

Finally, you slid under the covers, sighing as the heat from the quilt enveloped you. Bliss. Sweet, sweet bliss. Maybe Bucky wouldn’t even notice—

“Could’ve just asked, you know.”

You nearly launched yourself out of the bed in shock, your heart leaping into your throat. “What the—!” you whisper-screeched, clutching the quilt to your chest.

Bucky’s voice, low and laced with amusement, drifted through the darkness. “I was awake the whole time.”

“You—!” Words failed you as your face burned with embarrassment. “Then why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I was curious how far you’d go before giving up.” You could hear the grin in his voice.

“You’re the worst.”

“Debatable. I didn’t laugh when you stubbed your toe.”

“You heard that?!”

“Sweetheart, I think the neighbours heard that.” His shoulders shook with silent laughter as you stared at him, outraged.

“I hate you,” you snapped, yanking the quilt tighter around you and turning your back on him.

But before you could stew in your annoyance, you felt a hand reach over and pull part of the blanket from you, wrapping it snugly around your side. You froze as his voice softened, amusement fading.

“Relax. I don’t bite. Unless you’re still mad about the couch.”

“I am.”

“Noted.” He shifted, and his voice dropped lower, warmer. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You turned over, your curiosity finally getting the better of you. Facing Bucky’s silhouette in the faint moonlight streaming through the window, you squinted at him.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

He exhaled softly, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. Without a word, he reached over and flicked on the small lamp on his side of the bed, filling the room with a soft golden glow. The shadows on his face softened, and he turned to face you fully, propping his head up on his hand.

“I’m not used to a soft, warm, comfortable bed,” he said simply, his voice low and quiet.

That wasn’t the answer you expected. “Why not?” you asked, furrowing your brow.

Bucky’s gaze flickered to the blanket between you before settling back on your face. “I usually sleep on the floor.”

Your jaw dropped. “The floor? Why?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal, like it didn’t hurt to admit. “I have a bed,” he said casually, “but… being uncomfortable has kind of become my normal.”

Your heart sank at his admission. The way he said it—so matter-of-factly, like he didn’t even consider it strange—made something in your chest tighten. You swallowed hard, trying to shove down the wave of sympathy threatening to show on your face.

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat, but it came out too soft, too affected. You forced yourself to straighten up, busying your hands by tucking the quilt tighter around you. “Well, uh… this bed uncomfortably soft, so, lucky you?”

You wanted to kick yourself for how awkward that sounded. But he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he just chuckled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

“Yeah, lucky me.”

The room fell into silence, save for the soft crackle of the dying embers in the fireplace. You tried to avoid his gaze, but something in the room caught your eye, and you froze.

Dangling right above the headboard, in plain sight, was a sprig of mistletoe. The ribbon holding it swayed slightly, mocking you with its festive cheer.

Your brain scrambled. How had you missed that earlier? Why on earth was it there? Did mom hang it on purpose? Of course she did! That woman was a menace.

You could feel Bucky’s gaze lingering on you, and your heart thumped louder with each passing second. You knew it was only a matter of time before he noticed the stupid sprig of mistletoe dangling above the headboard, so you needed to distract him.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, his brow quirking up in suspicion as he started to turn his head.

“Nothing!” you yelped, throwing the quilt over your face in a panic. “Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Goodnight!”

For a second, there was silence. Then, the soft creak of the bed as Bucky shifted, his voice low and amused. “Wait a second…”

You could practically hear the smirk spreading across his face as realization dawned.

“Oh, would you look at that.”

Your stomach flipped as you slowly peeked out from under the quilt. Sure enough, Bucky was staring right at the mistletoe, his lips curving into the most maddeningly smug grin you’d ever seen.

“Mistletoe,” he said, his tone practically dripping with glee. “Right above our heads. What are the odds, huh?”

“Coincidence,” you mumbled, pulling the blanket back over your face.

He chuckled, his voice warm and teasing. “You know what they say about mistletoe, don’t you?”

“Don’t,” you groaned, your voice muffled by the quilt.

“Oh, but I think I have to,” he replied, and you could hear the grin in his voice. “It’s tradition, after all.”

You peeked out again, glaring at him. “It’s not tradition if we just pretend it doesn’t exist.”

He tilted his head, mock-pondering. “Hmm. Ignoring it feels a little… Grinch-like, don’t you think? And you wouldn’t want to ruin Christmas, would you?”

“I swear to God, Bucky—”

Before you could finish, he leaned in, his face closer than you expected, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “What? Afraid you might enjoy it?”

You scoffed, your heart racing. “As if.”

You could practically feel your heart trying to escape your chest as Bucky inched closer, the infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something else there too—something warmer, more intent.

“Oh, so it wouldn’t bother you at all?” he teased, his smirk widening. “Not even a little kiss?”

“Not in a million years,” you shot back, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his grin softening, “you’re shaking. Maybe it would bother you.”

“Bucky—”

But you never got to finish. And just then, he leaned forward and kissed your lips. Warm, masculine lips were pressed to yours. It wasn’t rushed or teasing—it was warm, gentle, and infuriatingly confident. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like he wasn’t the least bit surprised by how perfectly your lips fit together.

Your initial plan was to push him away—firmly, dramatically, maybe even with a good shove to his ridiculously broad chest—but your brain short-circuited the moment his hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. Instead, you melted into him, your traitorous body leaning closer without permission.

It was supposed to be a simple, obligatory mistletoe kiss. But the way he kissed you made the world tilt, his lips moving with a deliberate tenderness that made your stomach somersault. He felt you quiver beneath his touch, but he wanted to comfort you—his tongue delved your mouth slowly and you parted your lips willingly and welcomed him. This was enough encouragement for Bucky; he sucked your tongue sensually, and you nibbled his lower lip.

Every kiss he gave felt like a slow unravelling and intense, as if he was savouring the act as much as the reaction it drew from you. Bucky’s fingers traced along your jaw, tilting your face toward him with a tender authority that left no room for hesitation. His thumb brushed over your cheek in a soothing rhythm, contrasting with the heat and urgency of his lips. When he pulled back, his eyes locked with yours—dark with desire, soft with something unspoken—before he leaned in again, claiming your mouth once more.

You let him in, your lips parting as his tongue slipped past, tangling with yours again in an unhurried, sensuous dance that sent shivers down your spine. He tilted his head, exploring every curve of your mouth, his kisses leaving a heated trail that set your skin ablaze. Your lips found their way to his jawline, pressing soft kisses along his stubble, the faint roughness amplifying the sensitivity of your own. When you returned to his lips, the hunger in his kiss mirrored your own as you teased his tongue with yours, your movements bold and enticing.

The shift in your energy didn’t go unnoticed. You felt him tense, his restraint hanging by a thread as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing into yours. His hands gripped your waist, anchoring you in place as his kisses became hungrier, pulling quiet moans and ragged breaths from you. The sound of your pleasure seemed to fuel him, his control slipping further as he pressed closer, his arousal hard and insistent against your thigh, a tangible reminder of the tension thrumming between you. Every kiss, every touch, felt like a declaration, his desire spilling over and igniting something equally fierce in you.

When he pulled back it almost felt like he had to force himself to but he stayed close, his forehead almost brushing yours. His eyes searched your face, his smirk gone, replaced by something quieter, something more serious.

“Well,” he said softly, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it, “guess the mistletoe’s not so bad after all.”

You blinked, your breath hitching. “Have I told you I hate you?”

“And yet, here we are,” he teased, though his smirk was softer now, his thumb still brushing your cheek like he hadn’t realized he was still holding you.

You pushed his hand away—gently, because you were not going to think about how good it felt—and flopped back against the pillows, groaning into the quilt.

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not,” he said with a chuckle, settling back onto his side of the bed. “Just a harmless little kiss. Totally meaningless.”

You peeked out from under the quilt to glare at him, but the way he was looking at you—soft, amused, and maybe a little too smug—made your pulse spike all over again.

“Goodnight, Barnes,” you muttered, burrowing back into the covers, determined to ignore the way your lips still tingled.

“Goodnight, doll,” he replied, his voice warm with amusement—and something else you didn’t want to think about.

The room fell quiet again, save for the faint crackle of the dying fire. But as you lay there, trying and failing to stop replaying the kiss in your head, you realized one thing: mistletoe was officially the most dangerous Christmas decoration of all time.

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fynnwolff @veronicapaula

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ticifics · 6 months ago

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Hello author, can i request a part two dor divination? Maybe the vision finally came true and its all just fluffy? Thank youu

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

── james potter x f!reader

summary: “Remember the Divination classes?” James asked suddenly, his voice light, almost as if talking to himself. “Yeah,” you murmured, feeling the memory bring an unexpected warmth to your chest. “She really got that one right.”

tags n warnings: just fluffy - after Hogwarts(married with children), a very cute little Harry. divination

a/n: hey honey, I hope you like it

The night in Godric’s Hollow was calm, the silence only broken by the soft crackling of the fireplace and the slow ticking of the clock on the wall. The golden light from the flames cast delicate shadows on the walls and filled the living room with a warm, cozy glow. It was one of those rare and perfect moments where time seemed to slow down, as if the world outside didn’t even exist.

Harry was on the floor, on the plush rug that covered most of the room, surrounded by colorful magical blocks he was trying to stack. He furrowed his brow, his little face serious as his tongue slightly poked out the side of his mouth. The newly built tower collapsed once more, and he let out an annoyed grunt before suddenly getting up.

James was sprawled on the couch, his feet resting on the coffee table, watching his son with eyes full of amusement. You were sitting on the floor with Dahlia standing between your hands, propping her tiny arms on yours to keep her balance. She let out squeals of joy every time she managed to take a wobbly step or two before safely falling back onto the rug. Each of her attempts was met with laughter, claps, and kisses on the top of her little head.

“Again, little one, come on,” you encouraged softly, lifting her under her armpits and raising her into the air. Dahlia giggled in her tiny voice, her round cheeks flushed from the effort, her eyes sparkling with pure joy. She looked like a miniature version of you, the features so alike that even James had commented more than once how it threw him off a little.

At that moment, Harry, who was facing away from you, found James’s glasses abandoned on the coffee table. He picked them up carefully, turning them in his little hands as if they were a treasure. Without a second thought, he put them on, the large lenses slipping down his nose.

“Dad!” he called, stumbling over his words as he turned around with a big smile. “Look, now I’m you!”

James’s laughter echoed through the room, that loud and carefree laugh that brightened any place. He threw his head back, his hands covering his face for a moment before he stretched out his arms to Harry.

“Merlin, you look just like me!” James said, his voice full of affection. He scooped his son into his arms, messing up his already wild hair even more. “You just need to try flying on a broomstick and get into trouble, and I’ll have to retire because my legacy will be secured.”

Harry laughed, adjusting the glasses that kept slipping. “I’m going to fly better than you, dad,” he declared with all the confidence in the world, which only made James laugh more.

“Of course you will, Prongslet. That’s the spirit.”

On the other side of the room, you watched the scene with a smile so wide your cheeks ached. Dahlia, now in your lap, stretched her little hands toward her dad and brother, babbling something that sounded like a demand for attention. James looked at her and froze for a second, his smile softening as he watched the little one in your arms.

He stayed silent for too long, his gaze almost absorbed as he studied Dahlia’s face, so identical to his. You noticed the moment and furrowed your brow slightly, your voice soft as you asked,

“What’s wrong? Why the silly look?”

James turned his gaze to you, that silly grin still shining on his lips, and then looked back at his daughter, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of her.

“It’s you,” he murmured, his voice so low that it barely reached your ears. “Smaller, cuter, but… it’s you.”

Your heart warmed, melting like butter under the sun. The look of adoration he gave his daughter was the same he reserved for you, and that always affected you in an inexplicable way.

“Careful, James,” you teased, your voice sweet. “She might end up wanting to fly better than you too.”

James chuckled softly, letting Harry slide off his lap as he stood up and walked over to you. He crouched down beside you, his arms extending around both of you.

For a moment, you stayed like that: Dahlia in your lap, Harry playing again with the blocks, and James too close, his presence as comforting as a warm blanket.

“Remember the Divination classes?” he asked suddenly, his voice light, almost as if talking to himself.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Those classes? James, that was years ago.”

He laughed, resting his head on your shoulder while still looking at their daughter, now yawning and rubbing her eyes. “I know. But… I remember her talking about a boy with glasses. Just like his dad.”

His gaze softened as you also looked at Harry, who was now grumbling softly because another block tower had fallen. A boy with his father’s messy hair and huge glasses. It was truly remarkable.

“Yeah,” you murmured, feeling the memory bring an unexpected warmth to your chest. “She really got that one right.”

James turned his face to look at you, his expression so tenderly affectionate that it felt like your heart might leap out of your chest.

“And I also remember saying that I would prefer… a girl,” he continued, his eyes shining softly. “Someone who looked like you.”

The mention caught you off guard, an unexpected wave of emotion rising within you. Your smile was automatic, even though a stubborn tear threatened to fall.

“And here we are,” James murmured, kissing the top of Dahlia’s head as she finally fell asleep in his arms. “Who would’ve thought, huh? It seems like the future really was written. We just took our time seeing it.”

You smiled, one of those smiles that starts slow, spreading across your whole face, as you watched Dahlia’s little closed eyes. His words brought a warm feeling to your chest, mixed with old memories that seemed to come from another life.

“We really did,” you replied, resting your head on James’ shoulder, feeling his familiar warmth. “If it depended on you, we’d have been together since first year.”

James chuckled softly, looking at you with that mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

“I wasn’t wrong, let’s be honest,” he said, with a voice as if declaring a universal truth. “I spent six years trying to prove I was irresistible, but no… you preferred to ignore me. Ignore me, can you believe that?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, amused. “I’d call it common sense.”

James put on a mock expression of outrage, placing his free hand on his chest as though he’d been struck with an arrow. “Common sense? And when did you decide to lose that?”

“Sometime around sixth year,” you replied, trying not to laugh. “When you became less… unbearable.”

“Unbearable?” He blinked a few times, indignant. “Come on, love, you make it sound like I was the worst of the Marauders. Everyone knows Sirius was the problem.”

“Oh, of course,” you agreed, the tone ironic but playful. “Because Sirius, who by the way is the godfather who spoils the godson the most, didn’t learn from you how to be impossible.”

James laughed, shaking his head. “Sirius didn’t learn anything from me. He was born that way.”

You laughed louder but quickly put your hand over your mouth when Dahlia stirred in your lap. James looked down at her lovingly and kissed her forehead again, murmuring a “shhh, it’s all right.”

At that moment, Harry appeared in the room, rubbing his eyes with the cuff of his sweater. His hair was even more tousled than usual, and his oversized glasses— which he had taken earlier— were almost falling off his nose.

“Are you talking about Uncle Sirius again?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

James let out a contained laugh and reached out his free arm to pull Harry in. The boy easily settled onto his lap, snuggling between you and James.

“Of course. We always talk about Uncle Sirius, especially when he’s not around to defend himself,” James replied, smiling at Harry. “It’s the price he pays for being the most impossible of uncles.”

Harry chuckled, his eyes almost closing again with sleep. You ran your fingers softly through his hair, feeling how warm and comfortable he was.

“But he brought chocolate yesterday,” Harry mumbled, his voice muffled against James’ chest.

“And ruined your dinner,” you said, rolling your eyes with a light smile. “Not even Remus can control Sirius when he decides to spoil you two.”

James nodded, amused. “That’s because Remus is a saint. I never understood how he puts up with Sirius even now.”

Harry lifted his head again, his little face scrunched up in curiosity. “But Uncle Remus likes Uncle Sirius.”

“He likes him a lot,” James confirmed, kissing Harry’s forehead, enveloping him in a warm embrace with both arms. “Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius were made for each other, just like your mother and I.”

Harry smiled at you, his little eyes almost closing. “So you’re the same?”

You exchanged a quick glance with James, feeling the warmth spread across your face. He gave you a sweet smile, though full of playful provocation.

“Yes, Harry. But don’t forget to tell your mum I’m more charming than Uncle Sirius, okay?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hold back a laugh. “More charming? James, what else do you want him to say? That you’re irresistible?”

James smiled openly, turning his gaze back to you. “I’d love to hear that again.”

Harry let out a little laugh, though he was already almost asleep again. You shook your head, amused, before looking at James more softly.

“All right,” you murmured, surprising him. “You’re irresistible, James Potter.”

James’ eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe it, before breaking into a slow, passionate smile. “Did you hear that, Harry? Irresistible. Next time Uncle Sirius says something, you defend me, okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” Harry whispered, with a sleepy smile before finally closing his eyes.

The silence returned to the room, warmed by the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and the slow breaths of Harry and Dahlia. You rested your head again on James’ shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent and the peace of the moment.

James, for his part, turned his face softly and placed a lingering kiss on the top of your head. “Thank you,” he murmured softly, almost like a secret.

You furrowed your brow slightly, your heart beating faster. “For what?”

He smiled against your hair, as though savoring the answer. “For everything. For this. For choosing us. For being… you.”

You closed your eyes, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’d choose you a thousand times.”

James smiled, that special sparkle in his eyes.

“I am irresistible, after all,” he whispered, teasing.

You laughed softly to avoid waking the children. “And unbearable,” you added, looking at him fondly.

James pulled you both closer, smiling ear to ear. “I’ll take both. As long as it comes from you.”

And there, in the warmth of the fire and in each other’s arms, you stayed. A perfect picture of everything you’d ever imagined— a life full of love, laughter, and little miracles that even the best of seers couldn’t have predicted.

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tttabii · 11 days ago

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— 西村力 BACK TO ME ; NISHIMURA RIKI

“i'm outside your apartment, baby, come back to me.” pairing ꪆৎ dancer!ni-ki x student!reader, baseballcaptain!ni-ki x collegestudent!reader ; genre: fluff, angst, suggestive no smut. college au. exes to lovers, self-sabatoging, mentioned of aespa ningning, reader having a crush on sunghoon (after the breakup). riki still being loyal to you.

YOU NEVER IMAGINED that you would be the type of person who was capable of ruining their own happiness.

And yet, here you were—months later—still staring at the back of the boy who would always fall asleep in your lap in the library, watching some other girl give him the water bottle and watch him return the smile that used to feel just for you.

Ni-ki smiled back at the girl soft and polite, the same smile that once made your heart stutter. He didn't see you this time—didn't see the way you stood frozen across the campus lawn, gripping your phone too tightly, eyes glued to the hand that wasn't yours anymore.

You used to have everything. Everything that you thought seemed built for an eternity.

He was the sun in a cold college town, all light and life, gliding across the campus with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, dancers nodding to him with admiration, teammates clapping his back after a baseball win. And you? You were the quiet one. A "normal" girl, as some whispered, who somehow landed him.

They could never quite understand it. And maybe part of you didn't either. "Are you seriously going to ignore him forever?" your friend asked, biting into her sandwich as you sat across from her in the cafeteria.

You poked your soup with a spoon, steam rising up into your face, your throat still sore from being sick last week. "I'm not ignoring him," you mumbled.

She looked at you. "He came to your dorm. Twice. You didn't answer the door when he just wanted to check on you." You sunk in your bowl. "I didn't want him to see me like that." Like a disaster. Like someone who didn't know how to pull herself together. Like someone who believed girls who told her she didn't deserve it. You broke up with him first. You thought you were doing him a favor—thought walking away was saving him from your spiral. But you didn't realize how heavy the silence would be until it was too late. A few weeks passed by when your phone buzzed. Sunghoon. The guy you thought maybe could help you forget. Tall, flirty, always smiling that perfect grin you used to love. "Do you think she'd say yes?" he asked, the connection crackling a bit in the call. You hesitated, clutching the blanket around your legs. "Who?" He laughed. "Your friend. Yuri. She's the one I'm into." You blinked. "Wait... what?" "Yeah. I was gonna ask her out after midterms. You think she'd be down?" Your throat felt dry. Your chest felt empty. "Yeah. Maybe." But deep down you knew she wasn't. You remembered her talking about Nicholas. You remembered her saying Sunghoon wasn't her type. And still, you stayed quiet. Pretending. Smiling into the phone while your stomach twisted with disappointment. After you hung up, the tears came easy. They always did these days. "Dude was a jerk." Yizhuo, your best friend said honestly as you laid your head onto the table outside the coffee shop. "You don't go out on a date to hear a guy brag about his gym routine for 45 minutes." You groaned. "He asked me if I wanted to see his protein shake collection." Someone snorted from the table behind you but you didn't bother to look. "Oh god, I miss Ni-ki," you mumbled, pressing your face into your arms. Silence. Then the soft clink of a cup. A passing whisper. "I heard she liked someone but he liked her friend." You slowly lifted your head.

He was there. Only a few feet away. Ni-ki. Right beside Yumi, towel draped around his neck, tank top glued to his chest from dance practice. Yumi was handing him the water like it was the most normal thing in the world. He took it, said thank you. Politely and distantly. But still. He looked good. He always did. And you hated that it still made your chest ache. That night, you unblocked him. Followed him. Seconds later he followed you back immediately. No message. No emoji. No late night "I missed you" texts.

Just silence.

A cautious one.

You began taking the short route to class, the one that went by the Fine Arts building. Not because you wanted to see him, but... okay, maybe you did. And sometimes you did. You would catch his eye—briefly and fleetingly. Then you would look away like you were scared and pretend your heart didn't leap every time. One time, you saw them holding hands. Ni-ki and Yumi. Her arm twined in his. Him looking down at her instead of smiling like before, just existing. But still. Touching. Together. You were standing next to Sunghoon as he yelled about how your friend never responded to his texts. You tried to listen, you really did. But your world was narrowed down that sight. You left before Sunghoon could ask you why your voice shook, and jogged to the closest bathroom, your heart exploding out of your chest, tears in the corners of your eyes. Was she everything he wanted? Were your thoughts really always right? It didn't get any better when you saw Ni-ki repost Yumi's story to his profile "baseball captain 🥹 proud of u!!" along with a picture of him in his jersey talking with his friends from afar. Your phone buzzed again. Another message from someone who wasn't him. You wanted to scream. Or throw it. Or text him everything you'd been holding back. There was really no reason to have been jealous then—not like this. You were the one who ended things. You were the one who told him that you needed space, who let your insecurities take over. You really did try to move on. Keyword: Tried. Sunghoon. That one boy who talked too much and listened too little. None of it worked. None of them made you feel the way he did. So many months later—you seeing Ni-ki with Yumi—still made your stomach turn painfully. It happened one cold afternoon. You were on your way to meet Yizhuo at the volleyball court, cutting past the baseball field when some guy called out to you. "Hey! You free tomorrow night? There's a new club opening just down the block." You turned back in confusion, "Club?" "Yeah," he grinned. "We should go. Get to know one another." You weren't the clubbing type, not like this. You opened your mouth to say something when a familiar voice chimed in from behind you. "Seriously?" Yumi. Of course. She walked past you with a scoff, glancing from the guy to you. Her eyes dropped to the jacket wrapped around your shoulders—his jacket. Ni-ki's bastard jacket. The same one he used to throw over you after practice, the one that still smelled like him when the wind caught it just right. "You're stopping this low for her?" Yumi said, looking at the guy with a smirk, then back at you. "She's not even the club type. Unless you can turn her into a club whore or something. That what you like?" The guy blinked, clearly taken aback. "What? I thought she was cute-" "Right," she laughed, already turning away. "Good luck with that." You stood there, frozen, fingers digging into the sleeves of your hoodie. Your throat was tight. Hot. Like you really might say something, but you didn't. Not with her sauntering off across the baseball field, and to the one guy witnessing the whole thing: Nishimura Riki. He saw it all. His brows were drawn together. His eyes were on the jacket. His jacket. And just like that, you turned and walked away. Again. That night, lying in bed, your phone just inches from your face, you checked his profile. He had unfollowed Yumi. His new story? Just a short clip of his teammates screaming "DAY TWO, CAPTAIN!" while he drank from a red solo cup at his apartment. You stared at the screen, heart twisting. Why had he unfollowed her? Did he know? You hadn't meant to go. You really hadn't. But here you were anyway—heart racing, the same jacket tossed over your shoulders, the sleeves covering your hands. Underneath, a tank top, grey sweatpants you knew he liked, hair tied in a low ponytail. Your most natural, most familiar self. You knocked.

The music was loud, voices spilling through the door. It swung open to reveal Heeseung, a red flush on his face and a half-empty drink in his hand.

He paused, looking you from head to toe. "Woah. You look... cute."

"Who is it?" Ni-ki asked from behind you. Heeseung turned to look. "Uh. You should come here." When Ni-ki appeared in the doorway, he froze mid-step. His hair was messy. His cheeks a little pink from the alcohol. But his eyes were immediately locked on you. Then they dropped, just for a second, to the jacket hanging loosely off your frame. His jacket. No one said anything. Awkward silence. You weren't sure who had to speak first. Until Jay, who was here for the tea, mumbled something under his breath and shoved Ni-ki forward. "Get it together, take her to your room, idiot." You were lucky to hear a few chuckles after the instructions before they all left noise behind them. Now, it was just you and Ni-ki. Out in the hallway. In silence. Ni-ki stepped aside from the doorway. "You wanna come in?" His room smelled just like him. It was warm, clean, faint signs of citrus. You perched yourself on the end of the bed as he leaned back against the desk, arms folded, trying not to look at you. "You... unfollowed her." you finally said, quietly. He winced and gently scoffed. "Well yeah, after what she said to me." You eyes perked up. "What did she say?" "She told me everything," he said. "I guess she thought I'd agree with her. Thought I'd be mad that you wore my jacket. She said it was pathetic, or something." You fidgeted with the hem of the jacket. "I wore it because it was cold." "I know," he said. "You don't have warm jackets. All your jackets are thin as shit." You were surprised by that—that he remembered. That he even noticed. "And what about that time I saw you... holding hands?" you asked softly. "You and Yumi." Ni-ki ran a hand through his hair. "Her ex was being weird. I was just walking her off campus. I didn't even realize we were holding hands until she grabbed mine." You nodded. Some bitterness caught in your throat. "She said a lot of things," he went on. "None of them true." You didn't know what came over you then. Maybe it was the months of holding it in, maybe it was seeing him again like this, so close, so him. But your eyes welled up.

"I'm sorry," you said softly. "I was so—I let all those dumb voices get in my head. I never thought I was enough for you. And I ended it because I thought... maybe you'd be better off."

He began to move toward you slowly, kneeling between your legs. Your breath caught in your throat. "What are you doing?" You asked, blinking tears away.

He placed his hands gently on your thighs and rubbed soft circles—grounding you. "I'm here," he said. "Just listening."

You cried harder. You didn't mean to. "I ignored you. For so long. And you tried. God, you tried so hard. I just... I couldn't face you thinking that I ruined everything."

"You didn't ruin anything," he replied softly. "You hurt. And you healed. But I never stopped wanting you."

"I'll be better," you whispered. "If you just... if you'd give me another chance."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder. His arms wrapped around your waist. Tighter. As if he'd fall apart if he let go. "You always were enough for me," he said quietly. "I just wanted you to see it too."

You melted into his touch—instinctively, softly—as he held your arms across your body and led you backward, as you surrendered to the mattress beneath you. The room was dim, and the only light came from the strings of lights that framed the ceiling, casting shadows on the walls. You could hear his breath, shaky and controlled, as he hovered above you. His palm cradled your cheek quietly and softly before he pulled you into a kiss—not a rushed kiss, but a heated kiss as if he had been holding this inside for far too long. And maybe he had. You both had. "God," he whispered against your lips, the tone of his voice a rasp. "You're driving me insane showing up like this... in my jacket." The way he said it sent chills up your spine. His fingers slid under the collar and peeled the fabric from your shoulders. He revealed your smooth skin underneath, your collarbone cooled by the chilled air. The thin straps of your tank top fell into view, and for a second, he just looked at you—eyes dark and full of something deeper than lust. His lips met your collarbone next, slowly, reverently. You let out a gasp, a soft, shaky sound, your eyes flew shut, your head tilted back, as the tension left your body and your senses took over. His touch, after so long—it felt like lighting a match in your chest. You had forgotten how badly you had wanted him. How desperately your body remembered him, regardless of what your heart had tried to forget.

But the moment shattered with a knock.

"Yo," Jake's voice called from outside the door. "We still have drinks out here in case your girl wants a dri—wait. Ni-ki... are you knocking her up in there?" You blinked. Ni-ki let out an incredulous groan, burying his face into the crook of your neck. "Jake, shut the fuck up," he muttered, voice muffled. You let out a small giggle, your cheeks burning as you tugged the jacket over your shoulder. Ni-ki rolled off you, albeit reluctantly, but kept you rucked into his side like you were a treasure when you stepped out. Jake looked like an idiot, standing there with a dumb grin, immediately noticing the flushed look on both your faces—along with the way your fingers clung to Ni-ki's sleeve. "I'm going to assume you two made up," Jake teased, raising his brows and gesturing at the coffee table full of snacks and drinks. Your stomach chose that moment to let out a not-so-subtle growl. Ni-ki chuckled under his breath, head dipping toward yours. "Hungry?" You nodded sheepishly. "A little." He handed you a slice of pizza before grabbing one for himself, and the second you bit into it, a bit of sauce caught the corner of your mouth. "You got..." Ni-ki said, reaching forward without a second thought. His thumb brushed delicately over your lower lip, wiping it away. You froze slightly—not from discomfort, but just the sheer familiarity of it. He always did things like that. Little things. Like you were his to take care of. You leaned into the touch without meaning to, letting him clean your mouth like you did before everything fell apart. His eyes softened, fingers lingering for just one second too long. Jay, sitting on the couch with a very drunk Heeseung passed out across his lap, raised a mildly unimpressed brow. "You know," he said, adjusting Heeseung's head lazily, "you're kind of stupid for breaking up with him in the first place." You glanced over, mouth still full, blinking. Jay didn't say it cruelly—it was just the truth. Blunt maybe, but not untrue. You swallowed, dried your fingers on a napkin. "Yeah," you muttered, voice low. "I know." You felt Ni-ki's fingers interlace with yours under the table. You didn't pull away.

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himasgod · 2 months ago

Note

Hello!!! Please write a reader who is Lilia's adopted daughter. And she brings her boyfriend for the first time to meet him (It can be Leona, Jade, Azul, or anyone else you like) you can also insert the boys reaction, they are her brothers after all.

LEONA, JADE AND AZUL X READER

Where they are formally introduced to Lilia, your father, as your boyfriend

How would Leona, Jade, and Azul react if you brought them home to Lilia, your adoptive father, and Malleus, Silver, and Sebek as your "siblings," to be formally introduced as your boyfriends?

I had fun writing this I was pretty lazy so there are no long descriptions or anything, just a lot of dialogue. I hope you like it <3

“So let me get this straight…” Leona muttered, arms crossed and ears twitching with irritation,

“You’re telling me I’m about to have a formal sit-down with Lilia Vanrouge?”

You smiled, linking your fingers with his as you both approached the moss-covered arch that marked the beginning of Lilia’s garden. Hard to tell in Briar Valley.

“Yes. And be nice. You do know each other, but this time, it’s official.”

Leona huffed.

“Tch. Knew this day would come the moment I kissed you.”

Lilia waited for you on the porch of his quaint forest estate, wearing a deceptively sweet smile that even you knew meant mischief.

“Ah, there you are, little bat! And Leona Kingscholar, too, hmm?” he purred, eyes gleaming as he looked your boyfriend up and down.

Leona greeted him with a curt nod.

“Old man.”

Lilia clapped his hands together.

“Still so charming! You haven't changed a bit since NRC. I take it you're here to steal my daughter away, hmm?”

You elbowed Leona gently, but he only rolled his eyes and said

“Well, someone has to save her from your weird blood popsicle obsession.”

Lilia laughed. That bright, eerie laugh that echoed through the trees

“Fair point. Come in, come in.”

Sebek was the first to react.

“WHAT IS HE DOING HERE?!” he boomed, nearly knocking the table over. “He’s lazy, arrogant, and—AND—HE SLEEPS IN CLASS!”

“Sebek,” Lilia said calmly, sipping tea, “I slept through centuries and still managed to raise a well-mannered daughter, a son and a prince. Your argument is invalid.”

Silver, ever the neutral party, blinked slowly. “I always thought you two would end up together,” he said to you, tilting his head at Leona. “But I imagined someone who… gets up before noon.”

“Silver,” you said dryly, “this is not helping. Besides, you are not the one to talk-”

“Guess I’ve got something none of them have. Charm?”

“Or raw animal magnetism,” Lilia added helpfully.

You facepalmed.

Then Malleus entered the room.

The vibe shifted.

Leona sat up straighter instinctively.

“Ah, the second prince of the Sunset Savanna,” Malleus said, voice smooth but heavy. “We meet again. I understand you’re courting my dear sister?”

Leona narrowed his eyes slightly. “Yeah. Got a problem with that, Horns?”

“No,” Malleus said, and smiled slowly. “But should you break her heart, there might be consequences.”

A tiny bolt of lightning crackled behind him.

Leona blinked.

“…Duly noted.”

When everyone was gone, Lilia pulled you aside as the stars began to glow through the tree canopy.

“You really care about him, don’t you?” he asked softly, eyes not teasing anymore.

You nodded. “He’s… good to me, even when no one’s looking.”

Lilia was quiet for a moment. Then he gave you a fond smile, and gently flicked your forehead like he used to when you were little.

“Then that’s all that matters. But if he ever makes you cry—well, let’s just say I still remember a few curses that make hair fall out permanently.”

You grinned. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Are you sure about this?” Jade asked with a soft smile, his fingers gently brushing over yours as he held your hand. His tone was calm as ever—but you could feel the subtle tension in his grip.

“Of course,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder. “It’s not like you haven’t met them before.”

He chuckled, low and smooth.

“Yes, but this time, I’m no longer ‘just a student.’ I’m the man courting Lilia Vanrouge’s daughter. That… changes things.”

You smirked. “You’re nervous.”

Jade gave you a sidelong glance.

“I’d be a fool not to be.”

Lilia was already waiting at the table, sipping tea, dressed in something deceptively casual (yet enchanted enough to ward off curses, fire, and possibly suitors).

When Jade stepped in behind you, Lilia smiled wide.

Too wide.

“Jaaaade~! What a lovely surprise,” he said, sing-songy. “I didn’t realize we were hosting an eel today.”

Jade bowed slightly, lips curled in that signature polite-but-vaguely-threatening smile.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Vanrouge. You have a lovely home.”

“Still trying to charm me?” Lilia asked playfully, resting his chin on his hands.

“Not at all. I’m simply being honest,” Jade replied smoothly.

You could feel the tension crackling like static between the two of them. You were about to speak when—

Sebek stomped in, sword at his side.

“WHAT IN THE GREAT NAME OF MALLEUS IS HE DOING HERE?!” he bellowed. “An eel? The brother of that... creature over Octavinelle? You dare present this to Lord Lilia as your consort?!”

You sighed. “Sebek. Calm down.”

Jade gave a small bow.

“I’m honored by your passion, Sir Sebek. I assure you, I’ve treated your "sister" with the utmost respect.”

“DO NOT ‘SEBEK’ ME! I'M ZIGVOLT FOR YOU”

Silver, half-asleep in the chair beside you, cracked an eye open. “...Didn’t he used to sneak mushrooms into Riddle’s tea?”

Jade smiled faintly. “For science.”

Then Malleus appeared. His eyes swept over Jade, calculating.

“You are... the Leech twin,” he said.

“Indeed,” Jade replied with a courteous nod. “And you are the Crown Prince of Briar Valley. A pleasure.”

They stared at each other. For a long, long time.

You held your breath.

Then Malleus gave a slow nod. “Should you break her heart, I will turn the coral into dust.”

Jade smiled, unshaken. “Then I shall simply have to ensure her heart stays whole.”

Once the chaos quieted and Sebek had stopped ranting in the background, Lilia pulled you aside with a sly grin.

“An eel, hmm?” he whispered. “Not the choice I expected, but... interesting.”

You raised a brow. “You hate him?”

Lilia hummed.

“No. He’s clever. I don’t trust him completely... but I do trust your judgment. Just be careful. He smiles like me, and you know how dangerous that can be.”

You grinned. “That’s why I like him.”

Lilia chuckled, fond and nostalgic. “You’re really growing up, little bat.”

Azul stood at the edge of the Vanrouge estate like a gentleman who wasn’t calculating every potential response in his mind. He carried himself as he always did—shoulders straight, coat perfectly tailored, his composure a shield no one dared pierce.

You stood beside him, warm and casual.

He would not embarrass you. He would not lose.

Lilia Vanrouge opened the door, ageless eyes alight with interest.

“Azul,” he said, smile sharp. “What a surprise. And here I thought I’d seen the last of NRC’s little loan shark.”

Azul inclined his head in a perfect bow.

“Good evening, Vanrouge. Thank you for welcoming me into your home. I’ve brought an offering.”

He handed over a bottle of rare merlot aged in abyssal coral—courtesy of the Lounge’s private vault.

Lilia raised a brow. “Careful. Gifts from businessmen often come with strings.”

Azul smiled.

“Only when the recipient is unaware. You, however, are far too old and clever for that.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Lilia’s gaze. “You do know how to flatter.”

“I know how to respect power,” Azul replied evenly. “And your daughter.”

He could feel your hand brush against his coat then—gentle, grounding. He allowed himself the smallest softening of his posture in response. Just enough to be human.

The rest of the family filtered in.

Sebek looked like he might explode.

“THE MERCHANT?! ARE YOU—?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?! HE'S—HE'S A CROOK!”

Azul tilted his head coolly. “I assure you, all my transactions are legally binding.”

“That's the problem!” Sebek snarled.

Silver, relaxed, offered Azul a subtle nod. “You were always the quiet dangerous type. Honestly, I expected worse.”

Azul’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How reassuring.”

Then came Malleus.

Azul stiffened—just barely. Enough to signal he knew the weight of this moment.

The air shifted as the he approached, slow and deliberate.

“You’re bold,” Malleus said, voice like rolling thunder. “Bringing intentions into my territory.”

Azul met his eyes. Steady. Calm.

“I didn’t come to posture. Only to be acknowledged.”

“You desire permission?”

Azul smiled thinly. “I already have her heart. Yours is merely… a formality.”

It was a dangerous thing to say. But Azul knew when to gamble.

A beat of silence. Malleus’s gaze narrowed—then moved to you.

“Does he treat you well?”

You nodded. “Better than I ever expected.”

Malleus didn’t look back at Azul. “Then I’ll allow it. For now.”

Later, Lilia poured himself a glass of that merlot, watching Azul with quiet scrutiny.

“You wear your nerves like armor,” he mused.

Azul didn’t flinch. “As one should. Vulnerability is expensive.”

“You love her?”

Azul didn’t hesitate. “I would remake the sea if she asked.”

Lilia tilted his glass toward him.

“Then I suppose I’ll keep my blade sheathed… unless you forget that promise.”

Azul met him, unblinking. “I never forget a deal.”

Lilia grinned. “Good. Because you’ve just made one with me.”

Azul only bowed his head, already planning what future dinners would look like.

#leona x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #jade x reader #jade leech x reader #jade leech #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted x reader

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bumblebeezer · 3 months ago

Text

“Prove It.”

Prompt: kissing each other to prove there’s nothing there, even though it’s a lie, and the kiss proves it

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader

Word Count: ~2200

Warnings: potentially ooc, reader is shorter than Din, idk please please please lmk if i’ve missed something that you feel needs a warning!!!

Summary: Peli’s meddling leads to some kissy kissies. Shy Mando. Giving me season one vibes honestly??? Imagine season one setting (literally just the Razor Crest) with season 3 relationships. Hope y’all enjoy!!!

Mando’s frustrated grunt echoed off of the paneling of the Razor Crest, followed by a muttered curse, his voice crackling through the modulator.

“Dank farrik.”

Peli, who was currently watching as her repair droids dutifully attempted to complete her share of work (and taking their sweet time, if you asked her), snorted and raised her brows.

“What’s eatin’ at ya, Mando?”

The Mandalorian growled, the noise low, coming from the back of his throat. As much as he…appreciated Peli, her commentary left much to be desired.

“Kriffing panel…” Din muttered, his gloved hand tightening around the wrench as he briefly entertained the thought of throwing it as far as he could. Peli groaned and rose from her chair, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Well, maybe if you weren’t flying something pre-Imperial, you wouldn’t have these problems!”

Din sighed behind the beskar helmet, the puff of air crackling through the modulator. There was no point in retorting, especially when Peli got to work beside him, inspecting the paneling with an unimpressed look. She opened her mouth to speak when the sound of a familiar pair of footsteps drifted into Peli’s hangar, accompanied by the shrill giggles of the child.

Mando straightened at the sound of your voice, his helmet barely concealing the way he nervously cleared his throat.

“We’re back!” You chirped, the child echoing you with a delighted chirp of his own. “The markets were kind of dry, but little guy and I still found some supplies.”

You turned the corner, said little guy in your arm, your other hand holding a few bags, a wide, genuine smile on your face.

“…That’s good,” Mando replied, the tension in his shoulders melting away at the sight of you holding his foundling. Your smile somehow brightened. Din felt his knees going weak.

Unaware of the Mandalorian’s inner turmoil, you stepped forward, chattering with Peli about the market’s outrageous prices, and gently placed Grogu into Din’s waiting arms, your smile softening as he gave his foundling a nod.

“I’ll go ahead and put these up,” you hummed, holding up your bags and giving the two a nod of your own before turning and briskly walking up the ramp, disappearing into the Razor Crest, Din’s t-shaped visor slowly following your movements along the way.

Grogu’s little clawed hand was reaching for Din’s gloved fingertip when Peli snapped him from his reverie, clearing her throat.

“…Well,” she drawled, not even bothering to brush the Tatooine dust from her hands before clapping Mando on the back. “Look at you, Mando! I knew there was a heart somewhere inside all that beskar.”

Din’s helmet whipped around, his glare palpable even through the opaque t-visor. He scoffed and shook his head, as if her claim wasn’t even worth dignifying with an audible denial. Truthfully, he was just convinced he’d prove her point if he opened his mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles, turning to face the Razor Crest’s faded paneling, Grogu still balanced in his arm.

Peli merely scoffs, her voice loud and carefree as always. “Oh, come on, Mando! You perk up whenever they come around like an ectotherm in the twin suns. If you don’t have feelings for her then I’m next in line for Daimyo of Tatooine.”

Din stiffened and whirled around to glance at the open gangway, his heart pounding within his armored chest.

“Lower your voice,” he hissed, modulator crackling beneath his helmet.

“Pft, it’s not like they’re gonna overhear,” Peli waved a hand, unbothered by Din’s distress. “And besides, Mando, they probably already know. You’re not exactly subtle—“

A pair of footsteps stomping against the gangway interrupted the mechanic as you rejoined the two at the base of the ship.

“Subtle about what?” You asked, eyeing Mando with a suspiciously amused look. Beneath the helmet, Din floundered for something to say, barely managing to mutter a soft “Nothing,” at the same time as Peli exclaimed, “His feelings for you, obviously!”

You merely laughed, placing your hands on your hips and turning from Peli to Din. “Peli, I don’t know what they put into your Jet Juice, but Mando and I are just…work associates.”

Your amused smile faltered for a moment. Could you call Mando a friend? Would he allow it?

“Strictly professional,” you continued, like the two of you didn’t co-parent Grogu on a daily basis, falling into the routine as if you’d been doing it for years. “I could probably kiss him and get no reaction.” Your smile turned smug, baiting Peli, who, to Din’s horror, took the bait with a smug smile of her own.

“Alright, then,” she placed her hand on her hips. “Prove it.”

You scoffed, your cheeks warming, but otherwise appearing the picture of confidence.

Time slowed for Din as you approached, striding toward him with purpose. He tensed, Grogu cooing curiously in his arms, as you reached up with gentle hands, cupping the carved cheeks of his beskar helmet, careful not to jostle it.

Din held his breath as you slowly stood on your toes, pressing your forehead to his. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed and he tilted his head downward, returning the gentle headbutt.

Pulling away, you turned to give Peli a smug look.

“See? No reaction.”

Peli threw out her arms, gesturing toward you three. “What kind of a kiss was that?”

“A Mandalorian one,” Din grunted through his helmet, carefully placing Grogu back into your arms before turning back toward the paneling, getting back to work as if nothing had happened.

He was vaguely aware of Peli walking away, grumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “not even a real kiss” under her breath. But he couldn’t focus on it too much. Not with the way his heart was stuttering in his chest.

The twin suns of Tatooine had gone down by the time the Mandalorian retired into the Razor Crest, watching as you and Grogu showed off the goodies you’d snagged from the markets earlier that day while he cleaned his blaster.

He typically gave you his full attention, responding to the child’s interjecting coos and gurgles. But this time, he was noticeably quiet (well—quieter than usual), giving you nods instead of his usual dry-humored one-liners.

With a faltering smile, you cleared your throat and picked Grogu up, stroking the wiry hairs atop his little head as he yawned. “I’m going to put him to bed,” you hummed, watching as Mando gave the child’s clawed hand an affectionate squeeze.

Making your way toward the bunk Din and Grogu shared, you gave the little green guy a strained smile. “Maybe I took things too far earlier. Do you think so?”

As if in response, Grogu gave you a little frown, gurgling softly, his large eyes drooping shut.

Bidding the little one goodnight, you made your way back to the table to find that Din had disappeared. Frowning, you climbed up into the cockpit to find the Mandalorian in question setting up the ship’s shields. Grunting, you pulled yourself up and crept closer, crossing your arms.

“Alright, Mando. What is it? Credit for your thoughts?”

The Mandalorian didn’t turn to face you, keeping his visor trained on the controls instead. “You can’t afford ‘em, cyar’ika,” he muttered, no real heat to his voice. He was teasing you, then.

“Was it the Keldabe kiss?” You continued, lips pulling into a frown. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed it was alright—“

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, voice gruff as he distracts himself with the control panel. “Peli was right, anyways. Wasn’t a real kiss—“

“Mando—“

“Wasn’t much of a Keldabe kiss, either—“

“Mando-“

“You’ve got to really headbutt your partner so they know that you mean it—”

“DIN!”

The Mandalorian paused and finally turned to meet your gaze, the t-shaped visor of his helmet as imposingly neutral as ever.

Your cheeks were warm as you stared up at him, eyes narrowed in some sort of exasperation.

“…Would you like a real kiss?”

Now, Din’s heard all kinds of jokes and taunts as a result of the Mandalorian armor he wears. He’s heard accusations that he’s made of tin, that he’s inhuman, a mere droid beneath the armor. All untrue, of course. But in that moment, he may as well be a droid with the way his brain short circuits at your words.

“…What?”

You sauntered forward, arms loosely crossed over your chest, and shrugged, as if this were totally normal.

“Did you want a kiss? Not a Keldabe kiss, but a—a standard kiss.”

You held the Mandalorian’s gaze. At least, you held the gaze of his t-visor, unable to see his shocked face within. You noticed the way his back straightened, his shoulders tensing nervously, but you pressed on.

“Just to prove Peli wrong, of course,” you shrugged again. “I mean…we certainly can’t kiss in front of her without her seeing your face. But I could blindfold myself and she’ll just have to take our word for it—”

“Yes.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before the Mandalorian is agreeing, so quick that it leaves you reeling for a moment.

“I—” “Yes,” Mando repeats, already standing in front of you, his helmet tilted downwards. “To prove Peli wrong,” he adds, his voice sounding a little strained.

You give him a nod, producing a blindfold in the form of an old scarf. It’s as you’re tying a knot at the back of your head that Din realizes what he’s just agreed to. His thoughts begin racing. What if he’s bad at it? What if he’s noticeably bad at this? He’s never kissed anyone before, and, oh, Maker above, this is his first kiss—

“You alright?”

Even with the blindfold on, you can sense the Mandalorian’s nervous energy, and you give him a little smile. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you murmur.

“I want to,” Din murmurs, still looking down at you, blindfolded and smiling nervously and waiting and all for him. You hear the sound of something leathery hitting the floor of the Razor Crest, and then you hear the hiss of the decompressor as he removes his helmet, and suddenly it’s your turn to swallow nervously, your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides as his hands—no gloves—are cupping your jaw, his left thumb gently stroking your cheek. You hold your breath, the anticipation making your chest tight in a way that’s strangely pleasant, and wait for Din to move. After all, you’re the one wearing the blindfold, the ball’s entirely in his court.

He takes a moment, just staring down at you, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted, just openly admiring you without the haze of the filters in his helmet, noting the exact tone of your skin, the pink pout of your lips, the color of your hair.

Leaning in, he presses his lips to yours, barely suppressing a hum of pleasure at the way you gasp against his lips. Otherwise, you don’t move, standing stiffly while he kisses you. It’s a chaste thing, really. Just a peck that goes on a little longer than it usually would. But you’re just as breathless when you pull away, panting slightly.

“See?” You grin, eyes crinkling beneath the blindfold as you desperately try to even your breathing, to calm your racing heart. You open your mouth to say something else—probably some stupid joke—when Din’s pressing his lips against yours again, one of his hands leaving your cheek to tangle in your hair. You moan softly against him, eyes fluttering closed beneath the blindfold, and practically melt into him. He mirrors your moan (though it sounds a little more desperate than yours, more of a whimper than a moan, perhaps) and presses himself against you. He’s forgone his helmet for this kiss, but the rest of his armor remains attached to his flight suit, and you steady yourself against his chest, your palms warm against the cold beskar.

When you pull away, you’re both properly panting, your lips blindly chasing after him. “Din…”

You murmur his name, silently asking for more, lips pouting when he doesn’t immediately give you another kiss.

“Cyar’ika…”

His voice is gravelly even without the modulator, and delightfully pitched, like he’s silently begging you for more, too.

Suddenly, you feel his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling as his hands find and cup your jaw, gently holding you close.

“Cyar’ika, I…”

Din sighs, his eyes closing, his shoulder slumping in some sort of defeat.

“Cyar’ika, there’s something I need to tell you,” he breathes, watching your face for any sign of disgust or rejection. “Peli was right,” he mutters. “I…I…care for you. More than an associate. More than a friend. You mean so much to me—you and the kid. I don’t know what I would do if…if you weren’t here with us.”

He swallows, the sound audible in the quiet of the ship, shoulders tensing as he waits for you to pull away and tell him you don’t feel the same way, to demand that he drop you off at the nearest spaceport once the Razor Crest is fit to fly again.

Imagine his surprise as you merely grin up at him (eyes crinkling beneath the blindfold yet again), cup his cheeks and pull him down for another kiss, murmuring two words against his lips: “Prove it.”

#requests are open btw uwu #the mandalorian #mandalorian #din djarin #din #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x reader #star wars x reader #star wars #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal

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suliigwp · 28 days ago

Note

It's me again!

So its readers first day on track, like total rookie up from f3. So there sitting with acouple other drivers like lewis and fernando are sitting with her and giving her tips? But like there is totaly a language barrier. Like she is max verstappen 2.0

Thanks 🫶

-🦕

VROOM VROOM?

Rookie! Reader x platonic! Paddock (Hamilton, Alonso)

SULI: Yes I started writing this right away what about it🤨 I should be sleeping right now☺️ but I got an idea for this and had to write it down right away(only took an hour btw)- This was actually so fun to write. Thank you dino anon! Hope you enjoy this. I actually don't know how to tag this😭

Warnings: podium in rookie year? None!

The rookie sits stiffly in the white-cushioned chair, F1 jacket a size too big, hair still a bit damp from stress-sweat and a poorly aimed espresso machine incident earlier. She’s surrounded by legends—Lewis Hamilton on her left, Fernando Alonso on her right. Both have taken it upon themselves to gently mentor her. She, however, is somewhere between a confused raccoon and an overcaffeinated toddler.

Lewis starts off, his voice smooth, professional. He leans in with a kind smile.

“So, first weekend. You’ll want to be careful with tyre degradation in the first stint. If it’s hot, you really have to watch your—”

She blinks. Blinks again. Then chews her gum slowly, like her brain is buffering.

“…What is ‘tyres’?”

Lewis stops. He stares at her like she’s asked what oxygen is.

“The… the rubber. You know? On the car? Tyres?”

She squints. “Rubber?”

Fernando makes a quiet noise—either a cough or a laugh.

“Rubber. Okay. Sexy.”

Lewis sighs. “No. Not like that.”

She leans forward, excited now.

“You teach me. I go fast. I do… vroom vroom.” She gestures wildly, mimicking a steering wheel and what can only be described as throwing invisible dice.

Lewis looks to Fernando. Fernando shrugs and calmly sips his espresso like this is just Thursday.

“There’s a bit more to it than just… vroom vroom.”

She points at Lewis. “Vroom vroom?”

He hesitates. “Sure.”

She points at Fernando. “Vroom vroom?”

He puts down his cup, solemn. “Sí. Vroom vroom.”

She claps like a seal. “Ah! Vroom vroom!”

Lewis runs a hand down his face.

“This is what mentoring is now?”

They try again. Fernando pulls out a tablet and starts showing her a track map.

“So this corner—you brake late, stay on the inside. Apex here.”

She watches, squinting like she’s trying to read a foreign language.

“Brake late. Got it.”

Fernando: “But not too late—”

“I brake never.”

Lewis: “That’s… death. You will actually die.”

She grins. “I have no fear. Only vroom.”

Fernando leans back in his seat, taking a breath, looking at Lewis.

Lewis looks back at him. “She’s going to kill someone.”

The media rep calls time. She springs up like she’s just learned how legs work.

“Okay! I do tyres. I do apex. I do vroom. Thank you, old men.”

She walks off confidently—straight into a glass door.

Lewis stares after her, deadpan.

“…Did she just call us old?”

Fernando sips his espresso again, nodding. “Yes. I respect her.”

Lewis sighs deeply, then mutters,

“God help us all.”

...

Later on in the season...Mayhem. Three DNFs.

Ger Engineers voice reached her ears again.

“Okay, that’s the last corner—just bring it home, nice and easy. P3, unbelievable job.”

There’s a pause.

Then the radio crackles with static and adrenaline:

“AAAAAAAAAAAH!! VROOM VROOOOOOM!!”

The entire garage bursts out laughing.

Engineer, through tears of laughter:

“That’s a… yes, that’s a P3 confirmed, copy. Incredible job.”

She’s already sobbing, half-laughing, half-screaming, still holding the steering wheel like it’s a joystick in Mario Kart.

“DO YOU SEE ME?! I VROOMED!! I VROOMED SO HARD!!”

She parks up and literally forgets how to get out of the car. A mechanic has to gesture like, “Lift the wheel. No, like this. There you go.”

As she stands on the podium, still stunned and soaking wet, Lewis and Fernando are already waiting at parc fermé. Both clapping. Both smiling like proud uncles.

She practically jumps into Lewis’ arms, almost knocking him over.

“You said tires! I did tires!”

Lewis hugs her back, laughing.

She turns to Fernando and opens her arms dramatically.

“My Spanish father!”

Fernando, completely deadpan, opens his arms back.

“My chaos daughter.”

He pats her helmet like she’s a weird little puppy that just won Westminster.

Fernando leans in, murmurs just for her:

“Next time… brake maybe once, sí?”

She snorts. “Never.”

Lewis shakes his head. “She’s going to be a menace for the next ten years.”

Fernando: “Yes. And I love it.”

As they walk off together, someone overhears her say to Lewis:

“So like… if I win, do I get free pizza or?”

Next Part!

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dizzydaisychains · 1 month ago

Text

sylus being a soft father

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ sylus being a soft father; sitting among an audience of pastel plushies, sylus uses his evol to make the paws of the teddy bears clap as little ballet slippers poke out from underneath the living room curtain. three, two, one, swish! the curtain is drawn back and his little girl steps out in a sparkling tiara, followed by you, taking his breath away as he realises you're dressed in your old wedding dress that still makes his heart do somersaults when he sees you wrapped in all that chiffon and silk. "daddy! the music!" and ah, yes, he snaps his fingers and the needle drops on an old vinyl of brahm's waltz number fifteen. the gramophone crackles to life as you take the little girl's hand, mother and daughter curtsying for the audience, sylus clapping with complete and utter adoration. he dims the lights with a flick of his wrist, shining the torch on the cardboard 'stage' he had hand-painted that afternoon. the audience goes silent as the show begins, red ruby eyes falling in love all over again with the family he has made together with you.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ sylus being a soft father; because like his love for you, his love for his daughter is unconditional. it’s as gentle as the morning sunrise, and as soft as the golden glow of the night light by his little girl’s bed as he reads her a bedtime story. “read the one about the princess who saved the dragon again!” she squeals as she cuddles into sylus, both of them squashed into a bed that’s not made for two, but they make it work it anyway. sylus laughs, amused that no matter how many times he tells her the story, his daughter never tires of it. as usual, she falls asleep halfway through, and sylus kisses her tiny forehead as he tucks her in, smirking as he notices your figure leaning against the door frame. “so how did the princess save the dragon in the end?” you ask, a knowing look in your eyes as sylus tiptoes over to you, cautious not to wake his little girl up. gentle wisps of black and red mist guide you into his warm arms. “it's quite simple, really. no magic involved. the princess simply showed the dragon that 'family’ doesn’t have to be something that abandons you when it realises you are weak. that sometimes family is something that takes your weakness and turns it into strength. that family is the safe haven built by you and me."

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ sylus being a soft father; a rainy afternoon. sylus feels a tug on his sleeve as red boba eyes stare at him from over the top of his book. his daughter points at the torrential rain outside. "let me guess, your mother told you no." the little girl nods, giving him a pout that's identical to yours; a pout that sylus can never say no to. so he bundles her up in a yellow raincoat, crouching down as he helps her step into her wellington boots with faded smiley faces on the soles. and then they're both outside, sylus using his evol to guide the rain into puddles, making them bigger. splash! his daughter squeals with delight as she dances in the rain, sylus laughing as he too finds joy in jumping into puddles. so childish, yet it makes him crave the childhood he never had. later that afternoon, with grocery bags in your arms, you frown at the scene of sylus and your little girl with rain dripping from their hair, sneezing and drinking hot chocolate in the kitchen. sylus says nothing. just points at his daughter, who in turn points at her father. "daddy's idea!"

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ sylus being a soft father; he never had a warm childhood, so by god does he give his little girl anything she desires. little pink sneakers jump up in down in delight as your eyes take in the dozens of shopping bags strewn across the living room. floor. “sylus! did you buy her every toy in linkon?" sylus just shrugs, nonchalant, but his eyes are shining with a fondness as gentle as cherry blossoms floating in the breeze.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ sylus being a soft father; calloused fingers plaiting silvery hair. his little girl sits in front of the gold-framed mirror as sylus carefully braids baby pink ribbons into her silver strands. "when i grow up, i want to be strong like daddy!”she says all of a sudden, and sylus smiles, pressing a chaste kiss to the crown of her head. "you need to start eating your vegetables then. i know you hide them under your plate when you think your mother isn't looking." his daughter makes a face. "don't tell her! it can be our secret, daddy." sylus mimes zipping his lips shut. he throws the imaginary key over his shoulder. "you got it, my little princess."

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ sylus being a soft father; "ready or not, here i come!" a never-ending game of hide and seek, sylus disappearing in a puff of red and black smoke until, poof! he appears at the foot of the bed as his little girl tries to stay as quiet as possible under the bed. "hmmm...i wonder where she could be?" the girl giggles, thinking she's fooled the smartest adult she knows, until, whoosh! sylus appears right beside her, wrapping his arms around his daughter, his hands tickling her, provoking squeals of laughter that sound like little wind chimes on a summer's day. she slips out of his arms, but sylus is already crawling after her, and then he's picking her up with one swift motion and spinning her around in his arms. "again! again!" their laughter echoes throughout the house as you roll your eyes at their antics, folding warm laundry fresh from the dryer, humming to yourself as laughter continues to fill the walls of your little home.

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holyblonded · 3 months ago

Text

rattled | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen reader, barcelona femeni x teen!reader

summary: your mouth gets you into serious trouble

warnings: head injuries, implications of blood

notes: i don’t enjoy the way i wrote this or ended it that why it hadn’t been posted but y’all really wanted this one. the chances of this getting rewritten is extremely high 😭

There’s something about game days that gives you a rush like nothing else. Maybe it was your love for the game, the pure, unfiltered joy of stepping onto the pitch and knowing you were exactly where you belonged. Or maybe, just maybe, it was your love for talking shit.

As much as it might sound horrible, you couldn’t help it, there was something deeply satisfying about getting under an opponent’s skin. You loved watching the way their faces scrunched up in frustration, the way their movements got just a little more reckless, a little less focused. You didn’t always say much in your opinion, just enough. Just a glance, a smirk, a well-timed comment whispered under your breath as you walked past. You didn’t need to scream to make someone unravel. You just needed to smile at the right moment.

By the time you were in the locker room, boots laced, hair slicked back, headphones blasting, you were practically vibrating with energy. The speaker in the corner of the room was booming with Sexyy Red, the bass making the walls hum as you danced around in your compression shorts and undershirt, hyping up everyone in sight.

“Let’s gooooo!” you shouted, clapping your hands as you bounced from one side of the locker room to the other, pulling teammates into your orbit whether they liked it or not. “They don’t know what’s about to hit them today, I’m telling you right now!”

Jana was laughing, boots half-on, as you danced behind her and smacked her shoulder pads like drums. Mapi whistled at you as you slid on your socks and started freestyling some chaotic chant that made absolutely no sense but got everyone screaming anyway. The vibe was electric, loud, unhinged, exactly how you liked it.

You stood on the bench, arms wide, head thrown back as you yelled, “They gonna have to call the fire department after this game ‘cause I’m about to set this whole pitch on fire!”

The locker room exploded in laughter and cheers except for Ona, who was leaning against her cubby, arms crossed, trying not to smile.

“Your mouth is going to get you in trouble,” she said, shaking her head at you.

You jumped down and stuck your tongue out at her. “They gotta catch me first.”

Then you turned right back around, shouting over the music, “This is our house! Let’s make them regret ever showing up today!”

The nerves melted off you completely. You were in your element. You were ready to go to war. And win or lose, you were going to make damn sure they remembered your name.

The air was tense at Camp Nou, thick with anticipation even though the scoreboard read 5–1. You had two goals already— one in the first half, one just ten minutes into the second, but you were hunting for blood. The crowd buzzed with every touch you took, the energy crackling like static. Wolfsburg was playing dirty, and you were playing right into it.

They had two defenders on you now, crowding your space every time you got near the box. You were talking mad shit, your voice cutting through the drizzle and noise, lips curling into a smug grin. And not just in Spanish or English, you’d spent the last few weeks learning German just so you could spit it back at them on the pitch.

“Du bist zu langsam, komm schon!” You shouted as you flicked the ball through their legs. (You're too slow, come on)

You could feel how pissed they were getting, and it only fueled you more.

Across the pitch, Alexia cupped her hands around her mouth. “Estrella! Cool it!”

You waved her off without turning around. “I got this, mami!”

The whistle blew. Play resumed. You took the ball at midfield and spun out of a tackle like you were made of wind and fire. The defenders tried to hold you back, but you slipped through the cracks like you were born there. You could feel her chasing, nipping at your heels, but you kicked into another gear, outrunning her like she was standing still. One touch. Another. Back of the net. Hat-trick.

You slipped as you turned to celebrate, the wet grass catching you off-balance, sending you to the ground. You laughed to yourself, raising an arm as if to say did you see that?!—but before you could even move—

Crack. A blinding pain split your skull, and your vision went white. You didn’t even hear the roar of the crowd; everything was static. Everything stopped. The stadium went dead silent. You didn’t move.

Ona was the first to react— she sprinted to you, panic all over her face, with Jana right behind her. Patri and Lucy had already turned toward the Wolfsburg defender, fury etched across their faces. The ref stormed in, pulled a red card from her pocket like it burned her hand, and shoved it in the air.

Alexia stood frozen. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

Ingrid touched her shoulder. “Ale.”

Alexia blinked, stumbled forward, then sprinted.

She dropped to her knees beside you, her hands shaking. “Estrella, Estrella—” Her voice cracked.

You didn’t move. On the bench, the girls were already crying. Vicky’s hands were clasped over her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks. Sydney was crying too, hugging her tight.

The medics arrived fast, sprinting across the pitch with the stretcher, but time had warped— every second felt too long. Ona and Jana were ushered away, both of them breaking down as they backed off, whispering to each other between choked sobs.

Up in the family box, Eli had her eyes squeezed shut like she was praying. Her lips moved, no sound escaping. Alba’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold her phone. “She’s okay. She’s strong. She’s okay,” she repeated over and over, as if saying it would make it true.

Olga sat stiffly, holding Eli’s hand in both of hers, her eyes closed, jaw clenched. She couldn’t look. She couldn’t breathe.

Soleil stood a few rows down in the stands, surrounded by friends who were trying to soothe her, but she couldn’t hear them. Her eyes were locked on you. Her chest felt like it was caving in. You never looked like that. You were always fire, always motion, always larger than life. And now, you were still. Too still.

The medics huddled. Pere ran down from the technical area. One of the medics shook their head. Silent tears ran down Vicky’s cheeks. Sydney covered her face.

Finally, slowly, you stirred. Your hand twitched. Your lips moved. Alexia exhaled like it hurt. She stayed beside you as they loaded you onto the stretcher, brushing the damp hair from your face. You didn’t open your eyes all the way, but you reached for her hand— and she held on like she’d never let go.

The crowd clapped. Loud. Raw. Hopeful. As they carried you off the pitch, Alexia walked beside the stretcher, hand in yours. Silent, but present. Your team watched. The world watched as you were, for once in your life, silent.

#woso community #woso x platonic!reader #woso fic #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso #woso x teen!reader #barca femeni x teen!reader #barca femeni x reader #barca x reader #barca femeni #barcelona femeni x reader #barcelona x reader #barcelona femeni #barcelona femeni x teen!reader #alexia putellas x teen!reader #alexia putellas x reader #⋆｡˚ stargirl

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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 4 months ago

Text

Nonsense

Synopsis: While on the brink of death, you confess your greatest burden to Rex. He always had a crush on you, so he decides that at his final moments, he should grant both of your last wishes… Until Invincible saves you.

You go on with your life, but Rex can't seem to forget what you did under that rock.

Pairing: Rex Sloan X Gn!Reader

Tw: Mentioned sex a lot, but no description, except a mention of multiple orgasms; Mentioned virginity loss; Mentioned dying; Mentioned self deprecation; Mentioned loneliness; Unrequited love on Rex's part until the end; Happy ending; Despair; Reader is a late bloomer, that makes them insecure, and their perception of dating is skewed because of that; Drunk confession; Mentioned past cheating (it's Rex guys); English isn't my first language.

Word count: 4,5k

Requested? Nope.

Extra notes: Imagine Rex singing Nonsense instead of Sabrina Carpenter. Divider

General masterlist

The urge to laugh is too strong, no matter how hard you try to hold it in, it bubbles from your guts until it's spilling from your mouth and echoing around the hole you're stuck in. It's inappropriate, you know it is, and you're not sure how your colleague might feel about that.

But it's your death too, so you think you can react however you want.

“What the fuck? Are you going crazy on me now?!” Rex, so eloquently, exclaimed. It just makes you crackle harder, tears swiftly starting to leak from your eyes.

“It's just- HAHA- it's funny! In- In a- HA- really fucked way… HAHAHA!” Rex stared at you with wide eyes, weirded out, and almost afraid of you.

“Hot stuff, hmm… I know I’m not the most gracious dude you know but…” He turned his head from one side to the other, looking around. “We’re about to die here, I don't think it's funny.” He crossed his arms. “And I’m trying to escape this shithole we’re stuck in. I’m gonna be pissed if you just keep sitting there and giggling.” He scowled.

You kept giggling.

“It's just… I’m a fucking loser!” You threw your head back, tears streaming down faster. “I’m about to die a virgin! HA!” You clapped your hands when your eyes started burning, trying to coax more genuine tears from laughing instead of crying.

Rex blinked.

“You… Uhhh…?”

“I’m about to die! And I never even had sex before! HA!” Suddenly, the giggles became so forced that the signals of an approaching headache made themselves known inside your skull. “I was just a lab rat! I’ve never ever lived anything! Never dated anyone…” The urge to cry got stronger as your heart constricted, and the situation didn't seem all that funny anymore. “And I’m still a virgin…” You sniffed, uselessly trying to wipe your face with both hands, a little too aggressively. Crying was no worth when death was knocking at your door. Rex winced.

“Oh man… I’m so sorry-”

“AND I’M STUCK HERE WITH THE BIGGEST WHORE I KNOW!”

Rex frowned and pursed his lips.

“Hey! That was not cool… Fair. I guess. But not cool…” Rex sighed, walked towards you, and dropped down to sit by your side. You giggled harder, clapping weakly, eyes closed.

“AND HE NEVER EVEN FLIRTED WITH ME! HAHAHA- HAHA- HA. Ha. Ha…”

Silence overtook the hole for a minute, broken only by you sniffing.

Getting buried to death by Doc Seismic would've been quicker. But getting stuck in a 8x8 feet hole after an earthquake he caused, not being able to get out despite both having superpowers, and then suffocating to death, was almost as humiliating as dying a virgin. Almost.

You were so far below that you couldn't even hear the fight anymore, you only could wish you wouldn't be dead by the time someone found you both. You knew having powers that need to be charged by sunlight would fuck you up one day. And of course Murphy’s Law would cause you to be stuck with a guy whose powers were also useless in this situation, because Rex either would've exploded you both, or caused the rocks above you to shift and crush you faster.

You snorted at the thought.

“Am I ugly?” You blurted out one of the thoughts that crossed your mind sometimes, when loneliness and self deprecation decided to torture your mind a little, and you found yourself getting jealous of people in positions you didn't even wanna be in. Because of course you didn't want to be Eve, and get cheated on multiple times by Rex, or Kate, and her dating dynamics that just weren't what you felt was for you, or even Amanda, that didn't even have to do anything to make a guy so whipped for her, that he decided to look like a kid just to be with her while her curse of forever looking like a child still had a hold over her life. But at least… At least they were wanted.

Rex's eyes widened again.

“WHAT? NO! What the hell? Of course not! You're hot. You're… Beautiful. Hey, don't feel bad about an asshole like me never hitting on you. Guys like me, we just… We never go for people we think are out of our league. We go for accessibility. And you're… Shit, you're the most intimidating person I’ve ever met… In a good way.” You rolled your eyes.

“Atom Eve is not ‘mid’, you jackass.” Rex shook his head.

“Didn't say she was, honestly she's not even my type. I mean, anyone could see that we weren't meant to be together. I just dated her because she came onto me first…” You deadpanned him, unimpressed to be hearing this during your final moments. “Don't look at me like that! We're cool now! We talked about it and she agreed we weren't good. Plus, she's with Mark now…” Your shoulders slumped, defeated, not a single ounce of fight left. “... And if we're gonna point fingers, she was into him while she was with me! So, I’m not totally guilty here…” You gave him the stinky eye, because he was cheating on her at the time. “... Just 98%...”

You sighed, looking away. Staring at nothing. Head empty. Just disappointed.

“Whatever…”

Rex cleared his throat.

“Why is it such a big deal anyway? Sure, you're kind of a loser. Not by my standards!” His voice raised at that. “I don't really care ‘bout that… Never heard anyone saying that sex is overrated? Because it is! Look at me. I used sex all the time just to feel better about myself. All in the past, of course. I’m a changed man.”

You huffed, almost bored, but thankful for the distraction. At this point, you felt hollow. Absolutely empty. Nothing could affect you anymore. For better or worse. You were gonna die anyway.

“Everyone says it's overrated, but that's because everyone has sex… I’m just… Touch starved, I guess. And lonely… I can't remember the last time someone hugged me. Or wanted to spend time with me. Or looked at me. I only held hands with someone, romantically, once. On a double date I was just because someone needed to bring a friend.” You sighed. “Everyone says I’m beautiful, but people don't try to talk to me. No one tries to get my number. And I’ve never even reached the talking stage. All my friends are dating, while I’m just the odd one out…” You pursed your lips. “And everyone tries to give advice by saying ‘the right person will come if you stop looking’, or ‘at the right time’, or ‘you don't need it anyway’. But that's not what bothers me. None of those things are problems to people who don't care. I live my life. I don’t search for it. I don't spend my days thinking about it. I’m not the most romantic person you’ll ever meet… But I’m horny. And alone. I don't need anyone interested in me. But it would be nice to have someone trying every once in a while…” You shrugged your shoulders. “And honestly, it makes me feel insecure. I feel bad thinking I might date someone in the future and they’ll say ‘I don't have a problem with (Y/N)’s exes, because I’m their first’ as if that's a prize, or a quality. No one is worth enough to be that important. But people who are in love say you don't regret those things if you're with the right person. Well, I’m a full grown adult now, and this person never showed up. Maybe they never will. And I’ll end up being a 42 year old loner who everyone pities, and no one understands why I’m alone. I know I would be great. I know I’m a keeper. But… When you get used to being alone, you don't know how to stop. So I guess my viewing on dating is also skewed from that.” You rolled your eyes when they burned again. “And people my age give me weird looks when I say I have so little experience. Because it's not normal. I’m not normal. That's how I feel. I'm weird. There's something wrong with me.” You blew a raspberry, contrasting to the tears rolling down your cheeks. “Not that it matters anymore. We're about to die… FUCK YOU SEISMIC!”

You slumped back against the wall so lazily that your body slid down the rock and dirt underneath you until you were laying down. Your eyes closed shut, ashamed at having vented to someone like Rex, who certainly didn't need to hear about all your paranoias caused by your own mind, and neither understood it.

You spent the few next minutes in silence, and it was horrible to find out that you at least could feel embarrassment.

Rex tugged his mask and goggles off, deposited them on the ground on his other side, took his gloves off and did the same. Then he ran a hand through his ginger and sweaty hair, before tying it in the bun he always wore.

“I could… Help you?” He asked, tentatively.

You whipped your head in Rex's direction, eyes wide, as if you just heard the most absurd idea ever.

“What?”

“Yeah… There's nothing wrong with you, (Y/N). Maybe you’re just unlucky, or maybe everyone is as afraid of you as I am… But, if you're up for it, it would be an honor to spend my last minutes tangled with you. And you would know what it's like to have sex. Not to brag, but I’m quite good at it too, I’m sure you've heard before, so you're in good hands.” He shrugged with a little smile. “No pressure.”

He said no pressure, but when he looked at you like that, it was impossible not to feel compelled. Tan skin, red hair in a slutty bun, thick eyebrows, wide and bright green eyes, meaty lips, each corner pointing up in a grin that assured you everything was going to be fine.

And that's how it happened. That's how you lost your virginity. Between a rock and a hard place.

Minutes later, Invincible rescued you both.

“What does he have that I don't?” Rex glared daggers at the random agent from the GDA you were talking to. Too flirty, in his opinion.

“Hm?” Mark asked, not really paying attention.

“That old geezer (Y/N)’s talking to.” The ginger pointed at him, obnoxiously as ever. Mark’s eyes widened and he begged at the other with his eyes to stop.

“Stop pointing! They’ll see!” Rex just brought his other hand up and flipped at the guy’s back with both hands. Mark groaned and grabbed his arms, forcing them down. “Maybe he's more polite?! I don't know. Why do you care?”

Rex groaned louder than him. Some people around turned their attention on the two of them momentarily, including you. But that was just for a second, before you shrugged your shoulders and you dismissed him. Again. The ginger deflated at losing your attention once more.

“Oh, so he's better than me because his parents raised him?! Nice one, Mark.” He scoffed. “He’s just a stupid fucking nerd cocksucker who works on finance, wears a toupee, lives with his mom and wouldn't even be able to get his micro dick hard on front of someone like (Y/N).”

“... Okay?” Mark crossed his arms. “I thought you were different now.” He lifted an eyebrow. Rex scowled.

“I am! I just- just…” Rex stuttered. “... It doesn't make sense!” He basically screamed, pointing again, exasperated, with both arms out. Mark face-palmed with a sigh, ignoring the eyes on them again.

“Rex… Do you like them?” Rex’s green eyes widened at that, his heart fell to his feet, his muscles froze for a second and a half.

“What? I- no. No, of course not.” His voice came out thinner and higher than usual. Mark tillted his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure? Yes! Yes, I am. Why? Does it look like I ain't?” He scoffed again with a grimace, crossing his arms protectively around himself.

“Kinda.”

“Well, you're wrong!”

“Mhm. Was it out of nowhere or did something happen between you two?”

“Pfff, fuck off.” Mark shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay.” He turned to leave, but Rex stopped him before he could.

“I can't say what happened, past me would, because I was a jerk, which I’m not anymore, but something happened, I just won't say what.” Invincible sighed and rubbed his face.

“And did you talk about it with them?”

“Of course not!”

“You should.”

Rex cried out.

“Terrible advice. Horrible. Shitty. You're the worst friend ever!”

Mark shook his head.

“Then nothing will change! Just think about it. Use your new maturity.” He raised his eyebrows to emphasize his point, while Rex pouted. “It's okay to be jealous, man. But to get them, you have to talk to them.” He patted his shoulder. “Took me long enough to understand that, but you’ll get there.”

Rex let out all the air on his lungs, staring at you with longing. He chewed on the interior of his cheek when he watched you write your number on the guy's hand with a pen you snatched from his chest pocket.

“... You're right. Thanks, man.” Rex mumbled with his jaw tense and fists closed tight. “I’ll talk to them.”

Mark watched wearily as the redhead stumped all the way down the room to get to you. He winced at the prospect of what would happen, but ultimately decided to give his friend a chance, and just wait.

“HEY JACKASS!”

“Oh no…” He mumbled, wincing.

You blinked as you looked up at your colleague approaching, looking furious.

“Oh hey, Rex, what's up?”

“You!” He shoved his pointer finger against the guys's chest. “(Y/H/N) doesn't like ugly bald assholes! Get out of here before I beat you and shove a bomb up your-”

“REX!” You slapped his chest, then watched, speechless, as the poor guy scrambled away from you. “Why’d you do that? He's not even bald…”

“Heh, cutie, you don't know guys like I do. You have a long way ahead yet. You started off just fine with me.” He pointed his two thumbs at his chest, proudly. “I get that it's hard to find someone on my level to compete with for your second time, but please, don't insult yourself by giving ugly losers a chance.” He puffed his chest out. You blinked, mouth falling open.

“... Okayyyy? That actually wasn't going to be the second? That time with you helped me a lot, thanks by the way, I’m way more confident now and I think it shows.” You shrugged. “I went on three dates already and two of them are obsessed with me.” You laughed easily. “Still weird to talk about it though, never thought I'd say something like that, but yeah. Thanks again.”

You patted his chest and walked away.

Mark walked in Rex's direction after he watched you distance yourself from him.

“Mark. That didn't work. You told me it would work.”

“... You look like a kicked puppy. It's… Weird…” He blinked, and crossed his arms. “Also, what you did, that's not what I meant.” He shook his head. “Definitely not.”

“... Did you hear anything?”

He shook his head again.

“Just the part where you screamed at that innocent guy, you should get sued for harassment.”

Rex huffed.

“What do I do now?”

“Try again. Nicer this time.”

“Here. Coffee for you.” Rex left a cup in front of you.

“But I don't drink coffee?” He blushed as red as his hair, so hard that the roseness showed through his tan skin.

“Since when?!”

“Since always?!” You stared at him, confused.

“... Okay. Noted.” You stared at each other in silence, for a moment. “... Let's go on a date!” He blurted.

“What? Why?” You jumped from your seat, shocked out of your sockets.

“Because we had sex!”

“You had sex with half the people you know!”

“Not anymore! Not- not since you.”

You sighed deeply, praying for patience, and holding your eyes from rolling inside your skull, purely out of the kindness on your heart.

“Rex, we can't go out.” Rex’s jaw fell, bewildered.

“W-W-Why not?”

“Because- Are you kidding me? Is this a joke?!” You gestured wildly, as if the answer was obvious. “Why do you want to go out with me?” You placed your hands on your hips and raised your eyebrows, inquiring for a logical answer.

“... Because I’m into you.” You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, sexually. I know you are. We had sex under a rock, you came three times, it was kinda obvious you were attracted to me.” Rex shook his head hastily.

“No! Not like that. I… I think I’m in love with you…” Silence reigned over the room for a couple moments, that felt like an eternity for both of you. You didn't even want to give him an answer, because what do you say to something like that? To someone like him? As for Rex… “... Can't you say something already?!” He exclaimed while shaking his hands, sounding pissed off, but actually desperate.

“... You're not in love with me.” You stated.

“Yes, the fuck I am?”

“No, the fuck you aren't. You might be in love with my guts. Or with intimacy. Or the attention. Or you're having a trauma response to almost dying, and got emotionally dependent on me because I was there, and we kind of comforted each other. But you are not in love with me.” You shook your head, sporting a serious countenance and hugging your torso protectively.

“(Y/N)... That's what you think of me?” You blinked.

“... I don't know. Yes? No? Maybe?” You shook your head and shrugged your shoulders. “What I think doesn't matter. Even if you're a good guy now, I know my luck. You think you're in love with me now because I gave you some attention, and we had sex, and we were on the brink of death.” Rex tried to interrupt you, but you raised your hand, he took a step forward but you took a step back. “But it’s not real. You’ll be entertained with me for a while, then we’ll run out of things to talk about because you're not that interested anymore, and you're just gonna look for me for sex, and then I’m gonna feel like everyone pities me and thinks I’m stupid for being with you, for thinking I actually had a chance at a relationship. And I'll feel like that too. And then it's going to end.” You took another step back, and he took a step forward, his expression looking more crestfallen the more you looked bothered, hurt and defensive, while trying to hide. “You don't want me, Rex. You just want someone. And you might genuinely want someone else, one day. But that person is not me.” You straighten your posture, kicking your vulnerability away, and willing every ounce of determination to show. “Again, thank you for taking that weight off my back, and for making it fun, but don't think for a second I had any hope or intention that it would turn into more than just sex.”

“(Y/N)...”

You faked the same friendly smile you always give everyone, trying your hardest to pretend everything is okay, the future isn't weird, and nothing has changed.

“If you wanna be friends with benefits, that's cool with me.” You shrugged, and walked away to lock yourself in your room.

Rex didn't talk to you again for a while, and you were okay with that. If he was going to act like an idiot, then he could do it away from you. Meanwhile, you distracted yourself with training with the other Guardians, saving people, enjoying time alone — as you were used to —, and sometimes indulging in the attention of those guys you got out of luck, at least while it lasted. Good things were rare for you, so you usually just took what you could get. That didn’t mean you were going to humiliate yourself for crumbs, and that's surely what any ill intentioned person will try to give you

That is, until your peace was disturbed in the middle of the night. You had a hunch about who was knocking on your door, but you were rooting for the possibility that it was just Rudy calling you for an emergency.

But it wasn't, it was Rex. And he was drunk.

“Look… I don't care what you think…” The redhead was so out of it that he needed to hold on the threshold so as not to fall, while the other held his beer and pointed a finger in your general direction. “If I said I’m in love with you… I’m in love with you…” He lost balance for a second, but got a hold of it soon enough. “I’ve never said that to anyone… Anyone… You can… Ask around…” His eyes closed, surely heavy.

“Rex, go to your room.” You mustered all the patience in the world to utter those words as calmly as you could manage.

“No… Now you're gonna… Hear me…” He opened his eyes and chugged the rest of his drink, shooking you to your core. “You blame me… You blame other people… You blame yourself… You blame everyone…” You crossed your arms and tapped your foot at how long it was taking him to formulate sentences. “But the truth is… You can have everything you’ve ever wanted…” He tilted his head, probably because of how heavy it felt. “With me…”

You sighed, exasperated.

“Go to sleep!” You insisted.

“With you?” He giggled, and before you could say anything, he somehow managed to stumble inside your room. You guess it would be the easiest thing to push him out, but you were too nice to watch him fall in the middle of the corridor, despite having too little patience to take care of him throughout the rest of the night. The goal was to get rid of him as soon as possible.

“No, not with me! In your own room! Alone!”

“You're jealous baby? You shouldn't be… I only have eyes for you…” He fell on your bed, basically dead weight, and you wondered if he passed out. “My body is yours…”

You huffed, uncrossed your arms, and tried to pull him out of your bed by pulling on one of his arms, but he was too heavy, and not even in the slightest controlling his weight to help you. You don't even think it's out of pettiness, just drunkness.

“Shut up and get out of here.” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m not perfect… I’m not the best you could get… But I want you… You can…” His face was planted in your mattress, causing his Voice to come out muffled. “Gimme a chance… You're hot…”

“Tsk.”

“But not only that…” Rex turned his head to the side to look at you, looking more awake now, just a little. “You're way, waaayyy out of my league… You're smart and… A-And great…” He blinked slowly. His face was squished against the mattress, causing his full lips to pout, while he stared almost dreamily at you. “Y-You asked me… T-That day… You asked me why I never hit on you… You came straight out of my dreams… And I… I didn't want to get rejected…” He groaned, closed his eyes, and scrunched his face, as if having a bad memory, or a migraine. You hoped he wasn't getting sick. “But then w-we had sex… And it was fucking amazing!” He blew a raspberry. “Just to reject me later.” He sighed deeply.

“And?” You rolled your eyes.

At this point, you just gave up on lifting him for now, and sat down next to his torso on the bed, wondering how to convince him to fuck off out of your room

Sitting down proved to be a bad idea when he inched closer to lay his head on your lap, nuzzling your thighs.

“Don't run from me, baby… I know I’m an idiot… But I’m trying my best to change… Taking constructive criticism and… Respecting opinions… And all…” He left a delicate, barely there, but reverent nonetheless, kiss on your thigh. “And you deserve only the best… Of the best…” He sniffed. “D-Don’t go for a dick l-like Immortal…” Rex lightly nibbled on your flesh, on the same place he left that peck, so delicately that he was basically running his teeth along your skin. “You deserve someone like Mark… And I’m trying to be more like him…” He pouted and frowned as if you had given him an answer he didn't like, but his eyes were still closed. “One chance… Just… You deserve to be loved… You're… The exact opposite of the old me and everything I did… I never wanted to hurt you with that… You're… A constant… You're… Safe… You're… Reliable… You're just… Genuine, and special like that…”

He fell silent suddenly, and you sighed, not really sure which course of action you should take, and even thinking he fell asleep. Until he spoke again, spooking you even.

“Just because it didn't happen yet… Doesn't mean you can't be loved…” He slowly cracked his eyelids open and, with great effort to balance his head, looked up at you. “Please baby, don't say something like that again, it's just… Not true… And I’m gonna… Beat anyone who made you think that…” You let out a weak, wet laugh you didn't even know was on your throat, and swallowed, suddenly finding yourself emotional, while amused, just because of his last words. He looked like a puppy, looking up at you like that. Damn pretty boys. “I know you're lonely… I’m lonely too… We can be… Lonely together… Or whatever cliche shit people say to something like that…” He closed his eyes again, and nuzzled his face on your skin once again, seemingly satisfied to stay there.

Rex let out a soft, happy hum, when you, hesitantly, lifted your hand from the mattress to his mess of red hair, and started rubbing your fingernails against his sensitive scalp without damaging his bun. Sending tingles through his nerves and warming his insides more than the heat from his explosions ever could.

“Rex…”

“Let's just try… Please… If it doesn't work out, that's okay… But… We’re both… Tired of being alone…” You felt your eyes sting. “I know I’m an idiot… But we have to… Try…”

You felt the moment he actually fell asleep, dozing off on your lap, leaving the both of you in a literal and metaphorical uncomfortable position, that would surely leave you regret and pain the next day.

But as you looked down at him, it was just like that day again. Dark and uncomfortable. You feeling desperate while focusing on his stupidly handsome face, with his tan skin, aquiline nose, messy red hair, full lips, dimpled chin, thick eyebrows and long lashes. Part of you wished he would just open his eyelids and look at you with those innocent, sad green orbs again.

And just like that day, you decided to give him a chance.

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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

Text

Kiss, Marry, Avada Kedavra

james potter x fem!reader x regulus black

summary: A game of Snog, Marry, Kill unravels a truth none of you were ready to face. You’ve always loved both James and Regulus—and maybe, just maybe, they’ve always loved each other too. In the quiet after the fire dies,, truths slip out, kisses linger, and love, finally, settles in.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, light angst with a soft resolution, miscommunication, jealousy, fluffy ending :D

wc: 6.2k

a/n: i love jegulus so much like hello??? expect a ton of jegulus content bec they are my guilty pleasure.

masterlist

The Gryffindor common room glows golden with low firelight, charmed lanterns swaying gently with the crackle of the wireless in the background. It's a late night and everything feels hazy at the edges, like the evening is suspended in time, not quite real.

The curtains are half-drawn over the windows and it smells like parchment and smoke and something syrupy sweet, maybe the cider someone poured into their firewhisky. There's laughter echoing up the stairs, but no one else is coming down tonight. Just you and the Marauders and Regulus Black, who shouldn’t be here but is anyway.

Sirius sprawls across an ottoman with one leg thrown dramatically over the arm, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers and a grin that's all teeth. His cheeks are tinged red and he keeps toasting nothing in particular. Every time someone laughs, he acts like he planned it.

James is flushed and leaning too heavily against the side of the couch, talking over the wireless with one hand tangled in your throw pillow and the other gesturing wildly. He’s got that shine in his eyes, the one that only comes out after two or three drinks and something worth fighting for. He’s beautiful in that way that makes your heart ache—too golden, too good.

Remus sits in the corner like a tired professor, legs crossed, drink untouched on the table beside him, eyes scanning the room with the kind of quiet amusement that only grows when everyone else gets louder. Every now and then he mutters a sarcastic comment that makes Sirius bark laughter loud enough to draw attention.

You’re curled on the couch, one knee tucked up and an arm braced behind you, your glass warm in your hand. You’re not drunk, not really, but the heat has settled beneath your skin like sunlight and there’s a slow thrum in your chest that’s not just from the firewhisky. You feel golden too, like if someone looked at you too long, you might light up and reveal something you shouldn’t.

Regulus is beside you. That alone would be enough to set the room tilting. He doesn’t belong here, not in Gryffindor Tower, not with your legs nearly brushing, not with the light catching in his lashes. But he’s here, in jeans and a too-soft jumper with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, sipping slowly like he’s pretending not to taste it. His thigh rests just barely against yours. He hasn't moved it. You haven't either.

He shouldn’t be here, but Sirius didn't throw him out. In fact, Sirius hasn’t said much to him at all, which is more unnerving than outright bickering. There’s history between them, stitched into silences and half-glances. But tonight, Sirius is pretending. Everyone is pretending, in their own way.

You feel Regulus's gaze even when he's not looking at you. Every time you laugh, every time you lean in to speak to James or Sirius or even Remus, there’s a shift, a weight, a pull.

The fire pops. Sirius lurches upright and claps his hands. "Right, I’m bored. We’re playing something."

Remus sighs without resistance, already resigned.

You hide your grin in your glass. Regulus shifts slightly beside you.

And so it begins, the game that always breaks something. Someone is dared to dance on the table. Someone else has to reveal their last kiss. Remus pretends not to care. Sirius throws in increasingly unhinged dares that border on reckless but not cruel. James says something about Quidditch and ends up getting dared to take his shirt off, which he does with an overdramatic flourish.

You put your drink down, stomach flipping.

The warmth in your skin has gone cold.

It begins with Sirius, naturally.

The common room is thick with gold-tinged shadows, the fire popping in protest every time someone shifts too loudly or speaks too sharply. The air feels syrupy, time stretched thin, like everything might dissolve if you reach too hard for it.

Sirius leans forward with a feral gleam in his eyes, cheeks flushed crimson from drink and mischief, looking like the prince of something reckless and collapsing. “Alright,” he says, voice slicing through the lull like a wand slash, “I’m bored of all this sentimental rot. Time to raise the stakes.”

James groans, running a hand through his hair, wild curls catching in the flickering firelight. “Pads, you said that ten minutes ago and someone had to drink ink—”

“Worth it,” Sirius cuts in gleefully. “It’s character building.”

Remus, curled in the armchair like a scholar on holiday, gives a long-suffering sigh and doesn't look up from his drink. “If someone makes me eat another Bertie Bott’s I swear on Merlin’s mismatched socks—”

Sirius snaps his fingers and points. “Moony, howl.”

“No.”

“Come on,” Sirius wheedles, “just once—”

“No,” Remus says again, but softer, and this time he’s smiling despite himself. “You’re drunk.”

“You love it,” Sirius grins, then dramatically swings his attention to James, who’s lounging beside you, elbow on the couch’s back, eyes bright. “Prongs. Dare. Go flirt with that plant in the corner.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Flirt with it?”

“Like your life depends on it,” Sirius says solemnly, one hand over his heart. “Make it swoon.”

“I hate you,” James says, already rising.

“I know,” Sirius calls after him, beaming.

You watch James walk toward the enchanted fern, his steps wobbly but determined. He launches into some horrible, flowery monologue involving leaves and longing and shared root systems. You’re giggling into your drink, shoulders trembling with the effort to keep quiet, and beside you, you feel Regulus shift—just slightly. His arm brushes yours again, but he doesn’t pull away.

He hasn’t moved from your side once.

And James—when he returns, triumphant and grinning—glances not at Sirius, not at Remus, but at Regulus. Just for a moment. Like a flicker of something. Like a question.

Sirius claps as if he’s just crowned a king. “Ten points to House Potter. And now—now, my dear friends—we reach the true heart of the night. The pinnacle of chaos. The moment where reputations die and secrets are born.”

You’re laughing, eyes crinkled and head tipped back, the kind of laughter that feels like exhale after a long, held breath. The firelight flickers soft on your skin, and everything feels just a little golden around the edges. The room is warm in that slow, honeyed way—frayed and familiar, like an old jumper that still smells like home. You can feel the glow of the drinks, the haze of comfort that only comes with people you trust, people who’ve carved their names into your nights over and over again. You’re tucked between them, knees tangled with someone’s, shoulder brushing someone else's, and it feels easy. Safer than it should.

Then Sirius leans forward, and the air shifts.

There’s a glint in his eye, mischief sharpened into something dangerous and gleaming. He says your name, and your heart stutters because it’s Sirius, and he only says your name like that when he’s about to throw you into something wicked. You meet his gaze, cheeks flushed with wine and warmth, and he grins like he already knows he’s won something.

“Snog, Marry, Avada Kedavra,” he says, voice rich with amusement, chin propped on his hand. “Me, James, Reggie.”

And suddenly, everything is quiet. Not empty quiet—heavy quiet. Like the moment before a storm when even the air holds its breath.

You blink, lips parted slightly. You weren’t expecting that. Of course you weren’t. No one was. Not like this. Not with Regulus beside you, his shoulder warm where it brushes yours, his leg just barely resting against yours like an accident that neither of you have corrected. Not with James just across the room, golden and glowing and trying not to look too hard. Not with Sirius, grinning like he wants chaos and knows he’s just handed you the match to light it.

Regulus goes still. Completely. Not a blink, not a breath. His whole body tightens like someone pulled a thread through him and tied it too tight. You can feel it in the way his thigh stiffens against yours, like he wants to disappear into the floorboards or flee entirely.

“Pads,” James warns, low and quiet, like a tether trying to stop a ship from drifting too far.

Sirius just shrugs. “It’s just a game,” he says, but his eyes gleam. He knows exactly what he’s done.

You look around, heart beginning to pulse louder in your ears. Remus is watching you with a raised brow, quiet and exasperated, like he’s seen this train before and knows exactly how it crashes. James is unreadable—shoulders loose, lips curved at the corners—but his fingers are tight around the neck of his bottle and he won’t meet your eyes. Regulus... Regulus is marble. No expression, no movement, only the softest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like a muscle trying to remember how to feel.

You try to laugh, but it doesn’t come out right. It catches in your throat like something sharp. You swallow. Then you say it. Before you can think. Before you can stop.

“Marry James,” you murmur, and your voice is soft, nearly trembling. “Snog Regulus. Sorry, Sirius.”

It’s meant to be playful. Lighthearted. You try to say it with a smile, like it’s just a silly little answer in a silly little game—but the room hears it like it’s scripture. It lands like thunder.

Sirius gasps, hand flying to his chest with mock offense. “Betrayal,” he cries, dramatically throwing his head back like he’s just been shot.

But no one laughs. Not really.

James chuckles—low and short and too quiet. He still doesn’t look at you. Instead, he raises his bottle and takes a long drink, lips tight at the corners, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he swallows it down like the firewhisky burning in his throat.

And Regulus.

Regulus stands.

No words, no protest. Just movement—silent and smooth and deliberate. He places his drink down on the edge of the table with a care that feels like violence, and then he walks out. Straight-backed, shoulders tense, head high, like if he pauses even for a second, everything inside him might spill out. He doesn't look at you. Doesn’t look at anyone. He’s gone before the room even understands what happened.

Silence crashes in his absence like glass.

You sit frozen, fingers curled too tightly around your own glass. Your heartbeat feels too loud, like it’s echoing through your bones. Sirius blinks, confused now, like he didn’t think the game would draw blood. James finally turns to you, and there’s something stormy in his eyes—soft and hurting, like a bruise still blooming beneath his skin.

Remus exhales, long and low. “Well done, Pads,” he says, voice dry and quiet.

No one speaks. No one moves.

There’s nothing left of the game but ashes.

No look back. No expression. No parting word. Not even a sarcastic remark to Sirius or a glance at James or you or the firelight that still touches the curve of his jaw.

He’s gone.

Silence follows him like a tide. It rolls in over all of you, choking the warmth from the room.

Sirius sits up, blinking. “Wait, I didn’t think he’d actually—”

You are frozen. Your glass is heavy in your hand. You don’t trust your voice. You can’t feel your fingertips.

James looks at the door for a long, long moment. Then finally at you. And for the first time all evening, you see his eyes clearly.

They are full of things you can’t name.

You set your glass down.

The warmth has fled. The firelight feels too bright. The silence is pressing against your throat, and all you can think of is the way Regulus didn’t look back.

He walked out like he didn’t want anyone to see his face.

And you—

You let him.

he door clicks shut behind him with a softness that somehow hurts more than a slam. Like even in his exit, Regulus was careful. Deliberate. He didn’t want to wake whatever part of you he just walked away from.

No one speaks.

The fire crackles in the hearth, and suddenly it feels far too loud, like it’s laughing in a room where no one else is breathing. The warm light that once made everything feel golden now paints the room in bronze regret and stretched shadows. You stare at the space where Regulus sat, where his thigh had brushed yours like a secret. The ghost of that closeness still burns along your skin.

Sirius breaks the silence, because of course he does.

He shifts on the ottoman, clears his throat, and forces out a laugh that rings a little too sharp in the heavy air. “Well,” he says, raising his glass in a half-hearted toast to no one, “that escalated quickly.”

No one responds. James doesn’t even look up. Remus is staring at his drink, thumb tracing lazy circles into the condensation on the glass like he’s waiting for it to give him answers. The atmosphere crackles with something unsaid, thick as smoke.

Sirius tries again, voice louder, brighter—too much so. “Come on, it’s just a game. You lot look like someone died.”

Still nothing. He forces a grin that wavers at the edges. “Reggie’s always been dramatic, anyway. Probably went off to write moody poetry about betrayal in his little snake dungeon.”

You don’t laugh. No one does.

The silence stretches, unkind. You can feel Sirius deflating beside it, feel the weight of what he’s trying to ignore, but even he can’t chase the ghosts away this time.

Your heart is thudding like it’s been thrown down a staircase.

“I didn’t think he’d…” you murmur, trailing off. You swallow hard. “I didn’t think he’d leave.”

Sirius shrugs, though there’s a flicker of unease in the motion now. “He’s Reggie. He does that. Gets all twisted up inside and broods like a stormcloud.”

“It wasn’t just the game,” Remus says quietly, and all heads turn. He hasn’t looked up, hasn’t shifted in his seat. “It was the answer.”

That lands like a stone dropped in water, rippling through the room. Sirius stiffens. You open your mouth, then close it again. And James—James finally moves.

He sits up slowly from where he’d slumped against the couch, legs spread, arms resting on his knees like he’s suddenly remembered how to carry weight again. His eyes find yours across the flickering light. They’re soft, dark, and unreadable.

“Do you fancy him?” James asks, voice quiet—so quiet it almost disappears into the fire’s crackle.

The words catch you like a hook. You blink, startled. “What?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Regulus. Do you fancy him?”

You could lie. You could joke. You could throw the question into the fire like it never mattered. But something in his expression stops you. There’s no jealousy there. No anger. Just something hollow and waiting. A kind of sadness that looks like it’s been living in him for a long time.

You deflect instead. “It was just a game.”

James doesn’t push. He just nods slowly, eyes dropping to his hands. “Right.”

Sirius makes a noise in the back of his throat, loud and desperate. “Can we please not turn this into some tragic bleeding poetry circle? Regulus overreacted. It’s nothing.”

“It’s never nothing with him,” Remus mutters, still tracing the rim of his glass.

Sirius rounds on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Remus lifts his eyes then, slow and tired, like he’s been watching a storm build for years. “He’s always been bad at running from things. Especially when he cares.”

The words echo like a prophecy.

You sink further into the couch, heart twisting. The thrum of the firewhisky is gone now, replaced with a cold that lives behind your ribs. You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You didn’t think a silly game, a stupid answer, would splinter everything in two. But you remember the way Regulus looked at you sometimes, like he was memorizing your laugh. Like your warmth was the only thing holding him to the earth.

Maybe you should have seen this coming. Maybe you did, and you just didn’t want to believe it.

You reach for your glass, but your hand trembles, so you let it fall back into your lap. The room is full of people but feels emptier than it did when you first walked in.

Outside, the wind howls softly against the tower walls, as if carrying some echo of the boy who left too quietly and too soon.

James is still watching you.

And in his eyes, you see the question again—not just about Regulus, but about everything. The way you laugh, the way you choose, the way you burn. The way you mean it.

You look away.

And somewhere in the castle, you imagine Regulus still walking, still angry, still bleeding quietly through all the places you didn’t know you’d touched.

Sleep is elusive, slipping between your fingers every time you think you might catch it. The fire’s low, casting flickers of gold and shadow over the room, but it’s not enough to soothe the restless energy humming in your chest. Your blanket is twisted around your legs like it’s trying to anchor you to the bed, but you can’t stay still. You keep running through tonight in your mind, replaying each moment, each kiss, each fleeting glance. Regulus’s sharp breath, the weight of his eyes as they searched yours in the dim light of the common room. James, quiet, hurt, too. You never meant to hurt him. Not like that. But how could you keep pretending that what you felt for Regulus wasn’t real? That your feelings for James weren’t just as deep, just as consuming?

It’s a tangle, a knot of affection, jealousy, and fear, all wrapped together in a way that makes you feel like you’re drowning and floating all at once. Maybe that’s what love is. Maybe it’s just the mess. Maybe it’s more than that, too.

You slip out of bed, your feet brushing the cold floorboards. The silence of the dormitory surrounds you, punctuated only by the soft creak of the house and the rustle of your own breath. The fire downstairs crackles faintly, the heat rising in the house like a whisper. You know the others are asleep, or pretending to be. James, probably wrapped in his own thoughts, somewhere in his mind still turning over the moment in the common room when you picked Regulus, when everything shifted. Regulus, who might be lying awake, waiting for a moment like this, but unsure whether it will come.

You’re not sure what you’re hoping for when you go downstairs, but you know you can’t stay where you are. Not with all the things unspoken between you, and the ache still pressing against your ribs, your heart still throbbing in time with the memory of that kiss. You reach the bottom of the stairs and pause, feeling the weight of the night around you.

A soft knock.

You stop.

You recognize it immediately—the hesitation in the knock, the softness like someone afraid of disturbing the quiet. Regulus. You don’t need to ask. You know him too well. You walk to the door, and before you even reach for the handle, the door opens, and there he is.

Regulus stands before you, his hair messy, like he’s run his fingers through it a hundred times, his eyes rimmed with red, a faintness to his posture like he’s been holding himself together with sheer will. He looks at you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he stands—unprotected, as though the walls he’s built around himself are beginning to crumble.

You stand still, waiting, as his eyes flicker from the ground to your face. The room is quiet, the only sound is the distant crackling of the fire in the other room. And then he speaks.

“Did you mean it?” His voice is hoarse, as though he hasn’t spoken in days, like the words are coming from a place too deep to touch.

You blink, a little lost, a little confused by the rawness of his question. For a moment, you don’t even know what he’s asking. But then it hits you, the weight of it, the way he’s looking at you.

“Snog. Marry. Kill,” he repeats, and there’s a thin edge to his words, but it’s not sharp—just the remnants of something fragile, something broken. “You picked me. Always me.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly tight. You don’t even have to think about it. You know. You know what you’ve always known, deep down. You’ve always picked him. You’ve always felt him, a part of you, even when you shouldn’t have. Even when you tried to pretend it was all about James, that it was easier to stay in the familiar.

But Regulus… Regulus is never easy.

You open your mouth to answer, but the words come out like a confession instead.

“It wasn’t a game to me.” You see his expression flicker—something like relief, and then guilt. The walls are starting to come down, but so is he. You can see it in the way his body language shifts, in the way his hands twitch at his sides, like he’s unsure if he should reach for you or stay where he is. The ache in your chest only deepens.

Regulus’s eyes soften, a crack appearing in the armor he’s been wearing for so long, the carefully crafted mask that keeps him distant from everyone who’s ever tried to get too close. He steps forward, slow, almost cautiously, and for a moment, it’s like time pauses. You don’t move. He doesn’t move. You just breathe, and the world feels small, the space between you tight and yet infinite. And then his hand reaches for you, as if you were something delicate, something fragile. His fingertips graze your cheek, and it’s almost like he’s checking to see if

He exhales shakily, his lips parting like he wants to say something back, but nothing comes. And you wonder how long he’s been holding it all in. How long he’s wanted to ask, do I matter to you?, and never found the courage.

“You’ve always mattered,” you say, answering the unspoken question. “Even when I shouldn’t have let you.”

Regulus closes his eyes for a beat, then opens them slowly, like it costs him something. “I didn’t mean to leave the room like that,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just—I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I heard you say my name and I forgot how to exist.”

You laugh, watery and trembling. “You idiot,” you say, stepping close enough to touch him now. “You could’ve just asked me.”

“I didn’t think I had the right to.”

You reach up, gently brushing your fingers along the edge of his jaw, and he leans into the touch like it hurts him to be touched and hurts worse not to be.

“Well,” you say quietly, “you do.”

He looks at you for a long time. Really looks. And then something in him shatters softly, the way glass fractures beneath snow.

He kisses you like it’s not the first time. Like maybe it’s the thousandth in a dream he’s been having every night since the day he met you. It’s slow and hesitant at first, the kind of kiss that asks for permission more than it demands anything—but then it deepens, and he holds your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish between his fingers. You kiss him back just as carefully, just as desperately. And it’s not perfect. It’s messy with emotion and too much silence. But it’s real.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, his forehead rests against yours. His breath mingles with yours in the quiet. He still hasn’t let go.

“I should’ve told him,” Regulus whispers. “I should’ve told James before this.”

You nod, lips brushing his as you speak. “He knows. Maybe not everything, but he knows something’s shifted.”

Regulus closes his eyes again, pain flickering across his face. “He deserves more than this.”

“So do you,” you say.

He opens his eyes. And for the first time, you see it. Not just the softness or the sorrow. But the love. Raw and honest and terrifying in its intensity.

you’re real.

He leans in, his breath catching for a moment, and then his lips meet yours. Soft, hesitant. And it’s not like the fiery kiss you imagined. It’s gentle, almost afraid, as if he’s afraid that touching you, kissing you, will make everything real in a way he doesn’t know how to handle.

But when he kisses you, it’s like the world shifts. Like the pieces finally fall into place. It’s like coming home, and yet it’s terrifying, too. Because this isn’t just a kiss. This is a confession, too, one that you’ve been holding back for far too long. The guilt is there, clinging to the edges of your mind. The guilt for not telling James sooner, for making him feel like he was second when you know, deep down, he’s not. But the love that threads through the kiss is undeniable, pure, as much a part of you as your own heartbeat.

And then, when you pull away, there’s a breathless pause. Regulus’s forehead rests against yours, his eyes closed, his breath shallow. His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but you hear the words clearly. “I haven’t told James.”

You don’t say anything right away. You know. You’ve known for a while. You’re not sure how James doesn’t see it, how he doesn’t feel it too—the way things have shifted between the three of you. The way love seems to thread between all of you, not just in pieces, but as something whole, something tangled and real.

“I think he already knows,” you murmur, the words carrying a weight that you don’t fully understand. But you know James. He’s always been observant. He must have felt it, too.

Regulus doesn’t answer. He just opens his eyes and looks at you. There’s a vulnerability in him now, something laid bare. And, in that moment, you realize something else—that this isn’t just about him and you. This is about all three of you. The three of you tangled in a mess of affection and longing, and you don’t know how it happened, but it has.

You pull him closer, your hand sliding to his wrist. “I think he loves you too,” you whisper. The words feel like they’ve been waiting to be said, like the tension that’s been simmering finally has a name. You can feel Regulus’s pulse under your fingertips, racing like his heart is trying to catch up with the revelation.

Regulus’s lips press together in a thin line, like he’s trying to hide the emotions that have suddenly overtaken him. But it’s too late. You can see it in his eyes. The way he’s looking at you, like you’ve given him something he wasn’t ready to accept, but now that it’s out in the open, he can’t run from it. Not anymore.

The silence that follows is thick with the unsaid, the three of you standing on the edge of something undefined, something neither of you knows how to navigate. But you feel it, and it feels like the truth. All three of you, tied together by something deep and messy and beautiful.

And when the moment passes, and Regulus steps back, he doesn’t leave. Not this time. He stays with you, and it feels like you’ve taken the first step. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Love like this doesn’t fade. It grows. It bends, it stretches, it aches. But it’s there, in the quiet, in the night. It’s always been there. And it will be there when James wakes up tomorrow, and when Regulus finally decides to face what’s been building between all of you. It’s always been more than a game, more than a dare.

After Regulus kisses you—soft, desperate, like it’s something he's not sure he deserves—he doesn’t pull away immediately. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven, like he’s trying to commit this to memory in case he has to run again. Like this moment might not be real.

And maybe it isn’t. Maybe you’ve fallen asleep by the fire and you’re dreaming. Because this doesn’t feel possible. His hands are cold, but they hold you like he’s afraid to let go. His voice is barely a whisper when he says, “It’s always been you.”

And you’re about to answer when the creak of a floorboard stops both of you cold.

You look up.

James.

He stands in the doorway like a ghost summoned by grief, barefoot and quiet in the dim light. A hoodie’s been thrown hastily over his pajama shirt, the sleeves too long, swallowed in shadows. His curls are mussed like he’s run his hands through them over and over again, like maybe he’s been pacing outside the door for longer than you’ll ever know.

His eyes move—slowly, carefully—from Regulus’s hands on your waist to your flushed cheeks to the fragile, invisible thread stretched taut between all three of you.

Regulus jerks back like he’s been burned, like just touching you in James’s presence is some sort of betrayal carved into bone.

“James,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “I didn’t—”

“It’s alright,” James says. But it isn’t. Not really. His voice trembles, cracking on the last syllable like a note gone sharp. There’s something rigid about him, something braced, as if he’s holding up a dam with his bare hands and praying it doesn’t burst.

“It’s alright,” he says again, softer now. But his eyes betray him. They’re too bright.

You move before you even think to. You don’t know if it’s instinct or guilt or just love reshaping itself, but suddenly you’re standing in front of him, the silence pulsing loud between heartbeats.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say, the words rushing out like they’ve been waiting all night. “It wasn’t some joke, or some passing thing. It wasn’t—God, James, it wasn’t a game.”

He nods, slow, like he’s trying to absorb it, trying to believe it. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know it wasn’t. But I didn’t know…” His voice catches, a flicker of something breaking loose in his chest. “I didn’t know where I fit.”

And maybe that’s the worst part. Not the kiss. Not the love. Not even the secret of it. Just that he doesn’t know if he belongs anymore.

Regulus steps forward, the movement hesitant, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach for something but too scared he’ll only make it worse.

“You fit,” Regulus says, and it’s not a plea—it’s a truth. A steady, unwavering truth that shakes anyway. “You always fit. You were the part that held everything together.”

James blinks hard, lips parted, but says nothing.

Regulus swallows. His next words come slower, as if they’ve had to fight their way out. “I didn’t just run from her,” he says. “I ran from you, too.”

The silence that follows is loud. Heavier than anything said aloud.

James looks at him—really looks at him—and you watch something flicker in his eyes. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something like recognition. Something ancient. Shared.

“You didn’t have to,” James says, finally. “You were always allowed to stay.”

Regulus’s expression crumples. His jaw clenches, but the guilt is already written across his face. “I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to stay when everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers.”

“I would’ve held you,” James says. “Both of you. I would’ve—” He cuts himself off, pressing his fingers to his mouth like the words are knives now, too sharp to voice.

You reach for his hand, and this time, he lets you.

“Then let us hold you now,” you whisper.

And for a moment, all three of you just stand there. Breathing the same air. Holding the same hurt. Three people who loved each other in different ways, wrong ways, true ways. Three people who broke each other just enough to still bleed when they speak.

James exhales shakily. His fingers tighten around yours.

“You both drive me mad.” he mutters.

Regulus huffs a laugh that sounds too close to crying. “That’s fair.”

James looks at him, and for the first time, there's no accusation in it. Just weariness. And maybe a little bit of hope.

“I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t matter,” James says, voice low.

And so you let everything unravel.

You all end up on the floor in front of the dying fire, the three of you pulled by something quieter than gravity, something deeper than exhaustion. It's not planned. No one says it. You simply stay. Because to move would be to break the fragile magic that's settled over the room like snowfall.

The fire burns low, all heat and flicker, painting the walls in strokes of amber and gold. It crackles softly, like it’s trying not to wake you. The world outside the common room doesn't exist anymore. There’s only this space, this hush, this breath between heartbeats where nothing has to be said, because everything is understood.

Regulus is the first to settle, curling in close to your side like he’s done it a thousand times in secret dreams. He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, his breaths slow and uneven, as if he’s still trying to believe this is real. His hand rests against your waist, fingers twitching once, then stilling, like he’s afraid to be the one who lets go.

James drapes himself over the other side of you, his head resting on your chest, curls brushing your chin. His arm winds beneath your back, warm and steady, and his other hand—without even thinking—reaches out to touch Regulus’s wrist. Just a graze, a whisper of skin on skin. But Regulus doesn’t pull away. He exhales instead. Like he’s finally let himself breathe.

For a long while, no one speaks. The silence is soft, companionable. The kind that only comes when people trust each other enough not to fill it.

And then, somewhere in that half-lucid drift between waking and sleep, James mumbles, “So… does this mean I get to kiss you both now?”

His voice is thick with drowsiness and a hint of cheek, curling at the edges like a smile under warm blankets. You let out a soft laugh, startled and fond, and feel the way your chest rises beneath him. The sound stirs Regulus too, who lets out a quiet huff that might be a sigh or might be a yes. Maybe both.

You press a kiss to James first, tilting your head to find him in the firelight. It’s slow, unhurried, all warmth and wonder, the kind of kiss that blooms like spring after a long, aching winter. His lips are familiar, but tonight they feel new, reverent. Like he's not just kissing you—he's thanking you, forgiving you, choosing you all over again.

When you pull back, his smile is sleepy and so terribly soft. You stroke your thumb across his cheek, brushing a bit of ash or maybe starlight, and turn toward Regulus.

You kiss him next, and it feels different than the others—like you’re anchoring him. Like you’re steadying his hands that still tremble slightly when they touch you. There’s no urgency this time. No fear. Just the truth you’ve both been circling for years. The truth that says, I see you. I want you. I’m not running anymore.

And then you watch, heart fluttering like a bird in your chest, as Regulus shifts, just slightly, to face James.

They hesitate. Of course they do. There are years between them made of silence and sharp glances and things unsaid. But something in the air tonight—maybe it’s the firelight, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the way James hasn’t stopped touching him even once—makes the hesitation soften.

Regulus leans in first. Their noses bump awkwardly, and Regulus pulls back with a grimace like he’s about to mutter sorry, but James is already laughing quietly. He reaches up, cups Regulus’s cheek with one hand, and tilts their faces together.

Their kiss is clumsy. Gentle. New. But it deepens, slow and tentative, until even the fire seems to hush for them. Regulus melts into it like he’s surprised the world didn’t end. James kisses him like he’s been waiting for this since before he even knew he wanted it.

When they break apart, neither of them says a word. They don’t need to. James rests his forehead against Regulus’s for a moment before slumping back against your shoulder, and Regulus follows, the three of you falling into each other like the pieces of a puzzle that have finally, finally clicked into place.

You fall asleep tangled like that—limbs draped over limbs, heads resting against chests, breaths syncing in rhythm. There is no plan for tomorrow. No fear about what comes next. Just this: the heat of the fire, the warmth of skin, the safety of love freely given and finally returned.

When you wake, it’s to sunlight streaming through the windows, soft and golden. It spills over all of you like a blessing, like forgiveness. Regulus is still tucked beneath your arm, his hair a mess of black curls, his face more peaceful than you’ve ever seen it. James is sprawled over both of you, one leg thrown carelessly across Regulus’s, his fingers still laced with yours.

The common room is silent. Still. Except for the rise and fall of three chests breathing the same air.

And for the first time in your life, there are no masks left to wear. No hiding. No pretending. Just this moment. Just this truth. Just love, quiet and real and infinite.

…And for the first time in forever, it feels like all of you are home.

A peaceful silence settles again, golden and slow. You think maybe you'll all drift back to sleep, wrapped in this strange, perfect warmth—until James, without opening his eyes, mumbles:

“So now that we’ve all snogged… are we playing kiss, marry, kill? 'Cause I call dibs on marrying both of you. But I will kill whoever stole my blanket last night.”

Regulus, eyes still closed, deadpans, “It was you, Potter. You cocooned like a moth.”

You burst into laughter. James groans. And just like that, the morning begins—ridiculous, tangled, and perfect.God, for once you were grateful for sirius’ stupid muggle games, because home never felt quite like this before.

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alygator77 · 6 months ago

Text

.˚✶˚. motherhood and matrimony ・❥・ wrapped in love .˚✶˚.

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ series summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ chapter summary. christmas morning at the gojo estate has always been a display of elegant grandeur—but this year, the true magic is found in the quiet, heartfelt moments shared with you. for satoru, it’s a holiday that finally feels like home.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. pure tooth rotting fluff. satoru being the best step dad. lots of domesticity. it does get a bit suggestive at times.

ꨄ words: 12.6k

ꨄ a/n. this is a part of my series motherhood and matrimony, however it can also be read as a fluffy holiday oneshot (you'll probably appreciate some of the references more if you've read the series though!) this entire ch is written from satoru's perspective! also, for those that have read the series, i would definitely read this after ch 7 ♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist ꨄ series masterlist ꨄ

side ch // wrapped in love

Christmas had always been a spectacle at the Gojo estate. Extravagant decorations that seemed to glisten with the weight of their price tags, a towering tree so grand it nearly grazed the vaulted ceilings, and a meticulously curated guest list for the Gojo’s annual holiday gala.

Business, wrapped in tinsel—topped with a bow.

Yes, for Satoru Gojo, Christmas always felt cold. Not the kind of cold that nipped at your nose or made you long for a crackling fireplace—it was the emptiness of grandeur.

Growing up in the Gojo estate, Christmas wasn’t a celebration; it was a stage. Takemi Gojo orchestrated the performance with precision, weaving an illusion of family warmth while the frigid reality of their relationship sat heavy within the corners of the mansion.

Twinkling lights adorned every surface, crystal ornaments shimmered under the tree’s glow, and tables overflowed with feasts meant to impress, not to savor.

His father had called it tradition. Satoru had called it lonely.

And from a young age, Satoru had learned that gifts were currency, not sentiment—the meaning of the season buried beneath layers of duty and pretense.

But this year… something was different.

Satoru lounges on the couch, long legs sprawled out as he watches you and Haru at the tree. You crouch low, holding an ornament in your hand, gently guiding Haru as she reaches up to find the perfect spot.

Her giggles fill the room like the sound of bells, bright and contagious, and she claps her tiny hands when the ornament finally stays.

Turning to her, your smile and the warmth in your expression is enough to melt something in Satoru’s chest.

It’s a feeling he can’t quite name—foreign, yet achingly familiar. Like standing outside during the first snowfall—the cold biting at your cheeks, but the beauty of it stealing your breath.

For the first time, Christmas doesn’t feel like an obligation. It feels like… home.

But it isn’t the decorations, nor the estate’s grandeur—it’s you. It’s Haru. It’s the way you’ve taken this cold, hollow place and filled it with laughter, warmth, and life. It’s the way you’ve turned this house into a home—a home he doesn’t want to leave.

“What do you think, Satoru?”

He blinks, glancing up at you—your voice pulling him out of his reverie. You were holding up two ornaments, one red and one blue, with a quirked brow and a soft smile.

Haru, meanwhile, was standing on her tippy toes, trying to reach the highest branch she could manage.

“Oh, uh… hmm?”

You roll your eyes with mock exasperation, shaking the ornaments for emphasis.

“Red or blue? We can’t have both; it’ll clash. Focus, Gojo.”

His lips twitch into a lazy grin as he leans back, folding his arms behind his head.

“Oh, definitely blue,” he says with a teasing lilt. “It matches my vibe better. Don’tcha think?”

You snort, rolling your eyes with a grin—muttering something about his ego—and as you turn back to Haru, Satoru takes the opportunity to watch you again.

The sight of you—your hair falling loose over your shoulders, the way your smile makes even your oversized sweater seem elegant—It isn’t just the room you light up. It’s him.

‘Gifts are just another transaction, Satoru. A display of wealth and power.’

His father’s voice lingers in his mind, sharp and cold as ever. But you—you’ve shown him a different kind of wealth. One that can’t be bought, or wrapped in shiny paper.

And for the first time, he feels it. Not the chill of the season, but… the warmth of belonging.

But with that warmth comes something else—something he’s not used to.

Panic.

Christmas is just days away, and for the life of him, he has no idea what to give you.

He’s Satoru Gojo. He could buy you anything. Diamonds. Designer clothes. Hell, an entire island, if he felt like it. Money has never been an obstacle—it’s always been a solution.

But when it comes to you, every option feels… wrong.

You—who sighs in exasperation at the estate’s staff, grumbling about how you’re perfectly capable of pouring your own glass of water, thank you very much.

You—who pokes at the extravagant feasts from world-class chefs, saying they could feed an entire village, yet they still couldn’t make your favorite comfort food the way you liked it.

You—who wrinkles your nose at his pretentious lifestyle, rolling your eyes every time he casually mentions the price of something without even realizing.

A necklace dripping in diamonds? You’d probably say it was heavy to wear. A vacation to a private island? You’d tell him you’d rather spend the time with Haru in the backyard, making snow angels.

A car? A house? Exquisite art? Fuck, a horse?

None of it feels enough.

He groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, cursing himself under his breath.

When did this happen? When did he get so comfortable letting his guard down around you, so at ease that now, sitting in his own home, he feels utterly vulnerable? Utterly lost?

And worse, he knows you can probably sense it.

“Satoru.”

Your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, drawing his attention back to you.

Standing a few feet away, the soft glow from the Christmas tree casts a gentle light on your features—a slight furrow to your brow as you tilt your head, holding a new ornament in your hand.

“Are… you okay? You look like you’re plotting something.”

He straightens instantly, schooling his features into an easy grin, but it’s a little too late for that—you’re watching him too closely, as if trying to unravel the puzzle in his head.

“Me? Plotting? Never.” He leans back, resting an arm across the top of the couch. “Just wondering if we need a bigger tree. This one’s lookin’ a little small.”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously, and for a moment, he wonders if you can see straight through him.

You always do.

“Satoru,” you deadpan, and fuck—he knows he’s lost. “This tree is ten feet tall.”

He shrugs, as though you’ve just proven his point.

“Yeah… but like… wouldn’t fifteen feet look better? That’d be a real statement.”

Your groan comes with a roll of your eyes, but it’s paired with the grin he was hoping for.

“Sure, let’s just knock down the ceiling while we’re at it. Maybe put the Empire State Building in here for good measure.”

He chuckles, relieved by your sarcasm, and for a moment, his deflection works—you turn away, back to the tree. He watches you carefully loop another ornament onto a branch while Haru tugs at your sweater, babbling about a penguin ornament.

But as soon as your attention has shifted, it’s back—that gnawing uncertainty, that quiet panic clawing at the edges of his mind.

Good lord, when did this get so hard?

He’s Satoru Gojo. He can charm his way through anything, pull the strings of the world’s most powerful people, and yet he’s paralyzed by the thought of picking out a gift for you.

The longer he thinks about it, the worse it gets. You deserve something perfect—something thoughtful. But what does perfect even look like?

What do you give someone who doesn’t want anything money can buy? How does he give you a gift that carries the weight of what you’ve given him?

“Santa’s gonna like our tree, right, Mama?”

Haru’s voice rings up like a bright chime, tugging him back to the room—to reality.

He watches as you glance down, and a soft smile blooms across your lips as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind Haru’s ear. That look—the one you reserve for her, the kind that could thaw glaciers—hits him squarely in the chest.

“He’ll love it, sweetheart.”

Your voice is as light and sure as the snow falling gently outside the frosted windows, and Haru grins, pivoting to Satoru now.

“’toru!” her face lights up like the tree behind her, “Santa’s coming! He’s gonna bring presents, and cookies, and he loves hot cocoa!”

Raising a brow, Satoru slouches further back into the couch with that practiced ease—masking the chaos still whirling behind his nonchalant façade.

“Hot cocoa, huh? With marshmallows?”

Haru nods so hard, her little curls bounce and her entire being vibrates with conviction.

“He loves marshmallows! And cookies. And maybe waffles too.”

Satoru huffs out a soft laugh, his smile easing.

“That’s a pretty sweet deal for Santa,” he murmurs.

With all the grace of a puppy on ice, Haru scrambles up onto the couch cushion beside him, wiggling her way into place. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, though it’s far from quiet.

“Mama makes the best hot cocoa. We should have some.”

The confidence in her tone makes him snort quietly, and he raises a brow—playing along.

“The best, huh? Mmm.. I dunno. That’s a pretty big claim, kid.”

“It’s true!” she insists.

And then there’s your laughter—soft, light, and entirely unguarded as it floats from behind him. It’s a sound he’s learned to treasure, one he’d bottle up if he could, a warmth that sinks beneath his skin and quiets everything else.

He swears it’s one of his favorite sounds.

“You know what? That’s a good idea,” you say, ruffling Haru’s hair as you step behind the couch.

But then, you pause beside him, leaning down to press the faintest kiss to his temple—a feather-light touch, and it strikes him like a match catching fire, warmth unfurling from that single point of contact.

Oh, how he loves the touch of your lips.

“I’m gonna grab some hot chocolate—with marshmallows, of course,” your hand brushes briefly through his hair before pulling away. “Watch Haru real quick, yeah?”

Tilting his head back to look at you, he swallows down the tightness in his chest, masking it all with another lazy smirk—because he doesn’t know how to show you just how much that tenderness means to him. How much he loves when you touch him like that, so unthinking, like it’s natural.

And for Satoru, masking it is second nature—it always has been.

“Yeah, yeah… I’ve got it covered,” he waves you off with a dramatic flick of his hand.

You roll your eyes with an affectionate huff, and he lets himself watch you for a moment longer as you disappear into the kitchen, your humming trailing softly behind you like a ribbon that tethers him to you.

And then, silence.

The moment the door swings shut, he lets out a slow, quiet exhale, the tension uncoiling from his shoulders as if he’s been holding himself together for too long.

He slumps back against the couch, his head tipping against the cushion, feeling the ghost of your touch where your fingers had been in his hair. With a sigh, he runs a hand through the same spot, smoothing the strands down absently as if he can capture what’s already gone.

It’s ridiculous how much you’ve undone him. How a single kiss, a fleeting touch, can dismantle the person he’s spent so long pretending to be.

Because in those fleeting moments, when it’s just him and the lingering warmth of you, Satoru Gojo—the man who never lets his mask slip—realizes just how tightly wound he’s become. Just how much of himself he’s spent trying to hold it all together when, in moments like that, you make it so damn easy for him to fall apart.

He closes his eyes for just a breath, letting himself feel it—the calm, the weight of it all, the way his heart stirs.

But then—

A sudden rustling sound shatters the quiet, pulling him sharply from his thoughts. One eye cracks open, blinking lazily as he scans the room.

His gaze lands on Haru, and the breath leaves his chest in a sigh that’s somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

There she is—somehow, in the span of seconds—teetering precariously on the armrest of the couch, her tiny arms outstretched like she’s on a tightrope, her face scrunched in determination.

Satoru stares at her for a beat, utterly disheveled and utterly defeated. His head tilts lazily to the side as he watches her.

“Oi,” he drawls, dragging a hand down his face with a groan that’s more exasperation than anything. “Munchkin. What do you think you’re doing?”

Haru doesn’t even flinch. She grins, wide and triumphant, wobbling dangerously like a baby deer.

“I’m tall, ‘toru!”

He blinks at her, deadpan, before letting his hand fall limply to his lap.

“Yeah? Well, you’re also gonna fall on your face.”

“Nu-uh!” she insists, wiggling her feet against the cushion for emphasis.

“Kid…” He straightens with a reluctant sigh, reaching out with one hand, just in case she topples over. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. You do realize your mom’ll murder me if she catches you pulling stunts like this, right?”

Haru giggles—loud, unbothered, entirely unfazed.

“It’s okay. I’m good!” she declares proudly, as if she’s just conquered Mount Everest.

“You sure about that?” Satoru raises a brow, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. “Because… you’re about two seconds away from face-planting into the tree. And I’ll tell ya right now—Santa’s not gonna bring you anything if you wreck his setup.”

Haru freezes, her expression suddenly serious.

“He won’t?”

Satoru shrugs, as casual as ever, though there’s a sly gleam in his eye.

“Nope. Santa’s big on the whole naughty or nice thing, you know? Pretty sure ‘tree-destroyer’ lands you on the naughty list.”

Haru’s jaw drops like he’s just shattered her entire world.

“But I’m nice!”

“Yeah, well…” he sighs dramatically, “You’re not exactly convincing me right now, short stack.”

She gasps—a flurry of tiny limbs as she clambers down from the armrest in a dramatic tumble onto the cushions.

“I’m nice!” she insists again, louder this time, as if sheer volume might make it more convincing.

Satoru huffs out a laugh, ruffling her hair in an act of surrender.

“Yeah, yeah… crisis averted, princess. You’re nice. I’ll put in a good word for you with the big guy. Just… no more stunts, kay? Santa’s watching.”

She squints at him suspiciously, like she’s testing the limits of his authority over Santa Claus, before finally settling back with a small huff.

But then, Haru shifts entirely to look at him—her brows pinching together, her tiny face suddenly serious.

The shift catches him off guard—how a two-year-old can go from giggling chaos to this kind of weighty focus will always baffle him.

“‘toru.”

He quirks a brow, leaning an elbow against the back of the couch.

“…yeah?”

“You hafta tell Santa to get Mama something.”

The words catch him off guard. His grin falters just a fraction as he blinks, straightening a little to study her tiny, earnest face.

How the hell does this kid always seem to know exactly what’s on his mind?

“Oh yeah? Something for your mom, huh?”

Haru nods solemnly, as if she’s just handed him the most important mission of his life.

“Mhmm. Santa forgot last year.”

At that, his heart stumbles, the smile fading from his face.

“W-What? He… forgot?”

“Uh-huh.” Haru props herself on her elbows, swinging her feet idly against the couch. “Mama didn’t get a present.”

The simplicity of her words hits him like a punch to the gut. Innocent and unassuming, but full of a truth she doesn’t fully understand.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away, his mind suddenly swirling.

That unsettles him. The fact that no one thought to bring you anything at all?

You—who pours so much of yourself into others, who has brought a warmth into his life he didn’t think he deserved—spent last Christmas with nothing?

No gifts. No family. No one?

He hates the thought. He knows it shouldn’t surprise him though... you’ve never asked for anything, and it’s not hard to fill in the blanks.

You don’t talk much about your family—he knows there’s distance there, silence where there should be connection—and Naoya, well… he was never part of the picture. But still, the realization knocks something loose in Satoru, a quiet ache settling into the spaces he didn’t know could hurt.

“It’s no fair, ‘toru. Mama’s nice too!”

Satoru swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair as he forces a smile back onto his face.

“Yeah… you’re right, kid…” he murmurs quietly. “Your mom’s on the very top of the nice list.”

Haru beams, her hands clasping together like she’s already imagining the magic of Christmas morning.

“Tell Santa, ’kay? Mama needs something really nice.”

The simplicity of her words hits him like a sledgehammer.

Something really nice.

As if it’s that easy, as if fixing the pieces of your world can be done with one perfect gift. But to Haru, it is that easy. Because to her, Santa fixes things.

And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo feels the weight of expectation—not from a boardroom, or a title, or the world that demands he be untouchable—but from a tiny girl who trusts him implicitly to fix the one thing he’s been so afraid to get right.

Fucking hell. Now he’s back to square one. What the hell is he going to get you?

He leans back into the couch, one arm draped lazily along the back, but his mind is already turning—the gears clicking into place.

“Something… nice, huh?” he says softly, more to himself than to her.

Haru beams, her little legs kicking against the cushion again as she settles back, satisfied that her request has been heard.

“Yup!”

Satoru tilts his head toward her, studying her with a thoughtful squint. Kids always seem to know the answers to things grown-ups can’t figure out. She’s managed to pry into his thoughts with frightening accuracy already, so maybe—just maybe—she’s his best shot at figuring this out.

After all, who knows you better than Haru?

“Well…” he says after a beat, angling a glance toward her, “what do you think Santa should bring your mom then?”

Haru gasps—like this is the most important question she’s ever been asked—and sits up straight, her little face lighting up.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He flicks her nose lightly, earning a squeak and a giggle. “You know your mom better than anyone, right? So… what do you think she wants for Christmas?”

Haru’s brows furrow as she thinks very hard, her tiny hands tapping against her chin for emphasis. Satoru watches her expectantly, the smallest spark of hope flickering to life in his chest.

“Well…” she starts slowly, drawing the word out as though she’s stalling for time. “Mama likes cookies.”

Satoru blinks. “Uh… cookies?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods solemnly, as if this is the most serious answer in the world. “Chocolate cookies. With milk. I like them too.”

Ah… right. To Haru, the solution is simple—because to a two-year-old, happiness is simple. And for a moment, Satoru envies her for it.

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he humors her.

“Of course you do, princess. Alright. Noted. So Santa’s supposed to bring your mom cookies. What else?”

Haru’s face lights up as another thought strikes her, and she bounces slightly in place.

“Oh! A teddy bear!”

“A teddy bear?” Satoru quirks a brow, half-amused, half-resigned.

“Yeah!” Haru stretches her arms out as wide as they’ll go, as if trying to contain the sheer size of her vision. “A big one. Pink! Really fluffy. Mama can hug it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. So much for getting a serious answer out of her.

“Okay... so cookies and a big pink bear… anything else?”

Haru pauses again, tapping her chin with her finger like she’s pondering the great mysteries of the cosmos. Then—her eyes go wide, and she gasps, louder this time.

“A pony!”

Satoru stares at her, deadpan. “Really? A pony.”

“Uh-huh!” Haru nods emphatically, little curls bouncing with enthusiasm. “Pink! With sparkles.”

“A… sparkly pink pony?”

“Yes!” She beams, practically vibrating with excitement. “Mama can ride it. I can ride it too. And—and we can give it cookies!”

That does it.

A sharp bark of laughter escapes him before he can stop it, his shoulders shaking as he slumps back against the couch.

With a deep groan, he drags a hand down his face like she’s aged him ten years in two minutes.

He’s getting nowhere.

“Kid… you’re killing me here. Cookies, a teddy bear, and a pony? You’re just listing stuff you want.”

Haru puffs out her cheeks, crossing her arms in protest.

“Nuh-uh! Mama likes ponies. And cookies. And bears.”

Satoru sighs again, tilting his head back against the couch with an exaggerated groan.

This kid.

Her world is so simple—so bright and innocent. Cookies, teddy bears, and ponies.

Haru doesn’t overthink it. She doesn’t make it complicated. To her, happiness is just that—simple.

And maybe… that’s what he needs to remember.

They’re terrible suggestions, but she’s right about one thing: you deserve something really nice. Something that makes you smile—something that feels as bright and simple and warm as Haru’s world.

And if Santa won’t fix it, then damnit, he will.

“Everything okay in here?”

Your voice calls out lightly, followed by the soft clink of mugs. The moment Satoru hears you; he straightens a little, his casual mask snapping back into place.

Stepping in, a tray balances carefully in your hands, three steaming mugs of hot chocolate wobbling precariously as you nudge the door shut with your hip.

The smell hits the room before you do—sweet, rich cocoa laced with the sugary promise of marshmallows—and Satoru thinks that it might as well be magic, with how Haru perks up.

“Mama!” she bounces on her knees so enthusiastically; Satoru thinks it’s a miracle the couch doesn’t catapult her into orbit. “Yay!! Hot cocoa!”

“Mhmm. Hot chocolate delivery!” you announce proudly, lowering the tray onto the coffee table with a dramatic flourish and a smile of pure satisfaction. “Marshmallows included, as requested.”

The soft glow of the Christmas tree dances in your eyes as you kneel in front of Haru, carefully handing her a small mug.

“Two hands, Haru. It’s hot, okay?”

Haru nods solemnly, as if you’ve just bestowed upon her the Holy Grail itself. Her little fingers curl reverently around the mug, and she murmurs softly, “’kay.”

Rising, you hand Satoru his mug next, and he clears his throat—mumbling a quiet “thanks.” When you settle on the couch beside him, he doesn’t miss the way your shoulder brushes against his—your own mug cradled in your hands.

For a moment, it’s calm. The Christmas lights flicker across the room like soft, lazy stars, the cocoa steaming faintly in the air, and Satoru almost lets himself believe this is pure perfection.

But then you ask it.

“And what were you two talking about?” you peer between the two of them with a teasing smile. “I heard lots of giggling.”

Satoru freezes, his mug halfway to his mouth. He’s ready to spin some ridiculous excuse—he’s a master at bullshit, after all—but before he can get the words out, Haru beats him to it.

“We were talking about presents!” Haru announces proudly.

Fuck. That tiny traitor.

Satoru schools his expression, plastering on his best lazy grin as if Haru hasn’t just sold him out for free. He doesn’t need you catching on to the fact that he’s been silently losing his mind trying to figure out what to get you for Christmas.

You arch a brow, amused as you blow lightly on your cocoa.

“Presents, huh? What about presents?”

Haru doesn’t even hesitate. She launches into her list like a kid on a mission.

“Mama, ‘toru is gonna tell Santa we need cookies. And a big pink bear. And a pony!”

Satoru lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relaxing fractionally against the cushions. Of course. The kid’s list is nonsense—pure, two-year-old chaos—and she’s so earnest about it that you’ll never suspect Satoru was fishing for information.

He’s safe.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, nodding indulgently as you sip your drink. “Sounds like quite the Christmas list, sweetheart. Anything else?”

Satoru almost smiles into his mug. It’s ridiculous how close he was to panicking—there’s no need.

But as Haru stops, her face scrunches in concentration before it lights up again. She looks straight at you, eyes wide and earnest, as she adds brightly:

“And I want a little brother!”

Oh, shit.

Satoru chokes—actually chokes—mid-sip, sputtering and coughing like he’s forgotten how to drink liquid. You don’t fare much better, nearly inhaling your cocoa as your head jerks up, eyes wide as saucers.

“A—what?” you croak.

Satoru’s shoulders shake, one arm flung over his face as he tries to muffle his laughter. It’s no use—his wheezing breaths betray him, and he can’t help but grin through his coughs.

“Haru, kid—”

“A little brother!” Haru repeats, utterly unfazed by the chaos she’s unleashed. Her tiny hands still cradle her mug, looking up at you with innocent conviction. “Santa can bring one. Like how he brings the toys.”

Satoru peeks out from behind his hand, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as his laughter tumbles out in unfiltered bursts.

Oh, this is gold. Pure gold.

You whip your head toward him so fast he thinks you might pull something. Your cheeks are flushed—whether from the cocoa or mortification, he’s not sure—and your glare could cut steel. It would have him worried for his life if it weren’t so damn funny.

“Satoru Gojo, what did you say to her?”

“Me?!” he splutters, desperately trying to get his composure back. He throws his hands up in mock innocence, laughter shaking in his shoulders. “Hey, don’t look at me! That’s all her!”

Haru blinks at the two of you, her expression perfectly innocent.

“Santa brings presents, right? So he can bring a brother. A nice one. And he’ll ride the pony with me.”

Your hand flies to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you shake your head, biting back the laughter threatening to spill out.

“Haru… sweetheart, that’s… not how it works.”

“Why not?” she asks, and it’s like she genuinely can’t fathom why Santa wouldn’t pull through on such a reasonable request.

Satoru, finally breathing normally again, leans forward with his elbows on his knees—the smirk on his face nothing short of diabolical.

“Yeah, Mama,” he drawls, dripping with mischief. “Why not?”

Your glare sharpens as you turn toward him. “Do not encourage her.”

“Hey,” he’s utterly unrepentant as he leans back lazily, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “I’m just saying—if Santa’s listening, we wouldn’t want Haru to be disappointed, right?” Tilting his head, he smirks at you. “Looks like Santa’s got his work cut out for him this year.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands as Satoru lets his laughter spill out again, unbothered and thoroughly entertained.

Meanwhile, Haru hums to herself, swinging her legs and sipping her hot chocolate contentedly.

“It’s okay, Mama,” she assures you with a confident nod. “Santa’s magic. He can do it.”

ꨄ

The past few days had been a blur of snow, laughter, and tiny hands tugging Satoru in every direction.

If someone had told Satoru Gojo that he’d spend his holiday season wrangling a two-year-old in the snow and actually enjoying himself, he would’ve laughed them out of the room. But here he was, standing knee-deep in the white fluff while Haru shrieked with glee, launching another snowball his way.

“Take this, ‘Toru!” she cried.

The kid’s aim was absolute trash, her snowballs missing him by a mile, but the way she shrieked with delight when Satoru “pretended” to get hit—well, it made it impossible for him not to play along.

“Kid, you’re ruthless,” he’d groaned dramatically after she tackled him into the snow for the third time.

And then there was you. You—standing off to the side like some winter painting coming to life—warm coffee in hand, wearing that smug smile he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss or wipe clean with a snowball.

He swore you’d been the one to tip Haru off about aiming for his knees. Traitor.

The snow had been Haru’s personal playground—and, by extension, his. For days now, his life had been an endless stream of winter chaos: sledding trips that left his muscles aching (Haru’s favorite phrase seemed to be “One more time!”).

Oh, and inside the Gojo estate? More chaos, pure and simple.

Haru’s Christmas cookie baking turned into an all-out war zone—flour dusting the countertops, chocolate chips mysteriously vanishing before they made it into the dough (a crime Satoru was not-so-secretly guilty of), and Haru wearing more icing than she’d used.

Still, the chaos didn’t bother him. He was struck, again and again, by the realization that this—this messy, chaotic, perfect life—was because of you.

And the high-end galas you’d been forced to attend as the faces of the Gojo Corporation—the press, the flashing lights, the constant conversations—all of it felt easier with you beside him.

And you? Well… you carried yourself with a poise that Satoru was genuinely impressed with. But beneath that, he could tell that these past few weeks had taken a toll on you.

You were exhausted.

The late nights catching up on work, the charity events, the endless holiday prep—you hid it well, but Satoru noticed the way your shoulders slumped when you thought no one was looking. The way you sighed as you kicked off your heels by the door.

And it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion, though. It was this look in your eyes—something wistful, like you were watching all the joy and chaos around you, but holding yourself at a distance.

Satoru didn’t like that. Not one bit.

And still, despite everything, he hadn’t figured out what the hell to get you for Christmas.

The frustration simmered under his skin, gnawing at him whenever he thought about it. You deserved something perfect—something that would remind you how much you were loved. But every time he thought he had it, every idea felt wrong.

Too extravagant, too impersonal, too damn meaningless.

And now, tonight, as he sits at the kitchen table pretending to sip his hot chocolate (while sneaking glances at you sorting through Christmas cards), the idea struck him like a light bulb flickering on.

If he couldn’t figure out the gift just yet, there was one thing he could do.

He could give you a moment. Just one night to breathe—to feel cared for.

Leaning back in his chair, his legs stretch out underneath the table as he watches you—that little furrow of concentration in your brow. You aren’t even faintly aware of how tired you look, or notice when his voice breaks the quiet silence.

“Hey.”

You hum absently, still focused.

“Tomorrow night, don’t make any plans.”

Your gaze lifts, brows raising slightly as suspicion flickers across your face.

“Okay… why?”

“Mmm… ‘cause I’m kidnapping you,” he teases, folding his arms behind his head. “Just dress warm. It’s a surprise.”

That earns him a proper look—you eyeing him skeptically, your lips twitching like you were already fighting back a smile.

Bingo. That’s the look he lives for.

ꨄ

The night air is crisp, biting at his cheeks in a way that’s sharp but oddly pleasant, like winter itself is showing off. Snowflakes drift lazily from the dark sky, glowing gold as they pass through the light of the estate’s lanterns, and the world is blanketed in that perfect kind of quiet—soft, still, almost fragile. A nice kind of quiet.

It’d be perfect, really, if not for the sound of your increasingly dramatic sighs cutting through it.

Satoru tugs his scarf higher around his neck, not because he’s cold—he never seems to feel the cold—but because he’s trying to hide the grin pulling at his lips. He glances over his shoulder to find you trudging through the snow like a grumpy little marshmallow, bundled so thoroughly in your coat and scarf that you look like you’re about to tip over.

“You’re gonna freeze to death if you keep trudging like that,” he calls easily over the snow, making no effort to hide the amusement in his tone.

“I wouldn’t have to trudge if you’d slow down, Gojo,” you snap back, and your exasperation is muffled slightly by the scarf wrapped around your face. “Not everyone has legs like a damn giraffe.”

The laugh he lets out is rich and unbothered, a puff of white against the dark sky. Deliberately, he slows his steps to a near-comical saunter, his boots sinking into the snow with every exaggerated step.

“Better, princess?”

“Barely…” You catch up, though you don’t look particularly grateful about it. “I swear, if you keep dragging me through the Arctic tundra—”

“Oh, come on,” he interrupts, stopping in his tracks. His grin is pure mischief, bright even in the dark. “Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“It died about twenty feet ago,” you mutter, shoulders hunching as you try to burrow deeper into your coat.

He holds out his hand to you with a dramatic flourish, fingers wiggling like he’s offering you salvation itself.

“Here,” his sighs affectionately. “Before you collapse and I have to carry you.”

You stare at his hand for a long moment, clearly torn between taking it and smacking it away. The tension only makes his grin widen.

“C’mon now… you’ll bruise my ego if you say no.”

With a sigh that sounds like a thousand reluctant decisions being made at once, you slip your gloved hand into his. It’s small and warm, even through the layers, and Satoru’s grin falters for just a second when he feels your fingers curl around his.

Did he just get butterflies? That’s dangerous. He’s gotta keep it together.

“Atta girl…” he says softly, a bit too softly for his own comfort. But he covers it up with a gentle tug, pulling you closer as the two of you trudge forward.

The path winds through the trees, the branches drooping under layers of snow. Some of them stretch over the walkway, woven with twinkling lights, so it feels like you’re walking through some kind of enchanted tunnel.

It’s the kind of thing that could make anyone believe in magic, and Satoru would probably be soaking it all in… if he wasn’t so preoccupied with watching you out of the corner of his eye.

Your nose is pink, your cheeks dusted with color from the cold, and there’s a light in your eyes that makes something stir in his chest. He tugs his scarf a little higher, like that’ll help somehow.

Then, just ahead, golden light spills onto the snow. A sleigh comes into view, and Satoru slows his steps as you round the corner and see it.

It’s impressive, even he has to admit. The carriage looks straight out of some over-the-top fairytale, polished black and draped with garlands of evergreen—dusted in fresh snow. Strings of soft golden lights wind along the edges, glowing warmly in the dark.

The horses, two massive creatures with sleek dark coats, stand tall and still, their breath misting in the air. Tiny bells dangle from their bridles, giving a soft jingle every time they shift.

It’s almost too picturesque, like something out of one of those cheesy Christmas movies Satoru always pretends to hate.

He doesn’t look at the sleigh, though. He looks at you.

Your eyes go wide, your mouth parting slightly in surprise, and for a moment, you’re so still he wonders if the cold finally got to you. The snowflakes catch in your hair, the glow of the lights reflecting in your wide-eyed expression, and there it is again—that quiet spark that makes his chest tighten.

“Well?” he breaks the silence with a quiet murmur. “Was it… worth the trek through the Arctic tundra?”

You blink, dragging your gaze away from the sleigh to look at him. There’s something different in your expression now—softer, quieter.

“You did all this?”

He shrugs, slipping his free hand into his coat pocket and forcing a grin onto his face.

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

“Ridiculous…” you murmur, shaking your head with a faint smile, but there’s no edge to your words. Just that quiet disbelief, like you’re still trying to figure him out.

He gestures to the sleigh with an exaggerated sweep of his hand.

“Well? You gonna stand there and let the snow bury you, or are you getting in?”

The driver steps aside with a polite nod, and Satoru’s already moving to help you—steadying you as you step up into the sleigh, his hand lingering at your waist.

When you settle into the plush seat with a quiet exhale, Satoru’s brain takes a quick pause to tell himself that he’s absolutely screwed.

Because if Satoru thought walking through the snow with your hand in his was dangerous, this is a death blow.

But he still climbs in beside you, moments later—tugging the blanket over your laps as the sleigh jolts softly forward.

The bells chime faintly as the horses’ hooves crunch against the snow. They carry you both down the path, allowing the forest to melt away completely as the sleigh crests a small hill, and suddenly, the town comes into view—a world awash in color and magic.

Lights shimmer from every surface—woven through trees, strung like ribbons between lamp posts, wrapped snug around shopfronts as though the entire place has been dipped in starlight.

Shop windows gleam with warmth, framed by wreaths and garlands dusted with frost, while displays of tiny trains, glowing reindeer, and spinning nutcrackers turn slowly behind the glass.

As the sleigh turns fully onto the main street, Satoru glances at you, and predictably, you’re completely mesmerized.

He knows, because you’ve gone completely still beside him—your breath visible in the cold as you take it all in—and he doesn’t even bother to look at the lights anymore, not when you’re staring at them like you’ve stumbled into a dream.

That glow in your expression—soft and open—that’s what mesmerizes him. And the reflection of the lights in your wide eyes gives him the urge to bottle this moment—keep it tucked in his coat pocket forever, so he can pull it out and look at it whenever the world gets too loud.

The bells from the horses chime softly, blending seamlessly with the hum of life ahead—children laughing, carols echoing, the soft crunch of fresh snow.

But Satoru can’t focus on any of that.

Snowflakes have caught in your hair, little flecks of white like frost spun from the lights above. Your lips, soft and faintly parted, are far too close to his line of sight, and his gaze catches there for longer than it should.

Satoru’s brain is short-circuiting.

He’s never been good at this. Restraint. Holding back. Not when it comes to things he wants, things he craves—and God, does he crave your lips so badly.

You shift slightly, burrowing deeper into his side with a soft hum of contentment that nearly knocks the wind out of him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you murmur suddenly, as soft as the snow.

He clears his throat lightly, tipping his head back in a lazy attempt at distraction—trying to focus on literally anything else.

“Yeah… not bad,” his voice carries the faintest edge of smugness. “Bet you’re glad I dragged you out here now.”

You hum softly, a little laugh under your breath.

“Yeah… guess I’ll give you this one.”

But as you shift slightly again, your head tilts, and your gaze lingers on something ahead.

In the square below, a father spins his daughter in his arms as she shrieks with laughter—bright red mittens flailing in the air. The mother stands beside then with a warm soft smile, brushing the snowflakes gently out of the little girl’s hair as she settles still.

It’s simple—a fleeting moment of joy—but Satoru notices the way your expression changes. The glow in your eyes dim, just slightly, fading into something distant, something far away.

He doesn’t like it.

It’s not the first time he’s seen that look either. It’s lingered in your eyes at odd moments during the month when you think he isn’t watching.

“Hey… you okay?”

The question snaps you from whatever memory you’ve fallen into. You blink quickly, turning to him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“What? Oh… yeah. I’m fine.”

It’s a lie. A bad one.

Satoru knows it instantly because your voice wavers, just slightly, and your hands fidget under the blanket like they’re looking for something to hold onto.

He doesn’t push right away. Satoru isn’t great at handling fragile things—he’s all big, teasing words and careless confidence—but seeing this?

You—retreating into yourself, suddenly quiet? Yeah… it never really sits right with him.

“You know…” he starts carefully, voice softening as he watches you, “you’ve already heard all about my old man. But you… you don’t really talk about your family much. What was Christmas like for you growing up?”

The words settle like snow between you—soft, quiet, but heavy. You stiffen slightly.

Fuck. Maybe he’s said too much. Regret flickers in the back of his mind. He’s half-expecting you to deflect.

You hesitate, staring at the lights again as though they’ll save you from answering, and for the first time, Satoru curses those damn Christmas lights. They feel like they’re pulling you away from him.

But then you sigh, and the sound makes something twist low in his chest. It’s too careful. Too practiced.

“Mmm… there’s not much to talk about,” you admit quietly. “My parents weren’t exactly… involved, so Christmas wasn’t really a thing for us.”

Satoru doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting. He knows there’s more, and he’s careful not to push, not yet.

“I used to watch all the Christmas movies, though,” a faint wistful smile tugs at your lips. “The ones where families sat by the fire… wrapping gifts and baking cookies, singing carols together. It felt… magical. Safe. Like they belonged there.”

The smile slips slightly, and Satoru sees the moment the words shift—when they stop being a memory and start being something else entirely.

“But…” your voice dips to a whisper, “Honestly it was like watching through a window. I felt like a spectator. Always outside looking in.”

There it is.

The words hit him square in the chest, sharp and unrelenting, and Satoru hates it. Hates how small you sound when you say it, like you don’t realize how wrong it is for someone like you—you—to feel that way. It makes his jaw tighten, his fingers twitching faintly under the blanket.

“That’s not fair,” he blurts out, faster than he means to. The sharp edge in his voice surprises even him, but he doesn’t care. “I hate it. It’s not right. You shouldn’t have had to feel like that.”

Your head turns slightly, your eyes flicking back to him, startled.

“Satoru—”

“It’s not fair,” he repeats, reining it in slightly this time. He shakes his head, turning to look at you fully now. “And you know what? It’s not like that now. You’ve done the exact opposite.”

You blink again, your brows furrowing faintly.

“What do you mean?”

The surprise on your face makes him huff a quiet laugh. He can’t believe you don’t see it.

“C’mon now sweetheart… I mean, look at Haru.”

Your expression softens at the mention of her, and Satoru feels that familiar twist in his chest—this inexplicable warmth that’s only grown stronger since you and Haru came crashing into his life.

“She’s a happy kid,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve made her a happy kid. Kind of a little terror sometimes—definitely gets that from you—but happy nonetheless.”

You roll your eyes faintly, but there’s a tug at the corner of your mouth that you can’t quite hide.

“Seriously,” he continues, a smirk teasing at his lips now. “That kid lights up at the dumbest stuff—like that ornament she found with the penguin in a Santa hat. You’d think she struck gold. She made me stare at that thing for ten minutes straight.”

You groan, pressing a gloved hand to your face, but there’s a small laugh behind it now.

“She did the same to me.”

Satoru chuckles, low and easy, though his expression softens as he looks at you.

“Because to her, it is magic. You made that happen. You gave her something real, something she’ll hold onto forever. The kind of magic you didn’t have.”

You open your mouth like you want to say something but can’t quite get there yet, and he leans in closer.

“And it’s not just her…” he murmurs hesitantly. “You’ve done that for me too.”

His blue eyes fix on yours with a quiet vulnerability, and your brows furrow faintly as you stare at him.

“What? Really?”

For a moment, Satoru freezes.

Vulnerability isn’t something he’s good at—it doesn’t come naturally to him; he’s always kept people at arm’s length. But somehow, around you, it slips out easier than he expects. Like you’ve managed to dismantle his walls one smile, one moment at a time.

Around you, he doesn’t have to try so hard. And it’s fucking terrifying.

His throat tightens, but he shrugs, playing it off like it’s nothing—even though he knows it’s everything.

“Look… I used to sit in these massive rooms my dad filled with people. All the decorations, all the noise—he made sure it looked perfect. Trees the size of small buildings, tables stacked with enough food to feed an army.”

Satoru pauses, his blue gaze flickering to the snow-dusted path ahead before settling back on you.

“But… none of it mattered. I’d sit there, surrounded by hundreds of people, and still felt so damn alone. Like I wasn’t really there, y’know?”

Your face softens, and he feels it again—that warmth that only seems to exist when you’re looking at him like this, like you can see straight through him. You always do.

“But now?” he exhales, breath curling into the cold air like smoke—his eyes meeting yours fully. “Christmas feels… different. Doesn’t feel so empty anymore.”

“…yeah?”

“Yup…” he shakes off the tension with a sigh, and smugly adds, “You’ve officially ruined Christmas for me, sweetheart. Thanks a lot. Can’t have it any other way now.”

Your laughter comes quietly, and God, there’s that sound that he loves again. Your gloved hand finds his underneath the blanket.

“Well…” your fingers curl around his. “Thanks to you, I finally don’t feel like a spectator anymore… ‘cause you’re in my life.”

Shit.

Satoru swears his heart trips over itself. For a guy who never feels the cold, he’s never felt this warm.

The sleigh jolts suddenly, rolling over a bump in the snow, and the movement sends you swaying against him with a soft gasp.

You’re so close—close enough that he can see the faint blush on your cheeks, the soft part of your lips as you glance up at him.

Your gaze flickers—just once—down to his mouth.

That’s it.

He leans in, his hand slipping out from under the blanket to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly along your skin as he kisses you.

The first press of his lips against yours is careful, tentative, but then you sigh softly, tilting your head slightly, and Satoru’s restraint snaps like a wire pulled too tight.

The kiss deepens, slow but deliberate, as Satoru tilts your face up to meet him properly. His other hand finds your waist, the curve of it fitting perfectly under his palm as he pulls you closer—closer, because he needs you like he needs to breathe.

He swears he’s losing his mind.

You respond just as eagerly, your fingers curling into the front of his coat, and Satoru groans softly against your mouth—equal parts relief and desperation.

He’s screwed. Utterly, completely screwed.

Because now that he’s kissed you, he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to stop. All he can think about—all he wants—is to pull you into his lap right here on this stupid sleigh and kiss you until the world stops spinning.

His mind betrays him, flooding with images he has no business thinking about right now. Your legs straddling his hips, your coat slipping off one shoulder, coaxing sounds from you that he’s dying to hear—fuck he’s losing himself completely.

He wants to take you—away from the prying world, away from everyone—somewhere that’s just the two of you—home.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only because even Satoru Gojo can’t survive without air forever. But he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests gently against yours and his thumb brushes softly along your jaw.

The corner of your mouth curves faintly and your eyes linger on him—just enough to make his heart skip like it’s forgotten how to work.

It’s torture. Absolute, pure, devastating torture.

His thumb drifts lower along your jaw, reverently tracing the soft line of it. He could stay here forever, just like this—your breath mixing with his in the cold air, your lips pink and kiss-bruised from him.

God, you’ve never looked more beautiful. He wants more.

Shifting slightly, his breath fans across your lips as he murmurs, “You’re so perfect… you’re making this really hard for me, y’know that?”

Blinking up at him, your lips tug into a soft, teasing smile. “Oh?” you murmur, breathlessly. “And what exactly am I making hard, Satoru?”

His breath hitches. Shit. You’re going to be the death of him. He chuckles softly—strained and fraying like his self-control.

“Careful, sweetheart. Keep asking questions like that, and I might just take you home right now.”

Tilting your head, your voice lowers—a quiet challenge.

“…why don’t you, then?”

God, what the fuck are you doing to him?

For a moment, he wants to say screw it. Forget the stupid sleigh, the town, his plans. Forget the world and take you straight to bed where he doesn’t have to hold back anymore.

Take her. Have her all to yourself.

But then your wide, daring eyes lock onto his, and it hits him—you’re playing him—you’re winning. And Satoru Gojo does not lose.

With a slow, shaky breath, he pulls back just slightly. The smirk curling at his lips is lazy, practiced—masking the fact that he’s literally about five seconds from falling apart.

“Mmm… tempting,” he drawls, brushing the pad of his gloved thumb against your bottom lip. “But I’m not that easy to break, sweetheart. Besides, we’ve got more to explore.”

Your eyes narrow faintly, suspicion flickering beneath the teasing curve of your lips.

“You’re unbelievable…”

“Mm, you say that now,” he sighs, “But you’ll thank me later.”

You scoff quietly, rolling your eyes as you lean back just an inch.

“More to explore, huh?”

“Yeah.” His grin widens, lazy and lopsided. “And if you’re good, I might even let you hold my hand the whole time.”

ꨄ

“You’re going to rot your teeth, you know,” you say, watching as Satoru unwraps yet another snickerdoodle cookie—his fifth, by your count.

“Excuse you.” He pauses dramatically, holding the cookie up like it’s a priceless artifact. “I’m single-handedly funding this poor vendor’s retirement. Call me generous.”

You snort into your hot chocolate.

“More like you’re single-handedly making sure they run out of stock before dinner.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He takes a slow, deliberate, obnoxiously loud bite, eyes locked on you the whole time. “I’m boosting the economy, sweetheart.”

“You’re boosting your dentist’s next paycheck, honey.”

Satoru groans, tossing his head back like you’ve just deeply insulted his honor.

“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t appreciate the artistry of sweets like I do.”

“Oh, I appreciate them,” you retort smugly, tugging him away by his coat sleeve before he can eye the next vendor’s table. “I just don’t inhale sugar like I’m storing it for winter.”

“Amateur,” Satoru quips, biting into the cookie with dramatic flair. “You’ll learn.”

“Yeah yeah… I’m cutting you off before you go into a sugar coma.”

“Cutting me off?” He presses a hand to his chest like you’ve insulted his entire existence. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” You grin victoriously, striding ahead of him through the snow-dappled streets.

“Cold. Heartless. A tyrant, really.” Satoru’s voice follows dramatically as he trudges after you, shoving the final bite into his mouth with zero shame. “This is abuse, I tell you.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

The two of you wander together through the town, your shoulders brushing every so often as you pass small stalls and shops.

The shop windows glow faintly, wreaths and garlands framing every corner, and the air smells of roasted chestnuts and warm cinnamon.

You stop suddenly ahead of him, your steps faltering as your gaze locks onto the massive Christmas tree at the center of the square.

Satoru follows your gaze, and the thing is ridiculous—exactly the kind of over-the-top nonsense Satoru’s father would brag about back in the day. Towering, glittering, competing with the stars like it thinks it has a chance.

But for once, Satoru doesn’t care about the ridiculousness. He only cares about you.

You stand perfectly still, staring up at the tree with something quiet and awed in your expression, like you’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists.

The golden lights catch in your eyes, snowflakes drifting lazily into your hair, and the faintest pink lingers across your cheeks from the cold. You’re glowing—and maybe it’s the lights, or maybe it’s just you.

You look perfect. You look his.

There’s that urge again—capturing this moment, bottling in up, keeping it for himself.

The feeling is so sudden, and before he can second-guess it, his hand slips into his coat pocket, pulling out his phone.

The shutter clicks.

Your head whips around instantly, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

Satoru freezes, phone still half-raised, trying to look as nonchalant as a man caught red-handed can. “Nope.”

Your eyes narrow further, shifting on your feet. “Satoru.”

“I was… texting someone,” he says weakly, his grin betraying him.

“Texting who?” you press, eyebrow arching.

“Santa,” he deadpans. “Telling him you’re being mean to me. Again.”

The flat look you give him is priceless. “Good lord. You’re impossible.”

Satoru grins triumphantly, twirling the phone between his fingers like a magician showing off a trick. “Fine, fine. You caught me. I couldn’t help it. You looked cute.”

The faint flush of your cheeks deepens slightly—probably the cold, he tells himself, but he’ll take it anyway.

“Let me see it.”

“Not a chance.”

Your glare sharpens, and Satoru swears you’re plotting his demise. “Satoru. Hand it over.”

He snorts, immediately shoving the phone into his coat pocket. “You’re cute when you’re bossy, you know that?”

You step closer, determination lighting your expression. “I will fight you.”

“You wanna wrestle me in the middle of town?” Satoru raises a smug brow, delighting in the way you’re glaring up at him. “With kids around? Heartless, sweetheart. Absolutely heartless.”

Before you try to snatch his phone from his coat pocket, he moves faster—his arm looping lazily around your waist, tugging you into his side with practiced ease.

The suddenness knocks you off balance for a moment, and you let out a soft, startled laugh. Satoru can’t help but grin, using the moment to pull you even closer.

“Alright, alright…” he murmurs, pulling out his phone. “Here. Let’s take one together. Our first real photo together—no work, no press. Just you and me.”

You blink, your eyes flickering up to meet his, the faintest surprise crossing your face. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, though the warmth in his voice gives him away. “Gotta document the occasion. Might be the only proof I have that you tolerate me. C’mon, lean in.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s no hiding your smile as you let him pull you closer. He adjusts the camera, keeping his arm secure around you.

“Alright,” he says, angling the phone just right. “Say ‘Gojo Satoru’s the love of my life.’”

You snort, laughing as you nudge him. “I’m not saying that.”

“Mmm… I’ll wait.”

Your laughter bursts through the square, bright and unrestrained, just as the shutter clicks. Before you can recover, Satoru leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as he steals another shot—your laughter caught mid-breath.

“Hey!” you yelp, pulling back to glare at him, but you’re still smiling.

Satoru grins down at the photo as he flips the screen to show you. “Look at that. Photographic evidence that you adore me.”

You gape at him, incredulous. “Adore you?”

“Yep.” He winks, tucking his phone back into his pocket before you can swipe it, catching your hand instead. “Captured for infinity. You’re welcome.”

Your grip tightens on instinct, and you open your mouth to argue, but Satoru beats you to it.

“C’mon,” he swings your hand lightly as he starts pulling you forward again. “The candy stall up ahead has fudge.”

ꨄ

The two of you wander back through the streets, hand in hand as the shops blur by in warm, golden streaks of light.

Satoru doesn’t mind wandering—especially when it means you tugging him along by the hand, pausing every so often to peer into window displays. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you light up at the smallest things.

But then you stop abruptly in front of one shop in particular.

It’s so sudden that Satoru nearly keeps walking, your hand tugging him gently to a halt. When he glances over, he follows your gaze straight to the window of an antique shop tucked snug between two cafes.

And there it is. The locket.

It rests beneath a glass dome, perched on velvet as though it’s worth more than the shop itself. The silver surface gleams faintly under the soft, golden light, delicate and timeless, and engraved across the front is an infinity symbol—curved and flowing endlessly into itself.

Satoru tilts his head slightly, his brows lifting in quiet curiosity as he watches you stare at it—as if that locket holds the entire universe within it.

“See something you like?” he murmurs, looping his arms around your waist and pulling you gently into his chest.

He feels the way you relax into him almost immediately, your hands curling lightly around his forearms.

“Infinity…” you whisper.

He hums, burying his face into the curve of your neck, nuzzling there like he’s trying to steal the warmth of you.

“Hmm?”

You don’t answer right away, your gaze still locked on the locket. Satoru takes the opportunity to press a lazy kiss against the soft skin of your neck, his lips curving into a grin when he feels you shiver slightly beneath him.

“What’s got you so lost in there, huh?” he teases.

“Hmm? Oh…” You blink, your cheeks tinged faintly pink as you glance back at him. “I was just thinking about what you said. About infinity.”

He raises a brow now, a slow grin spreading across his face as he straightens just enough to nudge his chin toward the locket.

“Yeah? You been pondering the mysteries of the universe without me?”

You turn slightly in his arms, your gaze lifting to meet his, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you.

“Well,” you begin, smiling faintly, “I’ve been thinking… you’re… well, you’re kind of like infinity, aren’t you?”

Satoru blinks, his grin faltering for a split second.

“Me?”

“Yeah… you’re always moving, always bigger than life, like there’s no end to who you are. You don’t stop—don’t ever really slow down. You’re... limitless.”

For once, Satoru’s brain stalls. Completely. He’s torn between a smug She thinks about me like that? and the sudden ache in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with.

He sees the way you’re looking at him—soft, honest, like you’re laying something fragile and important at his feet—and it hits him harder than anything he’s prepared for.

Satoru tightens his hold on you, pulling you closer as though that’ll somehow ground him.

“You really think that?” A softness creeps into his voice. “That I remind you of infinity?”

You nod slowly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. Your gaze drops for a moment before lifting again, steady this time.

“Yeah… because no matter what... you’ll always protect me. You’ll always be here, won’t you? Like infinity. Always.”

Satoru’s breath catches. For once, he doesn’t have a clever comeback. He doesn’t have anything except this overwhelming, all-consuming feeling swelling in his chest.

He dips his head, brushing his lips softly against your forehead. It’s the only answer he has.

“Mhmm,” he murmurs quietly. “Always.”

For a moment, he lingers there, his forehead pressed to yours, your breath mingling in the cold. Then, with a small grin tugging at his lips, he pulls back slightly, arms still secure around you.

“C’mon,” he sighs affectionately. “There’s still fudge with my name on it.”

You let out a soft laugh, your hand slipping back into his as he tugs you gently forward. But as you fall into step beside him, Satoru’s gaze drifts back to the shop window, to the locket resting beneath the glass.

Infinity, huh?

The faintest smile plays on his lips as he squeezes your hand lightly. He finally knows what he’s getting you for Christmas.

ꨄ

For Satoru, Christmas morning felt… surreal.

The Gojo estate, usually silent and polished like a showroom, had transformed into something far more, filled with a warmth—Haru’s delighted squeals echoing down the halls, filling the empty spaces with pure, unfiltered joy.

“Mama! ‘Toru! Wake up! Hurry, hurry!”

Her voice carries like a one-person parade, punctuated by the rapid thump of her tiny feet sprinting towards the tree, and Satoru groans into his pillow—dragging a hand over his face as if that would erase the early hour.

The sun wasn’t even properly up yet, and here he was, reluctantly dragged from the cocoon of his bed by the infectious energy of a two-year-old.

He shuffled down the hall in his pajama pants and hoodie, stifling a yawn as he dragged a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

Rounding the corner, he caught sight of Haru—a blur of bedhead and reindeer pajamas, arms flailing as she skidded to a halt in front of the Christmas tree. Her tiny hands clapped together as her wide eyes took in the mountain of carefully wrapped presents beneath it, glittering under the soft glow of twinkling lights.

“Mama! ‘Toru! Look! Presents!!” she squeals, bouncing on her toes, so full of excitement that Satoru half-expects her to rocket straight into the air.

He leans lazily against the doorframe, watching her with an amused grin. This kid… she was like a wound-up toy, running purely on joy and Christmas spirit. It tugged at something in him—a place he didn’t even realize had been empty until now.

“How does she have this much energy so early in the morning?” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder just as you appeared behind him.

You looked impossibly cozy—wrapped in your pajamas, your hair tousled from sleep. In your hands were two steaming mugs of coffee, one of which you handed to him without a word.

“She’s almost three,” you say simply, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “And it’s Christmas. Welcome to parenthood. This is her prime time.”

“Prime time for chaos,” he quips, taking a careful sip of his coffee.

He shoots Haru a mock-suspicious glance as she darts around the tree—tiny hands hovering over the presents like she’s trying to decide where to start.

“You sure Santa didn’t slip her a double espresso in her stocking?”

Your laugh is quiet and warm, the kind that made the corners of his mouth tug upward instinctively, and he couldn’t help but think how ridiculously domestic this all felt—Haru bouncing by the tree, you standing beside him with that soft, sleepy glow.

It was almost unsettling how much he liked it… how much he cherished it.

His gaze shifts back to Haru, who was now crouched in front of the tree, examining the tags on the presents like a tiny detective—a kind of joy so radiant it made something tighten in Satoru’s chest.

It hit him then—here he was, watching Haru’s eyes light up with the same wonder he never got to feel growing up. His Christmases had always been all flash and no magic. Gilded parties, perfectly wrapped gifts that lacked thought, and a cold sort of extravagance that filled rooms but never hearts.

But this?

This was different. Seeing Haru’s excitement now felt like reclaiming something he didn’t even know he’d lost.

“Mama! ‘Toru!” Haru’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts as she holds up a box triumphantly. “Look! Look! For me!”

“Man, Santa really outdid himself this year,” Satoru drawls, stretching an arms over his head as he plops onto the couch beside you.

He made a show of sipping his coffee like he hadn’t been the one painstakingly arranging the presents under the tree just hours earlier.

You’d handed him ribbons to tie, smirking as he fumbled with the tape, and rolled your eyes as he huffed about how ‘unnecessarily complicated’ wrapping paper was.

And then there’d been the cookies and hot chocolate Haru had left out for Santa, which he devoured with exaggerated flair. You’d caught him red-handed, crumbs still on his face, and he grinned sheepishly, muttering something about how Santa worked hard and deserved a snack.

It had been... nice. Warm. Like stepping into a life he always thought was meant for other people, not him.

But Haru?

She didn’t care about Satoru’s epiphanies. She was too busy shredding wrapping paper like her life depended on it.

The morning quickly descended into a delightful chaos—a whirlwind of torn ribbons, squeals of delight, and an ever-growing pile of toys. Haru didn’t just open her gifts; she paraded each one around the room like a prized trophy.

A dollhouse, a pink fluffy stuffed bear (that was for you, right?), and a set of art supplies. Every present came with an enthusiastic ‘Mama, look!’, making you laugh while Satoru grinned like an idiot.

And his attention… well, it kept drifting back to you.

The way you tucked your legs beneath yourself on the couch, leaning slightly into his shoulder as you sipped your coffee. The way your eyes softened whenever Haru ran to you, clutching another gift—her excitement bubbling over.

The way the light from the tree caught in your hair, making you look like you belonged in this moment… more than anything else ever had.

“Mama, look!” Haru gasps yet again, holding up a small box wrapped in gold paper. “Santa didn’t forget you!”

You blink, momentarily startled, as she thrusts the box into your hands before darting back to the tree—already rummaging for her next gift with boundless energy. Your gaze, however, shifts toward Satoru, narrowing with playful suspicion.

“Oh really?” you arch an eyebrow, grinning.

Satoru scratches the back of his head, feigning nonchalance even as a smug grin begins to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs. “That’s between you and Santa. Guy’s always been a softie for you.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention to the package, peeling back the carefully wrapped paper to reveal a small rosewood box.

The craftsmanship immediately catches your eye—with rich, dark wood, smooth to the touch. Two turtle doves are etched with breathtaking detail across the lid—wings entwined in a delicate dance of devotion. As you trace the design with your fingertips, the doves seem to almost flutter underneath—a stunning work of art.

And as you lift the lid, your breath hitches.

Nestled inside is the platinum heart-shaped locket, glinting under the soft glow of the Christmas tree. Encircling the heart is a delicate band of diamonds, each stone catching light like tiny frozen stars. And there, at the center of the locket’s face, is that infinity emblem you know so well—etched with graceful precision.

Your breath catches—your chest tightening as you carefully lift the locket from its velvet cradle. The weight of it is delicate yet grounding in your palm.

“Satoru…” you murmur in awe.

Beside you, he nudges your shoulder gently—his grin softening into something quieter, something more vulnerable.

“Open it.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp, and the locket falls open, revealing the secret it holds.

On one side was the photo he’d snapped of the two of you in the town square—you laughing, your cheeks pink from the cold, while he pressed a kiss to your cheek with that obnoxiously smug grin.

On the other side was another photo—one you hadn’t even known he’d taken—a candid shot of you and Haru in the kitchen, flour dusting your nose as you helped her decorate cookies.

Your smiles were radiant, unguarded, and completely at ease.

For a moment, you just stare, your lips parting slightly as you tried to form words. Satoru leans closer, his hand brushing lightly over your shoulder.

“You said… infinity reminded you of me,” he says quietly. “So… I thought maybe this could remind you of us.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, shimmering with an emotion so raw and overwhelming it makes him hold his breath. Then, without a word, you reach up, cup his face with both hands, and kiss him.

It’s soft, deliberate, and unhurried—the kind of kiss that makes him feel like maybe the universe doesn’t have to be so vast and infinite. Not when it can be filled with moments like this.

Before he can fully bask in the moment, Haru’s delighted squeal cuts through the air like a firework.

“Mama! Look! A big one!”

Satoru turns to see her tiny hands tugging at a large, carefully wrapped box partially hidden behind the tree. She tries to drag it forward, but honestly the box is way bigger than her.

You laugh softly, already stepping up from your seat to guide her hands away.

“Oh… that one’s not for you, sweetheart. It’s for Satoru.”

Satoru blinks, caught off guard. For him?

He doesn’t even have time to process it before Haru’s face twists into the most dramatic pout he’s ever seen—complete with trembling lips and misty eyes. She crosses her arms like she’s about to stage a sit-in protest right then and there.

“What? No fair!”

Satoru chuckles, setting his coffee mug aside as he pushes himself up from the couch with an exaggerated groan.

“Alright, alright,” he ruffles Haru’s hair as he crouches beside her. “How about this? You help me open it, and I’ll share whatever’s inside. Deal?”

Haru’s pout vanishes like snow in the sun, replaced by a radiant grin as she nods enthusiastically.

“Okay!”

With Haru leading the charge, they attack the wrapping paper like a two-person wrecking crew. Satoru makes a big show of struggling with the ribbon, grunting and pretending to pull with all his strength. Haru giggles at his theatrics, and finally, the last shred of paper falls away.

As the box opens, Satoru stills.

Inside is a telescope—sleek and polished to perfection. His hand trails over the smooth surface, and suddenly he was eight years old again, lying on his back in the garden with a telescope propped on the grass, mapping constellations under a vast, endless sky.

But then, his eyes widen as his fingers brush across something etched on its side. Engraved with precision, is the constellation Lyra—the harp.

Satoru knows enough about stars to understand its meaning. Lyra represents love, devotion, and music. It’s the constellation of Orpheus and Eurydice—a love story as infinite as the stars themselves.

For a long moment, all he can do is stare, his thumb brushing lightly over the engraving as if to ground himself. He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until your voice pulls him back.

“You recognize it?” you ask softly.

He glances up at you, the grin on his face softening into something quieter, something real.

“Mhmm... It’s Lyra.”

You step closer, the faintest hint of nerves in the way you tug at the hem of your pajama sleeve.

“I thought… I thought you’d like an upgrade…” you say shyly, “You love the stars, and I thought you deserved something that made you feel… closer to them.”

Satoru’s throat tightens, and he can’t speak right away, but before he even has the chance to, Haru tugs at his sleeve impatiently, breaking the moment.

“What is it? What is it?” she demands, eyes wide with curiosity.

Satoru lets out a breathless laugh, pulling her onto his lap as he turns the telescope slightly so she can see.

“This, my little star, is how we can see the sky up close. The stars, the moon, even planets if we’re lucky.”

Her eyes widen. “The stars? I wanna see the stars ‘toru!”

“Okay, princess. Tonight, I’ll show you the whole sky.”

“Yay!!” Haru gleams, bouncing on his lap.

Satoru chuckles, steadying her with one arm, but as Haru chatters away, his gaze drifts back to you.

You’re standing quietly a few steps away, watching the scene unfold with that soft, knowing smile that always makes his heart trip over itself. The glow of the Christmas tree casts a faint halo around you, and for a moment, Satoru wonders how he ever existed without this—without you.

Wordlessly, he tilts his head, beckoning you closer. When you step forward, his free arm slips around your waist, pulling you gently down to sit next to him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips—slow, unhurried, and laced with everything he can’t quite put into words.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

It’s not just for the telescope. It’s for this moment, for this morning, for you. Your fingers trail softly over his cheek, and he swears you’re glowing.

“Merry Christmas, Satoru…” you murmur quietly.

“Merry Christmas… sweetheart.”

There’s a warmth in your eyes that feels like home, and for the first time in his life, he understands what it means to be content.

This—this moment, this family, this love—it’s everything. It’s infinite.

And as the three of you sit there, bathed in the glow of the Christmas tree, Satoru realizes something he’s never dared to believe.

He finally belongs.

a/n. i got in my feels writing this. as someone who struggles around the holidays, this was real cathartic to write. hope you guys have an incredible holiday season with the ones you love—thanks for reading, sending hugs! ♡

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