mmeskywalker

[mmeskywalker]

yes, ma'am

clark kent x editor!reader

Summary: Clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.

Word Count: 12.1k

Content: 18+, smut, clark is a disaster and a yearner, reader is a little mean but clark is into it, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), clark whimpers, light angst, reader is described as having hair

To Read on AO3

Daily Planet, Metropolis - 9:47 AM

The hustle and bustle of the newsroom is already well underway by the time Clark Kent makes an appearance. The way-too-big gray suit that he wore at least once a week is crumpled, the coat nearly hanging off his shoulder as he tries to make sure he hasn’t lost any of the papers that are haphazardly hanging from his open bag while balancing a cup holder with four cups of coffee from the nice coffee shop down the road.

Other employees step around the frazzled man as he makes a beeline for his desk, flashing smiles and good mornings to everyone along the way. He’s stopped just shy of his destination as Lois Lane pops out in front of him, eyes heavy with exhaustion, as she eyes the paper cups before plucking the one with the most sugar listed on the order sticker. “Thanks,” she mumbles as she turns around, making her way back to her desk, muttering some stuff under her breath about having to rewrite the byline for her article again.

Clark barely has time to stutter out a ‘you’re welcome’ before he realizes the missing coffee cup has caused the cup holder to begin to tip sideways, the other three coffees teetering dangerously close to disaster. Clark can already see the next two seconds flashing before his eyes: spilled coffee and the exasperated look from everyone around him.

That is, until a perfectly manicured hand shoots out from behind him, deftly swiping the cup holder from him before all of the cups spill over. He follows the hand to its source, landing on your face… your very stern, eyebrow cocked in disbelief, face. “Seriously, Kent?” you ask with a scoff as you set down the holder onto his desk.

He feels the burn up the sides of his neck to his ears as he stammers, clamoring to put his bag down and straighten out his suit. You look nice today, he notes. You look nice every day, even as you stand before him, scowling. All he can think about is how pretty you look and how mesmerizing the red of your lipstick is.

“Y-yeah, sorry,” he finally apologizes, snapping to as he realizes you were waiting for him to respond. “The fight with Superman this morning ended up shutting down the A-Line, so I had to walk.”

You don’t even try to disguise the way your eyes roll at his excuse. “Superman, of course,” you mutter under your breath before raising the manila folder you were holding. “Here are the edits for the article you gave me yesterday, and remember, you still owe me the draft for the Crane case.”

“Geez, let the guy breathe for a second before jumping down his throat as soon as he gets in,” Jimmy Olsen comments with a grin as he saunters over, grabbing another cup from the holder on Clark’s desk. He pats Clark on the shoulder with a faint ‘thanks, man’ all the while pretending you’re not glaring daggers at him as he falls into his chair, sipping happily on his coffee.

You point the folder at Clark, who stands there awkwardly as you turn your fury to Jimmy. “He wouldn’t need a chance to breathe if he got here on time like the rest of us,” you fume. Jimmy holds his hands up in surrender, sending a sympathetic smile to Clark before ducking his head and turning back around to face his monitor. As much as Jimmy loves Clark, he was not going to put himself in front of your wrath for him.

When you turn back to Clark, he at least has the decency to look apologetic, hunched in a way to make himself appear smaller, and the corners of his lips pulled into a remorseful smile. You curse his dimples silently in your mind. “I was hoping getting you a coffee might soften the blow of me being late… again.”

You look down at the two remaining cups and see your name written in Clark’s chicken scratch handwriting with a wobbly smiley face drawn next to it. The sticker with the order on it displaying that he’d gotten you your favorite from the shop down the road that you loved to go to whenever you managed to pull yourself away from your desk for longer than ten minutes. That is to say that it is a luxury around here.

Your eyes narrow and lips purse for just a moment before you shove the folder into his chest, and he scrambles to catch it before it hits the ground. “I’m serious, you better have it to me by six P.M., Perry has been on my ass about it,” you assert before plucking your coffee from his desk and turning to walk back to the editor block, the click of your heels like a siren song that has his eyes following after you trailing up your form before settling on your plush backside before he realizes what he’s doing and looks away quickly, suddenly very interested in the broken ceiling tile above his desk.

He hears a snort of laughter and glances back over at Jimmy, who is not even attempting to hide his shit-eating grin. “What?” Clark asks.

Jimmy shakes his head in disbelief. “Dude, you have it so bad.” Clark dares to look confused as to what Jimmy is referring to. He motions to you and Clark can’t help but to sneak another peek at you as you’re stopped in the middle of the bullpen talking to one of the summer interns, the stern brow you’d had with him has softened as you’re inevitably explaining something you have already gone over at least twice with her before with far more patience than you ever afforded Clark.

Clark doesn’t even realize the dopey smile that works its way onto his face as he stares until Jimmy snaps his fingers. “Yeah, see! That!” He points at Clark’s face, which has now settled into what could only be described as a pout.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark insists.

Jimmy groans as he spins in his chair. “Just ask her out already, the worst thing she could say is ‘no’.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Actually, the worst thing she could say is ‘you’ll be hearing from HR’.”

Lois rolls out from behind her desk, looking a bit more chipper than five minutes prior, cup of coffee still securely in her hand. “Fired for sexual misconduct would look really bad with future employers,” she teases.

Clark gives her an exasperated look, and Jimmy waves his hand at both of them dismissively. “I’m telling you, there’s no way she’d say no or report you to HR.”

“Jimmy, I hate to break it to you, but she cannot stand Clark,” Lois informs.

“Yeah, she can’t—” He whirls around to look at Lois, a distraught look on his face. “What do you mean she can’t stand me?”

“Clark, you’re always submitting drafts to her late —” “Yeah, because I get really nervous and end up re-writing it like five times before I give it to her.” “— You’re also always showing up late for work—” “I can’t help if the city is attacked and an entire subway line gets shut down!”

Lois gives him a sharp look, and he swallows, something unspoken between them that Jimmy at least doesn’t pick up on.

“Listen, some women just aren’t impressed with the whole… naïve farm boy vibe you got going on,” Lois finishes with a shrug. “Don’t take it so personally.”

Clark looks to Jimmy for some backup, and luckily, the redhead takes pity on poor Clark, coming to his friend’s rescue. “Lois, I respect your opinion on this matter as a woman, but trust me, she may seem like she’s not impressed, but—”

“Oh, don’t even give me that she’s playing hard to get spiel,” Lois rolls her eyes with a disbelieving smile on her face.

“—But, I think she’s playing hard to get.”

“Oh my god, you’re both HR violations waiting to happen,” she chides before taking another sip of her coffee.

“Aw, c’mon, look, you made him sad.” Jimmy gestures to a very downtrodden Clark, who is simply staring in the general direction where you had disappeared back into the editor block with a visible frown on his face.

Guilt creeps up Lois’s spine, and she sighs. “Listen, if you really like her, then just ask her out already and spare us having to endure the puppy dog looks.”

“There ya have it,” Jimmy nods. “Lois Lane approved office romance.”

Lois lets out a bark of laughter as she and Jimmy dive into their own conversation, leaving Clark to his thoughts. He drops into his seat, starting to look over the edits you’d handed him. The amount of markups on the page doesn’t even surprise him. Bright blue ink scratches out entire segments of sentences, circling others, neat handwriting tucked into the margins explaining each cut and need for clarification.

The first article you edited for him had been even worse. There was more blue penned onto the page than black printed ink. You had torn his article into shreds, the one he had shyly placed into the tray on your desk after he had tried to email it to you, only to be told you only accepted printed copies of drafts, something none of the other editors requested.

(Lois would later tell him that you preferred having something physical in your hands when you edited, and she’d made the same mistake in her first week)

He had been so proud of that article when he’d handed it over. Less so when you’d given the folder back to him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow before walking back to your desk, it took all of five minutes before he’d shown up in front of you, the marked-up draft crinkled nervously between his hands, clearly upset by the sheer amount of edits.

You had stared at him, unblinking, as he stammered all over himself, waiting until he talked himself into an awkward silence before saying anything. Dealing with uppity journalists who took personal offense to edits was nothing new to you. “If you don’t make the edits, then I won’t approve it and it won’t go to print,” you’d said simply. “Unless you’d like to make an argument for the run-on sentences?”

There wasn’t any malice in your voice, and that was the moment Clark realized it wasn’t personal, it was just your job, and you were not just good, but great at your job. He must have been as red as a tomato by the time he turned and fled back to his desk with his tail tucked between his legs.

He made the edits, and when Perry walked by his desk the next day, he was complimented on the pacing and tone of the piece. It didn’t make the front page… not even second or third, but it was his first article in the Daily Planet.

You had even smiled at him and congratulated him on his first article when you were making your rounds that morning.

That was where this inconceivably tiny, bite-sized crush started.

Because even when you shredded his article into pieces, his heart sang at the tiny compliments left in the margins.

‘Good pacing here.’

‘This passage really shines.’

‘Beautiful.’

And of course, it doesn’t help that you are pretty. Walking around the office with your face done up and hair perfectly styled in outfits he doesn’t think he has seen a repeat of since starting here almost three years ago. He always feels like a mess in front of you, especially when he comes in late (which is often) and sees you standing there, arms crossed, looking like you want to go up one side of him and down the other (which you have before).

There is also the fact that you hate Superman.

Well, maybe hate isn’t the right word.

Strongly disapprove of?

He remembers the first time a clip of Superman played while you all had gathered in the newsroom. When everyone else was oohing and ahhing at Superman’s heroics (which Clark may or may not have been preening a bit at), you stood there, sipping at your overly expensive coffee with such an unimpressed look.

“Just what we need, another jackass in tights wandering around.”

Clark deflated at that.

While you never explicitly said you disliked his caped alter ego, you definitely never had anything kind to say either. The articles he submitted to you about Superman? If he had gotten those edits when he was a freshman in high school writing for the Smallville High newspaper, he would’ve never written another article again.

Entire paragraphs marked for deletion or simply ‘TONE’ in all caps next to specific passages. The worst had been when you crossed out a sentence and just put ‘No’ next to it in the margins.

“It’s a feature, not an op-ed, Kent.”

It was brutal. Even Lois couldn’t help the grimace whenever she happened to catch sight of those drafts, her and Jimmy saluting Clark when they knew he was walking over to the editor block to submit a Superman article to you.

Despite that, he looked forward to seeing you every day. You had become the person he looks for the moment he enters a room, without him even realizing it.

So much about you and the way you move through the world has been noted and categorized by Clark.

He loved the moments when he caught you while editing, two or three pens stuck in your up-do because you kept forgetting you’d placed them there and grabbed a new one each time, chewing on your bottom lip as you carefully marked up whatever draft you were working on.

He loved how you took care of the people around you in your own, sometimes standoffish, way.

“Have you eaten?” You’d asked him one day, his second year of working at the Planet. It was late, and it was just you two and a handful of others in the office working towards deadlines that were creeping far too close for comfort. He’d been having the hardest time with the beat Perry had assigned him and had worked through his lunch and any subsequent breaks.

“O-oh, I don’t really have money to order out right now,” he said, almost embarrassed. He’d just paid rent, which meant he would be living off of cup noodles and breakroom coffee until next week when his next paycheck hit.

You glanced up at him from your phone that you were tapping on. “I didn’t ask if you had money, I asked if you’d eaten,” you replied pointedly before returning your attention to your phone. “Beef and broccoli, yeah?” You confirmed, and he was a bit stunned but managed to nod in response. Warmth rolling through his chest that you remembered his food order. “I’ll get those eggrolls you like, too.”

“I can pay you back next week,” Clark offered, and you just waved your hand at him, not looking up from your phone.

“I’m not worried about it, Kent.” You walked off, calling out to the others in the office that you were ordering food, leaving Clark’s heart to simmer in your wake.

He loved how unafraid you were. How confident you were in your convictions. There weren’t many people at the Planet who would go to bat against Perry, but you did constantly. So many times, he’d walk into the newsroom to see you two having a screaming match about whether or not an article should go to print.

“We are not printing this!”

“Oh, come off it, Perry, if you want to play it safe, go work for Newstime Magazine!”

The article almost always went to print. Not without a lot of griping from Perry, and you never were smug about it. Satisfied, yes. But it was about journalistic integrity. It was about publishing articles that no other company would touch with a ten-foot pole due to the fear of backlash because no one else would do it. There were many other employees at the Planet who shared the sentiment, but you were consistently the one who fought for it, loudly.

So yeah, Clark Kent had a crush on you because why wouldn’t he? And maybe Jimmy was right, and he should ask you out.

(Or maybe he was wrong and Clark would be looking for a new job by Friday)

By the end of the day, he decides he will ask you out to dinner. Hyping himself up in the moment as he starts to finish the article that he has already rewritten twice now.

Except he doesn’t end up asking you out at all. Instead, it is five P.M., and he stands in front of your desk, freshly printed draft clutched in his hands as he watches you type away at something on your monitor.

You don’t even look up at him, and he knows that you know he is standing there.

Time stretches on for what he could only imagine to be an eternity, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he waits until, finally, you push back from your desk, turning to face him. “Is there something you need, Clark?” The eye contact you make sends his heart sputtering, but the way his name rolls off your lips has his knees so weak he almost falls against your desk in a heap. Your gaze flickers down to the papers in his hand. “Is that the Crane case draft?”

“O-oh! Yeah!” He says dumbly, and when he doesn’t do anything but continue to stand there, you blink, briefly wondering if he’d suffered some head injury in the last few hours.

“Can I… have it?” you question, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare up at him.

You watch a flush creep up his cheeks, and he practically slams the folder onto your desk. “Y-yeah, of course! I’m sorry it took so long to get to you, I was having some trouble with one of the sources and…”

“I’ll have the edits to you tomorrow morning,” you confirm. “Try to get here on time, Perry wants this to run for the evening issue.”

He nods, pushing up his glasses as they slide down his nose, and pretends not to notice as you follow the movement. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on time, I promise.” You stare at him for a pause before turning back to your computer, muttering something akin to ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ and Clark is struck by the way the setting sun backlights you, wisps of gold brushing against your profile. His heart his hammering in his chest as he tries to will himself to say something, anything else to you.

“Okay, bye.”

Not that.

“Have a good night,” you call out, not looking up from the screen.

Clark shuffles away, already mentally beating himself up as Jimmy appears behind him, bag swung over his shoulder. “That was rough to watch, buddy.”

“Shut up,” Clark groans as he grabs his things from his desk. “I don’t know why there’s such a disconnect between my brain and my mouth when I’m around her.”

“Hey, I get it, man,” Jimmy nods. “She is scary, but in a really hot way—” Clark’s head snaps up, and he gives Jimmy a sharp look because he knows Jimmy’s reputation. “Relax, relax. She’s all yours, I can assure you. I think she’d eat me alive.”

As Clark follows Jimmy to the elevator, he glances back over his shoulder, seeing you still sitting at your desk as everyone else has begun to pack up for the night. You give a smile and bid another editor goodnight as she tells you not to stay too late.

He knows you will anyway.

As they step into the elevator with a handful of their coworkers, all conversing about their plans for the rest of the night, Clark decides that tomorrow he will definitely ask you out.

He does not end up asking you out tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, as a matter of fact. Every single time he resolved himself to doing so, he felt the words turn to mush in his mouth the moment he saw you.

Once, because you had been standing with Lois in the breakroom, laughing in a way he’d never seen before, the snort of laughter so uncharacteristic and unexpected, he had walked straight into the mail cart, sending envelopes and parcels flying all over the place.

The second time, he had gone into the archives to grab some old records to reference for a story he’d been working on, and turned the corner to see you up on a stool, half bent as you tried to wrestle with a box buried on the shelf. Clark could only focus on the swell of your backside in the tight slacks you were wearing and didn’t even register that you had turned to him.

“Clark? Help, please?”

Whatever words that came out of his mouth were unintelligible as his body went into autopilot, grabbing the box you’d been battling with ease, nodding like an idiot as you thanked him before turning on his heel and walking out, completely forgetting about the entire reason he’d gone in there to begin with.

The third and final time, you weren’t even doing anything special, just sitting at your desk, humming along to the desk radio you had quietly going, sorting through papers. Clark was determined this time. He’d spent the entirety of last night rehearsing what he was going to say, all the while fighting an interdimensional creature that was terrorizing downtown.

He had approached you with confidence, and then you’d turn to face him, lips wrapped around a cherry lollipop that one of the secretaries had given out as extras from her daughter’s birthday party over the weekend.

Whatever confidence he had rapidly warped into panic as words fell out of his mouth in a jumble. Indiscernible and certainly not a sentence asking you to go to dinner with him. He stood there as you stared up at him, and he could see the stain of the lollipop on your lips and tongue.

“Clark, what?”

And then he made some sort of noise and, with haste, fled the vicinity, leaving you there blinking, wondering what just happened.

It is that afternoon that he hears you in a quiet conversation with Lois as he is once again unjamming Printer 4. You perch on her desk, leaning close to whisper to her, completely unaware that Clark can hear every single word you say.

“I think Clark has a concussion,” you inform with a solemn look on your face.

Lois almost laughs at that, but keeps her face trained in faux concern. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think that man has said a coherent sentence to me this entire week,” you explain. “He’s basically resorted to communicating with me in grunts like a caveman.”

That has Lois snorting with laughter, trying to hide the smile with her coffee cup as she takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid that’s been sitting on her desk for the better part of the morning. “I can assure you he does not have a concussion.”

You give her a pursed look, clearly not believing her. “Then what is his deal?”

It is at this moment that Lois makes eye contact with Clark from across the newsroom. He feels the dread build up in him as a smirk tilts its way onto Lois’s face, and he can almost see the exact moment the thought formulates in her head.

And then the building shakes, lights flickering as a deafening ‘boom’ echoes from somewhere outside. Silence settles in place of panic, as everyone listens with bated breath, hoping it was nothing to be concerned about, perhaps just some construction down the road. Until the second explosion rocks the building, and then chaos erupts.

People are scrambling all over. Clark sees you grab Lois and push her towards the stairwell, yelling at the gaggle of people who are trying to file into the elevator. “Are you idiots? Use the stairs!” That gets them moving, and Clark is moving with everyone else.

As you all get to the ground floor, you can see the source of the explosions, Green Lantern, Mr. Terrific, and Hawkgirl are fighting some idiot on a hoverboard who keeps tossing explosives around like he’s giving out candy on Halloween. Another one detonates, and a building down the street crumbles from the explosion. Debris and dust are scattering through the streets as people run from the epicenter of the fight. Cops are trying to divert traffic away, and the wail of ambulances approaches.

It’s pandemonium.

“C’mon, Kent, move it!” There’s a hand on his arm, and he looks down to find you pulling him along. The crowd around you is a shifting sea, but you’re firm and steady beside him despite the chaos. He realizes he’s going away from where he needs to be, but he lets you pull him anyway.

And then an explosion hits from somewhere above, and suddenly the air is filled with dirt and smoke, and the crowds push forward even as people sputter and try to regain their bearings. You lose your grip on Clark after getting knocked around by the surge of people, and that’s when panic sets in for you as you stop amidst the mass of people, shouting for him. “Clark?” You don’t see his massive form in the crowd of people, and your throat constricts. “Clark?!”

Someone behind you pushes, and you keep moving because it’s either that or be crushed by the swath of people. There’s a barricade another block down, and by the time you make it there, the crowd has begun to disperse, and there’s still no sign of Clark Kent. You feel nauseous as you think of the plethora of things that could’ve happened to him, though the thought of him lying dead in the street with people rushing over him is at the forefront of your mind.

You ask people as they rush by you.

“Excuse me, have you seen a guy, about this tall?”

“A man, curly hair, and glasses?”

A sonic boom cuts through the chaos, and people cheer as Superman flies onto the scene. You don’t, though. Your phone is in your hand as you search for Clark’s number, which has been unused until now in your contact list. It rings once, twice, all the way until the voicemail picks up.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

You hang up and try again, ignoring the tightness in your throat when it goes to voicemail once more.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get—”

You feel your lip wobble. And again.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message—”

With Superman coming to their aid, the heroes make quick work of the lone villain. You barely notice that the crowd has waned as the heroics come to an end. Instead, you’re pacing under the awning of a building, being met with Clark Kent’s voicemail message again and again each time you call him.

You had already called Jimmy and Lois, both of whom hadn’t seen their friend, though Lois tried to convince you that he was fine. You couldn’t help the worry that nagged at you.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” Someone asks from behind you.

You whirl around, pulling the phone from your ear, and you can’t even help the wide-eyed look that appears on your face. Superman himself stands before you, bathed in the light of the setting sun that creeps through the skyline of Metropolis behind him. He’s bigger in person, you realize. Broader than you thought he’d be.

“Ma’am?” There’s concern on his face when you don’t answer.

“Yes,” you reply quickly. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine.”

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but—.”

You look back down at your phone and press the ‘end call’ button, biting your lip.

“I’m looking for Clark,” you tell him. “Clark Kent. You know him, he’s interviewed you before. He was beside me, and then an explosion hit above us, and I lost him in the chaos, and I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his phone—” Your voice cracks, and you don’t even notice the way Superman’s face crumples with it.

“Hey,” he calls out softly as he steps closer. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, and you look up, your eyes meeting an earthshattering shade of blue. “It’s alright,” he assures. “I’ll find him. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

You shake your head. “No, if something happened to him, I—”

“Nothing happened to him,” he promises. “I’ll find him, and when I do, I’ll make sure he calls you, how about that?”

You want to be stubborn. You want to tell Superman to shove off. But you’re tired, and there’s a burn in your lungs from all of the dust and smoke. Gripping your phone harder, you shove the edge of it into his chest, and he looks a bit surprised, if not a little amused by the action. “You make sure he calls me,” you order, and there’s a fragility in your voice that Clark doesn’t think he’s heard before, despite the way your jaw is set. You’re putting on a brave face.

A soft smile spreads on Superman’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”

An hour and a half later, just as you fit your key into the deadbolt of your door, your phone rings. The name ‘Clark Kent’ flashes across the screen, and pure relief floods you as you pick up on the second ring. “Clark?”

“H-hey,” his soft voice comes through the other end, and you never thought you would be so happy to hear that Kansan accent. “I’m so sorry, I left my phone at the office and I finally just went back to get it.”

“Are you okay?” you ask as you close your door behind you.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he replies.

There’s a pregnant pause between you two. You think you should say ‘okay’ and hang up, not draw out the conversation any longer than it needs to be. But you don’t. The bizarre want to hear his voice some more, tugging at you in a way you’ve never experienced before. “Don’t think you get to be late to work tomorrow just because a couple of buildings on our street exploded,” you tease, breaking through the tension of the quiet.

He laughs, and even though you’re silent, he can tell you’re smiling too. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he says.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

“Yeah, goodnight.”

Clark surprises you the next morning by not only arriving on time, but arriving early. He’s so early that it is just you two in the newsroom. The shock is written on your face as you spot him walking from the elevator while standing at the copier, eyes wide and mouth agape.

He gives a shy wave, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at you. “Good morning,” he calls out.

What he does not expect is for you to grab the stack of papers off the copier and march towards him, smacking him repeatedly with the pile of papers. “You can’t just disappear like that during a crisis!” He doesn’t flinch as he is hit. You don’t even notice how gently he’s looking down at you, too busy giving him a piece of your mind like you always do. “Like, what the hell, Clark? I thought something happened to you!”

You run out of steam surprisingly quickly and meet his gaze.  “I really am sorry,” he whispers, and you take a moment to study his face and the blue of his eyes, and you’re struck by a thought that leaves your mouth dry.

Clark is handsome.

“Don’t do it again,” you warn, giving him one final half-hearted swat to the chest that has him giving you a laugh that leaves you lightheaded. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

He smiles and nods, and when you go to leave, he can feel the end of the moment between you two rapidly approaching. He doesn’t want it to end. “Would you wanna go out to dinner with me?” he asks before he can even think long enough to get nervous about it.

You blink once, then twice as though you’re not quite sure you heard him correctly. “Dinner?”

He nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Is this a date?”

He nods again and can feel his palms begin to sweat.

“Yes,” you say after a beat. He grins, dimples and all, and warmth spreads through your chest, a feeling you’re hesitant to embrace.

“Friday? Seven P.M.?” He asks.

“Gino’s?” You suggest, a lilt to your voice that isn’t normally there, and he’s mesmerized by the look in your eye as you do, by the way you’re trying to disguise the smile that itches at your face. He nods, leaning in a bit. The papers in your hand are a shield between you two, and you step back. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.” He wouldn’t be.

Gino’s Italian Restaurant, Metropolis - 7:43 PM

He was late.

You didn’t miss the sympathetic looks the hostess and waiters sent you every time they passed by your table for two, which was occupied by one. Your glass of wine was nearly empty, and the bread basket was alarmingly full despite the hunger that gnawed at your insides.

You had been trying not to glance down at your phone for the last half hour, knowing that if you had gotten a text, the screen would light up. However, it had remained dark since you sent Clark your last message, asking where he was.

With one final swig, you empty the glass, catching the eye of the waiter, waving him over. “Can I have the check, please?” you ask.

After paying for your singular glass of wine, once you were out in the cool breeze of the summer night, you finally recheck your phone. The absence of any new message sent a trill of fury through you, only amplified by the news report notification about Superman fighting some gigantic monster in midtown.

“Great,” you grumble. “Let’s hope they don’t knock out the T-Line this time.”

The trek home takes far too long with people getting diverted away from the kaiju battle, and the pleasant buzz you had from the glass of wine had long since worn off as you shove through your apartment door, flinging it closed behind you as you kick off your pumps, breathing in the relief for your aching feet.

You’re desperate to get out of the dress you’d squeezed into (after spending far too long debating what dress Clark would like better on you), but the desire to get absolutely shitfaced after being stood up by your coworker was overwhelming. And that’s how you found yourself lounging on your balcony, watching Big Blue himself battle an enormous alien creature from across the city with nothing but a bottle of chardonnay to keep you company.

You stay there until long after the light show ends, just taking sips from the bottle every so often, sitting in your sorrow. Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re so upset. It’s not as though you even liked Clark all that much; you were just looking forward to a free meal.

Like, yes, he was objectively good-looking, and yes, he always remembered your coffee order. And, yes, maybe you prodded him just a little more than you did others because you liked watching him get flustered.

But you didn’t like him.

(You could have, though)

A loud knock at your door startles you from your thoughts. Your bare feet pad against the floor of your apartment as you softly step to your door, peeking through the peephole, finding none other than Clark Kent himself standing outside of your apartment.

If you were any other person, you might have just ignored the knocking, letting him stew in the silence, but you were not any other person, and with half a bottle of chardonnay in your system, you want nothing more than to give him a piece of your mind.

When you rip the door open, Clark looks at you wide-eyed and sputtering. “I’m so—”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you interrupt, shoving your finger into his (startlingly firm) chest. “You have a lot of nerve, Clark Kent.”

“I know, I know, please just let me—”

“Let you what? Explain? Explain how you left me waiting at Gino’s for forty-five minutes for you? Explain how now at—” You lean back to glance at the microwave clock in your kitchen. “—9:57 PM, nearly 3 hours after we were supposed to meet for our date, you show up at my door expecting to grovel at my feet for me to what? To forgive you?”

“No, that’s not it, please just let me explain,” he begs.

You don’t, though. “You made me look like an idiot.” Your voice is soft, and there’s vulnerability, the bite you had seconds prior, leaving your body rapidly. You can feel the way your throat tightens, and the pit in your stomach feels like it could swallow you whole. You hate feeling like this, feeling this small. Clark looks at your eyes and realizes they’re tinged red and clouded with unshed tears. He wants to throw up. “You made me feel like an idiot.”

“I’m really sorry.” His voice cracks, and it looks like he wants to reach out to touch you, but he doesn’t.

“Me too,” you say back, tone empty and despondent.

“I got you these.” He holds out a lightly crumpled bouquet that’s been hanging limply at his side this entire time. You stare at it. It wasn’t one of those grocery store bouquets, no, this one is full of your favorite flowers, clearly and explicitly curated for you.

You blink back tears and grab the bouquet, holding it close to your chest. “Thank you.”

“You look really pretty.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He doesn’t say anything as you shut the door, your gaze catching your reflection in the hallway mirror. It’s almost pathetic, you all dolled up with a bouquet of all your favorite flowers, looking like you were a moment away from the dam breaking.

And then there’s a burn at the back of your throat that you can’t ignore, and you can’t help as the tears finally fall from your eyes, you suck in a deep breath on instinct, feeling the sob try to wretch out from you. You don’t know that Clark is standing on the other side, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he blinks away his own tears.

The weekend passes by horridly fast. As much as you had wanted to waste away and lament about the date that never was (that you would definitely not admit you had gotten your hopes up for), you would not let being stood up consume your entire weekend; they were a precious commodity after all.

So, after spending Friday night ugly crying into your pillow, you pulled yourself together by Saturday morning. You went out to a boozy brunch with some of your college friends, took yourself on a walk around the park to enjoy the sunshine, and spent some time in your favorite bookstore buying books that you promised yourself you would read and not let sit untouched on your bookshelf like the entire neglected pile of others.

By Sunday, you were feeling better. That is, until you were getting ready for bed Sunday night and the dread hit you.

You spent the night tossing and turning, feeling like you wanted to crawl out of your skin at just the thought of having to see Clark again. By morning, it took a generous application of concealer to hide the bags under your eyes and a heavy pep talk in the mirror to even think about stepping out your door.

As with most Monday mornings, as soon as you walked into the bullpen, it was a cacophony of chaos, but at least it was chaos you were familiar with. You make your way to your desk, offering halfhearted greetings, and feel slight relief as you settle into your seat, hoping that work will keep your brain busy enough not to let the anxiety ruin your day.

Then your gaze fixes on the paper coffee cup placed in front of your keyboard. Your name is written in a familiar chicken scratch handwriting. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you swivel in your seat, looking back at the writer block to see that Clark Kent is already sitting at his desk. Hunched and fidgeting with a stack of Post-it notes as he catches your eye. His mouth tilts up into an uncertain smile.

You purse your lips, a scowl forming on your face as you grab the coffee cup, maintaining unblinking eye contact as you proceed to drop it directly into the garbage can next to your desk, and then you spin back around.

Clark grimaces. “Yeah, I deserve that,” he mutters as he looks back at the blank Word document that’s been taunting him since he got in this morning.

It wasn’t any surprise how quickly word got around about Clark’s spectacular failure. Steve had walked by his desk after the morning meeting, giving a ‘womp womp’ that made Clark nearly snap the pencil he was writing with.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jimmy slides over, munching on some yogurt and granola. “You finally ask out the woman you’ve been pining after for who knows how long, then proceed to miss the date entirely without texting her that you wouldn’t be able to make it, and then show up at her apartment with flowers, thinking that would make up for the complete lack of communication?��

Clark sighs. “Yeah, that about covers it.” His voice is muffled as he buries his face in his hands.

“Buddy,” Jimmy starts. “You really fucked up.”

Clark groans, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, Jimmy, I know.”

He didn’t even want to look over at Lois because all she kept doing was sending him looks of disappointment the whole morning. She had stopped by your desk this morning with a grin on her face that quickly morphed into a look of horror as you recounted Friday night’s events.

Even Cat, who was usually all honeyed words with Clark, had been giving him the stink eye.

Honestly, though, no one else could make Clark feel as bad as he made himself feel about the whole thing. He had spent the weekend agonizing over how badly he had messed up with you. The sound of you crying on the other side of the door replaying in his head like his own personal version of hell.

He even called his parents.

“Oh, Clark, honey,” Martha soothed. “You wounded that woman’s pride, you just gotta give her some time to cool off.”

“I don’t know, Ma, I think I really messed this one up,” he said, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he felt the telltale pressure of tears building up.

“Now, Clark, no problem worth fixin’ is ever easy.” He couldn’t see them, but he knew Pa was nodding along. “If this girl is everything you’ve made her out to be, she’ll come around.”

The week passes by, and you coming around is nowhere in sight. Every cup of coffee he left on your desk went directly into the trash, the bouquets of your favorite flowers were pawned off to the secretaries, and the lunches were donated to the breakroom on a first-come, first-served basis.

When he went to drop off drafts for you to edit, you pointedly ignored him. To your credit, the edits you made were not as harsh as he’d thought they’d be in light of everything, though there was an apparent lack of any compliments in the margins that he always found himself looking forward to reading (and re-reading).

“Why don’t you come out tonight?” Lois asks on Friday morning. You give her a look, knowing the standing invite for Friday night drinks includes everyone in the office. “C’mon, he won’t be there, he never shows up.”

You pause, chewing at the inside of your lip, internally hemming and hawing. “I’ll think about it,” you finally concede, which is enough to get Lois to grin, a little pep in her step as she makes her way back to the writer block.

Friday afternoon, Jimmy comes sauntering over to you like a cat that got into the cream. He plants himself on your desk, ignoring your look of indignation when he crumples a few drafts you were working on with his ass. “Check out these photos I just finished developing,” he says as he spreads a handful of photos of Superman in front of you. They’re remarkably clear, some of the best pictures you have ever seen of Big Blue. “I was testing out that new lens I just got.” They were from a fight earlier this week in uptown.

Despite your frequently voiced objections to Metropolis’s favorite hero, you give Jimmy a hum of approval, picking one up to closer inspect it. “These are pretty good, how’d you get such a good shot of him in the air?” you ask.

“Climbed up a light pole,” he informs nonchalantly, grabbing some M&Ms from the candy bowl on your desk.

Your neck snaps to look at him. “James!”

“What?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Gotta do what it takes to get the shot.”

You let out a huff. “Unbelievable, you’re gonna break your neck one of these days.” You continue to sort through the photos, setting aside the ones you know Perry will submit for the front page.

“Haven’t yet,” he says, cheekily popping a few M&Ms in his mouth with a wink.

The final photo is a zoomed-in shot of Superman’s face. He’s smiling down at a few children who have gathered around him in the aftermath of the battle, a familiar softness to his face. You straighten up a bit, holding the photo closer to examine it.

“What’s up?” Jimmy asks when he sees your shift in posture.

You feel like you’ve seen it before, the blue of his eyes, the gentle tilt of his lips hinting at dimples, but the rest of the face is… wrong.

Maybe you’re losing it.

“Nothing,” you reply. “Really great work, Jimmy. Perry is definitely going to run this on the front page.”

Jimmy gives a grin.

You end up at the bar, thinking it might be good for you to let your hair down, literally and figuratively, for the night. Lois lights up when she sees you making your way through the Friday night crowd, and Jimmy has a drink in your hand before you even get a chance to sit down.

You’re listening to Cat go on and on about the guy she’s seeing, and given the debacle of the last week, it should annoy you to hear someone gush about their dating life, but the giddiness on Cat’s face is infectious so instead you sit there resting your chin on your hand with a smile on your face as you nod along asking all the appropriate questions.

It’s loud in the bar between all the people and the music playing, so you barely register the bell above the door ringing. You do, however, clock Jimmy turning to Lois and saying, “He never comes out.”

Instinctively, you turn in your seat, immediately locking eyes with Clark. He looks like he just left the office, suit coat slung over his arm and tie loosened. He’s moving through the crowd towards you, not breaking eye contact as though he’s scared you’ll disappear if you do, only to be intercepted by Lois. “Hey, Clark,” she greets, a tight fake smile plastered on her face. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Uh, yeah, well, not a lot going on tonight, so I figured I’d come… socialize,” he says lamely. You don’t see the flat look that Lois gives him.

Both of them look back at you. You catch Lois’s eyes and give her a little nod of your head, calling off your (very effective) guard dog. However, she narrows her eyes at Clark in a silent warning before returning to her conversation with Jimmy, who had been watching the entire exchange while taking a very long sip of his fruity cocktail.

Clark takes the empty seat next to you. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, fidgeting with his tie.

You stare at him as you play with the straw of your nearly empty cup, unabashedly tracing the slopes and contours of his face. He shifts nervously under your gaze, and you can’t tell if the flush creeping up his neck is due to you or the stuffiness of the bar. You still don’t say anything as you lean forward, and he’s too stunned to move away as your hand reaches out, fingers pressing through the curls hanging on his forehead, brushing them back into a tidier position, spending maybe a bit too long smoothing back the sides. The caress of your nails against his scalp sends a tingle down his spine, and his breath gets caught in his throat.

You don’t say anything for too long, just maintaining eye contact with him, like you’re searching his eyes for something.

“Vodka cran,” you say, resting back into your seat, and Clark wonders if you found what you were looking for.

His ears are red, and he quickly turns to the bartender to wave them down and grab you another drink, getting a soda for himself. Conversation flows between the two of you in a surprisingly easy manner, given the events of the past week. Work-related mostly. Clark is doing a better job of not stumbling all over himself, something he’s silently patting himself on the back for.

“You’ve been on time all week,” you note. Clark tries not to focus on how your lips wrap around the straw or how your gloss has stained the plastic.

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms, the gentle lilt of his Kansan accent slipping through.

You fall silent for a moment, looking at him with such clarity in your eyes that it’s almost startling, and Clark can’t help but feel like he ground your entire conversation to a halt with just two words. “I’m gonna head out.” And then you’re grabbing your purse, tossing a few crinkled bills onto the bar as a tip before standing up.

“O-oh, okay,” Clark stammers, disappointment creeping up in him.

You’re about to step away until you glance back over your shoulder at him. “Are you going to walk me home?” You ask as though that had been the plan all along and he had just forgotten.

He blinks owlishly at your question like he’s not sure he quite heard you right. “Y-yeah!” He scrambles up, nearly knocking over his barstool, and you both head out after bidding your coworkers a goodnight. Lois cocks an eyebrow at you, but you just wiggle your fingers in goodbye.

Jimmy is giving Clark some waggling eyebrows with an enormous grin on his face that Clark is pointedly trying to ignore.

The walk home is quiet. The cool summer air is refreshing on your skin after sitting in the humidity of the bar, and the couple of drinks you had have left you a little light in the head, though it’s not an unwelcome feeling; you figure you’re going to need some liquid courage tonight anyway.

When you arrive at your apartment building, Clark walks you up to your apartment. You still don’t say anything as you take out your keys to unlock your door, and Clark swallows the lump in his throat, already preparing to say goodbye. “You coming in?” You question as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as you step into your apartment, leaving room for him to follow in after you.

“I—” He looks like a deer in the headlights. “You sure?”

You give a nod, and he steps in, albeit hesitantly, closing the door behind him. As soon as it clicks shut, you’re on him, hand pulling at the tie loosely around his neck, jerking him forward despite the other hand firmly on his chest pushing him back until he hits the door with a thud.

He looks shocked, face flushed and pupils blown wide as he doesn’t know what to do with his hands that hover at your waist but do not touch. You’re leaning up and he’s leaning down, gaze darting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. He thinks the strawberry smell is your lip gloss, and his heart won’t stop beating symphonies into his ribcage.

He doesn’t cross it, though, the invisible boundary that’s between you, even when he feels your breath fan against his lips. “I’m giving you the chance to be honest with me,” you whisper like it’s a warning, your voice husky in a way that has his insides twisting and turning.

“Okay,” he says softly.

You don’t move away as though you’re afraid he might try to run if you do. He can hear your own heart hammering in your chest. You’re nervous, he realizes. “You’re Superman.” Your tone doesn’t suggest it’s a question. It’s a statement. You know he’s Superman, and you’re allowing him the opportunity to be honest with you about it.

“Yes.”

Your heart rate speeds up. “That’s why you missed our date.”

“Yes,” he breathes like it’s painful to remember.

You finally blink, breaking eye contact to look down, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. “You really like me?” This one is a question. This one you’re unsure about.

Clark’s hands finally find purchase at your waist. The boundary between the two of you is barely hanging on by a thread. “Immensely.” Your grip on his tie loosens, and both hands are pressed gently against his chest. It wouldn’t take much; he would just have to lean down another inch or two to bring the whole thing crumbling down, but he doesn’t. “How’d you figure it out?” he asks.

“Your eyes,” you murmur like it was an evident thing, “—and your little… Midwestern-isms.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Oh, he was in so deep. “My Midwestern-isms?”

“’Yes, ma’am,’” you mock with a bad accent, not at all what he sounds like, and you bite your lip to hide your grin. “How does it work? Your face is… different than Superman’s.”

“The glasses,” he informs, tilting his head. “They’re hypno-glasses, make me look a little bit different, just enough.”

Your hands surge upward before you even know what they’re doing, stopping just shy as you look to Clark for permission, and he nods. As you take off the glasses, it’s like his face comes into focus when you never even realized it had been blurry before. Edges sharpen and define, his nose a little straighter, lips a little fuller, jaw a little squarer.

Moreover, he stands differently when the glasses come off. His shoulders rearrange, and he’s taller now, more confident… broader.

Superman.

“You know everything is starting to make sense,” you ponder as you set the glasses on your entrance table, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. You’re still standing close, his hands on your hips, not allowing you to wander too far from his orbit.

“Yeah?” Even his voice seems crisper, deeper now.

“Mhm,” you hum, “—you’re constantly being late, disappearing whenever some crisis pops up…” You laugh a bit. “I’m actually kind of mad at myself for not realizing it sooner.”

“I thought you might’ve thrown a shoe at me or something,” he admits.

You pull back, giving him an incredulous look. “What?”

“With you not liking Superman and all,” he elaborates. “Figured you would read me the riot act, at least.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t like Superman.”

“Oh?” Eyebrows raise on his forehead. “First time I’m hearing this.”

You shove him, lightly, though he doesn’t move, solid under your touch. “It’s this… dependency we have on him—you,” you correct. “Superman—you—you’re not our savior, and we shouldn’t rely on you to fix every problem or to always show up. We should be able to stand on our own two feet.”

“But I want to help,” he insists, and you see it in his eyes, the earnestness in them. It’s so… Clark. “When things get hard and the world needs someone to lean on, I can carry that weight.”

“And what happens when you need someone to lean on? You may have super strength and can fly and shoot lasers out of your eyes, but you’re still—”

Human.

He doesn’t pretend the implication doesn’t crash around him like tidal waves.

You pull away a bit, not out of reach, not with his hands still wrapped around your waist. “Who’s going to carry the weight for you?” There’s sincerity in your question, and he doesn’t know how to respond because he doesn’t have an answer.

“I—”

You bite your lip as if you’re uncertain whether you should say the next part aloud, nervous to speak those feelings into the universe. “I can,” you say softly.

“I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“But I want to help.” You throw his words back at him, and he’s at a loss for what to say. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. He wants to kiss you so bad, but he’s afraid of being the one to cross that line.

“Clark.”

He doesn’t know if there’s a sweeter sound than his name on your lips.

“Just kiss me already.”

Except maybe that.

He’s surging forward in the next moment, mouth hot against yours. The barrier is dust between you. He tastes like the remnants of the sugary soda he’d ordered at the bar, and a quick swipe of his tongue against your lips confirms that your lip gloss is strawberry flavored.

You walk backwards, unsteady but confident, hands firmly tugging him along by his shirt, all the while not breaking the kiss that has your brain in a dizzy fog. You can’t help the giggle that escapes as you bump into your destination, the couch, causing your teeth to clatter together.

Clark smiles against your lips as his hands lower, gripping at your thighs as he lifts you off the ground so effortlessly that it has you letting out a quiet ‘oh’. His deep laugh goes straight to your core, and he settles onto the couch with you on top of him, your hands running through his hair, gripping it in a way that has him giving a low groan.

“Is this okay?” he asks in between kisses as though you’re not actively grinding down onto him.

A whimper escapes you as his hard-on catches the seam of your pants just right. “I will actually kill you if you stop.” The normal bite of your tone has given way to desperation. Clark’s entire body warms at that.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your mouth, hands wandering to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him while bucking up into you. He leans back for a moment, placing another peck on your lips as his fingers start making work of the buttons on your blouse. When your cleavage comes into view, accentuated by your bra, something plain and practical, you hear Clark let out a shaky breath followed by an ‘oh, golly’ that has you a giggling mess on top of him. He grins, grabbing hold of the side of your neck as he pulls you back into a kiss. “You’re so pretty.”

You nip at his bottom lip. “I could tell by the ‘oh, golly,’” you tease, though your smugness doesn’t last for long as Clark has you on your back against the couch pillows a second later.

You watch reverently as he unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off before pulling off his undershirt. He’s like a peacock, the way he fluffs up as your mouth goes slack, seeing what he was hiding underneath oversized button-ups and baggy suits for the last three years.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe. “What the fuck were they feeding you in Kansas?”

He shakes with laughter as he leans back down, slotting himself in between your legs so he can reconnect your mouths, hand sliding up your side to palm your breast, not waiting long to slide underneath the cup of your bra. You arch up into him as his thumb brushes against your nipple, moaning quietly into his mouth, a sound he eagerly swallows down.

He trails kisses to your cheek, down your neck, spending a bit more time nipping and biting there when you give a shaky gasp. He continues down, pressing kisses to the top of your breasts, before trailing down to your ribs to your stomach until settling right above the waist of your pants.

You barely register him unbuttoning your pants until he drags them and your underwear down in one fell swoop. You cant your hips, letting him take them the rest of the way off, trying not to giggle as he throws the heap across your living room. A problem for tomorrow you.

Self-consciousness pricks at your brain as he spreads your legs, fingertips biting into your thighs, and in the glow of the moonlight streaming in through your apartment windows, you watch him lick his lips as he stares down at you, suddenly, any self-doubt fizzles away. One hand trails up your inner thigh to your core, spreading you so he can take in more of the sight. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs before he bends down.

A breathy moan escapes you as he licks a stripe up your center. “Fuck, Clark.” That eggs him on, and he swirls his tongue around your clit in a way that has you reaching down and gripping his hair. There’s a finger prodding at your entrance and then two that are curling into you at just the right spot.

Your chest heaves as you sink further into the couch, eyes fluttering to the back of your head as your apartment is filled with the obscene noises of Clark eating you out, groaning as he mutters about how good you taste. The feeling of his spit mixed with your own liquids trailing down your ass is overwhelming, and then he sucks at your clit in a way that has your toes curling.

“Clark, please,” you beg. You can feel the band at your core tightening with each swipe of his tongue and thrust of his fingers.

He pulls back slightly, now three fingers deep, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaches. “Cum on my fingers.”

Your breath hitches at mild-mannered Clark Kent telling you to cum on his fingers. He dives back in with enthusiasm, which is all it takes as your hips buck up into his face, and he gladly lets you grind against his mouth, especially with the sounds you’re making as you tighten around his fingers. His fingers continue pumping in and out of you as you ride out your orgasm, his name on your lips like a prayer as his lips greedily drink up all you give him.

He leans back, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he watches you catch your breath and give a little whine when his fingers don’t relent, tugging on his hair. A grin works its way onto his face, and he takes pity on your overstimulated self, pulling his fingers out as he presses a kiss to your thigh before crawling back up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he licks at your bottom lip.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, drawing him deeper into the kiss, and you can feel the heavy weight of him against your thigh.

“Good?” he asks as he draws back from you, breathless.

“I think I blacked out at one point,” you respond, still feeling a little lightheaded, which is only exacerbated when he grinds his hips against yours and nips at your neck. “Now take your pants off.” You order as you push him back, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Bossy,” he teases as he stands, unbuttoning his slacks, letting them drop to the floor. You don’t even have time to register anything else when he pulls down his briefs, and you can only stare with your mouth wide open and brows raised high on your forehead at the size of him. Clark looks a bit uncertain. “Is this okay?”

You surge to your feet and pull him down into a kiss. “It’s always the quiet ones,” you murmur more to yourself as you push him back onto the couch with no resistance and climb up onto his lap. He practically whimpers when you grind onto him. “Seriously, what the fuck were they feeding you?” You question against his lips as you slot yourself against his cock. Naked against him, you really take in how large Clark is in every capacity.

His hands have settled on the globes of your ass, letting you take the reins as you move your hips against his, the wet friction has him moaning into your mouth. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “Thought about this so much.”

“Yeah?” You ask. “Thought about me on top of you a lot, huh?” He nods and tilts his head back as you jut your hips against just at the right spot. You kiss down his jawline, whispering into his ear. “What else have you thought about? Stuffing me full of your cock?”

He stammers a bit, his brain short-circuiting at your dirty talk, and heat spreads up to his ears. “Y-yeah, thought about how good you’d look with me inside you,” he admits.

You reach down between you, grabbing hold of him, and his hips stutter up against your hand, moaning at the feel of your soft skin against his cock. The next thing he knows, you’re sinking onto him and he’s committing the hot, wet heat of your pussy to memory. The burn is expected given his size, and you whine with each inch of him you take.

Clark is a whimpering mess beneath you, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries not to move, letting you set your own pace, though the iron grip he has on your waist is going to leave bruises tomorrow. “So good, so good,” he repeats as he presses kisses into your shoulder. “Gosh, you’re so tight.”

You let the ‘gosh’ slide, given how full of him you are right now. It’s almost overwhelming the size of him, and just when you’re sure you’ve taken him all, you feel yourself slide down another inch. “Christ, you’re so big,” you whine, and you can feel his cock twitch inside of you at that.

“You can’t just say that,” he practically begs, voice cracking slightly, and he’s so tense, you can feel how taut all of his muscles are beneath you.

It’s sweet relief when you feel him bottom out in you and you stay there for a moment, letting yourself adjust, the stinging pain of the stretch not unpleasant, and when you feel more confident you’ve adjusted, you give an experimental thrust of your hips that has you both gasping.

You give another, and you can practically hear Clark grinding his teeth together, and then you raise yourself up, thighs shaking, before slamming back down. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you set a rhythm, a little sloppy at first as you lean forward to mash your mouths together, Clark whispering praises against your lips.

Every now and then, he leans back to take in the sight of you bouncing on his cock, completely hypnotized by the sight of your pussy swallowing him and the noises you make each time he bottoms out in you.

The rubber band begins to pull tight in your belly, and your thighs wobble, the rhythm faltering. “Clark.” It comes out as a plea. “Fuck me.”

Whatever restraint Clark has snaps at your words. One hand reaches up, grabbing hold of you by the back of your neck as the other digs into your waist, and then he’s forcing you up and down on his cock, hips jutting up to meet yours halfway, setting a bruising pace that has you keening, “Fuck—” you gasp out. “Oh god, I’m gonna—”

Your orgasm rips through you before you can even finish your sentence, and you feel like you’re drowning in the sensation as the world turns to white noise around you. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re so good for me.”

Clark doesn’t even give you time to come down from your high as he manhandles you off of his lap, the sudden emptiness is jarring, but it doesn’t stay that way long as he bends you over the couch, hefting your ass into the air and sliding back in.

“Such a good girl,” he groans as he resumes the hard thrusts that have you gripping the back of your couch for dear life. The only thing you can focus on is the delicious slide of his cock into you, and you think you feel tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

You’re whining, overstimulated as all hell, already feeling another orgasm beginning to bubble to the surface. “Clark, oh God, fuck—” You’re arching your back, and he hits it just right. “Ohmygod.”

A loud ‘smack’ echoes through the apartment, and you barely even register the sting on your ass cheek. “Gonna give me another one, baby?”

“Mhm,” you whine pathetically into the couch cushion. Body shaking, just trying to keep yourself up, though Clark is doing most of the heavy lifting. He reaches down, fingers circling your clit once, twice, and that’s all it takes as you buck back into him, a long, breathy moan escaping you as you cum again. It feels like every nerve in your body is on fire, and you think you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

You barely register him asking, “Where do you want it?”

Your mouth automatically babbling out, “Inside—fuck—cum inside me.”

That has his hips stuttering before he buries himself to the hilt, groaning lowly, and you can feel the warmth spread inside you. You’re both frozen like that, breathing heavily, and then Clark pulls out with a low hiss, gathering you up in his arms before collapsing back onto the couch, you cradled on top of him, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you finally breathe after a moment of silence, and you can feel his chest shake with laughter. You tilt your head up to look at him, and he captures your lips with his before pulling away, reaching up to caress the side of your face, tracing the contours of your cheekbones with his thumb.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest—a feeling you welcome with open arms.

“So, if I agree to let you take me out to dinner again, think you’ll show up this time?”

He grins. “Yes.”

The weekend passes in a blur of tangled limbs and soft confessions. You tease Clark about all it took was you on top of him to get him to talk to you in full sentences, finally. He stammers and blames you for being so pretty.

On Monday, when Clark comes in late, he does so with a cup of your favorite coffee, and you give him a hard time, despite the smile on your face, with no real bite to your words. Clark is on the receiving end of some light teasing from Lois and Jimmy, who, quite frankly, are relieved they won’t have to deal with a pining Clark any longer.

(They quickly realize, though, that even being together, he still stares after you as you flit about the newsroom, possibly looking even more lovestruck)

And when he submits his next Superman article to you, you still tear it to shreds. The peck on the cheek you give him as you hand him back the draft makes him feel a lot better, though.

[mmeskywalker]

. ♬ ݁˖ abilities to script in your singer dr

singing

you have a wide vocal range

your voice is extremely expressive

your throat can't get sore...

whistle notes are nothing to you, you can easily reach them

your vocals are stable, even while dancing

you have great breath control

your voice can't crack

you can sing multiple genres easily

you can harmonize easily and naturally with anyone

good vibrato control, can switch between falsettos and chest voice smoothly

you can't run out of air

your voice is mesmerising and unique

you can growl and fry scream easily, without hurting your throat

rapping

can rap in multiple languages with flow

can freestyle

can write raps easily, with smart word play + good, clever metaphors

can rap as fast or faster than freaking eminem

you produce your own mixtapes

you can memorize long verses quickly and performance them without mistakes

you can switch between styles easily without losing the tempo

dancing

you're very versatile

good footwork and body control

you can learn choreographies after watching them once

your flexibility is crazy

stage presence.

you can invent new choreographies on spot, with complicate and original moves

you can dance in heels

your feet can't get sore

you have infinite energy, basically

you can synchronize with other people easily

writing

you can write an entire song easily

your lyrics are meaningful and deep, they don't sound pretentious

you can write about experiences easily

your choruses are catchy

you can come with lyrics while listening to the instrumental

you can tell stories through an entire album

music production

you can mix different genres with ease

your albums are musically cohesive

can layer different instruments

your instrumentals are complex, people on da internet usually analyse them

you can guide vocal arrangements during recording sessions

you can use midi controllers and synthesizers with easily

can adjust eq, reverb, compression, and effects without difficulties

you always come up with unique chord progressions and melodies

people can recognise your style

creative direction

can storyboard music videos shot by shot

you usually direct or co-direct my own music videos or short films

can create concepts with deep symbolism and narrative

you can write short lore or storylines to connect albums (ex: loona...)

you are clever when it comes to making hidden messages or easter eggs for fans to discover

you have a clear and unmistakable visual identity

[mmeskywalker]

guys…

[mmeskywalker]

absolutely unreal

hii!! could i please request a cedric lives au cedric x ravenclaw!reader smut where they’re head boy and girl and have been close friends for a while (and are in a not necessarily secret relationship it’s just no one’s found out about it yet)??? if not that’s okay!!

Meet Me in the Prefect’s Bathroom ♡ | C.Diggory ⊹ ࣪ ˖

"They say Head Boy should lead by example—but honestly, if snogging my brilliant, maddeningly gorgeous Head Girl in every broom cupboard counts as misconduct, I’d gladly hand in my badge… right after one more kiss."

pairing : Cedric Diggory x fem!headgirl!reader

summary : In a sweeter timeline, Hogwarts’ golden duo can’t quite hide their feelings—or keep their hands off each other. Between secret smiles and stolen kisses, one thing’s certain: he’s utterly obsessed with her.

warnings : 18+, smut, fingering, oral (fem receiving), penetrative sex, lots of fluff and banter, they're way too in love, slight risk of getting caught (but they don’t care), playful dominance/submission vibes, established relationship

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This is an 18+ fic, so minors do not enter!!!

della's note : Thank you so much for requesting lovie!! Hope you enjoy this lovely!!!

word count : 1.2k

navigation <3

banners : @/cafekitsune

“I swear to Merlin, if I see Filch again tonight I might throw him into the lake.”

You muttered the threat under your breath as your shoes clicked against the stone corridor. Cedric, of course, laughed softly from beside you, his hand brushing against yours in a way that was absolutely not subtle.

“Darling,” he said, voice like warm honey, “you know you’ve got a temper on you when you’re tired.”

You turned to glare up at him, mostly for show. “I wouldn’t be tired if someone hadn’t pulled me into a closet earlier just to snog me.”

He looked at you with a faux-innocent expression that only made him more infuriating. And hot. “That’s slander. I pulled you into the closet to tell you how breathtaking you looked in your robes today. The snogging was… a happy accident.”

You tried not to smile. You really did.

Instead, you elbowed him in the side. “Diggory.”

“Oh, Diggory, is it?” His voice dropped, mischief curling in every syllable. “Not Cedric, not love, not even darling—?”

“I’m not calling you darling in the middle of a corridor, you ridiculous golden retriever.”

He had the nerve to pout. “But I like it when you say it.”

“You like it when I say anything.”

“Exactly. Say something filthy next.”

You slapped your hand over his mouth, horrified and delighted in equal measure. “You’re Head Boy!”

He mumbled something behind your palm that you were fairly certain was ‘And you’re the Head Girl who moans my name’, which earned him a scandalized look and a slightly breathless giggle.

That was the problem with Cedric Diggory: he was way too charming for his own good. Or yours. Or Hogwarts’ collective sanity.

No one knew the two of you were together. Not really. People suspected, sure — there were bets in the common rooms, allegedly. But you two were careful. Mostly.

Except when Cedric was looking at you like that. Except when he brushed your knuckles in broad daylight, when he murmured in your ear during meetings, when he tucked hair behind your ear like he was enchanted.

Except when his mouth was now close to your ear as he murmured, “We’re done with rounds.”

You swallowed. “So?”

“So…” His hand slid around your waist, pulling you gently closer. “I think you owe me a reward. For being so good tonight.”

You arched a brow. “You were good?”

He leaned in, lips grazing your neck, the touch featherlight. “Wasn’t I?”

Merlin. He knew what he was doing.

You let your head tip slightly, barely suppressing a shiver. “What exactly are you hoping your reward will be, Diggory?”

His eyes gleamed, wicked and adoring. “Meet me in the Prefect’s Bathroom in ten minutes, darling.”

Your stomach flipped. You hated him.

No. You loved him.

You were absolutely doomed.

You arrived eight minutes later, breathless and giddy, and Cedric was already there, perched on the edge of the massive tub with a stupid, gorgeous smile on his face.

“Two minutes early,” he murmured. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You rolled your eyes and walked past him—only for him to catch your wrist and tug you into his lap like it was nothing.

“Cedric!” you hissed, giggling against his neck. “We could get caught!”

“That’s part of the fun,” he said smugly, his hands already sliding up your sides. “Besides, we’ve got wards up. You’re safe.”

His mouth was on yours before you could respond—soft and slow, then hungry. Familiar. You kissed him back like you needed him to breathe, fingers threading through his hair, pressing closer.

His hands moved to your thighs, under your skirt, and he groaned into your mouth. “This bloody skirt is going to kill me.”

“I could say the same about those trousers,” you muttered, tugging at his belt with a grin. “And you’re so smug in them.”

“Because I know what they do to you,” he said against your collarbone, nibbling there now. “You eye me up like you’re starving.”

“I am starving. For your silence.”

He laughed—actually laughed, breath hot on your skin. “You’re insatiable.”

“Says the boy who dragged me here after curfew like a man on a mission.”

“Oh, I am on a mission.” His voice dropped. “Get on the side of the tub, darling.”

You obeyed without hesitation, breath caught in your throat as he knelt between your legs, his large hands spreading your thighs apart.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered, almost reverent as his fingers teased at your soaked panties. “Merlin, darling. You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”

You nodded, eyes glassy.

He leaned forward and kissed just above the fabric, slow and gentle. “Let me taste you.”

“Please,” you gasped.

He didn’t need more permission.

Cedric moved your panties aside and buried his face between your thighs like a man possessed. His tongue was hot and firm, licking a stripe through your folds before circling your clit slowly. Teasingly.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the tub as he moaned against you, sending vibrations through your entire body.

“Fuck, Cedric,” you whimpered, already breathless. “Don’t stop, don’t—oh—”

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right as his mouth worked your clit. His other hand gripped your thigh, grounding you, pulling you closer like he couldn’t get enough.

“You taste like heaven,” he muttered, lips swollen and slick as he glanced up at you. “My perfect darling.”

“Ced—Ced, I’m—”

He didn’t stop until you came with a cry, legs shaking, hand flying to muffle your mouth.

He pulled back slowly, licking his fingers clean like a smug, gorgeous bastard. “You’re so beautiful when you fall apart.”

“Stop being hot for one second,” you groaned, still catching your breath.

“Never,” he said, standing and tugging you back to him. “Not when I have you.”

You kissed him again, messily, urgently, and he groaned as you unfastened his belt.

“Need you inside me,” you whispered.

That nearly undid him.

He lifted you up with ease—show-off—and backed you against the warm tile, pushing into you in one deep, delicious thrust.

You moaned in unison, your forehead falling against his. He held your waist, burying his face in your neck as he began to move.

“Fuck, you feel like you were made for me,” he gasped.

“You’re such a sap.”

“Your sap. Your lovesick, obsessed—”

“—Golden retriever.”

“Exactly.”

He thrust deeper, harder, every movement making you see stars. The tile dug into your back, the sound of water from the tub filling the room, but all you could focus on was him—his hands, his mouth, his whispered “I love you” over and over.

“I can’t stop touching you,” he murmured against your skin. “Don’t ever ask me to.”

“Good. Because I won’t.”

Your nails dug into his back, clinging to him as your second orgasm built fast and desperate.

“Ced, I—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, “Come for me again, darling. Wanna feel you.”

That did it.

You cried out his name as you came undone again, and he followed moments later, gasping against your throat, holding you like you’d vanish if he let go.

You stayed like that for a moment, tangled, sweaty, deliriously happy.

Then—

“Do you think they’ll revoke our badges if they find out we’re shagging in the prefects’ bathroom?”

Cedric snorted into your neck. “I’m Head Boy. They’d be lucky I didn’t do it sooner.”

You smacked him, giggling.

He just kissed you again, still breathless, still in love.

Always in love.

taglist 🏷️ : @selenewowww

[mmeskywalker]

oh gods || cedric diggory

summary: CEDRIC DIGGORY eating you out… thats it. that’s the summary. it has a really cute ending though! i just couldn’t be bothering to write build up. it’s 2:30 in the morning and i’m tired and thinking about cedric 💔

a/n: draco fans don’t be mad at me for tagging him, it’s just for engagement because the cedric diggory campaign doesn’t get much attention on here anymore ☹️

warnings: oral (fem receiving), fingering, dirty talk, aftercare, & cedric being a sweetheart

…………….…………….…………….…………….…………….…………

cedric groans against your slick flesh as you whimper and cry out his name. the sound spurs him on, urging him to take more of you into his mouth. he licks and sucks at your dripping folds, his tongue delving deep to taste you fully.

he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, the hardened nub peeking out from beneath its hood. he flicks it teasingly, watching as your hips jerk and shudder beneath him.

"merlin, you taste even better than i remembered," cedric growls, his voice vibrating against your skin. "i could eat this pretty pussy for hours and never get enough."

“ced, don’t tease,” you whimper, involuntarily bucking your hips into his mouth.

he chuckles, and to prove his point, he seals his lips around your clit and suckles greedily, his tongue lashing over the sensitive bundle of nerves again and again. at the same time, he slips a long finger inside your tight heat, pumping it slowly as he laps at you.

your walls flutter and clench around his invading digit, trying to draw him deeper. your slick coats his finger, dripping down to pool on the sheets beneath you.

cedric adds another finger, stretching you open as he thrust them in and out of your soaked channel. his eyes flick up to watch your face as he pleasures you, committing each expression and sound to memory.

"that's it, love," he murmurs against your sex, his fingers pumping steadily. "don't hold back. i want to hear you, all of you. let me know how good it feels."

he curls his fingers just so, brushing against that spot deep inside that made your back arch off the bed. at the same time, he sucks harder on your clit, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive flesh. he can feel you tightening, can sense your impending release, and he’s determined to make it happen.

“fuck, cedric!” your body tenses, your thighs clamping around his head as your climax grows quicker. he doubles his efforts, sucking harder on your clit as he pumps his fingers faster, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside you with every thrust.

you moan, mumbling nonsense before: “oh my gods, i’m going to come, baby. i’m going to come so fucking hard!”

"that's it, sweetheart," he encourages, his voice strained with arousal. "come for me, y/n. i want to feel you come undone on my tongue, want to taste your pleasure as it crashes over you.

“give it to me, honey.”

he feels your walls starting to flutter and clench around his fingers, your body drawing taut as a bowstring. he knows you’re close—because, well, duh—he can sense the coil of tension in your core as your orgasm builds.

"let go, sweetheart. i’ve got you," cedric urges, his breath hot against your sex.

with a final, hard suck your climax crashes over you. he groans against your sex, the vibrations of it sending shockwaves through your core as he feels your release gush out to coat his chin and hands.

he growls, fingers pumping frantically as he works you through your high, his tongue lapping up every drop of your essence like a man starved. "that’s it, my love. come on my tongue, fill my mouth with your sweet cream. i’m going to drink down every last drop."

as your spasms finally began to subside, cedric gentles his touch, his fingers slowing their frantic pace to long, slow drags through your soaked folds. he presses soft kisses to your sensitive flesh, his tongue flicking out to catch the last drops of your release.

“how was that for hello?” he asks, body settling between your legs. he caresses the back of his fingers across your forehead, brushing the hair out of your face before kissing you gently.

you moan at the taste of yourself on his lips, then chuckle at his ridiculous remark. “that wasn’t any hello,” you say, tilting your head. “that was extraordinary.”

“was it?” he murmurs, a soft smiling playing on his lips. “because i was thinking i could’ve done better.”

your brows squint, meeting in the middle as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, and your forehead—and you let out a strand of air, giggling as you push him off of you, holding his face in your palms. “what are you talking about, better? darling, have you gone mad? it doesn’t get any better than that,” you scrunch your face as he comes back to kiss the tip of your nose, giggling more.

“have you seen the way your eyes shine in the firelight?” the plush of his lips brush against your cheek. “could’ve had you over there, and fed you s’mores…”

“is that even possible,” you scuff, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your lashes. yes, your lashes. this man is relentless. but he’s your man, and you blush a deeper shade of red at every gentle peck. “‘course it’s possible,” he rolls his eyes. “don’t underestimate me, lovely.”

cedric rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re draped half across his chest, your head pillowed on his shoulder. his fingers find your hair, combing through the strands that glints even in the low light. “you’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs against your hairline.

you smile then, a real smile that reaches your eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "thanks to you," you softly tease, your hand sliding up his arm, soaking in his embrace. "you remind me everyday, and everyday i fall a little more in love with you.”

“only a little?” you know he’d be clutching his heart if your chest wasn’t pressed against his, and you laugh, hiding your face in his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his skin.

“okay, a lot,” you correct yourself. you feel him smile against the top of your head.

his hand strokes up and down your back, brows furrowing softly before smoothing out at the sound of your yawn. “did our lovemaking make you tired,” he coos, chuckling as you nestle yourself against him.

“yes, you wear me out,” a slow grin stretches over your tired lips.

he scoffs. “i did all the work,” he says matter-of-factly. “i should be the tired one.”

“well, here we are,” you tilt your head to meet his gaze, only to find him looking at you with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen. your heart melts at the sight. “ced,” you murmur, and he catches your lips with his, kissing you so gently you almost miss it. “go to sleep,” he musters. you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say the three words he knows puts you to sleep immediately.

his palm nestles in your hair, cradling you back into his chest. “i love you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head, repeating the phase over and over until you fall limp in his arms with sleep.

[mmeskywalker]

oh gods || cedric diggory

summary: CEDRIC DIGGORY eating you out… thats it. that’s the summary. it has a really cute ending though! i just couldn’t be bothering to write build up. it’s 2:30 in the morning and i’m tired and thinking about cedric 💔

a/n: draco fans don’t be mad at me for tagging him, it’s just for engagement because the cedric diggory campaign doesn’t get much attention on here anymore ☹️

warnings: oral (fem receiving), fingering, dirty talk, aftercare, & cedric being a sweetheart

…………….…………….…………….…………….…………….…………

cedric groans against your slick flesh as you whimper and cry out his name. the sound spurs him on, urging him to take more of you into his mouth. he licks and sucks at your dripping folds, his tongue delving deep to taste you fully.

he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, the hardened nub peeking out from beneath its hood. he flicks it teasingly, watching as your hips jerk and shudder beneath him.

"merlin, you taste even better than i remembered," cedric growls, his voice vibrating against your skin. "i could eat this pretty pussy for hours and never get enough."

“ced, don’t tease,” you whimper, involuntarily bucking your hips into his mouth.

he chuckles, and to prove his point, he seals his lips around your clit and suckles greedily, his tongue lashing over the sensitive bundle of nerves again and again. at the same time, he slips a long finger inside your tight heat, pumping it slowly as he laps at you.

your walls flutter and clench around his invading digit, trying to draw him deeper. your slick coats his finger, dripping down to pool on the sheets beneath you.

cedric adds another finger, stretching you open as he thrust them in and out of your soaked channel. his eyes flick up to watch your face as he pleasures you, committing each expression and sound to memory.

"that's it, love," he murmurs against your sex, his fingers pumping steadily. "don't hold back. i want to hear you, all of you. let me know how good it feels."

he curls his fingers just so, brushing against that spot deep inside that made your back arch off the bed. at the same time, he sucks harder on your clit, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive flesh. he can feel you tightening, can sense your impending release, and he’s determined to make it happen.

“fuck, cedric!” your body tenses, your thighs clamping around his head as your climax grows quicker. he doubles his efforts, sucking harder on your clit as he pumps his fingers faster, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside you with every thrust.

you moan, mumbling nonsense before: “oh my gods, i’m going to come, baby. i’m going to come so fucking hard!”

"that's it, sweetheart," he encourages, his voice strained with arousal. "come for me, y/n. i want to feel you come undone on my tongue, want to taste your pleasure as it crashes over you.

“give it to me, honey.”

he feels your walls starting to flutter and clench around his fingers, your body drawing taut as a bowstring. he knows you’re close—because, well, duh—he can sense the coil of tension in your core as your orgasm builds.

"let go, sweetheart. i’ve got you," cedric urges, his breath hot against your sex.

with a final, hard suck your climax crashes over you. he groans against your sex, the vibrations of it sending shockwaves through your core as he feels your release gush out to coat his chin and hands.

he growls, fingers pumping frantically as he works you through your high, his tongue lapping up every drop of your essence like a man starved. "that’s it, my love. come on my tongue, fill my mouth with your sweet cream. i’m going to drink down every last drop."

as your spasms finally began to subside, cedric gentles his touch, his fingers slowing their frantic pace to long, slow drags through your soaked folds. he presses soft kisses to your sensitive flesh, his tongue flicking out to catch the last drops of your release.

“how was that for hello?” he asks, body settling between your legs. he caresses the back of his fingers across your forehead, brushing the hair out of your face before kissing you gently.

you moan at the taste of yourself on his lips, then chuckle at his ridiculous remark. “that wasn’t any hello,” you say, tilting your head. “that was extraordinary.”

“was it?” he murmurs, a soft smiling playing on his lips. “because i was thinking i could’ve done better.”

your brows squint, meeting in the middle as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, and your forehead—and you let out a strand of air, giggling as you push him off of you, holding his face in your palms. “what are you talking about, better? darling, have you gone mad? it doesn’t get any better than that,” you scrunch your face as he comes back to kiss the tip of your nose, giggling more.

“have you seen the way your eyes shine in the firelight?” the plush of his lips brush against your cheek. “could’ve had you over there, and fed you s’mores…”

“is that even possible,” you scuff, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your lashes. yes, your lashes. this man is relentless. but he’s your man, and you blush a deeper shade of red at every gentle peck. “‘course it’s possible,” he rolls his eyes. “don’t underestimate me, lovely.”

cedric rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re draped half across his chest, your head pillowed on his shoulder. his fingers find your hair, combing through the strands that glints even in the low light. “you’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs against your hairline.

you smile then, a real smile that reaches your eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "thanks to you," you softly tease, your hand sliding up his arm, soaking in his embrace. "you remind me everyday, and everyday i fall a little more in love with you.”

“only a little?” you know he’d be clutching his heart if your chest wasn’t pressed against his, and you laugh, hiding your face in his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his skin.

“okay, a lot,” you correct yourself. you feel him smile against the top of your head.

his hand strokes up and down your back, brows furrowing softly before smoothing out at the sound of your yawn. “did our lovemaking make you tired,” he coos, chuckling as you nestle yourself against him.

“yes, you wear me out,” a slow grin stretches over your tired lips.

he scoffs. “i did all the work,” he says matter-of-factly. “i should be the tired one.”

“well, here we are,” you tilt your head to meet his gaze, only to find him looking at you with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen. your heart melts at the sight. “ced,” you murmur, and he catches your lips with his, kissing you so gently you almost miss it. “go to sleep,” he musters. you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say the three words he knows puts you to sleep immediately.

his palm nestles in your hair, cradling you back into his chest. “i love you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head, repeating the phase over and over until you fall limp in his arms with sleep.

[mmeskywalker]

Hayden tries to work sick on the set of Ashoka and gets sent home. Reader takes care of him plz and thank you 😊

|| I’m Right Here

summary: HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN isn’t feeling his best. his posture is slack, his words slur together, and sweat clings to his hairline as heat radiates off his skin — practically burning hotter than the red lightsaber he’s already dropped mid-scene. when the director sends him home from set, you’re right there with him.

a/n: this is such a cutie request! thank you for sending me it:)

warnings: none! on the shorter side, but still sugary sweet ❤️

you notice the second he walks on set that something’s off. his posture’s sluggish, eyes a little glassy, skin pale under the makeup. he brushes it off with a weak smile and a cough he tries to muffle behind his glove, insisting he’s fine—just tired, maybe a little dehydrated.

but then the director calls cut mid-scene because hayden stumbles, barely catching himself. his lightsaber clatters to the floor.

you’re at his side in less than a millisecond.

“you’re burning up,” you murmur, pressing your hand to his forehead. he leans into your touch like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

they send him home, of course. tell him to rest.

and you go with him.

because you’re not about to let him take care of himself when he can barely stay upright. not when he needs you. not when he looks at you with tired eyes like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“sweetheart,” he murmurs, trying—but failing—to sit straighter on the mattress. you’re immediately at his side, brushing the hair out of his face as you cradle his head onto the pillow.

hayden opens his mouth to say something, but you shake your head. “i have some of that soup you like cooking on the stovetop,” you sit by his side, using the back of your fingers to check his temperature.

still burning.

“you don’t have to talk. just rest,” you say softly, your palm settling on his cheek for a moment. he closes his eyes at the touch, lashes fluttering like he’s already half-asleep.

his voice is rough when he tries again. “you’re too good to me.”

you let out a quiet laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to his damp forehead. “yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep your stubborn ass alive.”

he gives the faintest smile, barely-there but still warm. you adjust the blanket over his chest, tucking it in like he’s not twice your size and pretending he doesn’t secretly love it.

“five more minutes and then you’re eating,” you whisper, fingers threading gently through his hair. “even if i have to spoon-feed you.”

his brow lifts the tiniest bit, teasing even now. “kinda into that,” he chuckles, the low sound reverberating through his chest until he coughs.

you roll your eyes but don’t fight the grin tugging at your lips. “sleep. before i smother you with a pillow.”

“hot,” he hoarsely breathes.

you groan and shake your head, already reaching for the cool rag to lay across his forehead.

“don’t get up,” you warn with a warm lit to your tone, kissing the tip of his nose. as you stand, hayden’s fingers curl gently around yours, allowing you to pull away as you make your way to the kitchen.

“i’m just getting your soup,” you call softly over your shoulder, glancing back to catch the way his eyes stay on you, heavy-lidded and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

he doesn’t say anything, just watches you go with that soft little smile like you’re some kind of miracle.

you move quietly through the kitchen, ladling the soup into a bowl, the smell of garlic and herbs wrapping around you like a blanket. it’s the one he always asks for when he’s sick—though he never actually says he’s sick. just “a little off” or “run down.” but you always know.

back in the bedroom, he’s right where you left him—splayed across the mattress, flushed and sleepy, blanket tugged up to his chest. he blinks up at you like you’re the dream and not the other way around.

“hey,” you murmur, settling the bowl down on the nightstand. “think you’re up for a few bites?”

he nods, slow and lazy. “only if you sit with me.”

you smile, slipping in beside him, legs tucked under your body, spoon in hand. “i planned on it.”

he doesn’t eat much—just a few spoonfuls before his head lolls back against the pillow, murmuring a soft “thank you” that melts against your collarbone when you lean in to wipe his mouth with a napkin.

you set the bowl aside, curl back under the covers beside him, and he immediately shifts closer, chasing your warmth with a sleepy sort of desperation. his arm winds around your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt like he needs to feel your skin to settle.

you stay like that for hours.

the rest of the night moves slowly, gently.

he wakes a few times—once shivering, once drenched in sweat, once just to mumble your name until you soothe him back to sleep with soft touches and even softer words: “shh, it’s okay, my love, go back to sleep.”

you keep a cool cloth near the bed, change his shirt when it gets too damp, let him cling to you like a lifeline. when you step away to grab water or medicine, he stirs, eyes barely open, asking where you went with the smallest slur of panic in his voice.

each time, you return with a kiss to his forehead and a quiet promise: “i’m right here.”

by the time the sky begins to lighten, casting pale golden through the bedroom windows, hayden’s fever has dropped just a little, his breathing steadier.

he’s still curled around you, one hand loosely resting against your ribs, his face tucked into your neck like he doesn’t want the morning to take you away.

and you don’t move.

you stay with him, fingertips trailing gently through his messy hair, whispering nothing words into the quiet as he finally, finally rests.

[mmeskywalker]

cedric diggory and all the ways he quietly loves you... (a habits list, and probably not the last one i’ll make)

hi! omg this is my first headcanon (blurb?? one-shot??) whatever it is I've had so much fun writing it!!! it’s been a busy few days and I promise that I’m still working on the next chapter but i wanted to get this out because it made me so soft 🥹 thank you so much to the sweet soul who requested this, it genuinely filled my heart up putting it together. here are some of the little things cedric diggory does when he’s in love with you. habits, quirks, tiny rituals. the kind of stuff that piles up over time and makes you realize just how much someone sees you. feel free to imagine them as canon in the insatiable universe (because honestly, they are)

★ he always waits outside your classes — and outside the entrance of your common room in the mornings!! even if you’re running late, even if he’s drenched from practice. he’ll lean against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds, and the moment you appear? he lights up like you’re the only person who exists.

☆ he compliments you so genuinely it makes your chest ache — not just your looks, though he tells you you’re beautiful constantly, like he’s never gotten over the sight of you. one afternoon, you’re mid-ramble about something completely ridiculous (a dream you had, a weird bug you saw, whatever) and he’s just staring, all soft-eyed and smitten. then, without even thinking, he says, “i swear, i could listen to you forever. doesn’t even matter what you’re on about. your voice is my favorite sound.” it’s so simple, so achingly sincere, you forget how to breathe for a second.

★ he kisses your forehead twice — always twice. even if he’s in a rush, even if your friends are around and it’ll definitely earn you a round of teasing. one kiss for hello, one just because. it’s instinct at this point, something he does without thinking. soft and automatic, like he’s pressing a little promise into your skin. two smooches, always.

☆ he tidies up for you when you’re not looking — he doesn’t say anything, just stacks the piles books you left out in the library, folds your laundry into neat little piles, quills tucked back into their case. he never mentions it. just blushes when you catch him in the act. “you always do it for me,” he mumbles, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

★ he keeps little pieces of you tucked away like they’re lucky charms — a hair tie, a scribbled note, your lip balm, the lighter you left in his pocket. once, it was a folded napkin with your lipstick mark on it. you don’t even know half the things he’s saved. he just likes having bits of you close, like tiny proofs that you’re real and his.

☆ he whispers that he loves you when he’s half asleep — you’re beside him reading, trying not to wake him, but his hand finds your waist and his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. “i love you,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with drowsiness, before pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your shoulder. then he’s out again, like he just needed to say it, like it couldn’t wait.

★ he’s quietly obsessed with touching you — not in a flashy or obnoxious way, just enough that everyone knows you’re his. sometimes, when he sees you after a long day, or just when he’s overwhelmed with how much he’s missed you, he lifts you up in a tight hug the same way he did the first time he saw you at the yule ball, like the rest of the world falls away and it’s just you. he wraps his arms around you so tight it knocks the breath from your lungs, sways you a little like he can’t believe you’re real. in the hallways, he threads his fingers through yours like it’s second nature. under tables, it’s his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles it’s never excessive. never overdone. it’s just cedric — quietly, constantly marking the fact that you’re his favorite person in any room.

☆ he talks about you like you’re already his family — he’ll say “we” when making plans. tells his mum about your favorite meals so she can make them whenever you visit. he’s already talking about bringing you to christmas next year. and when he’s home visiting, his parents hear about you constantly. stories about what you did that made him laugh, how you did on your last assignment, just proudly gushing about you. back at school, you slip into most conversations with his friends even when he doesn’t realize it. “(Y/N) said that yesterday,” he’ll murmur, or “she actually read that book, said it was brilliant.” he thinks he’s being casual, but he’s so transparent. the boys tease him constantly, but he just grins and shrugs because he can’t help it. you’re always on his mind. always the first thing he wants to talk about. it’s like loving you changed his whole vocabulary.

★ he pays attention to everything — how you take your tea, the way you hum when you’re deep in thought, how you always tap your quill twice before writing. he catalogs you like he’s afraid of forgetting all the little things, the soft details, the throwaway comments. he picks things up for you without you asking. if you mention needing more ink, he’s already got your favorite shade tucked into his bag. if you say you liked the apple tarts at breakfast, he starts sneaking one into his pocket every morning. he reads whatever you’re reading, too. your favorite books, old essays, reading assignments. he reads it all just so he can talk to you about them. it’s not performative. it’s not a show. he’s just genuinely curious. about you, your thoughts, your world. he wants to know everything you know.

☆ he’s always calling you sweet nicknames — darling, dove, love, baby, sweetheart, flower, angel. he cycles through them like he’s trying to find the one that suits you best. once, you teased him for it and he just shrugged, grinning. “you’re too many lovely things to choose just one.”

★ he seeks you out at parties — if you’re not arriving together, you can bet he’s scanning the room the second he walks in. it doesn’t matter who he’s talking to, or what kind of crowd he’s in the middle of. the moment he spots you, he’s weaving through the noise like nothing else matters. “there you are,” he always says, smiling like the night couldn’t properly begin until he found you. sometimes he’ll kiss your cheek without thinking, or slip his hand into yours so casually it makes your heart skip a beat. it’s like his whole body sighs in relief just from being near you again.

☆ he stares when he thinks you’re not looking — you’ve caught him across the room, in the mirror, from your periphery, just watching you with this enamored look in his eyes. and then you both just… laugh. quiet, giddy little giggles like neither of you can help it. it’s your thing now, that shared glance that says we’ve done this before. because you have. that first night at the feast, evenings at the library when you were strangers across the room, something magnetic pulling your eyes back to each other again and again. like you already knew. like you were remembering, not meeting.

★ he listens so intently it makes you nervous — like he’s absorbing every word, every shift in your tone, every pause you take to catch your breath. his grey eyes soften when you speak, stormy but warm, like they’re made to reflect you. when you tell stories, he watches your mouth more than he should, totally entranced, smiling a little when you get excited and trip over your words. when you cry, he doesn’t rush to fix it. he just holds your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and listens. not because he’s waiting to respond, because he wants to understand. because whatever hurts you, he wants to carry some of it too.

☆ he mouths “i love you” when he’s too far to say it — from the field during a match, where his hair’s a mess and his cheeks are flushed and he finds you in the crowd like it’s second nature. across the great hall, when he’s seated too far to reach you but can’t stop looking anyway. through the library shelves, when you catch each other in passing and he just stops, smiles, and mouths it, soft and sure, like it’s a secret just for you. it’s quiet. subtle. not meant for anyone else. but he says it like a promise, every single time. and you always say it back, even if it’s just in your smile.

★ he tucks your hair behind your ear when you're nervous — gently, like he's grounding you with the smallest touch. he knows you get anxious sometimes, knows the signs without needing to be told: the way your fingers fidget, your breathing shifts, how you stare a little too hard at nothing. so he leans in close and murmurs, “you’re okay. you’ve got this. i’ve got you.” his voice is soft, steady, certain. like a lifeline. even if you don’t believe it yet, he always does. and he’ll keep saying it until you do.

☆ he still gets flustered when you call him handsome — every single time. you’ll say it offhandedly, in the hallway, at breakfast, when he’s stretching before a match, and without fail, he ducks his head with a shy little smile, ears going pink. “you’re just saying that,” he’ll mumble, but he can’t quite stop the way his mouth curves or how he reaches for your hand after. sometimes he tries to play it cool, but he always ends up grinning like you’ve made his whole day. and the truth is, you have.

★ he gets visibly sulky when you’re upset — he wears your emotions like weather. if someone’s rude to you, if your insecurities start creeping in, if you just look a little too quiet for too long… he notices. he goes broody and still, tight-jawed, barely blinking as he mutters, “who do I have to kill?” and even if you laugh, he means it just enough to make your heart flutter and your anger soften. later, when things calm down, he pulls you in without a word, tucks you against him like he can shield you from the world. “you shouldn’t ever have to feel like this,” he murmurs into your hair. and you believe him, because somehow, with him, it feels true.

☆ he touches you absentmindedly when he’s studying — parchment spread out, ink smudged on his fingers, brow furrowed in focus. but even then, his body finds yours. his thumb draws slow circles on your thigh. your pinkies are hooked beneath the table like a quiet promise. his foot nudges yours every so often, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t drifted too far. he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it half the time, but you do. and it always makes your chest feel full. like even when he’s buried in notes and diagrams, you’re still the grounding point. always his center of gravity.

♱ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ♱

thank you so much for signing up! if you’d like to be added or removed, feel free to shoot me a message or visit the taglist form 💌

@yuveyoo, @milkpeanuts476, @iwannabeapinkaesthetic, @eviaroy, @josephineable, @verymuchinlovewithyou

i have so many more where these came from… if you’d like a part two like + repost pls!! 💌

[mmeskywalker]

|| rough day?

summary: CEDRIC DIGGORY has just gotten done with quidditch practice. a rough one at that. if the word rough even began to cut what that poor man experienced. he’s upset, he’s grouchy, yet he’s completely and utterly yours.

a/n: there’s a shortage of cedric fics out there… coming out of hibernation to fix that just a little bit!

warnings: not really any, lol. you guys make out, and that’s about it. this is just a sweet scene where you try and make him feel better after a rough practice.

cedric just came off the pitch — hair sweaty, cheeks flushed, voice low.

it’s thursday afternoon, and hufflepuffs seeker is drained. practice has never been so horrid. it felt as if nobody listened to a thing he had to say! “readjust your grip,” cedric pointed out, flying next to the new chaser. “you’re good, but you’re tight. loosen up a bit,” and of course they did the exact opposite — gripping harder, flying wobblier, scared shitless. the encounter had him debating whether or not the potential he saw was a fluke.

now it’s an hour later. he’s still in his jersey, still sweaty, and still irritable. his heart is practically ramming against his ribcage. you find him sitting behind the quidditch stands, back against the wood, elbows on his knees, frustration written across every angle of his shoulders.

he doesn’t look up when you sit beside him, just mutters, “i hate when people ask for help and don’t listen to it.”

you hum, brushing your fingers through his damp hair, gently sweeping it off his forehead. “you’re not mad at them,” you murmur. “you’re mad you care so much and they don’t see it.”

this makes him glance at you — eyes heavy, tired, but still impossibly soft when they land on your face. you lean in a little closer, fingertips ghosting over the hem of his jersey.

he notices. swallows hard. doesn’t stop you.

“want me to distract you?” you ask quietly, your voice light, playful, layered in warmth.

his breath catches.

you take it as permission.

your hands slip beneath the soft fabric of his quidditch jersey. his skin is flushed and firm beneath your fingertips, the curve of his waist sharp, his stomach tensing as you skim over his ribs.

his head tips back against the wood with a soft, wrecked sigh. “you’re not helping,” he says, voice hoarse.

you laugh under your breath, leaning closer until your nose brushes his jawline. “i’m not trying to.”

he turns to you — slow, deliberate — and kisses you.

it’s not rushed, not desperate. it’s full of that intensity you know so well. where every moment says that he needs you. his hand finds your thigh, fingers curling tight like he’s trying to anchor himself. your hands slide further up his jersey, and he groans softly into your mouth. his voice is barely audible when he breathes, “keep touching me like that and i’m going to lose every last bit of patience i have left.”

“then lose it,” you whisper.

he backs away slightly, reading your face — brows tense, until you pull him back in and he kisses you harder. “merlin,” he murmurs into your mouth, crawling over your seated form. he traps you between his thighs. you look at him through lovesick lashes, confused when he backs away, but before you say anything, he slides off his jersey.

“i love you,” his breath is shaky, watching your fingertips dance across the delicate line of his abdomen. your thumb traces just below his ribs and he shudders. “so much,” he whispers. then, before you can pull away, he reaches behind you to spread the jersey onto the grass. “be completely still,” he whispers softly into your ear, lips grazing the sensitive skin.

a strong arm wraps beneath your waist, lying you on the grass with your head placed carefully against the fabric of his quidditch top. cedric has always been gentle when it comes to you. even in the midst of his anger. even when the world is heavy. never has he put you at fault, because you are the constant that keeps him still.

he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, he stays hovering, legs tangled in yours, admiring you sprawled out beneath him. “come here,” you wrap your fingers gently around the back of his neck, thumb brushing the hair at his nape as you tug him closer.

he melts into it. into you.

his lips land just beneath your ear, then trace slowly down the curve of your jaw, before meeting your mouth again — slower now.

less desperate. more certain.

he smiles into your embrace — the first smile of the night. not forced. not guarded. just real. just him.

you feel it before you even see it, the curve of his mouth brushing your cheek.

“awww,” you murmur, grinning up at him. “was that a smile? finally?”

his face buries in the crook of your neck, and he groans, embarrassed in the gentlest, most boyish way.

“shut up,” he mumbles, but he’s still smiling. wider now.

you laugh, threading your fingers through his hair.

“don’t pretend you’re not completely adorable when you smile, diggory. it’s a dangerous weapon.”

he lifts his head, eyes soft, glowing from the compliment and the way you’re looking at him — like you’ve never wanted anything more.

“you’re one to talk,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “you smile at me like you’ve got me in the palm of your hand.”

you blink. your heart does something.

because the truth is — you do.

he dips back down to kiss you again, slower this time, and in between kisses, he whispers against your mouth,

“you’ve ruined me. completely.”

you laugh softly, the sound muffled between your mouths as the kiss deepens.

his hand slides along your thigh, guiding it gently to wrap around his waist, angling you closer. it’s instinctive, like your bodies are trying to close every bit of distance left.

cedric hums against your lips, kissing you deeper — a little more sure of himself now.

when his tongue brushes teasingly at your bottom lip, you smile and let him in.

the kiss shifts — slower, messier, sweeter.

your fingers tangle in his hair.

his breathing evens out. his shoulders drop, tension melting.

you stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, everything else fading out.

just you, and the boy you love — the sweet, frustrated hufflepuff who only ever needed you to feel like himself again.

[mmeskywalker]

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐑 ・ ˎˊ my discord server!

hi guys! i started a discord server a little while back for shifting and to build a community of people who can motivate each other through our shifting journeys. it got quiet and dead for a while BUT me and the other admins (merci & maddie, my angels) have been trying to get it going again!

if you're interested in making friends (we don't bite), seeking motivation, and having fun please join our server! we're always expanding and adding to the server, so if you do join and think of something we should add, please message one of the admins and we'll get on it!

link to the server !╭ ୨୧

i do hope you choose to join because we love new people and are looking forward to making our community bigger and with more variety.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

@hauntedrealities . . . copyright 2025

[mmeskywalker]

how he destresses.

authors note: you can imagine anyone you want to this lol. i just thought it was tewww good not to share, so i took the guys name out of it. this is an exert of a scenario from my fame dr.

After long days on set he likes to relax in bed with me. It’ll start with him lightly reading—the lamp set on the lowest possible setting—however he’s never able to sit still. His hands grip the pages, sweat forming at his brow. I usually ask what’s wrong and he plays it cool, telling me it’s nothing—yet he’s setting the book down, getting off the mattress. He used to contemplate, not knowing if it would be appropriate to destress between my legs, but not anymore. He throws off his shirt, sitting on his knees before me. “Lift your hips for me, love,” he’ll quietly demand, and I set my phone down, allowing him to pool my panties to my feet. I throw my legs around his shoulders, his nose inhaling the sweet scent of my pussy. He always eats me like a man starved. Groaning, flicking my clit with his tongue, whimpering when my body jolts, and palming himself as he savors the taste of my release. The man is very vocal. He does this every time he’s stressed at home. He’s also a huge fan of dry humping, and will roll me onto his lap when he’s had a bad day, feeling my body as I attack the sweet spot below his ear.

[mmeskywalker]

💬 Just a Small Update, and a Big Thank You

Dear friends, kind hearts, and everyone who has stood with us,

When I first opened my heart to the world and shared our story, I never imagined the amount of love and solidarity we would receive. Thanks to your incredible support, we’ve now reached $12,837—a milestone that brings real light to some very dark days.

From the deepest corners of my heart, thank you.

💔 A Journey of Loss, but Also of Strength

As many of you know, I’ve lost 25 of my loved ones during this devastating war. That grief lives with me every single day. It’s in the silence that once held laughter, in the empty spaces where we once gathered as a family.

But through your help, I’ve also felt something else: hope. And that hope is priceless.

“21/Oct/2023 Before It Reached Us: The Day Our Neighbor’s House Was Destroyed” A quiet moment of fear, filmed just before everything changed.

“22/Oct/2023 The Morning After: Our Family Home in Ruins” This is what was left behind after the bombing of our home.

🌿 What Life Looks Like for Us Now

Despite everything, we’re still here. Still surviving. Still hoping.

But things have only gotten harder.

The war has returned, more brutal than before—and for over a month now, Gaza has been completely sealed off. No food is coming in. No medical supplies. No aid. No trade. No one is allowed to leave, and no one is allowed to enter.

We’re trapped.

🏚 We live with the fear of tomorrow, every single day. Airstrikes, drones, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. 👨‍👩‍👧 Our family is forever changed—we haven’t just lost people; we’ve lost pieces of ourselves. 📉 Basic needs go unmet—even clean water feels like a luxury now. Medicines, if they exist at all, are unreachable.

And yet…

Your support reminds us that we’re not forgotten. It reminds us that someone, somewhere, is still listening. That someone still cares. That we’re not completely alone in this.

Every message. Every share. Every dollar. It tells us: You’re walking this road with us. And that gives us the strength to keep going.

💖 What You Can Do

If you’ve already donated—thank you beyond words. If you can share our story again, it could reach someone who can help.

Even $5 means warmth, comfort, and a chance to breathe a little easier.

✨ Why It All Matters

This isn’t just about reaching a fundraising goal. It’s about surviving war with dignity. It’s about believing in tomorrow. It’s about making sure my daughter grows up knowing that the world did not look away.

Thank you for your kindness, patience, and belief in our humanity. You’ve helped me find my voice—and I will use it to keep hope alive.

🙏 From the Heart: A Quiet Apology

There’s something I need to say—something that’s been on my heart for some time.

When I first began sharing our story, I didn’t know what the right way was. I was scared, grieving, and trying to protect my family in any way I could. I reached out to many people, hoping someone, anyone, would see us. In that process, I now realize I may have overstepped, and I might have made some feel overwhelmed.

If that happened, I am truly sorry.

Please believe me when I say it was never out of disregard or pushiness. It came from a place of fear—fear of being forgotten, fear of not being able to keep my family safe, fear of watching everything I love slip away in silence.

I’m learning as I go. I’ve slowed down. I’m more mindful now, trying to share our journey in a way that feels respectful of the space and hearts of those listening.

If my words ever came at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, I hope you can understand where they came from—and I hope you can forgive me.

Thank you for seeing past my mistakes. Thank you for still being here. It means more than I can ever explain.

Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 )

With love and endless gratitude, Mosab and family ♥️

[mmeskywalker]

Mickey 17 and 18 fighting to eat you out?? yes please

smut, oral, fem receiving, technically a threesome?? idk if it counts since they are kinda the same person lol ☠️ also PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SEND REQUESTS FOR THEM 🙏☺️

When you first found out there were two Mickeys, your immediate thought was how the hell you were going to explain this to Kenneth without getting all three of you killed.

Your second thought? There were two fucking Mickeys. Two of your boyfriends. Two men who were hopelessly in love with you.

Two men who would do anything to please you which is exactly how you ended up in this position.

Honestly, you don’t even know how it happened.

One minute, the three of you were arguing about what the hell you were supposed to do, the next, Mickey 17 was between your legs, his tongue lapping at your cunt while Mickey 18 sat by the bed, rubbing over his clothed cock, eyes dark with jealousy as he watched, his grip on himself tightening and his jaw clenching as he watched 17 work.

His tongue moved like he’d done this a hundred times before because he technically had. Every movement over your clit was muscle memory, honed from how long the two of you had been together. Mickey 18 knew exactly what it felt like to have you writhing beneath him, and the fact that 17 was the one drawing those desperate little sounds from your lips instead of him was driving him insane.

He exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat like he was debating whether to wait his turn or shove 17 out of the way. But 17 wasn’t stopping—not even sparing his double a glance. He was devoted, completely focused on your pleasure, moaning against your cunt like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted (because in his mind, it was).

“Fuck,” 18 muttered, palming himself harder. “That’s my pussy too, y’know.”

Mickey 17 lifted his head slightly, looking up at 18 with wide, hazy eyes, lips slick with your arousal.

“But… it’s my turn,” he said softly, almost pouting.

Mickey 18 let out a sharp breath, like he was barely holding himself together. Then, he moved.

Before you could process it, he was between your legs, shoving 17’s shoulder in an attempt to get him out of the way. “Move.”

17 let out a small noise of protest, hands still gripping your thighs, eyes flickering between 18 and you, unsure, almost as if wanting you to tell 18 to wait his turn.

But 18 wasn’t waiting, and honestly, he wouldn’t even listen to you if he told him too. He pressed his mouth to you, groaning as he finally got his first taste, lapping at your cunt like you were water and he was a man in the desert.

17 whined softly but didn’t pull away. Instead, after a beat, he leaned back in, his tongue darting out to flick over your clit, while 18 groaned against your entrance, working his tongue deeper.

The two of them licked and sucked in tandem, their breath hot, their mouths wet and eager, both of them determined to pull you apart.

17 clung to your thighs, eyes fluttering shut as he focused on the sensitive bundle of nerves, whimpering softly with every little twitch of pleasure you gave while 18 was rougher, more demanding, moaning against your cunt as he pushed his tongue deeper, like he wanted to devour you whole.

Pleasure coursed through you, your body arching between them as their mouths worked in perfect, desperation. It was overwhelming, the contrast of them both.

Your fingers tangled in 17’s hair, gripping tight, and he whimpered into you, the sound vibrating through your core. He was so good for you, so eager to please, to be wanted. 18 groaned at the noise, gripping your hips and pulling you even closer to his mouth, dragging his tongue through your wetness with a satisfied hum, like he was trying to drown himself in you.

It was almost too much. Their mouths, their hands, the sounds they were making—moaning, whining, competing for your pleasure.

Your thighs shook as heat coiled in your stomach. Your back arching as you gasped, choking on a moan, and that was all the encouragement they needed.

17 sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking faster, more determined, and 18 groaned into you, his hands spreading your thighs wider, his mouth moving rougher, needier—both of them working together, completely in sync now.

It hit you like a freight train. Your vision blurred, your breath hitched, and then you broke—pleasure crashing through you in waves, your body shaking as they held you down, licking you through it, moaning against you like they were the ones falling apart.

You barely registered the way 18 groaned in satisfaction, the way 17 let out a little whimper, nuzzling against your thigh, licking up every last drop like he couldn’t stand to waste a single thing.

It was only when the tremors in your body subsided that 18 finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking so very smug.

“See?” he murmured, voice thick with pride as he glanced at 17. “That’s how you do it.”

17 just blinked up at him, wide-eyed and still flushed, his lips parted slightly like he was about to argue but then, slowly, a small, almost dazed smile curled at his lips.

“I think we should do it again,” he said softly, voice still breathless.

18 snorted, shaking his head before turning back to you, dragging his fingers over your thigh. “Yeah? What do you think, sweetheart? Think you can handle another round?”

Your body was still trembling, your breath still ragged but with two Mickeys looking at you like that, both of them ready to do whatever you wanted?

How could you possibly say no?

[mmeskywalker]

I can't stop thinking about Mickey being an absolute munch, there's nowhere he feels more at home than in-between your legs. It doesn't matter where or when, if he can get down there's he's doing it! Before sex as foreplay, after sex when he's too tired to properly go for a second found, a treat in the morning after he knows you had a grueling shift the night before.... The list goes on.

But his favourite time to eat you out, or rather your favourite time to see him eat you out, is usually after he's been reprinted. He's always quiet then, trying to shake off that freshly printed funk and processing his death, it makes him long to be close to you. He always seeks you out after, coaxing you back to one of your bunks if you aren't there already, and it starts off innocently enough with him laying with you, needing to feel you close to him.

He loves your thighs, resting his head on them with his arms wrapped around your waist as you play with his hair. It doesn't take long until he's spicing things up though, giving kisses to your thighs and pulling at your waistband, looking up at you with those puppy dog eyes in a silent 'please' you just can't say no to.

Fresh off the printer he's always desperate, like his sensations are dialled up to ten, and it shows in the way he eats you out like a man starved. He suckles at your clit, hands grasping your hips to keep you close like he's scared you'll run away, and constantly looking up at you for validation. It was difficult not to give him the praise he craved when he had you like this from just his tongue alone. More often than not, he can cum just from eating you out, he tries to hold himself back on regular occasions but he can't stop himself when he's newly printed like this grinding into the mattress as he eats you out, sure he'll cum before you do but they doesn't stop him. He whimpers and groans into your pussy, never one for being quiet, and its impossible not to soak those sounds up.

And, in the end, when you cum he always lifts his head and looks at you with that same glazed over look, his chin wet with your arousal as he breathes out a 'thank you'.

[mmeskywalker]

|| a sleepy night with anakin skywalker

(fluff, fluff, fluff)

“mm, come here,” ANAKIN SKYWALKER whispers.

his hands press against the sides of your waist, pulling you flush against his sleepy form. you pull your weight higher until your nose is resting in the crook of his neck. “you smell good,” you find yourself mumbling, not sure if the words are coherent.

“really?” a slow smirk spreads across his features. “well, thank you.”

eyes fluttering shut, you make a small, accommodating noise. a soft breath brushes your ear, followed by a quiet, “long day, my love?” you hum in response, too tired to say much. he doesn’t push for more, just holds you tighter.

after a moment, you murmur, “‘m just glad you’re here.” your voice is barely above a whisper, heavy with exhaustion.

his arms tighten around you, and he rests his chin gently on the top of your head. “i’m always here,” he whispers softly. his voice is steady, comforting, like an anchor. “i’ve got you.”

he presses a gentle kiss to your temple, then another just below your ear. his lips trail slow, unhurried kisses along your jaw, each one a quiet reminder that he’s there, that you’re safe. between kisses, he murmurs, “i love you, sweetheart.”

your breathing steadies, the tension in your shoulders softening as his touch chases away the weight of the day. his metal hand brushes through your hair, fingers chill and gentle. “just relax,” he says softly. “i’m not going anywhere.”

[mmeskywalker]

wowza!

Paris, Texas

Pairing - Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader

Word Count - 19534 [2 to 3 hours of reading time - depending]

Content Warning - Slow burn Angst, Unrequited love, Pining!Reader, Being taken for granted, google-translated italian and french (i am an asian woman, i don’t know a lick of french)

Summary - Loving someone they way you want to be loved, doesn't always mean you will be loved the same way back

A.N. - Writing this whenever I got the chance (which also the same days that I don't speak a word of English). Thanks to ChatGPT for making this readable. Also dividers by @firefly-graphics <3

Poll Results: Literally everyone said to post this "now" (as in 4 days ago "now") but I ended up working 38 hours at my part-time since then so I apologise. Also this was also redrafted about 7 times because I wanted a realistic ending.

Enjoy! <3 (commenting and reblogging feeds the writing gremlin)

Wizards slowly began adopting Muggle holidays sometime around the 18th century. Those living in London found themselves enjoying each little tradition, each celebration the Muggles offered.

Valentine’s Day was one of the latest fads in the British-wizarding forums. Some had said a big-time French socialite had apparently introduced the tradition to his British amour, and since then, the excitement spread through the grapevine. From gifting beautiful, forever-blooming flowers to your beloved, to others frantically checking their Chocolate Frogs were not spiked with Amortentia — young wizards started basking in the celebration of young love (or platonic love for some).

Everyone, except you.

Classmates, dorm mates, and even your own best friends — Joycelin Sweeting and Astoria Greengrass — were ecstatic over the festivities. They had dragged you each weekend leading up to the big day to Hogsmeade and even trekked up to Diagon Alley for the perfect presents for their other halves. You were happy for them.

Truly.

They both had that beautiful twinkle in their eyes — and even though they were the most bubbly, fun-loving duo, you were almost 100% sure that their pupils turned into literal love hearts around their respective partners. Their hair was always curly or wavy (you had read in some book in the library that the magic surrounding a girl in love made their hair wavy for some reason), and their cheeks ached and flushed red with blush. You promised you were happy for them.

You had promised you were fine, telling Astoria to go on her date and reassuring Joycelin that you had more than enough on your plate. (That was a lie.)

The sun had barely risen but the time you sat in the Great Hall, the low chatter of students around you creating a hum that felt more distant than comforting. The flickering candles overhead cast shadows that danced lazily across the table, but you could not focus on the warmth. You felt the coldness inside you, a familiar emptiness that had settled in your chest ever since things had started to change. You could not help feeling sorry for yourself. Sitting here, on the morning of Valentine’s Day, seemingly the only student sitting alone. The dining hall was already quiet as it was, with many students opting for more romantic settings.

Your eyes flickered to the Slytherin table, your gaze inevitably falling on Theodore. He was there, of course, just like he always was, wrapped up in the world he had created around himself. The world that no longer seemed to have much space for you.

You could feel the ache settle into your bones, a quiet reminder of everything that had gone wrong—or seemingly, what seem to have disappeared over the winter break. It was not that he did not notice you; it was that he seemed to look through you these days. Every time you tried to get close, tried to bridge the growing chasm between the two of you, he had backed away, like you were not worth the effort.

And that was it. You were not worth the effort.

Theodore’s eyes did not meet yours now, and you were not sure if it was out of avoidance or simple disinterest. He had the same nonchalant air about him, speaking to the people around him in a tone that was not sharp, but cold enough to make you feel it in your gut. His friends, his fellow Slytherins, hung on the few words he said, laughing and teasing with ease. They did not know the quiet pain you felt just from being in the same room with him.

You turned your attention back to your plate, pushing food around without really touching it. The silence between you and him had become more deafening with each passing day. You tried to ignore it, to accept that it was what it was, but that did not stop the small part of you, the part that still hoped, from holding on.

A sharp pang of disappointment twisted in your chest as you watched a few girls from the other end of the table approach Theodore. Their laughter rang in the air, a sound that was light and carefree, like the weight of everything was irrelevant. You knew how they looked at him. You had seen it before. He was everything they admired—charming in a nonchalant type of way, and, for every reason you had been drawn to him in the first place, they couldn’t get enough of him.

A wave of frustration washed over you. You wanted to get up, leave this place where you felt so invisible, but the more you tried to retreat into yourself, the more desperate you were for Theodore to reach out for you.

But just as you were about to turn back to your breakfast, a voice broke through the quiet hum of the hall, this one different — more polite and genuinely warm.

Theodore was halfway through taking a bite of his toast when a voice rang out, light and sweet, carrying through the quiet of the hall, uninvited and unwelcome. “Theo, you are coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?”

The girl who spoke was one of those faces you often saw in the Slytherin corridor but never paid much attention to. A pleasant sort of girl, pretty enough, but always with a crowd. She had the kind of attention that came effortlessly, like a polished stone that had been smoothed by years of admiration. Her soft blonde curls bounced around her face as she leaned toward Theodore, her eyes wide with the warmth of something unfamiliar to you, something that felt a little too bright, too alive.

Her voice, though melodic, carried a subtle undertone of expectation. “It’s going to be fun,” she added with a smile, drawing the words out as though she was fishing for an answer. She did not care about the casualness of the conversation; she knew exactly what she was doing. Her fingers brushed lightly against Theodore’s sleeve as she spoke, and you could almost see the way her confidence bloomed in the space between them, wrapping around him as if they were already connected.

Theodore looked up slowly, his gaze flicking toward her, but the moment his eyes met hers, he seemed to settle into a practiced nonchalance. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was not the kind that reached his eyes. He gave a slight nod, still not meeting your gaze. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” he replied, his voice cool and flat, the same as it always was these days. Detached.

The girl beamed, as if the words were all she had wanted, but before she turned to go, she finally, almost reluctantly, glanced your way. Her eyes lingered on you for the briefest moment, as if she just remembered you were there, as if you had somehow faded into the background of the conversation she had been having with Theodore. It was not an unkind look, just distant — as though acknowledging your presence now was an afterthought.

“Oh,” she said, the pitch of her voice softening just a touch. “What about...” She slowly turned her head to your table. Her smile was kind, but it lacked warmth, like a perfunctory gesture more than a genuine inquiry.

You blinked, suddenly aware of the space between you and Theodore. The hall became so much larger than you had imagined, yet feeling narrower and overwhelming at the same time. You wanted him to say yes—better yet, walk down that endless hall to ask for your opinion. But you were also terrified. You did not want to admit that the very thought of being around people, of pretending to be something you were not, made your chest tighten. At this point, there was no telling what kind of relationship existed between you both. Your thoughts were swarming you these past couple of weeks— with one that had been quietly overcoming your mind for weeks, months now. You wanted to be seen— wanted to be wanted, even if just for a fleeting moment.

But before you could speak, Theodore’s voice cut through the tension, his words sharper than usual. “You know her,” he said, his tone distant and dismissive, “she’s not really a party person.”

And just like that, the words sank into your skin, prickling with discomfort. It was not a lie, not exactly, but it felt wrong. There was a bitter edge to it, something unspoken that settled over the dining hall like a growing storm. You were not a party person, no. But that was not the real reason you’d rather stay away. The truth was more complicated, more suffocating, and Theodore was too busy with his own distractions to notice.

The girl smiled again, this time with a hint of pity that stung more than it comforted. “I see,” she said, her voice dipping into something softer, almost apologetic, but you could see the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “I mean, no matter- we can always have fun for her. Right?”

She turned on her heel, slipping into the crowd of students with ease, leaving you in the quiet bubble of awkwardness that you had somehow found yourself in. The weight of his dismissal hung heavy in the air, suffocating you, even though he was not looking at you. His focus had already shifted to his friends, already lost in the rhythm of the day, and you felt the distance between you grow even wider.

You could not help but glance at him again, watching him talk to the group of Slytherins across the table, his face set in a way that looked practiced, familiar. His eyes never once flickered toward you. The indifference stung more than anything. He had done this before, turned his attention elsewhere, as if you were no longer worth the effort.

There was a knot in your stomach, tight and unyielding. It was hard to breathe around it, but you did not dare let it show. You did not dare let anyone see how much it hurt.

You knew better than to try and get his attention, though. You had learned long ago that when Theodore was not looking at you, nothing you did would change it. So you turned your gaze back to your untouched plate, pushing the remaining food around as if it could give you something to focus on, something to fill the hollow space.

The longer you sat there, the heavier the weight in your chest became — suffocating, relentless. The pitying look from that girl lingered in your mind, curling uncomfortably around your thoughts. It was not just the way she’d glanced at you like an afterthought — it was how right Theodore’s words had felt, how easily they’d seemed to confirm something you’d been trying to ignore for weeks.

You are not really a party person.

The words repeated in your head, twisting and distorting until they felt less like a passing comment and more like some unspoken truth — one you could not shake. It was not just that you did not belong at parties. It felt like you did not belong anywhere. Not with your friends, who had drifted into their own little worlds of whispered conversations and excited plans. Not with Theodore, who barely looked at you anymore — and if he did, it was only to find some way to push you further away.

And it was your own fault, was it not?

Your friends had tried — really tried — to keep you close. Joycelin and Astoria had spent weeks begging you to come with them — to Hogsmeade, to the common room, even just to sit with them in the Great Hall. They had coaxed you with warm smiles and reassurances that you’d have fun, but you never did. You could never quite shake the feeling that you were just… there. A shadow lingering behind them, dulling the brightness of their excitement.

It had reached the point where you almost felt guilty for saying yes — because each time you did, you could see it in their eyes. That flicker of hesitation, that subtle change in the air when you sat beside them. As though they were quietly waiting for you to dampen the mood.

You knew they loved you — you knew that. But sometimes love was not enough to stop you from feeling like a burden.

You wondered when it had happened — when you had become this person. The one who sat quietly at the edge of things, watching her friends smile and laugh from somewhere she could no longer reach. The one who had once been so full of warmth, now cold and withdrawn, retreating deeper into herself with each passing day.

It was not that you did not want to fight for what you once had — for Theodore, for your friends, for yourself. It was that you did not know how.

Because the truth was, you were tired — tired of trying to pretend that you were fine, tired of convincing yourself that this hollow feeling was not swallowing you whole. And most of all, you were tired of caring so much when it felt like no one seemed to care about you.

A dull ache settled behind your eyes, and you swallowed hard, blinking quickly to push the feeling down. You did not have the energy to fall apart — not here, not now. Instead, you kept your head low, eyes fixed on your plate as you tried to shrink into the silence, as if that might somehow make everything hurt a little less.

Just as you were about to sink back into your own thoughts, another voice broke through the fog of disappointment. The sudden shift in tone was enough to catch you off guard.

“Excuse me, are you… Y/N, right?”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts. You blink, not expecting to hear anyone speaking to you. When you look up, you are met with a pair of eyes. His eyes, a striking shade of blue, seem to gleam with an unexpected warmth. He stands there, leaning casually against the bench, his posture effortlessly confident. His dark hair, not quite as dark as Theodore’s but with a similar tousled quality, seems to catch the light in all the right places, and you can tell it’s the sort of hair that naturally falls into place, no matter what.

Adrien Delacroix.

His features are distinctively sharp, but there is a softness to them, too. He has a smile that feels almost practiced, easy, as if it is a shield he is worn a thousand times. His bone structure is different from Theodore’s—more delicate, with high cheekbones and a straight nose that seems to be chiseled perfectly. He’s stood there, looking down at you with an easy smile that barely hides his curiosity. He is tall—definitely taller than most guys in your year—and his gaze is steady, almost like he’s trying to read you.

The thought hits you immediately, almost involuntarily. What does he want?

You manage a quiet nod. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

You blink again, not sure what to say next, but Adrien doesn’t seem to notice your hesitation. You hate how small your voice sounds, especially compared to Adrien’s friendly tone. You immediately wish you could say something more—something to make this interaction feel less awkward, but your words feel like they’re stuck somewhere deep in your chest.

“I thought I… ah…” He pauses briefly, brow creasing as he searches for the right word. “Reconnu — recognised you,” he corrects himself, his accent curling softly around the syllables. He leans casually against the table, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’m in a couple of your classes, and I’ve seen you around… but I’ve never had the chance to actually talk to you.”

He pauses for a moment, his hand lifting to push a strand of dark hair behind his ear with the same effortless grace that seems to define him. The way his accent lingers, slightly melodic and smooth as it dances in his words, makes you feel different. There’s something about him that feels different, refined—but not in an obvious, boastful way. Just in the way he holds himself, the subtle lift of his chin, the quiet confidence that lingers even in the simplest gestures.

“History of Magic, right?” Adrien asks, as if pulling you out of your thoughts. “You’ve been in my class the last few weeks… I think I sit behind you.”

Your heart beats a little faster, and a flush creeps up your neck. Adrien notices, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but he does not make a big deal out of it.

You force a smile, nervous and unsure. “I dunno… I sleep through most of it.”

His lips twitch as he laughs softly, his voice rich, and the sound catches you off guard. “Vraiment? Really?” he says, his grin widening. “You should definitely stay awake. It’s fascinating stuff.” His tone is teasing, but there’s something more in his eyes — something that almost makes you wonder if he’s being sincere.

“I—I’ll try,” you murmur, pulling your sleeves down further, hiding your hands in the folds of your robes. You are not used to this, not used to being noticed like this. Especially not by someone like Adrien, who seems to draw people’s attention without even trying.

You cannot help but notice the way his eyes linger on you for just a moment too long before he blinks and looks away. It’s a small thing, but it sends your heart racing, and you cannot figure out why.

He leans in slightly, his voice lowering a little. “You’ve got that quiet thing going on… makes you seem a bit… mystérieuse.” His lips twitch with a small smile. “It’s cute.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. Cute. The simplicity of it, the way it feels like a compliment that doesn’t carry any weight behind it, makes your chest tighten. It’s not an insult, but something about it makes you feel exposed, like you don’t deserve the attention he’s giving you. You’ve never thought of yourself as someone who could be “cute,” not the way the other girls are. You’ve spent so long hiding in the shadows, and now someone like Adrien is standing in front of you, treating you like you are someone worth noticing.

You do not know how to respond, so you just nod, suddenly feeling even more awkward. You can’t help it, your mind races with the thought that maybe he’s just being polite. Or maybe he’s just like the others who like to talk to you out of some weird obligation before moving on to something—or someone—else.

Adrien tilts his head, and for a moment, you are not sure if he’s trying to figure you out or if he’s just watching you. His lips twitch into a smile again, this time a little more knowing. “Well, if you ever need someone to keep you awake in History of Magic, I’m happy to help.”

You try not to smile, but the way his gaze lingers on you, the way he speaks, it’s hard not to. He seems genuine, yet you wonder how much of that is just the way he is—easy, charming, and unbothered.

“Or maybe we could catch up on what you’ve missed in the library?” He smiles, “I noticed you usually run off there as soon as Binns finishes.”

You shift slightly, the discomfort rising in your stomach. “I don’t usually spend much time in the library,” you say, almost apologetically, though you know it’s not entirely true. You’ve been there often, especially in the past few weeks, lingering in corners, trying to lose yourself in the quiet. You’ve seen Adrien there before, too, always focused, always absorbed in his reading. But you don’t mention that. It feels too intimate somehow, like acknowledging his presence would make this interaction even more real.

Adrien’s eyes soften as if he can see through your discomfort. He doesn’t push, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s actually paying attention to you—or just looking for something to fill the silence. He shifts, stepping a little closer, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

“I get that,” he says, his smile growing a little more genuine. “Hogwarts can be… eh… accablant… too much, no?” He chuckles softly. “I’ve only been here a little while, and I’m still figuring out where everything is.” His words are easy, his tone casual, like he’s trying to make you feel less out of place. You can tell he’s trying to make this conversation feel natural, but you can’t help but feel like you are failing at being natural, like every word that leaves your mouth is a stilted attempt to keep up.

You want to say something, to let him in, but the words feel wrong. Why is he even talking to me? You want to scream it, want to ask him why someone like him—who clearly fits in with all the bright, shiny faces at Hogwarts—would want to talk to someone like you. You are used to being on the outside, used to standing in the back while others take the spotlight. And here is Adrien, offering you a sliver of attention like it’s no big deal. You don’t know what to make of it.

But then he continues, his voice slipping back into that light, teasing tone. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while, actually. I just didn’t know how to approach you though—thought it might be best find away to do it differently…”

You freeze, caught off guard by the statement. Differently? It feels like a compliment, but it also feels like a judgment. You never meant to be unreachable. Is he saying I’m weird? You can’t stop the flash of insecurity that rises in your chest. You are not sure whether to thank him for the words or shrink away in embarrassment. You barely know him, yet somehow, his words feel like they’ve carved into you in ways you are not ready for.

“Hey — I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” Adrien adds, as though sensing the shift in the air. “I just thought… maybe we could hang out sometime? I mean, I’ve seen you around, and you don’t seem like the type to just…” He pauses, brow furrowing slightly as he mutters, “Comment on dit… ah…” His fingers drum lightly on the table as he thinks. “Go with the flow?,” he finishes, a little unsure but still smiling. “You seem… hmm… like someone who thinks for herself. I thought it’d be nice to get to know you.”

The offer feels too big, too much for someone like you to take in, like a question you are not sure you are allowed to answer. You want to say no, to tell him it’s fine and you are used to being alone, but there’s a small part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s being honest.

Before you can figure out what to say, Adrien’s smile softens, and he steps back, giving you a little more space. “I’ll see you around then?” His voice is lighter, not pushing, but still there, lingering.

You sit there, watching him walk away, still unsure whether his invitation was just a formality, something said to pass the time, or if he genuinely meant it. You don’t know. You don’t know him, not really, but the thought of being wanted, of being seen by someone like him, leaves you feeling both lighter and heavier all at once.

You can’t shake the comparison in your mind—the way Theodore’s presence always felt heavy, like there was something between you that you could not name. But with Adrien, it’s different. He’s easy. He doesn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen, like Theodore did. And yet, you feel unsettled, unsure if you should let yourself enjoy this attention.

But why would someone like him be interested in someone like me? You can’t shake the doubt, the feeling that this is all too good to be true.

The first few days after Adrien introduced himself passed with little fanfare. You found yourself thinking back to his words, but they felt like little more than a fleeting moment in the midst of your usual routine. School was still a whirlwind—lessons, assignments, and the ever-present hum of your friends dragging you along, their chatter and laughter filling up the corners of your days. You barely had time to notice the absence of anything new.

It was only in the quieter moments, when you found yourself alone with your thoughts, that Adrien’s voice would drift back into your mind. “It was nice talking to you.”

You weren’t sure why it lingered. He’d said it casually, a throwaway comment as if it was no different from any other greeting. But it was different. You weren’t used to being treated like that. It was a small thing, but in a life that had felt so filled with noise and obligation, it felt like a small light. Yet you pushed it aside. You didn’t know him. He was a stranger, no matter how pleasant.

Days passed, and you carried on as usual. You caught glimpses of him in the halls occasionally, but he never approached you again. You hadn’t expected him to, really. And you didn’t know what you would have done if he had.

But then, a few days later, you were walking down the corridor on your way to the library, a pile of books pressed tightly against your chest. You had your mind on your homework and what you had left to do that afternoon.

As you passed a corner near the library’s entrance, you nearly collided with someone. You glanced up, startled, and there he was—Adrien, his warm eyes locking onto yours as though he’d been expecting to see you. He stepped back just in time, allowing you to continue walking.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Hi,” you answered, a little caught off guard, though you couldn’t quite place why. His smile was warm, genuine, and it did something strange to your heart—a soft flutter that you quickly buried under a sense of confusion. Why did it feel different when he smiled at you?

“I was actually heading to the library, too,” Adrien continued, his words stumbling slightly before he found the right phrasing. “I… uh… if you, uh, don’t mind, maybe I could… walk with you?”

His words came out with a slight hesitation, but his smile remained steady. You caught a soft ‘D’accord’ under his breath, as if he had been about to say something before stopping himself.

You didn’t answer immediately, unsure why it felt so difficult. But then you just shrugged. What harm could it do? It wasn’t like you had to say yes, but his offer felt casual enough—so you nodded.

“Sure, why not.”

The walk wasn’t long. You had a few moments of awkward silence, your footsteps echoing slightly in the hallway. But Adrien didn’t seem bothered by it. He didn’t try to fill the silence with pointless chatter, as some people would. He just walked beside you, the occasional glance in your direction almost like an invitation to speak, but never pushing for it.

When you arrived at the library, you felt an odd sense of… expectation. But why? You weren’t sure, and you couldn’t figure it out. He hadn’t even asked to sit with you. And yet, when you found a quiet corner, Adrien dropped down across from you with a casual air, pulling out a few books from his bag. You didn’t speak much at first, but the way he settled next to you, not intruding on your space but in a way that made you aware of him, was somehow comforting.

You focused on your work, but there were moments when you found yourself glancing up at him. His eyes were always so soft, always paying attention to the books in front of him, but you could tell that sometimes he looked at you, too. It was subtle, but it was there. He was careful, though, and never pressed you. You never felt like you were being watched. But there was something there, something unspoken.

It wasn’t like you’d thought anything would happen, but somehow, you felt a little lighter in the moments you shared with him, even if they were silent. You told yourself it was just the solitude of the library making it feel that way, nothing more.

The next few days followed a similar rhythm. Adrien continued to show up, not in an overwhelming way, but in the way of someone who was content with simply sharing space. You’d find him walking beside you in the halls, or—more often than not—he’d be sitting across from you in the library, quietly reading. Some days, he’d nod in your direction, offering a small, knowing smile. Other times, he would remain absorbed in his books, but you’d catch a glance his way, and his eyes would flicker toward yours before he quickly returned to what he was doing.

You still didn’t know how to feel about it. You weren’t used to the attention. It wasn’t anything grand or demanding, and maybe that’s why it unsettled you. Maybe it felt too easy. And maybe that was why you kept waiting for the moment it would end—waiting for the point where you’d both go your separate ways, like you always had before.

But that moment didn’t come.

A week passed, then two. Adrien didn’t disappear, but his presence began to feel familiar. Not in a bad way, but in the way that something small can slowly start to settle into your life without you quite realising it. You found yourself moving through your days in that strange mix of normalcy and anticipation.

By the third week, he’d started sitting next to you before you even had a chance to settle in. No longer waiting for an invitation, he simply dropped down next to you, book in hand. The quiet exchanges—small smiles, the soft rustle of pages turning—began to feel almost like a routine. Not something you had to think about.

And then, one day, he spoke up as you were gathering your things.

“I was thinking of going outside to study today,” Adrien said, looking at you as if the question were almost an afterthought. “Would you like to join me? The grounds look quieter with it being a little colder, no?”

You blinked, a little thrown off by the suggestion. You’d never thought of studying outdoors, especially when it was getting colder, but you couldn’t help but feel the soft pull of the invitation. There was something about the way he asked—it wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t forceful. It was simply an offer, the kind of offer you didn’t often get. No one had ever asked you to just be there, to sit in the open air and study without some ulterior motive.

“Uhm… yeah, sure,” you said, almost before you thought about it.

Adrien gave you a soft smile in response, and you noticed the faintest ‘Merci’ slip from his lips, as though he was thankful you’d agreed.

You couldn’t help but notice how your heart beat a little faster as you walked with him to the grounds, the soft crunch of leaves beneath your shoes, the crispness of the air making your breath visible in the autumn light. Adrien didn’t speak much during the walk, but there was an ease to it. A peaceful silence that you didn’t mind. You sat together on the grass, your books spread out in front of you, and for a few moments, the world just… slowed down.

The next few weeks felt much the same—slow, but different in a way that you couldn’t quite explain. You and Adrien started meeting more often, sometimes in the common room, other times out by the grounds. Conversations that had once felt awkward or forced now came more naturally. You weren’t always talking, but there was a sense of comfort in simply being near him.

You also started to notice the little things. Sometimes, when you were walking to class, Adrien would fall in step beside you. And not just to the library or the grounds, but even to places you didn’t have class together. You found yourself looking up, seeing his warm smile as he walked with you—just there, beside you. It wasn’t a big gesture, but there was something so simple and steady about it. You didn’t have to ask. He was just there.

Occasionally, he would notice you struggling with your bag or books, and without a second thought, Adrien would take them from you.

“Here,” he’d say, ‘Mon dieu,’ he’d mutter under his breath as he adjusted the weight, realising it was more than he anticipated. “I might have underestimated that.”

His touch was gentle, but firm, and his eyes always met yours with that same warm, effortless kindness. It wasn’t anything big, but it made you feel strangely cared for in a way you hadn’t expected.

And then, one day, you realised you were no longer simply meeting him in the library or on the grounds. Adrien had started showing up outside of those places, walking you to and from your classes. Even when you didn’t have class together, you’d find him walking beside you. Sometimes, you’d talk, sometimes not. But you always felt… lighter, more grounded with him by your side.

By the fifth week, something had changed. You were running late, as usual. You rushed through the hallways, trying to make it to Potions class on time, your bag slung over your shoulder and your books clutched tightly in your arms. You were almost there when you heard Slughorn’s voice, carrying through the door as he gave his typical greeting.

“Settle down, everyone!” Professor Slughorn’s booming voice echoed, followed by his characteristic chuckle. “We’re about to begin!”

You pushed the door open quickly, slipping inside the classroom and feeling a rush of embarrassment. As you entered, your eyes immediately searched for a spot. The room was buzzing with conversation, but the first thing you noticed was Theodore’s desk—his books already neatly arranged on the surface. He was speaking to a group of students, laughing softly, not yet noticing you.

Your gaze flicked over to the other side of the room, where Adrien was sitting alone. His posture was relaxed, his usual calm expression on his face. He seemed unaware of the subtle tension you felt, but when his eyes met yours, there was a flicker of warmth, a quiet understanding between you both that had grown stronger over the past few weeks.

You hesitated for a moment. Theodore’s desk was set up just a few feet away, and yet, it felt so distant. You swallowed, glancing back at Adrien, who was looking at you with that familiar, soft smile.

You took a few steps toward his desk, feeling your heart race a little. Your thoughts collided in a whirlwind—Should I? Will it be okay? You were almost at his side when you stopped, unsure. Was it too bold, too sudden?

“Is it… okay if I sit here?” you asked quietly, your voice small but sincere, the question almost slipping out before you could stop it.

Adrien’s face lit up, his smile widening with ease. There was no hesitation in his response. “Of course,” he said, his accent slipping through just a bit as he added, “It’s… it’s more than okay.”

The words had a warmth that settled in your chest. You nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was something comforting about the way he made you feel, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

You slid into the seat beside him, your books still clutched in your lap, and glanced at the front of the room where Slughorn was still greeting the class. Your thoughts, however, lingered on the quiet space between you and Adrien. You couldn’t help but notice how easy it felt to sit next to him, how his presence made the world feel just a little bit softer.

Adrien shifted a little closer to his desk, leaning slightly in your direction as he began to unpack his things, but not too much—just enough to let you know he was there. It was subtle, but it made you feel less alone. You were here, in this moment, and for some reason, it felt like it mattered.

You settled into your seat, feeling the class start to hum around you as Slughorn continued his instructions. The words were a distant background noise now, and for a brief moment, you felt as though the world outside of this room had faded away. You were no longer rushing to catch up or trying to keep pace with your thoughts. You were just here, with Adrien, and it felt… easy.

The days had started to drag on, and with each one, the sense that something was off between you and Theodore Nott grew heavier. He couldn’t pinpoint it at first. There hadn’t been a single moment where you had argued or said anything that would cause him to doubt things between you. It was all the little things—the quiet shifts in your behaviour that he couldn’t ignore.

At first, he tried to brush it off, telling himself it was just the usual school pressure. Everyone was busy, and he knew you had other commitments, other friends. But the more he thought about it, the more something didn’t feel right. You hadn’t been by his side in the usual places—the library, the courtyard, the dining hall.

Theodore had always found comfort in those small, predictable routines you shared. The moments where you’d sneak into the library early, books scattered around the table as you both tried to get ahead on your assignments. The way you’d meet up in the courtyard after class, sharing a quiet moment before heading off to your next lesson. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it was your time, and it made everything feel familiar, safe, like the world around you could be chaotic, but at least you had that.

But now, it was as if those small moments had slipped away. You weren’t there waiting for him, and you weren’t with him when he expected you to be. At first, it was easy to ignore. But then, one morning, when he entered the dining hall, he caught sight of you. And his heart sank.

You were sitting with Adrien Delacroix.

It wasn’t that you weren’t allowed to sit with him—it was more that it was so different. You weren’t sitting with him like usual. You hadn’t even looked in his direction when he walked in. You and Adrien were talking, laughing, your heads bent close together as you shared some private joke.

Theodore’s eyes narrowed. Okay, he thought. It’s nothing. You were just talking to Adrien. He had no right to be bothered by it. It’s not like you weren’t friends with him. But still—something about it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel normal.

He tried to ignore it as he sat down at his usual spot, forcing himself to focus on his food, but the image of you and Adrien stayed in his mind. He pushed it down, telling himself it was nothing, but the feeling lingered, twisting in his chest.

Days passed, and it didn’t get better. It only seemed to get worse.

Theodore started to notice more subtle things. Like how you always seemed to be in the places that were once yours—the library, the courtyard, the dining hall. And each time, you weren’t with him. You were with Adrien.

It wasn’t just that. You weren’t sitting where you usually did anymore. In the library, you used to sit next to him, always the quiet corner by the window where the light slanted just right. But now, when he walked in, you were already there—across the room, seated next to Adrien, books laid out in front of you both, engrossed in whispers of conversation.

The first time it happened, Theodore had walked in expecting to find you at the usual spot, but you weren’t there. He scanned the room quickly, his heart sinking when he finally saw you. And Adrien.

The feeling in his chest shifted—unsettled, uncomfortable—as he walked past you both, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than it should. You hadn’t looked up, not even when he passed. It was almost like you hadn’t noticed him at all.

The second time it happened, it was during lunch. The same table. The same seats. But again, you weren’t sitting with him. You and Adrien were deep in conversation, the two of you leaning toward each other, laughing about something that seemed to have nothing to do with him.

Theodore sat down, trying to pretend it didn’t bother him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. And when he did, his eyes would flicker to Adrien, to the way you smiled at him. It’s fine, he told himself again. You and Adrien were friends. But it didn’t feel fine. It didn’t feel right. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being pushed out of the space you once shared.

He couldn’t quite put it into words, but it hurt.

The courtyard was the same. He had always expected to see you there, waiting for him, ready to talk about whatever was on your mind. But more often than not, you were already with Adrien.

It was small at first—those little moments when you weren’t there—but it was consistent. It was happening so often now, he couldn’t ignore it.

Theodore’s eyes followed you from across the courtyard. You were walking with Adrien again, your arms swinging lightly at your sides as you exchanged easy words with him. It wasn’t just that you were walking together—it was how naturally it seemed to come to you. There was no hesitation, no wariness. You were laughing at something Adrien had said, your body language open and comfortable.

Theodore felt a twinge in his chest. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t quite sort through the jumble of emotions.

You had been so quiet with him lately. But here, with Adrien, you were lighthearted, carefree. So different. It stung.

He’d caught glimpses of this before, bits and pieces—your laughter a little louder when Adrien was around, your smiles more frequent. But seeing it like this, with the two of you walking side by side, so effortlessly close, made it feel… final.

The weight of the past few weeks pressed on him then—the subtle shift, the moments when he’d felt you slipping away without even realising why. You used to seek him out, find excuses to talk to him, to share your thoughts, even your silence. But recently… it had been different. More distant. More reserved.

And then, as if to confirm his suspicions, he saw you—laughing, your eyes bright as you interacted with Adrien and a group of friends. You were introducing Adrien to them, your hand lightly resting on his arm as you made some joke. Astoria and Draco were laughing along, their approval written across their faces. They exchanged knowing looks, their smiles stretching in approval at the ease with which you were interacting with Adrien.

Theodore stopped, watching from the edge of the group, unnoticed. His breath caught in his chest. You were so at ease around him. So different. Your laughter wasn’t strained or forced. It was free. Unburdened. It didn’t take much to see how much more comfortable you were around Adrien than you were with him.

You were surrounded by your friends—laughing, joking, pulling Adrien into the conversation with ease. Their eyes flickered between you two, and he saw them exchange smiles, clearly pleased with the dynamic between you. As if they were glad to see you so happy.

Theodore’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Was this what you were becoming? The person you were without him?

The contrast was sharp. There you were, surrounded by people who seemed to appreciate you, who saw the side of you that he hadn’t seen in weeks. That he’d stopped seeing.

He couldn’t remember when things had started to shift. When had you pulled away? When had Adrien stepped into the spaces that were once his?

His heart ached with the realisation that you were no longer the person he shared these moments with. You weren’t the same. And worse still, it was clear you didn’t need him the way you had before.

But how had it happened? He thought, watching you, his mind spiralling.

By the time Potions class rolled around, the feeling had only grown worse. Theodore had arrived early, as he often did, hoping to settle in before the class began. He made his way to the table you usually sat at, gathering his books and preparing for the lesson, but he was soon called over by a classmate.

He gave the table one last glance before walking over, but something gnawed at him. He hadn’t seen you yet. Was she late again?

He thought nothing of it, you usually took a nap before Thursday’s potions class—often finding an empty nearby classroom to get yourself 20 minutes of sleep.

When Slughorn called for everyone to sit down, Theodore returned to the table, expecting you to already be there, as usual. He looked up, ready to greet you with a casual smile, only to pause to realise the seat was empty. He became confused.

Was she ill? Is she okay?

As he took his seat, he started twisting and turning, looking for all the other possible entrances—waiting for your hectic entrance. His heart dropped as his eyes landed on you—sitting with Adrien. Right there, on the other side of the classroom, with someone who wasn’t him. He blinked, almost thinking he had seen wrong, but no—the reality didn’t change. You were sitting beside him, your focus flicking between Slughorn and Adrien.

Theodore froze , his breath caught in his chest. At first, his mind registered the strange emptiness in his stomach, like something was missing. And then, his thoughts shifted.

She’s okay. Just not with me.

The words in his head felt like they were slowing down as he settled on his stool, trying to gather his thoughts. You and Adrien, already engrossed in a conversation, hadn’t even noticed him yet. His confusion only grew as he glanced at your table, trying not to show how the tightness in his chest was making it hard to breathe. Why weren’t you sitting with him?

Theodore’s grip on his quill tightened until his knuckles whitened. It had been weeks since you’d sought him out, and now… now, it was like he didn’t even exist in the spaces you once shared.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something had changed.

Theodore had never considered himself an impatient person. He knew how to wait. He had spent years perfecting the art of watching, observing, and keeping his emotions neatly in check, tucked away beneath layers of carefully constructed indifference.

But right now, sitting in this godforsaken Potions lesson, he felt like he was unraveling.

His grip on his quill was tight, the feathered tip bending slightly under the pressure of his fingers. He forced himself to focus on the instructions, on the slow, deliberate movements of slicing up the ginger roots in front of him. But his hands were tense, his shoulders stiff, his entire body wound so tightly that he thought if someone so much as breathed wrong in his direction, he might snap.

He had been watching you. He hated that he had been watching you.

But how could he not?

You were right there, just a few feet away, your head tilted toward Adrien, your expression soft in a way that Theodore hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. The two of you worked side by side, close enough that your elbows brushed every now and then, and each time it happened, you didn’t flinch away. Didn’t seem to mind at all.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t understand it—this shift, this change, the way you had slipped out of his grasp so seamlessly that he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late.

Maybe that was the worst part.

He could still remember the way things used to be—the way you used to seek him out, even when he wasn’t looking for you. The way you’d drop into the seat beside him without a second thought, a quiet presence that had never felt intrusive, never felt unwelcome. The way you had once laughed with him, not the way you did with Adrien now, but in a way that had been just for him.

But that version of you was gone, wasn’t it?

Theodore’s jaw clenched, and before he could stop himself, his fingers tightened around his quill—too tight.

The wood snapped between his fingers with a sharp crack.

A few students turned at the noise, but Theodore didn’t move. He barely even registered the ink that dripped onto his parchment, spreading into dark, messy blotches. His pulse was hammering against his ribs, a steady, unrelenting rhythm that did nothing to soothe the weight pressing against his chest.

He had to get a grip.

He forced his fingers to relax, letting the broken pieces of his quill drop onto the desk. He exhaled slowly, but it didn’t make a difference. The irritation still clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting.

He was tired of this. Tired of pretending that it didn’t matter, tired of convincing himself that it didn’t get to him every time he saw Adrien carrying your books, or walking beside you like he had always belonged there.

Because he hadn’t.

That was Theodore’s place.

Or at least—it had been.

He hadn’t been able to talk to you properly in weeks. Not because he didn’t want to. He did. He wanted to find you alone, wanted to pull you aside, wanted to demand answers that he wasn’t even sure he could put into words.

But every time he tried, Adrien was there.

It was infuriating how easily the other boy had slid into your life, how effortlessly he had taken up space that should have been Theodore’s.

He had tried to tell himself that he was being irrational. That there was no reason to feel like this, no reason to let something as simple as your choice of company bother him.

But it did.

It fucking did.

And what made it worse—what made it unbearable—was that you didn’t seem to notice.

You didn’t notice how he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.

Didn’t notice the way his hands curled into fists every time Adrien slung an arm around your shoulder.

Didn’t notice the way he had started walking slower in the hallways, lingering just long enough to see if you’d turn to him, if you’d say something, anything.

But you never did.

Theodore inhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep his expression impassive as he glanced toward you again.

You were laughing.

Not just a quiet chuckle, not the polite kind of laughter you gave when you were only half-paying attention. No, this was different. This was real. Genuine. The kind that made your eyes crinkle at the edges, that made you drop your head slightly like you couldn’t quite contain it.

And Adrien—fucking Adrien Delacroix—was looking at you like you had given him the best gift in the world.

Theodore’s fingers curled around the edge of his desk, nails pressing into the wood.

The sound of Slughorn’s voice cut through the air, signalling the end of the lesson, but Theodore barely heard it.

He was still staring at you, at the way you gathered your things with an easy, unbothered grace, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.

He should say something.

Now.

This was his chance.

Before he could overthink it, before you could leave the room, before Adrien could whisk you away yet again.

But just as he stepped forward—

Adrien turned to you, saying something quietly, something just for you. Whatever it was, it made you smile, and then, just like that, you were walking toward the door with him, the two of you slipping effortlessly into the current of students flooding the corridor.

And Theodore—

Theodore was left standing there, fists clenched at his sides, frustration coiling tightly in his chest like a noose.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

This wasn’t just irritation. This wasn’t just some fleeting annoyance that he could brush off with a sharp exhale and a roll of his shoulders.

No—this was something else entirely.

Something heavier.

Something dangerously close to regret.

Theodore barely felt his feet against the stone floor as he stormed through the castle. His mind was racing, his pulse pounding, the frustration still simmering beneath his skin like an open wound.

He couldn’t shake the image of you and Adrien in Potions. The way the two of you worked so easily together, the way your elbows brushed when you leaned too close. The way he murmured something low, just for you, and the way your lips had twitched with amusement before you gave him that look. That soft, private look that Theodore hadn’t seen in weeks.

It was wrong. It should have been him sitting next to you, not Adrien. It should have been his shoulder brushing against yours. He should have been the one pulling your cauldron closer when you got distracted, the one smirking as you muttered something under your breath about how you hated Slughorn’s tedious assignments. He should have been the one you turned to with that easy familiarity, the kind that once belonged to him and only him.

But he wasn’t.

Because you had stopped turning to him at all.

And now? Now you had Adrien-fucking- Delacroix acting like he had any right to step into that space, like he had the right to replace Theodore without a second thought. Like you had simply let it happen.

His hands clenched at his sides.

He had to know. Had to understand why this was happening, why you had pulled away, why it felt like you had disappeared from his life without so much as a second glance. Because if he didn’t get answers soon, he felt like he might lose his goddamn mind.

He took the corner sharply, heading straight for Draco’s dorm.

Someone moved into his path.

“Theodore?”

It was the girl from before—the one who had approached him at breakfast, the one who had tried to invite him to the Valentine’s party some weeks back. The same girl who had looked at you with thinly veiled amusement, like you were some afterthought to her plans.

He didn’t care about her.

She stepped toward him with a bright, expectant smile. “I was wondering if—”

He walked right past her.

Didn’t slow down. Didn’t acknowledge her.

Didn’t even hear what she had been about to say.

Her voice faltered, her footsteps pausing behind him, but he didn’t bother looking back. He was already moving, already set on what he needed to do, already too far gone to stop now.

Draco was going to tell him what the hell was going on.

His patience had finally run out.

By the time he reached the door, he didn’t hesitate. He slammed his fist against it, hard enough that the hinges rattled.

“Malfoy,” he bit out, voice sharp, demanding. “Open the fucking door.”

Nothing.

His fingers curled into a fist again, his knuckles burning.

“If you don’t open it right now, I swear I’ll—”

The handle gave way easily beneath his grip. The door wasn’t locked.

He shoved it open, frustration spilling over—

And immediately regretted it.

Draco Malfoy was on his bed, half-naked.

Astoria Greengrass was also half-naked.

The sheets had barely been pulled over her, her blouse abandoned somewhere on the floor, her curls disheveled in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Draco was sitting up against the headboard, shirtless, his hair a mess, looking every bit like someone who had just been interrupted at the worst possible moment.

Theodore froze.

Astoria froze.

Draco blinked once, then exhaled like this was nothing more than an inconvenience.

For a full, excruciating moment, nobody moved.

Then Astoria let out a noise of sheer disbelief, scrambling for the sheets to cover herself. “Are you actually fucking serious, Nott?”

Theodore felt like he’d been dropped into hell.

His eyes snapped to the ceiling. “For fuck’s sake—” He turned sharply, facing the door, but didn’t leave. His fingers dug into his temples as he let out a slow, aggravated breath. “Why the fuck was your door unlocked?”

Draco just rolled his eyes, completely unbothered. “Didn’t think a lunatic was about to barge in.”

Astoria scoffed from where she stood by the wardrobe, still tying the belt of Draco’s robe around her waist. “Merlin, if I had a Galleon for every time a Slytherin boy had a meltdown in this room, I’d be rich.”

Theodore barely heard her. His patience snapped.

“What’s going on with her?”

Draco raised a brow. “Who?”

Theodore saw red.

Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Draco’s collar and yanked him forward, the frustration that had been simmering beneath his skin finally spilling over.

Draco barely reacted, unimpressed as ever, but before he could pry Theodore off—

Astoria grabbed Theodore’s collar.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, physically pulling Theodore back with both hands, forcing him to let go of Draco’s shirt. “If you’re about to start some macho territorial bullshit, at least have the decency to do it outside where I’m not half-naked.”

Theodore barely stumbled, but his glare snapped to her. “Stay out of this, Greengrass.”

Astoria barked out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She crossed her arms, gaze narrowing. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem,” Theodore hissed, shaking his head, “is that you two clearly know something and are dragging this out instead of telling me what the fuck is going on.”

Draco straightened his collar like nothing had happened, exhaling in exasperation. “I already told you—”

Astoria cut him off, rolling her eyes. “He’s too dense, Malfoy. Just tell him what your dear cousin is doing before he starts breaking furniture.”

Draco shot her an unimpressed look but obliged, sighing as he finally leaned back against the headboard.

“She’s seventeen, Theodore.”

Theodore clenched his jaw. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Astoria interjected, raising a brow. “Because you’re acting like it’s some great mystery why a girl like her is suddenly acting her age.”

Theodore snapped his head toward her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Astoria exchanged a slow glance with Draco, like they were having a silent conversation. Then she sighed dramatically, sitting on the edge of the bed and propping her chin on her palm.

“It means,” she said slowly, “that it’s embarrassing how blind you are.”

Theodore’s nails dug into his palms. “Watch it, Greengrass.”

“Or what?” she shot back, unimpressed. “You’ll shove me into a wall next? Gods, you are so obvious.”

Draco smirked. “She’s right, you know.”

“Of course I am,” Astoria said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Here’s the thing, Nott. If you wanted her to stay in your orbit, maybe you shouldn’t have acted like she was nothing more than some convenient little thing to have around.”

Theodore’s jaw ticked. “That’s not—”

“She’s moving on,” Draco interrupted, his voice eerily calm. “Because that’s what people do when they realise they’ve been wasting their time.”

The words landed like a slap.

Theodore swallowed, something bitter curling in his stomach.

Astoria hummed. “I mean, you didn’t actually think she’d wait around for you forever, did you?” She tilted her head, watching him. “Poor thing probably woke up one day and realised she was chasing after a ghost.”

Theodore’s hands curled into fists. “That’s not how it was.”

Draco gave him a flat look. “Wasn’t it?”

Theodore hated the way his stomach twisted.

“She’s not stupid, Nott,” Draco continued, voice cool. “And she’s not waiting anymore. She’s looking for something better.” He smirked, slow and sharp. “Someone better.”

Astoria whistled. “Brutal.”

Theodore exhaled harshly through his nose, shaking his head. “That’s not—” He stopped himself. His voice had wavered. Fuck.

Astoria’s expression shifted, like she had caught something in his face that he hadn’t meant to show. Then, to his absolute fury, she smiled.

“Oh, this is rich,” she mused, eyes flickering over him. “You actually thought she was always going to come back to you, didn’t you?”

Theodore froze.

Draco chuckled under his breath.

“She did, though, didn’t she?” Astoria continued, tapping a finger against her knee. “Every time you got too cold, every time you pulled away, every time you treated her like a second thought—she still came back. And now that she’s not?” Her lips curled, saccharine and cruel. “You don’t know what to do with yourself.”

The words dug in deep, cutting through skin and bone like a blade.

Draco sighed, stretching out his legs. “You’re pissed off because you thought you had all the time in the world.” He gave Theodore a lazy once-over. “But newsflash—you don’t.”

Astoria nodded in agreement. “Adrien Delacroix is looking like a much better option than a boy who can’t make up his fucking mind.”

Theodore’s breathing was sharp, unsteady. His mind raced, but his lips remained pressed in a tight, stubborn line. He refused to acknowledge the sickening feeling twisting inside him, the one whispering that Draco and Astoria were right.

They weren’t. They couldn’t be.

You weren’t moving on.

You weren’t choosing Adrien over him.

You couldn’t be.

“I never treated her like a second thought,” Theodore muttered, voice tight, controlled—barely masking the storm raging inside him.

Astoria let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, really?” Her arms crossed over her chest, her expression sharpening into something lethal. “Then what the hell do you call the past few months, Nott?”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to argue—

But Astoria gasped dramatically, her hand flying to her chest in mock horror.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did I say months? That was a huge mistake.” She took a step closer, her smirk turning cold.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something vicious.

“Years.”

The words landed like a curse, slamming into Theodore’s chest, wrapping around his ribs like an iron vice.

His stomach dropped.

Astoria scoffed. “Yeah, years, Nott. Years of you keeping her close enough to touch but never letting her hold on. Years of her looking at you like you hung the fucking stars, waiting—praying—for you to see her the way she saw you.”

Theodore’s breath was coming in short, uneven pulls.

“But you didn’t, did you?” Astoria pressed, her voice razor-sharp. “Or maybe you did, and you liked knowing she’d never leave. That no matter how many times you ignored her, no matter how many times you pulled away, no matter how many times you made her feel like she was nothing—she’d still be there.”

Theodore’s stomach twisted violently.

Because she was right.

You had always been there.

And he had been stupid enough to take that for granted.

His throat felt tight. “That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what happened!” Astoria screamed, her voice cracking, raw with frustration. “She spent years orbiting around you like you were something fucking sacred. Like you were the fucking sun and she was just lucky to stand in your light.”

Theodore felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“But stars burn out, Nott,” Astoria spat, hands trembling at her sides. “And eventually, people stop waiting.”

His chest ached—something sharp, something unbearable, something he hadn’t even realized was there until this moment.

You had waited for him. For so long. And he—

He had wasted it.

Astoria wasn’t finished.

“And you know what the worst part is?” she demanded, stepping even closer, fury flashing in her eyes. “She never even wanted to say anything about it! She just took it.”

Theodore blinked. “What?”

Astoria let out a hollow laugh. “Oh yeah, she never complained. Never confronted you. Never demanded that you finally make up your fucking mind.” She sneered. “But Draco noticed, didn’t you?”

Draco exhaled through his nose, nodding, his expression unreadable.

“She never told me,” he admitted. “But I saw the red eyes. The tear-stained sleeves. The way she always looked away when she thought no one was watching.”

Theodore’s chest constricted, a sickening pressure building in his ribs.

No.

No, that wasn’t—

You had never—

Had you?

“She thought she was hiding it,” Astoria continued, voice filled with something dangerously close to disgust. “But I got her to talk. Eventually. And do you know what she said?”

Theodore couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“She said it didn’t matter.” Astoria’s voice softened for just a second, something bitter laced in her tone. “She said she was fine. That you weren’t doing anything wrong—that it was just how you were.” Her expression hardened again, her hands clenching into fists. “And do you know how fucking heartbreaking it is to watch someone shrink themselves into something manageable just so the person they love doesn’t feel guilty?”

Theodore’s hands were shaking.

“She acted like it was normal,” Astoria went on, her voice rising again. “Like it was fine that she spent years being treated like an afterthought—like she should just be grateful for the scraps of attention you gave her.”

Theodore felt like he was going to be sick.

She had hurt because of him.

She had cried because of him.

And he had never even noticed.

Astoria exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “And now you have the fucking audacity to stand here and act like she’s the one abandoning you?” Her voice broke, half a laugh, half something furious. “No, Theodore. You don’t get to do that. You let her go. And now she’s choosing to be happy.”

Theodore’s nails dug into his palms so hard he thought they might draw blood.

Because he saw it now.

Every moment he had let pass. Every glance you had given him that he had pretended not to notice. Every fucking time you had stood next to him, waiting for him to say something, to do something, and he had done nothing.

And now you weren’t waiting anymore.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “I care about her.”

Astoria’s laugh was vicious. “No, no, you fucking don’t.”

Theodore flinched.

Astoria stared at him for a long moment, her eyes still burning. Then, she exhaled and threw up her hands. “Oh, my god.”

Theodore swallowed hard.

Astoria turned to Draco. “Why are boys so fucking stupid?”

Draco sighed. “It’s genetic.”

Theodore’s control shattered. His pride was in ruins. He took a step forward, his voice breaking. “Please.”

Astoria blinked.

Draco raised a brow.

Theodore swallowed hard. His throat burned, his chest ached, but none of it mattered. Not compared to this.

“I can’t—I can’t lose her,” he said, voice shaking. “I can’t—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching as he forced himself to meet Astoria’s gaze. “Just tell me what the fuck to do.”

Astoria studied him.

Then she sighed, rubbing her temples. “God, you’re pathetic.”

Draco hummed. “Painful to watch, really.”

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fine.” She took a step forward, poking a sharp finger into Theodore’s chest. “You want to fix this?”

Theodore didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then stop thinking about it and do something, you absolute coward.”

Theodore exhaled shakily.

Astoria didn’t let up. “You don’t get to just show up and expect her to forgive you. You have to fight for her. You have to prove to her that you give a shit.”

Theodore swallowed hard.

Draco smirked. “Sounds like a grand gesture is in order.”

Astoria snorted. “Not even. Something consistent, Nott. Because trust me—Adrien is making it very, very easy for her to forget about you.”

Something flared hot in Theodore’s chest.

No.

You weren’t going to forget him.

He wasn’t going to let you.

And for the first time in his life—

He was going to fight for you.

Theodore woke with a start, the sharp knock at his door pulling him violently from the tangled haze of restless sleep. His head jerked up, and for a disoriented moment, the room swayed around him—stacks of parchment, ink-stained hands, the bitter taste of exhaustion thick on his tongue. His cheek had been pressed against his desk, the parchment beneath it crumpled, words smudged into an indecipherable mess. His body ached, stiff from the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in, and as he blinked blearily, the sight before him sank in with a slow, leaden weight.

His desk was an absolute disaster. Papers—so many of them—scattered across the wooden surface, some half-crumpled in frustration, others folded neatly, all of them failed attempts at something that should’ve been simple. Letters.

He had tried to write to you.

The realization clawed at him, dragging its nails down his ribs. The ink had bled through some pages, the sentences struck through with such force that they had torn, his frustration laid bare in every scratched-out word. Apologies he couldn’t get right. Apologies that, even now, felt meaningless. His own handwriting glared back at him in different variations of the same pitiful attempts:

I should’ve—

I never meant—

If you could just—

None of them were right. None of them would fix it.

A second knock echoed against the heavy door, firmer this time. He exhaled sharply, running a tired hand over his face before pushing himself up from the desk. The room felt suffocating, a mess of discarded pages, ink bottles knocked onto their sides, the air thick with the weight of too many unsaid things. He barely remembered falling asleep. He barely remembered anything past the spiral of last night—pacing the room, writing, tossing letter after letter into the pile, his mind a hurricane of words he could never bring himself to say aloud.

And now, someone was here.

Dragging himself toward the door, Theodore pulled it open without much thought. The sight that greeted him made his stomach drop.

Packages. Stacked haphazardly outside his room, almost comically abundant. A house-elf stood beside them, looking mildly unimpressed as he shuffled the last box into place.

“Delivery for Master Nott,” the elf announced, then, without another word, disappeared with a sharp crack, leaving Theodore standing there, staring at the pile of things he had—

Merlin.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a slow, creeping horror settling into his bones as he took in the sight properly. Wildflowers, their petals pristine and delicate, wrapped in deep green silk. A book—the one you had mentioned in passing months ago, the one you had run your fingers over in the shop window but never bought for yourself. You've probably found a way to read this already. Jewelry, carefully selected, gleaming in the light. And more—small things, tokens, pieces of something that, at the time, had seemed like they would mean something.

His gut twisted.

"Cazzo," he muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face, pressing his fingers hard against his closed eyes.

This—this was pathetic.

A short, breathless laugh left him, bitter and self-deprecating. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the strands as if it might ground him, as if it might undo whatever this was. What had he been thinking? That he could throw money at this, at you, and somehow that would fix it? That he could neatly wrap up his guilt in expensive gifts and you’d just—what? Forgive him? Pretend none of it happened?

Theodore swallowed hard, his gaze darkening as it lingered on the unopened packages. The weight of it all—the sleepless nights, the letters he could never finish, the sharp edges of regret cutting into him—it crashed down with a force that made his chest feel hollow.

Because he saw it now.

You wouldn’t take any of this. You would look at the flowers, the book, the jewelry, all of it—and you would see right through him. You would see the desperation, the guilt, the pathetic attempt to mend something that was already broken.

He saw you standing there, just beyond the mess, your figure sharp against the blur of his exhaustion. The tilt of your head, the steady weight of your gaze—it was you. It had to be. You were right there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, watching him in that way that always made his chest feel tight.

For a split second, relief surged through him, raw and unfiltered. You had come. You had seen the mess, the letters, the wildflowers, the pathetic attempt at fixing things, and you had come anyway.

But you weren’t saying anything. You were just standing there, your eyes scanning the disaster around him, and when they met his, they weren’t filled with anger. They were filled with something worse.

Disappointment.

His stomach twisted, his throat tightening painfully. He opened his mouth, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I know—" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I know it's not enough."

You didn’t move. Didn’t react. The silence pressed against him, heavier than anything he had ever felt.

He swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. "I just—" He let out a short, unsteady breath, raking a hand through his hair. "What the fuck was I thinking?"

Still, nothing. Your gaze didn’t waver, and that was what made it unbearable. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. It was just… resigned.

"Cazzo," he muttered under his breath, dragging his hands down his face. "I should've—"

You can’t buy my forgiveness, Theodore.

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they might as well have been a curse, sinking deep into his chest, curling around his ribs like something inescapable.

He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes, willing the vision to disappear.

But when he opened them again—you were gone.

He exhaled sharply through his nose as if that could push the thought away. As if he didn’t already know, deep down, that you had every right to say it.

Because this wasn’t about the gifts. It was about everything before them. The years of taking you for granted. The dismissals, the avoidance, the ways he had let you slip through his fingers like something he had assumed would always be there.

And now, when he was finally ready to reach for you—you weren’t waiting anymore.

The realization hit harder than he expected, slamming into him like a punch to the ribs. His throat tightened, and for a long, unbearable moment, all he could do was stand there, staring at the mess he had made.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he turned away. The packages remained where they were, untouched, as Theodore shut the door behind him, pressing his back against the wood.

He needed to do better.

But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

How was he supposed to reach you now? How was he supposed to even begin to fix this? He couldn’t just show up—not after everything, not after the silence he had let stretch between you like an uncrossable chasm. And yet, the thought of doing nothing, of letting this fester, made his stomach churn violently.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. He had spent so long keeping you at a distance, and now that you were truly out of reach, all he wanted to do was find you.

But how?

Theodore wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there.

He had come out to the courtyard for a cigarette—just one, just long enough to clear his head. Long enough to pretend that he wasn’t unraveling from the inside out. But the hours had slipped by like water through his fingers, and now the sun was setting, casting the sky in deep purples and burnt oranges. His cigarette pack was almost empty. His fingers were stained with nicotine, raw from how many times he had burned each cigarette down to the filter.

The taste of smoke lingered thickly at the back of his throat, acrid and familiar, but it wasn’t doing anything to settle him. His nerves felt frayed, his thoughts tangled in a loop he couldn’t escape. The mess of the morning still clung to him—Astoria’s words, Draco’s sharp-edged amusement, the unbearable weight of knowing he had let you slip right through his fingers.

He didn’t want to talk to them again. Pushing harder would mean Astoria telling him to fuck off or worse—another lecture from her sharp tongue. And Draco? Draco was already entertained enough by this whole thing. No. If Theodore was going to understand what had changed, there was only one person who could give him that answer.

Adrien Delacroix.

The thought of Adrien gnawed at him. He’d noticed him the second he stepped into the courtyard, but Adrien had been here first. That should have meant something. Should’ve given him the right to ignore him, to pretend that he wasn’t watching from the corner of his eye as Adrien sat with his group of friends.

"C'est insensé," one of them muttered, shaking his head. "Tu as vu? Since—je ne sais pas, maybe une hour?"

Adrien exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Je sais."

The boy scoffed. "Mais pourquoi? What is his problem? He just—stares, like—like he wants to kill you."

Another boy chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. "You steal his girlfriend or something?" His accent thick but teasing. "He looks at you like... like you took something from him."

Adrien smirked, shaking his head. "Non. But maybe he thinks so."

Theodore’s chest tightened, his hands shaking, his cigarette burning down too quickly in his hand. He could feel the jealousy curling in his gut like a fist. The idea that Adrien could have anything to do with you—it shouldn’t matter. He knew it shouldn’t matter. But fuck, it did.

His teeth ground together, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. The laughter of Adrien’s friends, casual and light, sent a flare of irritation through him. He hated how Adrien made everything feel easy—like he was untouchable. It burned even worse when Theodore had to rely on him to understand what had changed.

And still—he couldn’t just let it go.

The thought of asking Adrien for help was almost unbearable. His pride bristled at the idea of begging, of needing someone like him for something. Adrien had a way of making everything feel like a game, like Theodore was just another piece on his chessboard.

But fuck, the thought of not asking him was worse. The knot in his chest tightened. If Adrien was the answer, then he’d have to go to him. And that was the last thing he wanted.

But what else was there? How else would he get to you?

Adrien laughed again. The sound caught him off guard—light, unbothered. It threaded through the crisp evening air like it belonged there. Theodore didn’t want to hear it. But somehow, it clung to him, stoking the fire in his chest.

"Merde," one of Adrien’s friends muttered, and Theodore’s stomach twisted. "Regarde encore— he’s still looking."

Adrien sighed, rubbing his temple. "Je sais."

Theodore’s shoulders tensed. The idea that Adrien could sense him watching—feel his gaze—made his blood boil. He dropped his gaze, flicking the last of the cigarette, trying to feign disinterest, but it was too late. The damage was done.

"Mais pourquoi?" the other boy scoffed, laughing in confusion. "What is his problem? Il te déteste ou quoi? He stares—like—comme un chien abandonné."

Theodore’s heart raced, the words biting deeper than they should’ve. He wasn’t staring—he wasn’t! Just watching. Just—he wasn’t sure what it was.

But Adrien—he huffed out a short, tired laugh, stretching his arms behind him. "Non. Mais—" He tilted his head slightly, like he was thinking, like he was weighing something. "Maybe he doesn’t know what he wants."

Another boy snorted. "C'est triste. Feels like he wants to fight you ou beg for something."

Laughter, casual, and it dug at Theodore, twisting inside him. He could almost hear the amusement in Adrien’s voice—like he knew exactly what he was doing to him. It was infuriating.

But worse, much worse, was the sinking feeling that had settled in his chest. Adrien was playing some game—he always did—but now, it felt different. Every second he spent here, just watching, was another second he was losing control. Losing ground.

Theodore ground his teeth together, the ember of his cigarette flaring briefly with the tightness in his grip. He wasn’t even sure why he was still here—still stuck in this courtyard, pretending he didn’t care. He didn’t need to care.

But you do, a voice in his head whispered, and Theodore slammed it down immediately. No. He didn’t need to do this. He didn’t need Adrien. Didn’t need anything from him. The thought was a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

His gaze had drifted again. Adrien was still there, still with his friends, still being him, laughing, existing like the world had nothing on him. Theodore’s eyes narrowed, but his thoughts felt like they were slipping away, growing foggy, distant. It wasn’t that he wanted to look—he didn’t, not anymore—but his mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything. Every word, every laugh, every glance.

Before he knew it, he was no longer paying attention to anything around him—just lost in the buzz of his own thoughts. Adrien’s presence was like a shadow he couldn’t shake, hovering at the edge of his mind, no matter how much he wanted to push it away.

That was when he felt it.

A shift in the air. A pressure building. Like the ground was vibrating, or the space around him had suddenly grown too small.

Theodore’s heart skipped a beat, a flutter of panic rising in his chest. He hadn’t heard any footsteps—hadn’t seen Adrien moving, hadn’t noticed him leave his friends.

But then—

Adrien’s figure appeared in his peripheral vision, and Theodore’s breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t know how to process it, how to even think about it. Adrien was walking straight toward him, cutting through the space between them like he had every right to.

What the fuck is he doing?

Theodore’s mind raced, panic flooding through him in an instant. He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t prepared for this. His fingers tightened around the cigarette, and his pulse quickened as he tried to steady his breath. His thoughts crashed against each other, the sharp throb of confusion making him dizzy.

He didn’t know why it hit him like this. Adrien never approached him like this—never. Not without purpose. Not without making some fucking joke or saying something sarcastic. And now—

Is he coming to confront me? To mock me?

Theodore’s chest tightened at the thought. No. No, that can’t be it. He wouldn’t... would he?

His heart pounded in his ears as he fought the urge to stand up, to run, to hide, to do anything but stay frozen in place. Adrien was still coming closer. Still making his way to him with that effortless stride, like he had all the time in the world.

What the hell does he want?

Theodore’s mind screamed at him to stay calm, but the tension in his body was unbearable. He wasn’t hidden anymore. He couldn’t hide anymore.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t ready for any of it. Not for this moment. Not for whatever Adrien was going to throw at him next. The weight of everything he had been avoiding crashed down on him, and in that moment, all he could think was one thing: I’m not ready.

The frenchman stopped just short of Theodore, standing for a moment as if assessing the space between them. Theodore’s stomach twisted, every instinct telling him to look away, to say something, to do anything but sit there in silence.

Adrien didn’t seem to mind the quiet. With a casual flick of his wrist, he pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and glanced at Theodore. “You got a light?”

Theodore hesitated, fingers hovering over his own lighter in his pocket - scratching at the engraving. The boy was giving him the most horrid once over - as if judging the sham-confidence that he was trying so hard to convince himself was real. He considered not handing over the lighter—to not say anything at all. But Adrien wasn’t waiting for permission, just standing there, waiting for Theodore to respond.

Finally, Theodore pulled the lighter from his pocket and handed it over. Adrien took it without a word, lighting the cigarette he was balancing between his teeth. As the flame flickered out, he sank down on the bench next to him, taking a deep inhale of the cigarette. He glanced down at the lighter and raised an eyebrow.

“Teo?” Adrien said, his tone teasing, yet genuinely curious. He turned it over in his fingers, inspecting the engraving. “Someone special gave this to you?”

Theodore’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer, couldn’t. The air felt thick, heavy, with Adrien just sitting there— just a a meter away, eyes flicking between him and the lighter, like he knew exactly how to get under Theodore’s skin. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

“So,” Adrien said after a moment, the word hanging between them like a challenge. “What is it that you think I’ve done?”

Theodore’s heart skipped a beat. His instincts screamed at him to push back, to protect whatever was left of his pride, but he stayed silent. Adrien’s eyes never left him, his smirk widening.

“You’ve been staring at me like you’re planning my funeral. Is it that bad?” Adrien said casually, taking another drag from his cigarette.

Theodore’s grip tightened around his near-dead cigarette, the ember flaring with his barely restrained irritation. He should say something, anything, but the words were caught in his throat.

Adrien, sensing the tension, continued to poke at him. “Well whatever, it is, it must be bad enough that you've spent the last 3 heures burning holes into my head.”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. He wanted to fight back, to get under Adrien’s skin the way he was doing to him, but the silence between them felt like a trap. Adrien was waiting for something. A reaction. A slip-up. He was playing this game, and Theodore was losing.

The weight of it pressed against his ribs, coiling tight around his lungs, making every breath feel too shallow. The courtyard stretched vast and open around them, but the air between them was thick—choking, stagnant. Something waiting to snap.

A shift of movement. The subtle inhale of someone who had already made up their mind.

Adrien exhaled first. A slow breath through his nose, smoke curling from his lips before he flicked what remained of his cigarette to the ground. The ember sizzled faintly against damp stone, dimming instantly, disappearing.

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he lingered, rolling his shoulders back before tilting his head just slightly—casual, practiced ease masking something sharper beneath the surface.

"So." His voice was light, too light. A forced contrast against the weight pressing down on them. "What’s with the lurking?"

The silence that followed dragged.

It should have been broken by something natural—a scoff, a sigh, any acknowledgment that the words had even been spoken. But nothing came.

No response. No movement.

Just tension, settling deeper, embedding itself into every unspoken second.

Adrien’s fingers twitched. "You know," he continued, tone shifting toward something drier, "if you’re going to stand there and stare at me all night, you could at least pretend to have a reason."

Still, nothing.

Not a single flicker of acknowledgment, save for the way Theodore’s fingers tightened—so slightly it would have been easy to miss—at his sides.

The tell was small. But it was there.

Adrien hummed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Long day?"

A pause.

Theodore’s jaw clenched, a flicker of tension in his shoulders so brief it could have been imagined.

Not an answer. But not nothing, either.

The corner of Adrien’s mouth curled—not in amusement, not really. It was too exasperated for that, too dry. "Or are you just like this now?"

That got a reaction. A sharp inhale, controlled but still noticeable.

Like the comment had landed.

Like it had hit somewhere.

The silence that followed was different. Sharper.

Adrien exhaled, running a slow hand through his hair, the weight of his own patience wearing thin. "Right." He nodded to himself, voice dipping into something lower, something edged with something just slightly irritated. "You’re really gonna make me work for this, huh?"

Another pause. Another beat of nothingness stretching too long, stretching so far it started to feel personal.

Adrien didn’t miss the way Theodore’s gaze flickered—not toward him, never toward him—but past him, around him, away from him.

Avoiding.

Not engaging.

Something about that settled wrong in Adrien’s chest.

Because why was this his problem?

Why was he standing here, trying, when the weight of what had gone wrong between Theodore and her had nothing to do with him?

He hadn’t been the one to pull away. He hadn’t been the one to let her think, even for a second, that she wasn’t important enough to fight for.

And yet, somehow, he was the one standing in the cold, dragging words out of someone who clearly had no intention of speaking first.

His fingers twitched at his sides before curling into fists.

Yeah. No.

"Right. You know what?" A step back. A shake of the head. "I’m not doing this."

He turned, already done, already moving.

Then—

"Wait!"

The word came rough. Unsteady.

Like something had slipped before it could be swallowed down.

Adrien stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t turn back.

Didn’t move.

Just let the silence stretch impossibly thin, let the weight of the word sit between them, heavy and unmistakable.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned.

The silence stretched between them, thick with something neither of them wanted to name. Theodore shifted, his jaw clenching as he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to meet Adrien’s gaze. The Frenchman, still standing with his weight lazily shifted to one side, raised a brow, unimpressed.

Adrien let out a breath of laughter, though there was no real humor in it. "What? You gonna keep staring at me like I stole your inheritance, or do you actually have something to say?"

Theodore's fingers twitched at his sides. He wasn’t in the mood for games, but he couldn’t blame Adrien for being like this. Not really. He had spent weeks resenting him, watching him from afar, convincing himself that Adrien was the reason everything had changed. But now, standing here, with no one else to turn to, he found himself swallowing the words that burned in his throat before finally forcing them out.

"I want her to know that I've made the effort—that I've changed. But how do I make her see that?"

Adrien blinked. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, a slow, exaggerated sigh left his lips, and he ran a hand down his face. "Oh, mon dieu," he muttered, shaking his head. "You cannot be serious. Is this really happening?"

Theodore’s hands clenched into fists. "Just answer the question."

Adrien gave him a long look, and for a second, Theodore thought he was going to walk away. But then, the amusement in Adrien’s eyes dimmed, something steadier settling in its place. He tilted his head slightly, assessing him.

"Why are you asking me?" Adrien asked, his voice quieter now, less sharp. "You must have learnt something in the how many years she's been pining after you."

Theodore swallowed hard. "I—"

Adrien cut in. "You’re just hoping I’ll say something that makes it easier for you, aren't you?"

"And what, let me guess," Adrien exhaled, crossing his arms. "You’ve finally realized you’ve been acting like a complete idiot, and now you’re desperate to fix things. But you don’t know how, and instead of figuring it out yourself, you’re here, asking me for some magic solution to make it all better." He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Incroyable."

Theodore stiffened. He deserved that. He knew he did. But the weight in his chest didn’t ease.

Adrien watched him for another long moment, then sighed, his frustration fading just slightly. "You want an answer? Fine. Here’s the truth. You don’t just tell someone you care; you show them. It’s not about words— it’s not about grand apologies or empty promises. It’s about actions."

Theodore stayed silent, absorbing his words.

Adrien’s gaze sharpened. "And you’re not just competing with me. You’re competing with yourself. The version of you she remembers - apparantly the only one she knows. The version of you that made her feel like she wasn’t enough. She needs to see that you’ve changed, not because you’re scared of losing her, but because you want to be better—for her, yes, but also for yourself."

Theodore’s throat felt tight. He had spent so long convincing himself that the problem was Adrien, that it was about who she was spending time with now, that he had ignored the real issue: himself.

Adrien sighed, rolling his shoulders back. "Look, I don’t like you," he said bluntly. "Not after what you put her through. And honestly? I wasn’t sure what kind of person you were. I’ve heard things—seen the way you act. I figured you were just another pureblood Slytherin with nothing real to say. But…" He hesitated, then gave a small shrug. ""She cares about you. For some stupid reason, she does. And because of that, I have to at least try to believe you can be better. But if you don’t—if you mess this up again—I’ll make sure there’s no coming back from it. She means a lot to me, Nott. She’s important. And if you sorting your shit out means she’ll be happy, then fine, I’ll entertain this. But if you hurt her again? I’ll personally make sure you never get the chance to fix it.""

Theodore exhaled, the weight of it settling deep in his chest. "And how do I do that?"

Adrien smirked, though there was a sharp edge to it. "Alright, Nott, let’s break this down. What exactly have you done so far to show her you’ve changed?" He leaned his head back over the bench, waiting. "Go on. Impress me."

Theodore hesitated. "I… talked to Astoria. And Draco. And I—" He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I bought her stuff— apology stuff to show her I thought of her too..."

Adrien let out a slow, dry laugh. "Oh, merveilleux. Let me guess—flowers? Jewelry? Maybe a book she already read three times over?" He clutched his chest dramatically. "Mon dieu, Nott, how could she possibly resist such a display of heartfelt remorse?"

Theodore sat there in silence.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "And you—really—thought that would fix everything? Just throw a bunch of gifts at her and hope she magically forgets how much you hurt her?" He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Brilliant plan, Nott. Truly inspired. Nothing says 'I understand my mistakes' quite like expensive shit."

Adrien exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "Tell me, did you even put any thought into it? Or did you just grab whatever looked fancy and hope it would do the talking for you? Because if you think that stacking a pile of presents in front of her like some pathetic shrine to your guilt is going to fix anything—mon dieu, you’re even more clueless than I thought."

Theodore clenched his jaw. "That’s not—"

Theodore looked away, his grip tightening at his sides. The worst part was that Adrien wasn’t wrong.

Adrien sighed, rubbing his temple. "You don’t buy forgiveness, Theodore. You don’t hand her a pile of gifts and expect her to believe you suddenly care. If anything, that just proves you don’t get it. If you want her to see you’ve changed, then you actually have to change." Not just panic and start running to everyone around her hoping they’ll do the work for you. You need to show her—through your actions, not just whatever self-pitying monologue you’ve got running in your head."

Theodore swallowed hard. "And how do I do that?"

Adrien’s smirk returned, but this time, it was less mocking. "Now that, mon ami, is the real question."

The sheets were too warm. Or maybe not warm enough. Every time you tried to settle, your thoughts seemed to slip between the covers with you, circling your mind like an endless, insomniac spiral. It had been like this for days. You rolled over for the fifth time, trying to bury your head in your pillow and ignore the feeling clawing at your chest—frustration, loneliness, the unrelenting ache of missing something you weren’t sure you could have anymore.

You turned again, staring at the shadows that crept along the stone walls of the dormitory, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the tall windows. Sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t come in a while.

Your fingers, cold despite the warmth of your blankets, brushed over the edge of your nightgown. Barefoot, you swung your legs off the side of the bed, toes brushing the cool stone floor. The chill hit you like a breath of wind. You stood, the muscles in your legs stiff from lying still for too long, and tugged your cardigan tighter around your shoulders.

A quick glance around the room showed no one else awake. Of course, no one else would be—most of the Gryffindors could sleep through anything. But you weren’t like them. Not tonight.

You moved as quietly as possible, pulling your cardigan tighter, but your bare feet met the cold floor with every step, making you wince. You could feel the stone floor beneath your feet, rough and unforgiving, as if each step was a reminder of how disconnected you felt, how off-balance everything seemed lately. The distance between you and the others felt wider with each step you took. Even the castle seemed cold and distant.

Your thoughts circled back to him—Theodore. Even now, after all that had happened, he was still a presence in the back of your mind, unwanted and persistent, like the cold drafts you could never seem to escape. You weren’t ready for anything between you two, not yet, not with all the unsaid things and the space that had grown between you.

Your footsteps echoed softly through the empty halls as you navigated the winding corridors of the castle, your breath a faint mist in the cold air. The walk, though short, seemed to take forever. You had been making this journey for days now, finding solace in the familiar warmth of the kitchens, a place where time seemed to slow down and the usual chaos of Hogwarts didn’t quite reach you. It was just you, and the promise of something warm—something comforting that didn’t require explanation.

The flickering torchlight on the walls illuminated your path, but the shadows of the corridors seemed to stretch endlessly in front of you, like the miles of unspoken words and unfinished conversations between you and Theodore. The thought of him made your stomach churn in the quiet stillness of the castle, but still, you walked. You had to.

When you reached the kitchens, the door creaked as you nudged it open, the sound sharper in the silence of the night. The faint smell of baked goods lingered in the air, mixed with the faint scent of warm milk, a comfort that almost made you forget why you’d come. You stepped in, the door falling gently closed behind you, and your eyes immediately sought the familiar space—the cupboards lined with ingredients, the shelves stacked with cookbooks, the little stove in the corner that you’d grown to love over the years.

Then you froze.

There, standing over the counter, was Theodore.

At first, you thought you’d imagined him, the shadows playing tricks on your eyes, but no, there he was. Theodore, his hair slightly messy from sleep, his eyes bloodshot, and an array of failed attempts strewn across the counter in front of him. Empty mugs sat in a sad pile, some clearly broken, others just abandoned, alongside half-opened packets of hot chocolate powder and bits of chocolate bars that had already started to melt.

Your heart skipped a beat, a strange, sudden mixture of anger and confusion tightening in your chest. Of all places, here. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or stay. Maybe both. Your feet felt rooted to the spot, cold stone against bare skin, the weight of the situation too much to bear.

You blinked, suddenly self-conscious of your bare feet, the cold air seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Your mind was racing—what was he doing here? Why tonight, of all nights? And why this?

Theodore froze at the sound of your steps, his hands hovering over the mess. He stepped back, raising his hands in a motion you knew all too well. “I—I wasn’t trying to invade your personal space or anything,” he muttered quickly, glancing over at you with wide eyes. “I just... well, I know how much you like hot chocolate, and I thought I could... I mean, if you want, I can leave, but I wasn’t trying to—” He trailed off, looking flustered.

The words hit you like a cold wave, leaving a strange, hollow ache in their wake. His presence here, in this moment, felt like an intrusion. You hadn’t asked for this. You hadn’t asked for him to come and try to fix things when there were still so many pieces of the puzzle missing, so many things left unsaid.

Your heart thudded in your chest, your wariness a familiar weight in your stomach. You didn’t respond immediately, unsure how to handle his sudden presence—especially given the quiet, unresolved tension between you. You didn’t want to talk about it. Not now, not here. You weren’t sure if you were ready for any of it.

Theodore took another step back, as if to give you space, but his eyes flickered to the counter. “I—I didn’t mean to make a mess. It’s just, well... I’ve never made hot chocolate quite like this before, apparently.” His voice was almost sheepish, as if embarrassed by the sight of all the failed attempts. The mess on the counter felt like a metaphor for everything that had happened between you two—disastrous, messy, and something neither of you knew how to fix.

Your eyes fell on the spilled milk, the chocolate that was now a mess on the counter, the empty mugs—each a reminder of how much he was trying. For a moment, you were torn between the nagging frustration that you still felt for him and the sudden realization that this, this, was a side of him you hadn’t expected to see. And despite yourself, you felt a small crack in the wall you’d built around yourself.

Theodore sighed, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. “I’m not trying to make things weird. Really. I just... I wanted to make it right.” He glanced at you again, his voice softer now. “You’ve been having a lot of... sleepless nights, haven’t you? I thought you might like this.”

For a second, there was a pause. The words hung between you like a fragile thread, neither of you willing to break the silence. The warmth in his voice didn’t match the cold in your chest, but it did something to you—softened the edges just enough for you to acknowledge how much you missed this. Missed him. But you couldn’t let that show. Not yet.

And in that silence, it almost felt like you were both standing in a space that didn’t quite belong to either of you, a place full of warmth, but also memories that were still too fresh.

You stared at Theodore, uncertainty gnawing at you. The kitchen was quiet again, save for the small sounds of his failed attempts, the clink of mugs and the soft, almost imperceptible hiss of milk being heated for another round. The awkwardness of the moment threatened to swallow you, and yet, there was something in his eyes—something familiar—that made you hesitate before retreating.

Finally, you asked, your voice low but sharp. "What are you doing here?"

Theodore blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He looked up, almost embarrassed, and fumbled with the mess on the counter. "Making hot chocolate," he said with a little shrug, like the answer should be obvious.

You shook your head, stepping closer, arms crossed over your chest. You weren’t going to let this go. "Theodore, why are you here?"

For a moment, Theodore just stood there, staring at the ingredients strewn across the counter. He seemed to lose himself in the mess, eyes flicking to the various packets of powder, the chocolate bars, the spilled milk. And then, as though pulled from some deep place within him, his voice was quieter when he spoke again, but no less meaningful. "You used to call me Teo," he said, almost to himself, as if the words were a soft confession.

You felt your chest tighten at the sound of the nickname, the one that had always seemed to carry weight with it. Teo. It was the name you’d whispered to him in a thousand different contexts: while studying, while making coffee, while talking about anything and everything. It had always been a small, simple thing, but hearing it now, in the thick of all this silence, made your heart feel heavy.

"Used to," you said quietly, your voice betraying the fragility you were trying to hide. "But that was a long time ago. It doesn’t—" You stopped yourself, unsure of what you wanted to say. It didn’t matter, but it did. You didn’t know how to untangle your feelings.

Theodore was standing still now, and his gaze was steady, meeting yours. The apology hadn’t come yet, but the way he looked at you made it clear he knew he owed one.

“I thought... I thought I could fix it,” he continued, the words spilling out now like he couldn’t hold them in any longer. "You remember fifth year? When you’d make me hot chocolate while we were studying for hours? You always insisted on putting all that extra sugar in it—whipped cream, marshmallows, the whole thing. I hated how sweet it was, but it was just... the way you made it, you know?" He chuckled softly, but the sound was laced with a touch of bitterness. "And I never had the heart to tell you. I just—well, I’d drink it anyway because you were the one making it. It just... felt like something we did together. Even if it was stupid and small, it was... something."

His voice faltered for a moment, and you could see him struggling to collect his thoughts, the words piling up in his mind. He shook his head as if trying to make sense of the mess, but nothing came out right.

"I guess," he continued, his tone quieter now, more serious, "I thought if I could do something like that again—if I could make you hot chocolate—maybe it would mean something. Maybe it would be enough for you to understand that I... I didn’t mean to mess things up. I know I did. I know I did. But I thought, at least... this... this would be a way to show you that I’m sorry. I don’t know. I just... I couldn’t think of anything else."

The words hung in the air, thick with all the things he hadn’t said, all the things you both had buried under silence and time. His hands hovered over the spilled milk, and for a moment, he seemed lost, his expression tense. You could tell he was trying, but there was no easy way out of this. No easy apology.

“I never thought I’d end up like this,” he continued, his voice thickening. "I know this doesn’t make up for what happened. It doesn’t fix anything. But... I thought, if I could at least do this—if I could make the hot chocolate you always made for me—that maybe it would be enough. At least... at least it would show you that I care."

There was so much emotion in his words—so much regret, so much rawness—that it made you want to look away, but you couldn’t. Your chest tightened, and the lump in your throat grew, because you didn’t know what to feel anymore. You wanted to tell him it wasn’t enough. That it couldn’t be fixed with something so small. But you were frozen, unsure of how to say it without everything else falling apart.

Finally, you spoke, your voice shaky, betraying the turmoil inside. "It’s not enough," you whispered. "Hot chocolate... doesn’t fix everything, Theodore."

He nodded, his eyes flicking down to the counter, avoiding your gaze. "I know," he said quietly. "I know. I just... I wanted to try."

The silence stretched between you both, thick and heavy, but not entirely unpleasant. The words weren’t enough, not yet, but maybe there was a chance now. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something different.

The silence between you both felt different now. It wasn’t the oppressive silence of anger, but something quieter, more fragile. The air between you was thick, as though you could almost reach out and touch the distance that had always been there, but never this much. You could hear the soft hiss of milk heating on the stove, the clink of Theodore’s spoon stirring his latest attempt at hot chocolate—sounds that should have felt comforting, familiar, but instead, they only made the room feel colder.

You wanted to break the silence. You needed to. But the words felt stuck somewhere deep inside you, tangled in all the hurt and frustration you’d been carrying for so long. You had no idea how to untangle it all. It was easier to stay silent. Easier to keep your distance.

Your eyes stayed focused on the floor, avoiding his. Because if you looked at him, even for a second, you weren’t sure what you’d do. You could feel the anger still simmering beneath your skin, but there was something else, too. Something you couldn’t name. The ache in your chest grew heavier, but you couldn’t let yourself give in. Not yet.

For a moment, you just stood there, your arms still crossed, trying to gather the strength to speak. Finally, you let out a shaky breath. "I’m not saying it’s fine. It’s... it’s not. What you did... it really hurt, Theodore." The words felt like they came from someone else, but you knew they needed to be said. "I don’t forget things like that. It still hurts."

You could hear Theodore’s breath hitch in the quiet, and you knew he could feel every word in the depths of his gut. You didn’t want to hurt him, but the truth was, you were still hurting, too.

He stayed still, his eyes fixed on you, like he was afraid that if he moved or spoke, he’d make things worse. His mouth opened, then closed, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to say next. You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You couldn’t bear to hear another apology that felt empty.

You didn’t want to admit it, but the weight of everything you'd been holding back felt too much to ignore anymore. “I don’t forget things like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with the truth of it. “I don’t forget how easily you pulled away, how much it hurt when you didn’t seem to care about me at all. I didn’t expect it to be so easy for you to just move on.” Your throat tightened with the bitterness you couldn’t quite swallow, and you hated how raw you sounded, but it was too late to take it back. “I didn’t think you would just... leave me like that."

 "But, Theodore..."

The moment hung there, suspended in time, and you felt the rawness of everything you’d been holding inside finally bubble to the surface. You didn’t know if you could fully forgive him yet, but you weren’t sure you wanted to close the door on this... whatever it was.

You exhaled slowly, as if each breath took a little more of your resolve with it. "I don’t know what you expect me to say,” you murmured, your voice softer now, but still carrying the weight of everything you couldn’t say before. “It’s not just about the words you’ve said or the things you’ve done... it’s more than that. You can’t just make a grand gesture and think it’ll fix everything." You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure of how to make the rest of it come out right. "I... I need to see that this is something you actually care about. Not just in one moment, but over time. You’ve got to show me you can do more than apologize."

Your throat tightened as you struggled to keep yourself steady. "I don’t know if I’m ready to just... forget everything. Maybe I’ll get there, but not right now. I need to see if you really mean it... and I need more than just words."

You closed your eyes for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin. It was terrifying. Letting yourself feel all this again. Letting him see the parts of you that you’d buried for so long. But you could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t just apologizing to make it easier. He was really trying.

"I’m willing to let you try," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "But if you leave me down again..."

Theodore was still. His entire body was taut, like he was waiting for something—your rejection, maybe. But when he spoke, his voice was steady, even if his words were tinged with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. "I won’t," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "I won’t let you down again. I promise. I... I’ll show you, every day—I’m serious about this."

Your breath caught in your throat. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t enough yet. But there was something real in the way he spoke, a sincerity you hadn’t seen in him for so long. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him, even just a little.

Theodore took a step toward you, but he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to move closer. He opened his mouth to speak again, his voice low. "I’m guessing... you’re still not going to tell me how to make the hot chocolate, are you?"

It was the first time in hours that you let a smile slip through. It was small, but it was real—an actual smile, not one you’d forced. "You’ve got to figure that part out on your own, Teo."

He laughed softly, the sound filled with relief and something lighter than the tension that had been hanging between you both. And in that laugh, you could hear the promise. Not that everything would go back to the way it was, but that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something new. Something different.

You didn’t have all the answers, and neither did he. But for the first time in a long while, you felt like you didn’t have to do this alone. And that was enough to let you take the first step, even if you weren’t sure what would come next.

[mmeskywalker]

|| pussy drunk theodore nott

warnings: smut, pussy eating, needy!theo, not proof read

“theo, baby,” you whisper.

you run your fingers down the length of his neck, practically drooling at the sight of his adam’s apple as it bobs from your touch.

he grabs your hand, planting sweet kisses to each knuckle. “bella,” he whispers back, guiding you to his lap. “i missed you,” it wasn’t long before your lips were on his, tasting him feverishly as he rolls your hips onto his growing bulge, groaning.

“‘missed you more,” you exhale shakily.

due to studies and detentions, life has brought you two apart. you’ve been too busy trying to figure out whatever nonsense professor snape has thrown your way, and theo’s friend group keeps getting him into trouble. usually, detentions don’t bother him. but right now? it’s keeping him away from the one thing that keeps him sane.

you.

he touches you as if he were starved. his hands hungrily roaming over your curves, squeezing the firm globes of your ass. “no, cara mia, i really missed you.” theo’s breath is hot against your neck, nipping at the sensitive space below your ear.

it’s hard to respond coherently. you’ve been so used to your own hand that you’ve forgotten the way the friction of his lap felt beneath your core. when he bucks his hips up, you can’t help but tremble into his mouth. “i need you so badly, theo.” you whine, unbeknownstly pressing your tits against his chest.

“fuck,” his voice breaks, your plea sending a thrill straight to his cock.

his hands travel beneath your shirt, greedily groping your breasts as his lips attack your neck, nipping the flesh and soothing it over with his skillful, but tauntingly slow tongue. “stop teasing and take my shirt off,” you huff, frustration hitting you as you grind yourself against him. it’s been too long for him to take his time with you. you need him, and you need him now.

“ragazza avida,” theo smriks, running his calloused thumbs over your nipples, hardening the buds before discarding your top. you don’t care where it lands, but you know you’ll find it somewhere stupid like the lamp shade again.

he grabs your ass; abruptly, needily standing, pressing you against the hard planes of his body while his tongue dives into your mouth. your arms to tighten around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist, and kissing him with a fervor you didn’t know you possessed. “do you know how miserable i’ve been without you?” he grunts, throwing you onto the bed and stripping himself as quickly as he can. “take those off. now.” theodore commands, gesturing toward your pants.

nodding, you oblige, wanting needing him just as badly as he needs you. as you rid yourself of your pants, he climbs onto the bed, stopping you before you can do the same with your underwear. “please,” he whimpers, not caring about the dominance stripping from his tone. “please, bellissima,” he spreads your legs open, his nose pressing against the lacy fabric. “keep your legs—yes, yes, just like that…”

the way your body reacts to his begging is almost pathetic. you throw your head back, arching to his touch. “do something, theo,” you whine, wet to the point it physically hurts.

and like that, he pools your panties down to your ankles, ogling at the sight of your damp pussy. he takes no time before dipping his tongue between your folds, a finger coming to pump in and out of your aching hole as he moans into your sex.

you grip his messy brunette hair, holding his head still as you grind yourself against his nose. “mhm,” theo hums, his eyebrows contorting into a state of pure bliss. balancing on his biceps, he brings his forearms under your legs, pushing you farther against him. “‘m all yours, bella. abuse my mouth—please, i want you to.” he whines, flicking his tongue rapidly against your clit.

“s-shit!” you whimper, squeezing his head with your shaky thighs as your eyes glue shut. “fuck—theo, that feels so good! please, please don’t stop. i’m so close already—‘ve needed you so badly, baby.”

he groans, a pathetic, needy sound from deep within his throat. he’s had his tongue plunged deep inside of you many of times, but each time he swears is better than the last. whimpers toll from his lips as he feels you quiver around his tongue, and he finds himself grinding into the mattress. he’s determined to make you cum, not once, but as many times as he can.

his thirst hasn’t been quenched for so long.

you feel something snap as his tongue plunges into you, his nose deliciously rubbing against your swollen clit. “tastes so good,” he says almost to himself, sucking at your pussy. “squirt in my mouth,” he whines, dragging a stripe up your sex until his tongue attacks your sweet spot. “you can do it, bella, please—‘need you.”

and you could do it, because you did, over and over for the rest of the night. theo had you arched against a pillow for hours, hands groping your thighs as he took your body and drowned himself in the essence between your legs.

because that’s just where he wanted to be, and he’d stay there as long as you let him, because he’s addicted to you.