#subtle fluff

[aventurineswife]

❤ The Language of Flowers | 021

❤ | Your options shall be: Noah, Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng, Veritas Ratio, Boothill, Jing Yuan, Blade, Phainon, Mydei, or Moze. Whoever you think suits this prompt.

❤ | Flower & it's definition: Sylleblossom | symbolize hope and romance. Giving someone Sylleblossoms can mean you want to take the next step in your relationship. Its Japanese name is "flower of zeal". Zeal is dedication or enthusiasm for something, often meant for devotion to God or another religious cause.

The Language of Flowers

Tags: Noah (OC) x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Romance, Slow Burn, Emotional Depth, Symbolism, Slight Angst, Introspection, Subtle Fluff, Mutual Pining, Confessions, Symbolic Gestures.

Warnings: Themes of Trauma & Emotional Baggage, Psychological Complexity, Mentions of Blood (Noah's part), Survivor’s Guilt (Aventurine's and Sunday's parts), Power Imbalance.

[Header credits]

The dark elegance of Noah’s presence filled the dimly lit parlor, his single amber eye gleaming as he regarded the bouquet in your trembling hands. The Sylleblossoms—rare, violet-tinted petals blooming in delicate fervor—seemed almost too soft for his world of blood and justice.

"You know what this means, don’t you?" His voice was smooth, edged with a dangerous amusement as he leaned back in his throne-like chair.

You swallowed, fingers curling around the stems. "I do."

The air grew taut, silence stretching between you like the space between stars. Noah tilted his head, assessing you, his sharp-toothed grin widening.

"Hope? Romance?" He let the words roll off his tongue, testing them like a fine wine. "I wonder… do you understand the weight of offering these to someone like me?"

You met his gaze, refusing to shrink beneath it. "I wouldn’t have given them to you if I didn’t."

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something raw, dangerous, but undeniably intrigued. Slowly, he reached forward, plucking a single Sylleblossom from the bouquet. His fingers brushed yours, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

He twirled the flower between his fingers, watching the petals sway. "Taking the next step in our relationship, are we?"

Your heartbeat quickened. "If you'll let me."

Noah chuckled darkly, standing fluidly, his sheer presence suffocating and intoxicating all at once. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Then be prepared," he whispered, lips ghosting against your skin. "Because devotion to a God of Justice… is absolute."

The floating Sylleblossom petals shimmered under the Astral Express’s gentle glow, their meaning woven into the quiet tension between you and Sunday. He stood by the observation window, bathed in celestial light, his hair shifting as he turned to face you.

"You brought me flowers," he murmured, eyes tracing the bouquet in your hands. His voice carried its usual softness, but there was something deeper—something hesitant.

You nodded, stepping closer. "Do you know what they mean?"

Sunday's fingers brushed against a petal, his wings behind his ears fluttering slightly. "Hope. Romance." His tone was unreadable, yet his gaze lingered on you with an intensity you weren’t used to.

For a moment, you thought he might reject them. Sunday had always been distant, lost in his philosophy, reluctant to tether himself to emotions he believed transient.

But then—his hand covered yours.

"You surprise me," he admitted, almost to himself. "Offering something so… zealous to someone who has doubted love itself."

You swallowed, watching his expression shift—wistful, almost yearning. "Maybe… you need someone to remind you that love isn’t just a dream."

A soft chuckle escaped him, tinged with disbelief. "And you think you can be that person?"

You hesitated, then smiled. "If you'll let me."

Sunday closed his eyes briefly, exhaling as if releasing a weight he’d carried for too long. When he opened them again, something softer had replaced the guarded melancholy. He accepted the flowers fully, fingers lingering over the petals before carefully tucking one behind your ear.

"Then let us see where this dream takes us," he whispered.

"Ah, what’s this? A gift?" Aventurine’s smirk was effortless, but his eyes flickered with something more as he plucked the bouquet from your hands.

You crossed your arms, feigning nonchalance. "It’s not just any flower. Sylleblossoms symbolize—"

"Hope and romance," he finished smoothly, twirling one between his fingers. "Taking the next step in our relationship, are we? Bold of you."

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you kept your voice steady. "I figured you'd appreciate a gamble."

Aventurine laughed—a genuine, rich sound. "You know me well, sweetheart." He leaned in, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "But tell me, are you ready for the stakes?"

You met his gaze, unwavering. "Are you?"

For the first time, Aventurine faltered. It was slight—barely noticeable—but you caught it. The charming, ever-confident gambler was used to controlling the odds, but this? This was a risk even he couldn’t fully calculate.

Then, with an unreadable smile, he tucked a Sylleblossom into the folds of your attire. "Guess we’ll find out," he murmured, his fingers grazing your collarbone before pulling away.

His grin returned, playful yet tinged with something deeper. "Just don’t be surprised if I make the game more interesting."

[Navigation]

[youneedsomeprompts]

~ SUBTLE LOVE ~ WRITING PROMPTS

requested by: anonymous request: hi!! idk if this has been req before but do u have prompts for subtle love? it will take some time for u to realise that their actions are somth u do out of love. thank u!

Feel free to use and reblog!

Part 1 (kinda): ~ GENTLE LOVE ~ PROMPTS

listening attentively when the other is talking

taking the other into consideration whenever making a decision

smiling at the other to encourage them

taking over the other's tasks to disburden them

the last thing they're thinking about before falling asleep is always the other

sitting back and staying quiet to leave the stage for the other

giving the other their space, knowing they need it

enjoying the sound of the other's voice

distracting the other when they see they're distressed and close to freaking out

trying to learn every way to put a smile on the other's face

experiencing this strange feeling in their chest when the other comes to them for support and a word of kindness

"You can call me. Day or night. I'm there for you."

enjoying the most basic time spent together just sitting next to each other, each doing their own

hyping the other up

being their biggest cheerleader

checking up on the other regularly when they know they're not feeling their best

thinking about the other at the most random times

'Oh, this coffee has such nice latte art! I wonder if [person B] would like it.'

'Oh, there's a new movie showing in the cinema about an ice skater. [Person B] once did ice skating. Would they like this movie? Or are they even better at ice skating than the ones in the movie? I'm sure they're the best ice skater!'

stopping themselves from messaging the other too often

sharing their food with the other

always making another coffee/tea when they're making one for themselves because sharing is caring

smiling by instinct when they see the other

^ breaking into a grin and being unable to stop it

sending the other little notes of encouragement to show that they're thinking of them

"You're doing just fine. I know you've got this."

promising to catch up, even when there is no time at the moment, they're making sure it doesn't go under

"Wanna talk about it later? I will make time."

making the other a priority

giving their honest opinion when it's asked

[hairmetal666]

Scandal follows Eddie Munson wherever he goes. He doesn't mean for it to, it just does. And, like, sure, he should've known that cavorting with a bunch of topless models in a hot tub in a chalet in the Swiss Alps was a bad idea, but 1) he's gay and 2) even if he wasn't, does anyone really care if a rockstar has an orgy these days?

Well, it turns out that they do. They do so much, in fact, that he hasn't known a moment's peace since the photos leaked. Every time they go outside, they're mobbed. Their socials are a disaster zone.

Chrissy, Jeff, Gareth, and Freak are sick of his shit, worried that this will ruin the world tour, which doesn't make any sense. All publicity is good publicity, right?

Anyway, he's not surprised when he, Chrissy, and the rest of the band are whisked away in a fancy car with dark-tinted windows, thinks they're about to fly home for a break. And honestly? Good riddance to Europe.

Imagine his surprise when he exits the car mere feet away from the sun soaked Mediterranean.

"Oh no. No, no, no." He says, trying to force his way back into the sedan.

"Oh, yes." Chrissy links her arm with his. "You need to lay low for a few days and this was the best I could manage on short notice."

He glares. "You know I hate boats."

"You do not," Gareth accuses.

"You're just mad at facing consequences for your actions," Jeff adds.

"I didn't do anything!" He wails.

Freak pulls out his phone, reads, "Munson, 26, has always been open about being gay, out of the closet since Corroded Coffin's first gig. Now, though, his sexuality is in question. Multiple women have come forward to claim they slept with the rockstar. And, while many of the women in the photo have said that Munson was 'deeply uninterested' in them, the fact remains that his antics are more Motley Crue than Troye Sivan."

Eddie groans up at the sky. "Why would I be anything like Troye Sivan!? I'm in a heavy metal band! And he's around boobies all the time! Honestly, has no one been to a rave?"

"Not since the 90's." Chrissy smiles brightly, continues up the dock.

"I'm never forgiving any of you for this."

"It's a luxury yacht, Eddie. You'll survive," Gareth says.

He very bravely does not point out that he's wearing black jeans and an over-sized black hoodie and black platform Doc Martens, so obviously he's not the type of person equipped for any kind of boat.

The conversation ends but only because, when they get up to the main deck and the crew waiting for them, he sees the most beautiful man in the world. Artfully messy sun-bronzed hair, strong jaw, classic nose, skin dotted with freckles. Aviators hide his eyes, but even the sunglasses look good on him. Not to mention the little white uniform that shows off all of his many many muscles.

Eddie stares at him, blatantly, unabashedly, totally missing the introduction to the rest of the crew.

As soon as he's left to his own devices, he locks himself in his cabin. Not even the chance to gawk at that hot guy can draw him out of his pout. They can force him onto a boat, but they can't make him enjoy it.

He lasts until afternoon the next day, when Jeff barges in, surprising him enough that the throws his phone with a very un-rockstar yelp.

"You have to come out." Jeff's arms are crossed over his chest.

"Nope." Eddie relaxes back into his pillows. "Not until this is over."

"So, you're going to stay in your room for a week?"

"Guess so."

"Orr, you could come out and enjoy yourself instead of pouting over what your own actions caused."

"My actions!" He shrieks. "My actions! I stumbled on a bunch of topless French models in a hot tub, and I'm at fault?"

"No, you being drunk enough to get in with them was the problem."

"I wasn't even that drunk! I just thought it was funny. They did too!"

Jeff sighs. "You get yourself into a situation more than any person I've ever met."

"See? It's not my fault."

"I mean. It kind of is. I suspect any other guy would learn how to avoid this."

"I'm not leaving."

"Man, Chrissy isn't going to let you stay in here."

"Too bad."

"She told me to carry you out, if I had to."

"You wouldn't."

"If you come out, you can chat up the cute bosun."

"The bos-what?"

"Bosun. The guy you were ogling when we boarded. His name is Steve. He's really nice. He--"

"I was not ogling him."

"Eddie. You looked like you wanted to eat him for dinner."

"I'm not leaving the room." He sing-songs.

Look, would he have fought so hard if he'd known that Jeff was strong enough to toss him over his shoulders and fireman-carry him out of the room and up the stairs? He would not.

Instead, he screams the whole way from his cabin to the deck, where he's unceremoniously deposited into a lounge chair next to Chrissy. She's in a hot pink bikini, sipping a cocktail.

"Good to see you." She deadpans.

He glares. "Et tu, Chrissy?"

From behind him, a rich voice calls out, "Glad you could join us." It is, of course, the hot bosun. He waves when he catches Eddie looking in his direction.

Eddie sinks down in the lounger, Chrissy stifling giggles against her elbow.

---

The thing is, Steve is nice. He's nice and he's funny and he's hardworking. He's good with the other deckhands, Dustin, Max, and Lucas; strict but fair and good at keeping everyone on task. The stewards, Nancy, Robin, and El, all love him. Sometimes, he'll be down on all fours scrubbing the deck, and his t-shirt will bunch up, reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his taunt stomach that makes Eddie feel like a feral dog.

He's out on the top deck reading a copy of The Hobbit that Dustin loaned him, when Steve comes around the corner.

"Oh! Eddie, hey." Steve smiles. "Didn't realize there were any guests still up here."

"Do you need me to move?" He asks. He swings his feet over the side of the lounger.

"Not at all. Just wasn't expecting you." Steve's puttering around, picking up the detritus of the day. "I'm glad we've been able to overcome your expectations of boats."

His squeak is indignant. "It wasn't about the boat! I was brought here against my will!"

Steve smiles at him, eyes glittering. "Yeah, what a horrible punishment, boarding a luxury yacht for a Mediterranean cruise."

Eddie grabs at his chest, mimes being shot in the heart. "Stevie, how could you? All this time I thought you were on my side."

"Eh," he shrugs. "You were kind of being a baby."

He falls off the lounger at this. "The killing blow," he wails.

Laughing, Steve extends a hand, helps him to his feet. Their eyes meet and Eddie's struck, once again, by the way the hazel shines so gold, even at twilight.

"I'm being punished," he says, looking away.

"Again, getting on a chartered yacht for a week is not much of a punishment."

"I have a tendency to find myself involved in shenanigans."

"The topless women," Steve says.

Eddie groans. "You know about that?"

Steve does a real bitchy thing with his eyebrows that makes Eddie very warm in places it shouldn't. "Everyone knows about it."

"Okay. I'll have you know those boobs meant nothing to me, which is why it was fine! We had fun! Also, I am very, very gay. Like. The gayest."

"Oh, I know." Steve grins.

He doesn't know what to do with that. Changes the subject instead. "I hadn't clocked you for someone who listened to our stuff."

"I don't. Or well. Not really. No offense. The kids love you guys. And Robin. It's just--it's really loud? Not really my thing. Some good lyrics, though."

"No, I get it." He nods, licks his lips. "I write most of our songs." He's not sure why he says it, what he hopes to get from it.

"I know," Steve says.

"Oh." Eddie smiles down at his hands, The Hobbit. Before he can say more, Chrissy calls him down for dinner.

---

It's no secret that the Corroded Coffin boys are diehard dnd fans. They've done interviews about it, posted video of their sessions on YouTube and TikTok. Everyone knows they play, everyone knows Eddie DMs, so, he supposes, it's only a matter of time before Dustin and Lucas asks if he would DM for them.

The band, Chrissy, Lucas, Dustin, Max, Nancy, El, and Robin all agree to play. When asked, Captain Hopper snorts, doesn't take his eyes off the horizon, and Steve tells Dustin, "You know nothing in the world will make me play that game, kid. I'll try to stop by, though."

Eddie is totally in his element, everyone is having a blast, even Captain Hopper stops by. And Steve--he shows up after fifteen minutes, stays the whole time, can't keep his eyes off Eddie. He's not sure if it spurs him on, makes him more wild and dramatic, but the game is electric, the mood high.

It's an amazing night, one of the best of Eddie's life, and that's really saying something. They go late, well into the morning, but he's too hyped to sleep. He's pacing across the deck when Steve appears.

"You were great tonight." He says.

Eddie feels like he's effervescing. "You should think about playing sometime."

"Nah." Steve ducks his head a little. "Wouldn't be the same without you leading."

There's not a ton of space separating them, but he closes the distance anyway. "That could be arranged," he says, voice low.

"Yeah?" Steve meets his eyes, doesn't look away.

"If you want."

The air between them goes heavy, tightens, the silence lengthens.

"I can't," Steve breathes. "I'm working."

"No, yeah," Eddie nods. He steps back, runs his hand through his hair. He's never said no to something like this, never to someone like Steve. "I'm avoiding--"

"Situations." Steve finishes.

"Oh, but, Stevie, you're a situation I want very much."

"Take me on a date tomorrow."

"It would be my pleasure," he says.

He should leave but--he does love an occurrence, so he lets the impulsivity fly-- leans forward, places a soft kiss at the corner of Steve's mouth.

"Tomorrow, sweetheart."

[where-are-yuu]

Kenma Kozume Head Canons (Crushing, Confessing, and Dating <3)

Kenma Crushing on You is quiet and subtle attentiveness. He watches you carefully, trying to figure out every aspect of you. He listens to every word you say even if he's not showing it, he's paying attention. It's him shifting in his seat slightly to be closer to you as you ramble on about whatever while he plays his game. It's the subtle side glances he gives you when you're not looking.

Kenma Crushing on You is random text messages throughout the day even if he's standing right next to you. "did you see that?" "when is the homework due?" It's him finding excuses to talk to you late at night and spontaneous conversations that lead to nowhere.

Kenma Crushing on You is him looking for you in the stands at his games, you give him the motivation to play just a little bit harder. It's the quiet moments where the two of you just sit together enjoying each other's presence. It's him teaching you to play his favorite games so he has another excuse to spend time with you. ______________________________________________________________

Kenma Confessing to You is calm and out of nowhere. It's his hands shaking slightly as the two of you sit in his room playing whatever game he found and thought you'd like but his focus is solely on you. It's longing glances from the corner of his eye as he watches you focus on the game in hand.

Kenma Confessing to You is him pausing the game, the room silent as he finds his voice. It's a whisper, one you barely catch but it's there, nonetheless. "I like you. Like, like like you." his fingers busied themselves with his controller, but the game had been paused for a few minutes.

Accepting Kenma's Confession is his gaze meeting yours after a few moments of silence, eyes wide and lips parted like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. It's the smallest smile forming on his lips as he nods and resumes the game with a quiet "Okay. Cool... Really cool." It's him shifting closer to you on the couch, his knees pressed against yours, and his head resting on your shoulder. ______________________________________________________________

Dating Kenma is gentle love, nothing loud or dramatic, yet steady and comforting. It's acceptance and being seen for your true self. It's sitting in silence with each other for hours, not needing conversation to fill the gaps. It's falling asleep on call and playing co-op games together until the sun comes up.

Dating Kenma is him sending you pictures of things that made him think of you. It's giving each other reminders to drink water and eat something other than junk food throughout the day. It's him remembering your favorite games and learning how to play them (If he doesn't know already) just so he can play with you.

Dating Kenma is letting you use his console even when he won't let anyone else use it. It's him resting against you as he watches you do homework or study. It's soft kisses between rounds of Mario Kart and holding each other while watching Studio Ghibli movies.

Dating Kenma is your hands always finding each other when walking in the halls, his console tucked into his pocket as he focuses on you. It's his team teasing him after you walk him to practice, his small smile not going unnoticed by his teammates.

Dating Kenma is slow and patient. It's learning how to express affection for each other in the ways you each feel most. It's playing with his hair while he levels up in his game and keeping each other at an arm's length away.

[i-dared-myself]

Not so Subtle

Stray Kids x reader

Requested by anonymous: Hii^^ i love reading your works they are just so good♡ and i was wondering, completely up to you if you want to do it, if you could maybe do a skz ninth member reader one where reader is "secretly"  dating felix:))

The hardest part of dating was keeping it a secret. Obviously. As an idol, it was very difficult to have relationships, and anything was done to prevent dating scandals.

Dating a member from your group was even more so hush-hush. It just wasn’t done. 

Which was why you had to keep your relationship with Felix a secret. You both understood what had to be done, and all measures were taken to prevent anyone from discovering your relationship.

Date nights were rushed and hidden. It was less of a date night and more of a let’s hide in your room and hold hands night.

That was as far as you had gotten with him. Holding hands. You hadn’t yet kissed, too scared of someone walking in.

You have been dating Felix for three weeks and haven’t kissed him yet. And it’s not like you can go to anyone for dating advice, because who would you go to? What would even you ask them?

So you sit there on a Saturday night, afraid of asking your own boyfriend to hang out. You know he was sitting in his room alone, based on the picture he had just sent you. 

It was him in his hoodie, making a heart at the camera. You take a photo, mimicking his pose and sending it.

Then you wander down the hallway, knocking on his door. 

He opens it, eyes widening. “Uh- Hey. Seungmin’s out with Jisung. Do you need something?”

You clear your throat awkwardly. “I mean… It would be nice to hang out.”

Felix’s expression shifts to one of understanding, and he opens the door wider for you. You hurry inside and he shuts it quickly behind you.

You grin and hop onto his bed. “What were you doing?”

“Watching a show,” he responds, sitting next to you on the bed. His hands twitch, but he folds them into his lap. “Do you… want to watch it with me?”

You nod eagerly. “Yeah.”

He returns your excitement as he brings his phone out, bringing up the show he had been in the midst of. He explains it to you and you barely listen, more so focused on the joy in his eyes as he describes it.

Felix presses play and leans against the headboard to watch it. You stare at it for a minute before reaching out, entwining your hands together. In your peripheral vision you catch a smile grow on his face.

“Who’s that?” you whisper as a man shows up on screen. 

“That’s the love interest,” Felix softly replies, even though there’s no one else in the room. 

You watch it for another couple of seconds. “He’s not as pretty as you.”

His face flushes before his hand squeezes yours. “You’re prettier.”

You look up at him, mouth going dry. His gaze is hooded, lashes fluttering. 

“Yeah?” You shift closer to him, taking on his freckles. There’s so prominent when you’re this near him.

“So pretty,” Felix murmurs. His head dips down, lips slanting over yours.

It’s everything you’ve dreamed of. Sweet and soft, and just so Felix that it makes your chest hurt. You return it and loop your arms around his neck.

The door bangs open and you fly away from him with a squeak. Felix’s face goes red and he grabs a pillow, smothering you with it for some reason.

“What are you doing?” Jisung stands in the doorway, Seungmin hovering just behind him. Both of their expressions are a mix of surprise and… something else.

“Just… watching a show.” Felix smiles at them, although it comes off as forced.

You let out a muffled scream. He’s still attempting to kill you with the pillow and spots are dancing in your vision.

“Felix!” Seungmin snaps. “She can’t breathe!”

Felix gasps and flings the pillow away. It happens to hit Jisung directly in the face and he dramatically collapses.

“Are you okay?” Felix desperately asks, shaking you by the shoulders.

You force a smile. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good.” Felix lays you down on the bed, stroking your face affectionately. “I- I would hate to hurt you.”

You melt into his touch, leaning into his hand. “You would never.”

Seungmin coughs, breaking the tension. “Uh, Jisung! I hope you’re not hurt!”

You and Felix both jump away from each other, realizing you’re not alone. 

Jisung blinks at Seungmin before his mouth forms an ‘O’ of understanding. You don’t know what passes between them, but Jisung is suddenly groaning.

“Seungmin!” Jisung grabs the other man’s shirt and yanks him close. His fists crinkle the fabric and Seungmin’s face screws up in horror. “I- I’m so glad you were here to save me!”

Seungmin glances at you and Felix, his jaw setting before he reaches down to Jisung’s cheek, cupping it delicately. “I… I’m glad you aren’t hurt.”

Jisung sniffles. “Oh, Seungmin! What would I do without you?”

Seungmin’s lips peel back in disgust before he smoothes his expression out. He looks down at Jisung blandly. “Let’s go and… be alone.”

Felix frowns. “What are you two doing?”

Jisung glances over. “Seungmin’s going to… check me for bruises. You two stay here. We’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

You panic. “Why would we be worried about someone bothering us? There’s nothing happening!”

“Right!” Seungmin hoists Jisung to his feet, forcing him down the hall. “And we’re leaving now!”

Felix shuts his bedroom door and presses his back to it with a relieved sigh. “They didn’t catch on.”

You return to the bed. “Do you think Jisung’s hurt?”

“He’s fine,” Felix assures you. “They were acting weird, though.”

You lace your fingers with his, gently tugging him to the bed. “Yeah, they were. I wonder what that was about.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s move night. Everyone is gathering in the living room around the television, and popcorn has been made.

The group chat had even voted on a film earlier, so there was no need for an hour of arguing. The evening will go by pleasantly with no troubles or bumps in the road.

You stand uncertainty. You’re not sure where you should sit. There’s an available space next to Felix on the couch… but would that be too obvious?

“Sit down!” Changbin exclaims. He waves his hands at you. “You’re in the way! I can’t see the tv!”

You scoot to the side, moving to settle in the spot near Jeongin on the floor.

Then you stumble over something, sending you tumbling straight into Felix’s lap. His face lights up a bright red and you scramble to get away, but you get tangled up in the blanket.

“Oops,” Minho drawls, dragging his leg back from where it had tripped you. “Well I guess you’re sitting there now.”

You calm your racing heart and try and slip off his lap, but Hyunjin swoops in.

Hyunjin stretches out on the rest of the couch. When you gawk at him, he lifts his gaze to your face, raising a single eyebrow.

“What?” Hyunjin demands. “I pulled my ankle at training today and need the extra space.”

“Just sit down so we can start the movie!” Jeongin groans. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day!”

You recline, allowing his chest to rest against your back. Your entire body is tense with the anticipation of Chanbin leaping up and announcing that the two of you must be dating if you’re this close.

Chan walks over, adjusting the blanket you’re tucked under. He smiles softly at you and Felix before nodding to Jeongin. “Start the movie.”

Jeongin lets out a little cry of excitement as he presses play.

Felix’s hand works its way to your thigh, resting there. He doesn’t move it, keeping it there as a comforting gesture more than anything.

You take his other hand and position it on your leg. You catch a flicker of a smile grow on his face before he squashes it down.

Jisung sighs and turns around, reaching for the blanket. “I’m cold.”

It whooshes away, exposing Felix’s hands. You feel lightheaded as everyone’s eyes narrow in on them.

“I- W-We can explain!” you stammer as Felix yanks away. “I- We-“

Minho gasps and rolls away from Chan. “Stop touching me! I know your hands are cold in this freezing house, but keep them to yourself!”

Hyunjin clears his throat. “You may hold my hands to keep yours warm. It’s what a friend would do.”

“Thank you, Minho.” Chan reluctantly takes Minho’s hand in his. 

“That’s what we were doing!” Felix yells. He winces before bringing his voice down a level. “I mean, my hands were cold so I was warming them.”

“Ah.” Seungmin nods. “That makes total sense.”

Jeongin sighs. “Can I unpause it yet?”

“Go ahead.” Jisung sheepishly returns the blanket to you and Felix. You fold it over your bodies and snuggle back into your boyfriend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay!” Chan shouts, racing into the kitchen. Everyone else is there, cooking, chatting, or just hanging out. “Who the hell bought a bunch of condoms? Someone forgot to put them away and they ended up in the background for a photo that was posted!”

Everyone stares at him blankly. He stares, gaze intense. His phone is still clutched tightly in his hand and his eyebrows are knitted together.

You feel a drop of sweat roll down your neck.

“Well?” Chan prompts.

Jeongin steps forward, gaze cast downwards shamefully. “I- It was me. I’m sorry.”

“You?” Chan says in surprise. “Really?”

You and Felix exchange confused looks. 

Hyunjin also takes a step to the front. “And me. They’re mine too.”

Seungmin crosses his arms. “Oh, I want to hear this story.”

Hyunjin shoots him a filthy expression. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I disagree,” Changbin interjects. “I think it’s really needed.”

“I uh-“ Jeongin swallows. “I asked him for help on how to open them.”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose. “You did what?”

“I was always using scissors and would cut a hole in them.” Jeongin’s lips thin grimly. “They’re not very effective that way.”

“Yeah, so I showed him how to open them properly,” Hyunjin says. “So we bought a bunch of them so he could practise.”

Jisung appears as if he’s holding back laughter. Minho also seems to be struggling from beside him.

Chan shifts between legs. “Okay then. Uh, dismissed.”

You and Felix both discretely slip away to panic with each other. It’s a miracle Hyunjin and Jeongin had also owned condoms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The difficult thing about members dating is when everyone else knows. 

They have the decency to pretend that they don’t, though. It’s so hard when you and Felix are so obvious, however.

Chan sighs and rubs at his face. “I can’t do this much longer. When are they going to just come out with it?”

Changbin shrugs. “I have no idea. It feels like it’s been going on forever.”

“I even made up that whole condom story to try and get them to confess,” Chan mournfully confesses. “But nothing.

Seungmin scoffs. “I had to go off to private with Jisung. They probably think we made out or something.”

“I had to get all soft and hold his hand.” Minho points at Chan. “In front of everyone. You don’t have it that bad.”

“I had to take the blow for the condoms!” Hyunjin shrieks. 

Jeongin puffs his chest out. “So did I! I say we just tell them that we know.”

Jisung shakes his head. “No! If they haven’t told us yet, it’s probably for a reason!”

“Like what? They know that we’re not worried about proper image. Besides, we can keep a secret.” Seungmin pulls out his ohone and scrolls mindlessly.

“Guys?” You hover unsurely in the doorway, Felix right behind you. “We have something to tell you.”

“Thank goodness,” Jeongin mutters quietly. Seungmin laughs silently beside him. 

Felix places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, giving you the courage you need.

“We’re dating.” You suck in a breath as you wait for their reactions.

Minho purses his lips. “What? Oh, the scandal,” he drones, voice flat.

Felix weaves his fingers through yours and pulls you flush to his side. “It’s true. We’ve been dating for almost two months now. We’re happy and really like each other.”

Chan stands, expression serious. “We have something to confess too.”

“Yeah?” you anxiously ask.

“We’ve known the whole time,” Chan admits. 

“The entire time,” Hyunjin agrees. “Like, we knew the day that you became a couple. You both had those stupid smiles on your faces.”

You let out a heavy breath. “Okay, great. Good to know.”

Felix furrows his brow. “The whole time, really?”

“Really.” Changbin pats his arm as he walks by, uninterested in the conversation.

Seungmin trails after him, scowling. “Now shut up when you giggle over your shows together. It’s annoying.”

Taglist (Open):

@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret @hansmic @imeverycliche

[m1stm3]

now playing…

stay soft by mitski

↺ |◁ II ▷| ♡

cw’s!!: some angst and fem! reader (reader is referred to as a woman and uses she/her pronouns) :]

wc: 916 (my longest posted yet!!!)

imagining shigaraki who announces to the league that he found a temporary place to stay a few weeks after the base gets destroyed, answering zero questions as to how exactly he found a place for a group of villains to stay after they had seemingly exhausted all of their options (“someone owed me a favor” was all he had said. none of them believed him).

they’re all confused when they arrive at a relatively residential neighborhood. they’re even more confused when their boss walks up to the front door of a random house as if he’s done it a thousand times before (he has. he’d always crawl back to this doorstep, always looking a little small and wounded).

and — not to be repetitive — but imagine their shock when the sweetest looking woman opens the door. you. you’re all smiles and sugar, giving their boss a wide smile before greeting the rest of them and inviting them inside. they’re practically gawking at the way you dote on them as if they’re normal houseguests and not a group of strangely dressed villains.

the blonde girl and the two men in masks are the only ones that introduce themselves (himiko, jin, and ‘compress’. you recognized them from tomuras previous explanations. he thought they were all pains in their own right, you couldn’t bring yourself to agree). the others stay close by tomura, allowing him to guide them through the new environment (as if they had much of a choice). he hadn’t said a word since the nice woman opened the door, even ignoring spinners insistent, whispered questions.

tomura suddenly stops, gesturing to three doors. “we’re taking up these two rooms, the garage, and the living room.” he points to the last door in the hallway. “that’s the bathroom. figure it out amongst yourselves.” he explained flatly, making his way back to the main area of the house with nothing else said. they were left with more questions than when they had initially gotten there.

their boss had settled into a couch by the time they wandered back into the main area, slouched against an armrest with that blank look he wore whenever he was lost in thought. you had taken to the more talkative three, smiling softly as you answered their questions while offering them mugs of something warm (you couldn’t help the softened look in your eyes when you saw the brief shock in their expressions at the gesture).

it was quiet for a while after that. peaceful, even… until you dropped a mug while trying to tidy up your kitchen. it had been a while since the league had seen their boss suddenly so alert, no hesitation in his movements when he briskly made his way into the kitchen. they had braced themselves to hear yelling or some form of harshness. anything to express his displeasure towards the sudden interruption to his thoughts. only, that’s not what happened. at all, actually.

you were a little more frantic, murmuring soft apologies while crouched down and picking up the larger shards of ceramic. only the three at the table could see what was going on, but the quiet way everything was handled was enough for everyone to connect some dots. tomura hadn’t said anything, simply moving down to your level to help you pick up the bigger shards.

when he finally spoke, it was like witnessing a different person. ‘soft’ was an adjective the league wasn’t familiar with. they didn’t have the privilege of really knowing what that word meant… they understood it better now though, with the way their boss was reassuring you in a quiet voice. his words were scolding as per usual, (even you weren’t immune to his small lectures urging you to ‘be more careful’) but he said them with a lightness none of them had heard before.

and then you touched him and suddenly they understood (those who witnessed it, of course). the contact was brief, just a small, grateful squeeze to his shoulder. something so easily overlooked by the general population… but they knew their boss well. they knew the weight of the small gesture. it was so painfully normal, he didn’t even blink an eye at the small touch.

the three at the table — who usually had had so much to say — could only spare each other small, knowing glances. the others that had settled on the couch still looked expectant, as if waiting for the storm that was soon to come pouring down (they could’ve waited years, it was never going to happen).

the league stood at your house for two weeks after that, the interactions between you and the members short but sweet. tomura had bunked in the garage, walking into the house throughout the night with the weak excuse of having to use the bathroom.

they decided not to call him out on his lie.

you remained kind even as they were leaving, wishing them well and softly urging them to stay safe. only himiko noticed the look you and tomura shared as he walked past you. a secret something she was sure only the two of you knew the meaning of. she found herself foolishly hoping that the pretty lady who had taken care of them would be okay.

you found yourself foolishly hoping to see them again (in another life, maybe. things would be better then.)

[athkanna]

[miedei]

spencer reid would never (in my opinion) be the kind of boyfriend where you have full access to his clothes

he's far too much of a hyper-focused micromanager to be able to just share his clothes with you freely, he likes to know what is where (even if his wardrobe is seemingly absolutely unorganized, he has a system!!!)

instead though, he often makes 'donations' to your collection - a pair of patterned socks, a knitted scarf, a skinny tie - after you expressed how much you miss him when he's away on cases

pieces that belong to you now, but still have a touch of spencer in them, enough for you to see them and feel the same swell of affection that bubbles up in your heart when you see him

and, he can't lie, it sends a thrill down his spine when he comes to pick you up from your office and sees you wearing his sweater vest over your button up

[zepskies]

A Subtle Invitation

Pairing: Éomer x Fem!Reader 

Summary: “You needn’t be so formal,” Éomer said. His lips moved against the shell of your ear. “I am Éomer, especially when we are alone.”

Another short episode in your arranged marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark, in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor.

AN: Here's a little sequel to As Tradition Dictates, essentially an arranged marriage AU for Éomer!

Posted on Patreon: 6/13/2025

Word Count: 2.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. A bit of jealousy, angst, fluff, sharing a bath, smut (v. fingering)

The second morning after your wedding day, you bid your family goodbye. It was a bittersweet parting, and you hugged your mother and brother with all your might.

It would take them a week’s ride to travel back to Dol Amroth, the Gondorian city by the sea. Ruled by Prince Imrahil, it was a small, beautiful coastal palace, but ever did it live in the shade of Minas Tirith.

The wish to renew the friendship between Gondor and Rohan began in the mind of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. But of course he wouldn't deign to send either of his sons to marry Éowyn.

No, the responsibility fell on Prince Imrahil to send a suitable match from his household. He had felt his only daughter Lothíriel was yet too young to marry Théodred Prince, a grown man of forty-one years to her mere sixteen. So Imrahil called upon your family, upon you, his next closest relation.

You were meant to be...an appeasement bride, of sorts.

Lothíriel was promised to wed Théodred in two years’ time. And so, you had been sent to wed Éomer in the interim. The king's first nephew, Third Marshal of the Mark; his standing was still far above yours. You felt the match was unequal in that respect, but you also secretly hoped that he did not see it that way.

After finishing well wishes with your family, you were approached by Amrothos, the third son of Prince Imrahil, who had also accompanied your party to Rohan. He had been your friend along with Lothíriel since you all were children. You three were the closest in age and so had gotten into many hijinks together, for which your older brother too often needed to get you out of.

Today, Amrothos was more serious than you had ever seen him when he kissed your hand in parting.

“My dear lady,” he said, “I wish you every happiness.”

You caught a hint of grief and longing hidden behind his eyes. You knew why he suffered, but even with sadness throbbing in your chest, your heart could only love him as a friend. And so, that was how you must say goodbye.

“And I you, my friend,” you said. “Please give my best to Elphir and Erchirion, and tell Lothíriel I will write to her soon.”

“Of course,” Amrothos said. He bid you a final farewell with a deep nod of respect. He hesitated, but finally let go of your hand and stepped away from you. Incidentally, he met eyes with the Third Marshal as he returned to your brother’s side.

Éomer watched Amrothos go while standing behind you in the large hall, with his armor-laden arms clasped before him. His face was almost unreadable…but not entirely. Éowyn noticed the path of her brother’s gaze, so firmly trained on Amrothos as the entire party took their leaving. She hid a smile.

However, it soon dropped when she also noticed you being approached by Grima, the King’s advisor.

“Even in sadness, you retain your bridal glow, my lady,” Grima remarked.

You turned to him with a thin smile, trying to be polite. You could not place it, but there was something about the man that unsettled you. His voice slipped about like an eel, leaving a proverbial film of grease in its wake. 

Éomer tensed, but Éowyn sent him a pacifying look that said, Leave it to me.

She slipped between you and Grima. Giving him a polite excuse, she led you away by your arm to ask if you would help her tend the garden of Meduseld.

“My mother started it long ago, but admittedly, I myself have no hand for growing things,” she confessed with a laugh. You smiled along with her. “However, I thought you might be up to the task.”

Before you and Éowyn left the great hall, you gave your husband a parting smile as well as a nod of respect. He did the same for you, though he left without a word. You noticed the sharper eye he gave to Grima before he took his leave.

You wondered if Éomer too disliked the man, but you had no time to contemplate it just then. Éowyn’s steps were brisk and you needed to keep up with her.

The truth was, your heart swelled at the opportunity to tend the garden. Éowyn had caught you there more than once, touching the dry, deadened leaves with a frown. You remembered your own modest garden by the sea at Dol Amroth, full of lilies and lemongrass, wildflowers and white roses. It had been painful to leave your hard work behind in coming to Rohan.

“Yes, I would be honored, my lady,” you replied. “It is a pastime that brings me great joy.”

“Good,” said Éowyn, with a bright charm in her blue eyes. She squeezed your arm congenially as she led you through the long and cavernous halls of the keep. “Except you must call me Éowyn.”

You began with clearing the wild and overrun weeds and dead plants from the pit that once was a garden. It lied in a quiet room made of stone, so different from the pointed wooden walls that made up most of Meduseld. But high above, there was a wide, square gap in the ceiling that let in the sun, the rain, and the heavens shining down.

You evaluated the soil and what flowers and plants would bloom in time, using Éowyn’s knowledge of what grew here in Rohan. Éowyn and one of her ladies helped you clear the debris, even though you told her that she needn’t do so. She was the Lady of Meduseld, after all.

She waved away your concern and told you that she would rather help you than waste her day idling. By the time the sun began to set beyond the horizon, bathing the room in a dimmer golden glow, the three of you had accomplished quite a lot.

Also, you were now in dire need of a bath. When you took your leave, more eyes followed you than usual. No doubt they were noting your disheveled hair, the dirt staining your clothes and under your nails. The keep’s other maids and attendants whispered to each other, likely scandalized that you, the so-called noble lady of Gondor, had done the work yourself.

Good, you could not help but think in satisfaction. This would give them something better to gossip about. You had heard the whispers from the start.

The lady looks as if she is made of glass. Can she even move her head?

How complicated she wears her hair. Is that the style in Gondor?

She will never last a Rohirric winter.

How haughty is the tilt of her chin. No doubt she thinks us a bunch of wild savages. The Marshal will have his work cut out with her.

Surely, he wishes he could have chosen a bride for himself.

Those thoughts fell heavier upon your shoulders as you made the trek back to Éomer’s chamber…the one you now shared with him. You tried to keep your shoulders straight, your chin parallel with the floor. You did as your mother had always impressed upon you to do. Keep your true thoughts from your face, and show only what you wanted others to see.

However, that expression of aloofness fell the moment you fully entered the bedchamber. You heard the mild splashing of water before you realized—before you saw Éomer washing himself in the bath. The luxurious marble tub built deep into the ground, over in the far corner of the room. The fireplace crackled warmth into the room along with the water’s steam, enveloping you with a comforting air.

You knew your husband had been out on patrol today after leaving you this morning. No doubt he had ridden long and hard throughout the West Mark, perhaps alongside Théodred Prince.

Éomer looked up when the heavy door closed itself. You forgot to grab it so that it shut more softly. He turned to you, his eyes widening a fraction.

“My lord,” you greeted with a quick bow of your head. Your cheeks warmed in a blush. “I am sorry, I do not wish to disturb you.”

“You are not,” he replied, as he eyed you. A subtle invitation, perhaps.

He picked up the soap once more and continued to scrub along his arm. You were drawn to him, and to the sight of wet-slick muscle. Your gaze roamed up the length of his broad arm and shoulders, his chest and collarbone, his damp blonde hair clinging to his skin.

Quickly, your eyes rose and fell on his bearded face. His lips began to twitch upward, but it became hidden from you as he twisted to try and reach his back.

Your blush deepened as you stepped closer. “May I help you?”

He hesitated, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“If you wish.”

You knelt down at the edge of the stone tub. You took the bar of soap from him to help wash his back, though you noticed the more serious veneer that fell over his features.

“Am I doing something wrong?” you asked.

Éomer seemed to return to himself. He blinked up at you and lightened up a touch.

“No…no, thank you,” he said, taking the soap from you. Besides the softness of your touch, he was thinking of his patrol this afternoon. His Eored noticed signs of orcs west of Meduseld. He already informed his cousin Théodred, but tomorrow Éomer would ride out again and hunt them down. He would not trouble you with that, however.

While his back was turned, you saw a scattering of scars you had only glimpsed yesterday in the dim of candlelight. You touched him between the shoulder blades, and his muscles twitched. Your face warmed, but you were gentle in tracing the marks. Éomer paused, allowing it for the moment.

“Do all men in your Eored possess such scars?” you asked quietly.

“Many do,” he said. “The hazards of our occupation, and our duty.”     

He turned and grasped your hand to keep you from dwelling on those thoughts, or from fretting over him. Your eyes met his, and his lips curved. His free hand came up to brush some dirt from your cheek. "What's this?"

“Gardening,” you supplied with a blush.

“I see,” he said, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Care to join me then? The water is still warm.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He could tell that he’d caught you contemplating the very idea.

“It would conserve water,” you replied.

It succeeded in making him smile. That was something he had noticed about you.

Always concealing her desires behind practicality, he thought.

He tugged you closer by your hand to help you out of your clothes, but you cinched up the soft violet gown yourself. Éomer watched as you raised it over your head, the hem of it catching in your hair. Anew he took in your every curve with pleasure to his eyes. 

You were beautiful. Beautiful and kind. Again, he was reminded of how easily your match may not have come to pass.

Rather than cursed, as he may have felt months ago, he now felt mostly lucky to look upon his bride with the certainty that you were his alone. For him, it was worth the price of being yours in return, even if all that ever grew between you both was friendship and fondness.

He helped you into the bath, and the water rose to meet you when you settled in. Flashing him a somewhat shy smile, you reached up to loosen the complicated twists from your hair, taking out pins and unraveling the strands.

It was a delicate thing you did, and Éomer found himself attracted to the way your nimble hands did it…even though he preferred your hair as it was now: unbound and trailing damp between his fingers. 

He led you into a seat beside him on the ledge, submerged by the water. He washed your back, your glistening shoulders, and your arms, moving the soap over your skin in a gentle, but delicious pressure.

When he reached your neck, he slipped the smooth bar over your shoulder and more gently along your collarbone, dipping slowly between your breasts. You could feel his warm, solid chest against your back.

You breathed out a sigh, grateful, contented, and aroused in equal measure. His free hand found the curve of your waist under the water, and you felt the brush of his thumb along your skin. His hand slid higher, skimming the underside of your breast. A shiver ran down your spine.

“Thank you, my lord,” your voice escaped in a whisper.

“You needn’t be so formal,” Éomer said. His lips moved against the shell of your ear. “I am Éomer, especially when we are alone.”

He set down the soap and rose to sit on the edge of the tub. He drew you up with him by your hips, guiding you to sit in his lap. You felt every firm ridge of him against you, including his hard, heavy manhood kissing the cleft of your rear. His strong thighs underneath you were your foundation, his arms your unshakable support.

You sucked in a subtle breath, holding onto his left arm for balance, especially when his right hand dipped below your belly, brushing your skin, traveling down and down to cup your mound.

“Éomer,” you breathed, just as two of his fingers sought what they wished between your legs. A gasp caught in your throat. Your thighs, already shaking, opened up for him.

Calloused finger pads slipped through your folds and found delicious friction, rolling the swelling bud above your entrance until you began to whimper and writhe against him.

His lips trailed rough kisses along your neck, your chin, soft bites along your jaw. Then those same fingers plunged into you, deeply, finding slick familiarity in your sensitive channel.

Amidst the sounds of quiet splashing, your toes curling in the water around your ankles, your breathing shallowed. Desperation mounted. You reached back and scrapped for purchase, raking your nails through the wet darkened strands of his hair.

He held to him with an arm like an iron band. His hand molded to your breast, rolling the achingly hard nipple between his fingers. All the while, his sword-wielding hand worked you over, those thick digits sliding back and forth inside your quivering walls.

Until finally, a choked cry escaped you. Your core muscles clenched and spasmed around his hand, down to the knuckles. Still, he stroked inside you until you fell back against him with a shudder. Self-satisfied at bringing you pleasure, yet painfully aroused, he watched your breasts rise and fall with your breaths.

“Well done,” he murmured, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

You giggled softly, tightening your hand around his. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught his smile.

He guided you by your hips to turn around. You were all too willing to do so, straddling his lap with a slow ease. Maybe a tinge of lingering modesty had your face warming in a blush, but you smiled back at him.

Your hands slipped up his arms as he gathered you against his chest, until merely a whisper lied between his lips and yours. The air began to chill your wet skin, but you were warm wherever he touched you.

“Perhaps we could dry ourselves and move to the bed, where I might return the favor,” you suggested.

Éomer rose a brow, but the idea pleased him, as did your boldness when your hand disappeared between your bodies to stroke his aching cock. A grunt fell from his lips, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your hips.  

“You are learning quickly,” he uttered.

He earned your sweeter laugh. Then you welcomed him into a devouring kiss.  

At least we are compatible in this, you thought, before you weren’t able to think of much else.

AN: There we go, another little snapshot of these two! 💜

I'd like to do a few more of these at various points in their marriage (eventually). I guess you could consider that a kind of series, since it was meant to be from an actual Éomer x OFC series. 😆

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[aventurineswife]

Hello, my sweetheart!

Today’s request shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng—With a reader who likes to pretend they’re asleep in order to see how their partner reacts. Whether it’s in the morning to prolong their cuddles, or curious if they leave them be or “wake” them up. 🤭💙❕Bonus when the men know their partner is still awake and either teases them or plays along.

Soft Lies and Sleepy Smiles

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Moments, Playful Teasing, Established Relationships, Light Banter, Soft/Affectionate Moments, Subtle Intimacy.

Warnings: Mild suggestiveness, Mentions of past trauma (Implied for Sunday & Dan Heng, but not explored in depth), Minor physical contact (Soft touches, forehead flick, kisses), Aventurine being a smug menace (Because of course), Sunday’s quiet intensity (He’s poetic and a little too smooth for his own good), Dan Heng’s understated softness.

A/N: Hi lovely!! Thank you for this hehe, I hope you like it!! 🤭💙✨ Ignore any mistakes, I'm writing this at like 3:28 am 🧍‍♀️🙏😭

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The warmth of the Astral Express' quarters felt almost unreal—soft golden light filtering through the curtains, the gentle hum of the train beneath you, and Sunday’s slow, steady breaths beside you.

He was always an early riser, preferring quiet contemplation in the mornings. But today, as you lay curled against him, you decided to stay still, feigning sleep just to see what he’d do.

For a while, he didn’t move. His eyes remained on you, a silent observer as his fingers traced idle patterns against your arm. Then, barely above a whisper—

"You're awake, aren't you?"

You held your breath, keeping up the act.

A soft chuckle. The kind that barely touched the air but sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers grazed the edge of your jaw, the flutter of his wings betraying his amusement.

"It’s unlike you to be this still," he mused, voice like the quiet ripple of a dream. "But if you insist on pretending..."

He shifted, drawing you closer—enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. His halo gleamed faintly in the dim light, golden and unblinking, like an ever-watchful eye.

Then, just as you thought he’d let you continue the charade, Sunday whispered something against your ear, so soft it sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

"Would it be cruel to wake you with a kiss? Or shall I let you remain lost in your dreamscape?"

Your resolve wavered. The warmth of his lips barely ghosted over your cheek, and you couldn't help it—a tiny twitch of your mouth, a sharp inhale.

His hand, featherlight, cupped your cheek.

"Caught you," he murmured, voice laced with quiet victory.

You peeked open an eye, meeting his gentle yet knowing gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Next time, love, you’ll have to try a little harder."

Aventurine was warm. Unfairly so, draped lazily beside you in bed, the fur-lined edges of his overcoat tossed haphazardly over the chair nearby. The morning light slanted through the window, painting soft golds and deep greens across the room.

You, ever the curious one, decided to play a game.

Eyes closed, body perfectly relaxed—you stayed still, waiting to see how he’d react.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

"Hah, what’s this? A little trick from my darling?"

His voice was honeyed, teasing. You felt the mattress dip as he shifted, his hand brushing ever so gently against your exposed shoulder.

"You’re terribly convincing, I’ll give you that."

There was a pause, and then—a sharp flick to your forehead.

Your body betrayed you. A reflexive twitch.

"Ah-ha! You flinched!" His laugh was rich with amusement. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll have to bluff better than that."

You groaned, cracking an eye open. Aventurine grinned down at you, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"I’ll have to reward you for the effort, though. Tell me, love—should I make it up to you with breakfast, or perhaps…" He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your lips. "Something sweeter?"

You rolled your eyes, but your heart raced nonetheless.

"Cheat," you muttered.

"Always," he replied, pressing a playful kiss to your forehead.

The gentle rocking of the Astral Express made for the perfect excuse to stay in bed a little longer. Dan Heng, ever composed, lay beside you, his breaths steady and deep.

You decided to test him. Would he wake you? Leave you be? Perhaps... tease you?

You kept your breaths even, your face perfectly serene. A few minutes passed before you felt him stir.

Soft movements. The rustling of sheets.

Then, ever so carefully, you felt his fingers brush against yours—hesitant, barely there.

You almost smiled.

He knew.

Rather than calling you out, he played along. His hand shifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Then, a whisper, barely above the hum of the train.

"If you want more sleep, I’ll let you rest."

A pause. His fingertips ghosted over your knuckles, almost as if he was hesitant to let go.

"But I’d rather you stay with me a little longer."

Your resolve broke. Slowly, you opened your eyes, meeting his steady gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, barely there, but unmistakable.

"Good morning," he murmured.

And just like that, you melted.

[sundaysconsort]

Since your reqs are open hehe 🤭

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

Also, my first time making a req- 🧍‍♀️

Entry: " Recipe to Reminisce "

Pairing: HSR! Sunday | Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fin.

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

[bluiea]

So during nick kosir's vlog with Enhypen, he asked puppyz what word do they want him to sneak into his weather forecast and they said ENGENE, and he actually did it(T_T)

"All that moisture being sucked up by this area of low pressure. listen, there’s a kpop group named ENHYPEN and their fans are called ENGENES because they’re the fuel, they’re the engine and the fuel that keeps the band going. well, this is the fuel that’s going to continue to keep these showers going"

[yanderejustforyou]

The Mark of a Stranger

Fandom:The Penguin (2024) Pairing: Sofia Falcone x Reader

You woke to a throbbing ache behind your eyes, a dull, persistent reminder of the previous night's festivities. The echo of laughter, the rhythmic pulse of bass, and the strobing kaleidoscope of club lights still swirled like phantom sensations in your head. It had been a typical Friday night - an escape orchestrated with familiar ease beside your friends. Good music, potent cocktails, and that ephemeral, dizzying freedom that always felt a little too short-lived. The city's energy had been a palpable force, a siren song pulling you deeper into its chaotic rhythm. You'd surrendered willingly, dissolving into the sea of bodies, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating feeling of being momentarily untethered from reality.

But as you pushed yourself up from the tangled bedsheets, your fingertips grazed your neck, and a jolt of unease, cold and unfamiliar, shot through you. There was a strange sensation there, not quite pain, but a persistent, foreign pressure—an unfamiliar warmth that radiated from a specific point. It was subtle, at first, easily dismissed. But then your fingers explored, tracing the contours of your skin, and you realized: there was something there. Something raised, with a jagged, almost deliberate edge, chillingly unmistakable. A bite. The skin around it was angry red, inflamed and tender to the touch. The two puncture marks, small and sharp, seemed almost... intentional. Placed. Something cold and predatory, like the fangs of a wolf, had touched you.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the blood draining from your face as a whirlwind of panicked thoughts took hold. You were certain there was no bite from the previous night - no feral alley cat, no drunken stumble into a rosebush. You had left the club with your friends, the walk home a blur of shared jokes and tipsy laughter - none of them had noticed anything amiss. A quick memory check: no strange encounters, no unexpected contact. Nothing - but this. You stumbled to the bathroom, peering into the mirror, a growing sense of dread coiling in your stomach. The mark was small, concealed just beneath your hairline, at the nape of your neck. It looked… almost like a brand, a warning etched into your flesh. A possessive claim.

The mark itself was small, almost easily hidden under your hair, but it radiated a strange power, a claim, like something had carved itself beneath the skin, changing you in a way you couldn't understand. It felt alien, unnatural. You shook your head, trying to dispel the creeping unease, the primal fear blooming in your chest. You went through the motions of starting the day, a shower, coffee, but the normal routines felt… off. The air seemed to thicken around you, a suffocating blanket of awareness, and a prickling sensation of being watched from every corner. The usual city sounds, the distant rumble of trucks, the chatter of pedestrians, seemed to amplify, echoing much louder in your ears. The weight of the world felt heavier, pressing down on you from all sides, and the sense of being hunted grew with every passing moment. Every now and then, you’d catch a flicker in your peripheral vision – a shadow that darted too quickly, a figure obscured by the crowd, too illusive to pin down. Just a hint of darkness, a vague unease settling in with every glance.

The day passed in a state of anxious paralysis, a constant battle against the mounting feeling of wrongness. That night, after another restless day of unease, your phone buzzed. A message. Plain and to the point: “We need to talk.” The name at the top sent a jolt of cold dread through you: Sofia Falcone. Just the name alone felt like a weight on your chest. A wave of sickening unease washed over you, the dots of fear connecting. You tried to push back the feeling that this all must be a mistake, overthinking, a bad dream, but the fear, the bite, felt solid and real. You knew Sofia, or at least, you thought you did. She was an enigmatic woman, a captivating presence with long dark hair cascading down her shoulders, piercing grey eyes that always seemed to see through you, and an undeniably dangerous air that shimmered beneath the surface of her composed exterior. But this? This was something else, something you couldn't fathom, something terrifying in its unknown nature.

You tried to rationalize, to find a logical explanation, to convince yourself it was all a misunderstanding, but deep down you knew this feeling wasn't something that could be explained by rational thought. There was no escaping it, you were caught in this web. You had been marked, and the familiar world that surrounded you was about to shift into something completely alien.

When you arrived at her penthouse, the door opened before you even had the chance to knock, as if she had been expecting you. The cool, calculating gaze of Sofia Falcone met yours immediately, sending a shiver crawling up your spine. She was standing in the dimly lit entryway, the soft glow of candlelight casting long, unsettling shadows around her. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on your face, her expression unreadable.

“Come in,” she said, her voice smooth and inviting, but laced with an edge of something predatory that sent an icy chill down your bones. “We need to have a conversation.” The words were polite, almost casual, but there was a definitive authority in their tone, an unspoken command that brooked no refusal.

As you stepped inside, your heart hammered against your ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the silence. You tried to ignore the subtle burning sensation at the back of your neck, the insistent throb that was a constant reminder of what had happened. The atmosphere inside the penthouse was thick, a heady mix of expensive perfume, polished leather, and a faint, lingering smell of something old, almost like cigar smoke, a ghost of a previous life and history clinging to the air.

Sofia closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click, each movement graceful and controlled, like a panther stalking its prey. You felt small and vulnerable, insignificant in her presence, like you were in the presence of something far older and more powerful than yourself, something that could devour you whole without a moment's hesitation.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry with fear. “What’s happening to me?” Your voice was barely a whisper, the fear bubbling uncontrollably to the surface.

Sofia tilted her head slightly, her eyes scrutinizing you. Her gaze flickered to the bite mark on your neck, a spark of something knowing, something almost triumphant, flashing behind her eyes. “You’ve noticed it, then,” she said, her voice dangerously calm, like the stillness before a storm. “Good. I was starting to wonder if you’d be too oblivious to understand what happened.” Her words were a subtle taunt, a challenge to the fear that was clearly visible in your eyes.

You took a step back, shaking your head, trying desperately to piece together the words, the situation, but it was all blurring together into an incomprehensible nightmare. "What do you mean? What is this bite? Why is it—why is it hurting?" You ran a hand across your neck, the tenderness of the skin a sharp reminder of the violation.

Sofia moved closer, each step slow and deliberate, narrowing the distance between you. Her presence was suffocating, like a thick fog that robbed you of air. Before you could protest, she was close enough to touch, her fingers brushing against the sensitive skin around the mark, her touch light, almost affectionate, but there was a chilling coldness in her eyes, the calm gaze of a hunter who has cornered its prey.

“I’ve marked you,” she said softly, her voice a hypnotic whisper, a silken thread that bound you to her word. “And it’s more than just a bite. It’s a symbol. You’re mine now.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, a wave of cold shock that paralyzed your body. You couldn't move, couldn't pull away from her gaze, the weight of her words sinking into your very core. The heat of the bite on your skin began to intensify, spreading across your neck and chest, filling you with a strange and unfamiliar warmth, but it wasn't the comforting warmth of a fire. It was a consuming heat, like you were being devoured from the inside out. Your heart pounded in your chest, hammering out a frantic rhythm against the silence.

“I’m… yours?” you managed, the words foreign and forced in your throat, tasting like ash. You couldn’t believe what she was saying, what was happening, yet the truth of it rang loud and undeniable.

She smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was full of something dark, something predatory, a flicker of malice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A wolf showing its teeth before the kill.

“You’re more than you think. More than you were. You’ll understand in time,” she murmured, her hand lifting and stroking your cheek, her touch a strange mix of fondness and malice. “This bite isn’t just a mark. It’s a bond, a promise that we’re connected now.” Her voice was soothing, but the undertone was unsettling, like the murmur of a predator lulling its prey into a false sense of security.

“No one else can take you from me now,” she continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a possessive intensity. “No one. The bite means you belong to me—body, soul, and every last breath you take. You are mine.” Each word was a claim, a chain forged in the depths of darkness, binding you to her.

A shudder ran through your body at her chilling declaration, your heart racing in panicked flight, trying to escape the truth that she was weaving before you. You opened your mouth to protest, to deny, but no words came out, your voice caught in the web of her carefully wrought words. The heat, the overwhelming sensation of being bound to her, of being claimed, choked you. You had to close your eyes, unable to meet her gaze any longer, the horror of what she was saying washing over you like a tidal wave.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Sofia said softly, her fingers trailing down your cheek as if offering a twisted comfort, the light touch almost a brand. “But you’re mine now. And this… this is your new reality.”

The pressure at the back of your neck grew stronger, the bite throbbing, your body trembling with an agony that wasn’t physical, but emotional, as the weight of her control settled deep into your bones. You were hers now—marked and bound in ways you couldn't yet comprehend, a puppet dancing in her hands. 

[ogdoadfates]

Subtle 'I love you's Prompt list

These have a mix of romantic and platonic. I'm going on a vacation soon and I don't think I'll be able to get the next chapter of my fic done before then so I'm making a lot of these for y'all to enjoy in the meantime. Feel free like always to use these for anything!

Person A cleaning Person B's house/room for them.

Person A cooking Person B's favorite meal.

Kiss to the forehead.

Person A letting Person B rest on them.

"Come on, I got you."

Person A finding a framed photo of them and Person B in Person B's house.

"Well, you're family to me."

"You care. And it shows."

Buying the other a gift because it reminded them of the other.

Flowers.

Checking in when the other is sick.

Making the other a gift by hand.

Being there for the other after they lost someone.

"What do you mean? You have me."

"What did I do to deserve you?"

"You make life better."

"What?" "Nothing, you're just beautiful."

Sitting on a bench together at sunset or sunrise.

Letting the other cry themselves to sleep in their arms.

Person A visiting Person B unannounced to cheer them up.

[sarohy]

Okay okay last one I swear….

[ijustwannadraw0716]

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY

Featuring flustered sides but eith more color. Bottom one has a few kisses marks ;3