Hanamaki Takahiro — Snack Attack
(fluff / humor / established relationship) │ you thought they were regular gummies. they weren’t.
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the smell of popcorn fills his apartment long before you see him. you can hear the clatter of bowls, the hiss of the microwave, the faint hum of a playlist he insists “sets the movie mood.”
hanamaki takes movie nights seriously. it’s not just an activity—it’s an event.
the coffee table looks like a buffet by the time he’s done. chips, candy, chocolate bars, sodas, even a bowl of ramen that he swears is “for the vibes.” you grin, impressed.
“this is… excessive,” you say, flopping onto the couch.
“it’s perfect,” he corrects, straightening a bag of chips like it’s part of a museum display. “the lineup’s important.”
you nod solemnly. “of course.”
he grins and disappears into the kitchen to grab drinks, calling over his shoulder, “don’t start the movie without me!”
you don’t. but your eyes wander.
your gaze lands on a small pastel bag on his side of the table—cute design, little gummy bears printed on the front. your sweet tooth wins instantly. you pick it up, tear it open, and find only a handful inside.
“stingy,” you mumble, tipping the rest into your palm and popping them all into your mouth. they’re fruity and soft and delicious.
you toss the empty bag back on the table, grab a blanket, and snuggle in just as he walks back in with two bottles of soda.
“okay,” he says, settling beside you. “you ready?”
“always.”
he hits play, and the movie starts.
it takes maybe five minutes for things to go wrong.
the opening credits roll, and suddenly everything is hilarious. the studio logo? funny. the dramatic theme music? hysterical. the popcorn? absolutely life-changing.
you’re giggling uncontrollably, tears pricking your eyes as hanamaki stares at you, baffled.
“uh,” he says slowly, “you good?”
you nod too hard. “yeah. yeah, i’m great. my head’s just… fuzzy.”
he frowns. “fuzzy?”
“uh-huh.” you giggle again. “like cotton candy.”
he narrows his eyes, glances at the table—and freezes. the pastel bag sits there, empty, taunting him.
“no way.”
you blink at him. “what?”
he picks up the bag, turns it over, and deadpans, “you didn’t eat these, did you?”
“the gummy bears?” you say, smiling. “yeah, they were really good.”
“how many?”
you grin wider. “all of them.”
there’s a full five seconds of silence before he mutters, “holy shit.”
you giggle. “what?”
“they’re weed gummies!” he half-shouts. “you were supposed to have two! you ate nine!”
“so,” you mumble, “i’m… gonna die?”
“no, you’re not gonna die.” he runs a hand down his face. “but you’re gonna be gone.”
he’s not wrong.
fifteen minutes later, you’re sunk deep into the couch, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes.
“it’s breathing,” you whisper.
“what is?”
“the ceiling.” you point weakly upward. “look. it’s totally breathing.”
“it’s not breathing,” he says, trying not to laugh.
“then tell it to stop doing that.”
he groans. “okay, you’re definitely gone.”
you turn your head toward him, pupils huge. “how long have i been asleep?”
“you haven’t.”
“feels like i have.”
“it’s been eight minutes.”
you gasp. “no way. that’s at least four hours.”
“babe.”
you tilt your head. “you have really nice hands.”
he laughs helplessly. “jesus christ.”
you grab his fingers, inspecting them like you’ve never seen hands before. “they’re so long. like, how do you pick things up without accidentally poking them?”
he snorts. “carefully.”
you giggle again, curling closer. “you’re cute.”
“and you’re high,” he says, brushing your hair back. “come on. let’s get you to bed.”
“no.”
“no?”
“can’t move.”
“why not?”
you whisper seriously, “gravity’s too strong.”
he stares. “gravity’s too—okay. sure.”
you grip the blanket dramatically. “i’m glued. don’t leave me.”
“i’m not leaving you,” he says, kneeling beside the couch, trying to coax you up. “just… let’s move to the bed, yeah?”
you squint at him. “you’re trying to trick me.”
“i’m not.”
“that’s what someone tricky would say.”
he bursts out laughing, collapsing back onto the rug. “you’re impossible.”
you frown, then brighten. “you’re lucky i didn’t eat your chips.”
he raises an eyebrow. “you did.”
“oh.”
“and my cookies.”
“…oh.”
he sighs, leaning his head back against the couch. “yeah. figures.”
you reach down and pat his hair clumsily. “you’re a good boyfriend.”
he chuckles softly, catching your hand. “you’re a terrible snack thief.”
“mhm.” you grin, eyes drooping. “i like your face.”
“yeah, i like yours too.”
you yawn and curl into the couch, still holding his hand through the blanket.
he watches you fight sleep for all of two minutes before you lose. he tugs the blanket higher over you and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“next time,” he murmurs, “ask before you eat random shit on my side of the table, okay?”
you mumble something about the ceiling again, already drifting off.
he laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “yeah, yeah. tell it goodnight for me.”
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inspired by the time i ate weed gummies, got the munchies, and proceeded to snack on the rest of the bag of gummies.
