#Fic: Practical Alchemy

[elodieunderglass]

Oh wow, this crossed my dash and that was my post addition!

Present Practice something that didn’t come easy to me either (in keeping with the topic of the post.) it was something I thought about after realising how hurt I was that my child never said goodnight to me. I would say goodnight I love you so much and do all these things and have this whole special story and they’d just complain, until I realized I had to explain about how you’re supposed to say goodnight and extra points for I love you.

I’ve realized Present Practice has recurred in my writing, indicating that it’s near the top of my mind in terms of important things I can give to the world, and once I figure out what I’m doing with this story this it’s OVER for you guys you’re getting TOLD, you’re getting kissed on the forehead:

This was where he did the only thing so far that he was proud of in this day. He did not start shouting, even though his temper was going something like What the fuck, kids, but worse. He stopped, took a minute, and remembered he'd had this whole thing where he'd wanted his kids to love him. He rubbed his nose, said, "Remind me," and his daemon reminded him: "What do we want them to actually do?"

And he said, "The bare minimum fucking acknowledgement would be nice."

And Bee said, "Have we explained that to them? Do they know?"

Which I believe is worth working on because of the very hard-won long-practiced belief that it is easier to share a lesson if you do it through a little story. An anecdote about my kids or my life or a little fanfiction. Which is exactly what you just said

Anyway thank you so much for reading one of my post additions and writing a post in which you hold up some of what I’ve said and show it to people and say “this is a philosophy” and I’m like “o shit! It IS!” And you’re like “you could apply it to other things” and I’m like “DAMN!”

I've been musing a bit on that one post that went around during the recent holiday season, to which someone added their family tradition of Present Practice. My god! Imagine actually telling kids what behavior is expected, instead of expecting them to intuit it and punish them when they get it wrong!!

Separate post because this topic is a little tangential to that, but I think it does a great job of unearthing one of our very well-hidden internal biases, which goes as follows:

Good people don't need to be taught.

A good person (in this case, a good child) shouldn't need to be told to be gracious and grateful when given a gift. A good child should just know that a holiday tradition of gift-giving is a social performance to strengthen family bonds and that personal preference or genuine reactions are secondary to that performance. A good child should just know how to value gifts, how to express thanks, how to praise and compliment. No caretakers in their lives should need to put any effort into instructing or modeling these things.

Good people should just know how to be good. If they were really Ontologically Good, their inherent goodness would simply intuitively guide them to correct behaviors. If they can't do that on their own, in a vacuum, in the absence of cues, that's a sign of their inherent moral lack.

.

.

...Which all sounds very reasonable and obvious, and surely a mistake that only fundie christian families would make! Except that people in the social justice sphere also do this all the time. It's not anybody's job to educate you. You should know this already. If you were a Good Person, you wouldn't need to be taught. You would simply intuit the correct philosophies and gravitate to them according to your superior internal moral compass.

If you were a Good Person, you would already know that everything you were taught by your family and/or background was wrong. You should have rejected it already. You should have cut off your family, your heritage, everything about your childhood and upbringing that was Bad and Wrong. You should have known it was all a lie.

If you were a Good Person, you should be able to find the correct way yourself. You should be able to seek out the proper educational resources, and distinguish them from bad advice leading you astray, and make sense of them all according to your own internal moral code.

If you were a Good Person, you would have found your way by the proper, ascetic, official channels, not by reading a comic or watching anime. You shouldn't need entertainment or art to guide you. You should just know.

And if someone can't do these things on their own, in a vacuum, in the absence of cues, that's a sign of their inherent moral lack.

[lqveharrington]

Someday | D.M.

summary: you and draco are from opposing houses, and you were terrified how your friends were going to react when they found out.

pairing: draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader

includes: secret relationship, kissing, arguing, lots of fluff but also angst, draco and reader are SOOO in love

a/n: kind of a before ‘the alchemy’ fic but not necessarily (i love writing hufflepuff reader and totally not because im a hufflepuff…)

You were three years into dating the Slytherin Prince. Three years of secret love and longing glances from across the classroom. Three years of your friends not knowing. You never meant for three years to pass by without letting your friends know that you were dating someone they. Hell, they thought you were going to be alone forever because you refused to go on dates with anyone they suggested. You were just terrified to see how they would react to you dating Draco Malfoy himself.

“Hi, my darling.” Draco smiled when you found him in your favorite section of the library. He tilted your head up by the chin and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, feeling you grin into his kiss. “How are you?”

You slot your hand in his hand spin his family signet, shrugging as you found a lack of words. “I guess tired. I helped Madame Pomfrey with a student who hurt himself trying a puking pastille thinking it was a normal gummy.”

“Look at you being a healer. Already starting early.” He thumbed your palm and let out a soft chuckle when you scrunched your nose. “M’gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”

“Such a flirt, Malfoy. If I knew any better, I would think you like me.” You giggle with a lopsided smile and press a kiss to his lips. You felt his hand travel to the curve of your waist, holding you gently against him. “Wow, take me on a date first.”

He shushed you and pulled you around, tucking you away from the prying eyes looking down the aisles. Draco squeezed your waist when the people left and softly lifted your head off his chest.

“There were people.” He murmured and rubbed the bottom of your chin, eyes looking across your face. “I know you don’t want anyone here to know just yet.”

You purse your lips and nod, glancing down the aisle in thought. You knew how much he wanted everyone to know about the both of you, but he respected your wishes. Sighing, you rest your forehead on his chest and shut your eyes. It was going to be a long year.

As weeks and eventually months passed, you still hadn’t told your friends about your relationship. It resulted into longing glances from across the room and quick touches whenever you passed the other in the hall. However, your friends soon caught onto you, and they wanted to get to get to the bottom of your secret relationship.

“You have to at least tell us how long you’ve been together.” Hannah Abbott took your hands in hers and squeezed them, practically bouncing in excitement in the courtyard. “I want to know everything!”

She spun around the courtyard, making you laugh. Susan Bones sighed and rested her head on your shoulder, also curious to who this mystery person was. “Hannah, I’m sure they haven’t been dating for that long, right?”

You give her a glance and avert your eyes, face flushing pink. “We’ve been dating for a good while.”

“Like how long?” Hannah spun her way back over to you and squinted. You pursed your lips and looked down at your shoes. “It’s been more than a year?”

“Three years, actually.” You murmur and cover your ears when both girls squeal in joy before realizing what this meant. You raised your brows when they looked at you like you were crazy. “What?”

“You’ve been dating someone for three whole years and haven’t told us about it? How rude!” Susan crossed her arms and stuck her chin up, making you sigh.

Hannah looked between the two of you in concern. She knew that you were an over thinker, but she never thought you would keep anything that big away from your best friends. Especially three years worth of friendship without knowing of your relationship.

“How about we talk about this later when we don’t have classes to get to?” She tried to defuse the tension between the two of you, doing her best to avoid anymore fighting. “I’m sure we have a lot to debrief after herbology.”

“Darling?” Draco stumbled back a little when you ran into his arms, holding you tight against him. He pressed a kiss to your head, albeit confused to your sudden rush but knowing you needed it. “What’s wrong?”

“Just hold me for a little bit.” You mumble into his suit and find his hand, fiddling with his fingers. Your breathing slowly evened out as you listened to his heart beat and messed with his ring, shutting your eyes for a split second. “Sorry. I needed a second to just breathe.”

He clicked his tongue and tilted his head to meet your eyes, “You don’t have to apologize for that.” Draco slowly maneuvered the both of you down to the floor of the astronomy tower and let you continue to play with his fingers, sitting side by side as the sun began to set. “Tell me what happened, my love.”

You stayed quiet for a little while and stared at his palm, letting the wind blow gently through your hair before speaking. “Susan got upset that I never told her about us and Hannah isn’t sure which side to take.” You rest your head on his shoulder and look at the colors of the sky. “Right after herbology, Hannah wanted us to talk it through but Susan refused and left straight for the common room.”

Draco listened intently to your words, his thumb tracing hearts into your palm. He was shocked to hear your friend blatantly ignore your own feelings and avoiding having to talk it through. It wasn’t like you were doing it without reason. Any person would be shocked to see a Hufflepuff and Slytherin dating.

“I knew we were meeting up here so I just came up early.” You finished and finally lace your hands together, looking up at him with so much emotion. “Sorry if I worried you.”

“Stop saying sorry.” He murmured and looked down at you, his beautiful gray and blue eyes meeting your own. “You needed a moment, darling, it’s alright.”

The fading sky soon darkened to the night sky you and Draco loved so much. Like always, the first thing you would do is point out his constellation, the dragon made of the prettiest stars. However, your moment was soon interrupted with the clambering of feet up the astronomy stairs.

“Susan, she always comes up here after dinner.” You heard Hannah say, almost out of breath from how many stairs she walked up. It wasn’t like she took astronomy classes.

Draco went to move away from you, but you refused to move. You figured it was time for them to put the pieces together. Besides, there wasn’t much places to hide up here.

As their steps got closer and eventually on the balcony, you could barely make out their bodies until Hannah used lumos to light up her wand. She found you much faster in the process, but the shock that covered her face made you want to hide in the darkness forever.

“Hi.” You murmur and look away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your emotions in check.

As if he could feel you in the verge of tears, Draco squeezed your hand and allowed you to play with his fingers again. He didn’t look over at the girls, only keeping his eyes on you. The moment your eyes met, Draco nodded his head toward the girls and murmured words of encouragement to you.

Your name fell from Hannah’s lips, making you look over at her. “Why didn’t you just tell us?”

You purse your lips and tighten your grip on Draco, pulling his ring until you held it in your palm. The tension between the four of you was thickening, but you knew something had to happen.

“I don’t know… I figured you guys wouldn’t like it because— Well, it’s Malfoy.” You say quietly and look at Draco with little amusement, earning an eye roll back from him. “And it’s not like I meant to hide this for so long, I just got scared.”

Hannah and Susan looked at each other before looking over at you, watching Draco continue to whisper words when you rested your forehead on his shoulder. They saw how much he cared for you and how much you meant to him. When he slipped his signet to your finger and you moved to smile up at him to press a kiss to his lips, they knew this was it for you.

“You apologize right now, Susan.” Hannah whisper-shouted to her, shoving her forward. “They’re clearly in love and she was just scared about our opinion because they belong to two completely different houses!”

“We can hear you.” Draco spoke to them for the first time, his voice clear to the two girls.

They froze and looked toward the blonde, wincing when they saw him raise his brows. Hannah let out an awkward laugh and stepped closer, nudging Susan once more.

She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, “Listen, I didn’t mean for you to get upset. I just felt offended that you would leave me and Hannah out of such an important detail in your life. I mean, we would’ve been a little skeptic, but we can see how much you two love each other.” Susan looked over at Hannah and smiled when she nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, we love you! We just felt left out but I get it. I know it can feel scary to tell others about something that could change someone’s opinion on you.” Hannah kneeled and took your hands from Draco’s, squeezing them softly. “But we will always love you.”

You smiled and hugged her tightly, burying your head in her shoulder. Hannah laughed and hugged you back with the same fervor, Susan joining after you reached a hand out to her.

Draco — knowing you needed a minute — stood up and watched you. The smallest smile creeping up on his face when you opened your eyes with the biggest smile on your face. Your fears were diminished. Your friends supported you in all you did, and Draco knew that you would always have your friends no matter what.

Even if they took a second to understand, they came around in the end because they loved you. And they knew Draco loved you just as much.

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[proxycrit]

Decided to write some oneshots! Less focus on Zelda and Link, and more on FAMILIAR FAMILIAR’s building blocks.

(Mineru and Naborus’s slow dance are interrupted by the horrors of war.)

(Fic under cut)

——— The First Act (Naborus)

Mineru seems to be actively trying to woo Naborus, and to her disgust, it works.

The zonai woman seems to haunt her steps, with a sly smile and cheeky wink. She slips next to Naborus during morning drills with foods meant to entice, and into evening bouts of paperwork with her little machines, fiddling and tinkering and always ready to help. Even her haughty hat she faffs around with is all but seared into the back of Naborus’s eyelids every time she closes them.

“You do understand,” she tried once, and only once, “that I am a gerudo chief and you are the last of the zonai, serving under the hylian empire.” She enunciates these hylian words as clear as she can, careful with this new language she forced herself to learn within four grueling months.

“Of course,” Mineru responded back in a heavily accented Gerudo. “But I still want to try.”

Naborus has always had a soft spot for fools. She doesn’t bring up their allegiances again, but Mineru redoubles her efforts. Naborus doesn’t explicitly accept them, but she doesn’t refute them either. She even finds herself automatically bringing two mugs of heavily steeped tea to her study one night. Mineru was waiting for her, eyes bright and ears perked.

It’s Ganondorf that ultimately cuts through the stalemate.

“You like her,” he accuses.

“I tolerate her,” Naborus grumbles. “She’s at most a desert lizard I water from time to time, so she doesn’t die.”

Ganondorf gives her a truly bombastic side eye. Naborus doesn’t mention his strange dance around Rauru, even though she’s tempted to point out his hypocrisy. Her soft spot for fools is a weakness.

“She’s working for the princess,” he warns. “We need time to ratify the treaty, and she’s a distraction.”

“She’s a guest,” Naborus responds, temper flaring. “And I don’t see you crunching the paper recently, little brother.”

They glare at each other, bristling like desert cats, before ganondorf’s shoulders slump. He’s been sleeping less and less lately. The dark circles under his eyes have been becoming more and more difficult to hide.

“It’s not safe,” he repeats helplessly. “There’s always a cost, with the hylians. You know this.”

“I know this,” Naborus responds wearily. “But Princess Sonia is different from her mother. Not because of any legends,” she adds, before her brother can protest, “but because she’s reaching out first. The zora and rito are perfectly happy. We have to trust the same amnesty will be given to us.”

“It’s different,” Ganondorf spits, “when their legends don’t constantly paint us as thieves and war mongers.” And Sonia, despite her stature, is part of that legend. That damned sword speaks to it.

The hylians want the great gerudo burial site. They want it for the precious minerals crystallizing deep under the sands, that glow green from the dead. They need it, for the war against the rising tide of undead monsters that threaten them all— gerudo, hylian, all the races of hyrule really. It already took most the zonai.

Naborus knows, deep down, she can not let the gerudo be the next.

But it hurts, to see their culture be trodden underfoot for this. And it hurts more, to hear Ganondorf’s urgent whispers that the Hylians will not stop.

Mineru and Rauru are the last of their kind. Surely there must be other zonai, hidden in pockets deep below or up in the sky, but the zonai (the only zonai) Naborus knows are her two guests. They don’t remember their mother tongue. They were raised by the Goron and Zora and eat hylian food and wear hylian clothes and practice hylian alchemy.

For all intents and purposes, they are hylian. They are what will lay in store for the gerudo, either it be through ganondorf’s terror of a slow cultural death, or naborus’s terror of a steady massacre.

And then Ganondorf finds those ruins, and it all goes to shit.

And then he tries to kill Sonia. Tries to infect Rauru with that malice. Becomes unknowable to her, and calls her traitor, as if he didn’t throw everything away for their shared dream.

Five days later, she arranges for a meeting.

Six days later, Sonia and Rauru show up at her doorstep.

“You can have the burial grounds,” Naborus says, and finds the dull ember of delight in Rauru’s flinch. Good. See him remember his own damned past, and let him know of his crime. Mockingly, she inclines her head to Princess Sonia. “At your behest, your highness.”

Sonia looks back. Implacable. Stone. She’s four heads shorter than Naborus, and yet her presence is crushing. Is this who you love, Naborus wanted to ask Mineru. Is this who you serve?

The rest of the negotiations is a blur. Rito will come help gerudo civilians escape the bombed remains of her city. Her people will find shelter along the coast, if they so wish. All Sonia needs is the Zonaite, and willing hands to take up arms and fight.

Fight who, she does not specify. But judging from her gaze flickering to the empty spot next to Naborus, it’s not difficult to infer.

When Mineru hesitates in front of Naborus’s door later that night, Naborus finally snaps. That dull apathy and shock suddenly becomes a monsoon of rage and betrayal, and she grabs the mug and throws it as hard as she can at the wall, an animal scream rising in her chest.

Mineru flinches back, ears pressed against her head. Naborus sinks, gasping for air, and curls into a wretched ball on the floor. Thin hands carefully encircle against her, and she leans into mineru’s chest, and weeps for her stupid baby brother, for her foolish naive self, for hoping for a beautiful future.

Tomorrow, the gerudo will have the war Ganondorf predicted. Tomorrow, Naborus will bow in front of the Hylian regency.

Mineru mumbles something into her hair, that she is unable to catch. But the zonai’s grip is tight, and she hums a song slow and low.

“What is that?” Naborus croaks, head still pillowed in Mineru’s arms.

There’s a shift of muscle under Naborus as Mineru readjusts herself into a more comfortable position, and then— “my mother taught me this.”

“Ah? I thought gorons are all men?”

Mineru laughs. “In hylian, yes they are called men. But no, I’m talking about my birth mother.”

“Oh,” and because Naborus has little filter, “what’s her name?”

Mineru went silent at that. Naborus feels a rush of self hatred. She shouldn’t have asked. She presumes much from somebody who isn’t even her citizen.

“I don’t remember,” Mineru says. She smiles at Naborus, eyes half squinted. “I just called her Mah. Zonai baby teeth give us terrible lisps, and young children don’t really know their parents as people, per say. Just protectors.”

“I’m sorry,” Naborus says. She wants Mineru to hum that song again, but doesn’t know how to ask.

“It’s okay,” Mineru says. “I don’t remember her. Its hard to miss what you don’t really know.”

“No,” Naborus protests. “It’s not okay at all. You shouldn’t have to-“ she back pedals, looks for anything to say at all, and settles on squeezing Mineru’s waist. “You deserve more than just a song.”

Mineru starts to hum again. Seeing Naborus unwilling to continue, the zonai sighs, cutting into the wound if the situation.

“You did the right thing.”

“Did I?”

“You want to save lives. There is no shame in that.”

“And what of the children who won’t remember their mother’s names?” Naborus asks, hurting. What of her people’s history?

“They’ll be alive to wonder, won’t they?”

Mineru’s voice sounded flat and far away.

And Naborus has nothing to say to that.

(Mineru tells herself this is for the best, and that she and Rauru turned out perfectly fine.

It’s a lie she’s grown comfortable with.)

———— The Second Act (Mineru)

When Ganondorf cuts her throat, she can’t bring herself to be surprised.

Scared? Yeah. But surprised? Not really.

She took his sister from him. She represents hylian royalty. She’s collateral to Rauru. A sort of message, if you will.

You took my sister. I will take yours.

Fucking idiot. Naborus will never forgive him now, and neither would Rauru. He has single handedly severed any remaining goodwill, any chance of recollection, with this stunt, and the worst part is he probably did it on purpose.

Ganondorf looks different. His eyes are tired. The infection from his arm has spread to under his jaw. Baby Dragneel’s been practicing magic, she sees. He reaches down and gently plucks the secret stone from Mineru’s neck, and suddenly it’s worse.

She’s never going to be able to tell Naborus her secret. She’s never going to be able to give that stone to her beloved. She-

A scream splits the night air. It can’t be from her, because all her air is being stolen from her throat before it can reach her tongue, which tastes like iron. It can’t be from Ganondorf, who’s mouth is clenched shut, secret stone (alchemist’s stone) shining in his hand.

Ganondorf is blasted back by a wave of light.

The world is greying. Mineru feels the burn of Sonia’s time magic entrap her, freeze her. It hurts. It hurts more then her throat. Everything is tinged yellow and Mineru can’t move, and this must be what death is— caught between a peaceful slumber and agonizing living. She’s suffocating slowly. She’s scared.

Rauru’s face comes in focus. His hands are shaking. She can feel him pressing desperately against her as in the distance, Sonia, still clad in her white dress, chases the shadows away.

Mineru’s eyes slip close.

When she wakes up, she is surprised she’s not dead. She tries to say something, but the searing pain stops her, and her muffled jerk causes the lump at her feet to quiver. Rauru looks up, eyes bloodshot.

“Mimi?” He asks, voice hoarse. Mineru tries to say something, but the pain flares and she settles for a thumbs up. Rauru’s eyes start watering, and he presses his face into her hands.

“Mimi,” he whispers, and mineru pets his ears, like they were children again. She didn’t mean to scare him. She waits for him to collect himself, and takes the chance to look around the room.

It’s a nice room. The architecture is distinctly zoran, with luminous stones embedded into the walls for light and kelp thread curtains for privacy. It smells like fragrant lotus root and medicinal herbs. There’s a small study in the corner, filled with papers and a single potted specimen of a sundelion.

Rauru’s study, she realizes with a rush of fondness. This must be his room, when he was apprenticing under that Zoran healer.

“I…”

Her attention snaps back to her brother. At her attentive look, he quails. It’s not right. Rauru rarely quails, and mostly preens, like a peacock. At her impatient look, he closes his eyes, and Mineru’s stomach sinks.

“Ruta’s afraid there might be complications,” Rauru continues in a rush. “You’ll be on observation for possible lung clots and brain damage and infection.”

Mineru breathes.

“We couldn’t save your throat,” Rauru confesses, looking small. “Ruta cleared up your lungs and I managed to stabilize you, but. We couldn’t, your.”

That’s okay, she wants to say. I’m alive. That’s more than I expected.

But she can’t say that.

With her nonanswer, Rauru bows his head. Mineru grabs on to his hand before he can flee, and squeezes.

After a moment’s hesitation, he squeezes back.

Mineru doesn’t take her new found muteness well. She struggles with hylian sign, and finds a near apoplectic rage in being unable to quickly explain her thoughts.

Writing isn’t the same, she wrote in harsh angry scratches with her chalkboard she’s taken to carrying around.

Naborus, bless her, has fashioned a straw for her with glass when they meet up for tea. Mineru used to haunt Naborus, enraptured by this woman and her no nonsense attitude and her unexplainable kindness. Now Naborus haunts her with bedding and sustenance.

They should be on the battlefield. The malice has overtaken another settlement, Mineru heard. But when she dug, she was sent away.

“More pillows?” Naborus asks, and Mineru holds up two thumbs for an aggressive agreement.

Can you get me construct f12, she writes when Naborus comes back wielding two cream pillows. Twinges, can fix, she slashes quickly at Naborus’s frown.

“You’re working?”

No time, Mineru scribbles. And at Naborus’s hesitant glance, she adds: bored.

“You should be resting.”

Can’t.

She will have nightmares again. Rauru promises the sundelion specimens he’s working on will stop the malice from taking hold, but she still dreams of that red pulsating mass, infecting her, burrowing into her.

She underlines Can’t twice, and hopes Naborus will get it.

Naborus drags a hand down her face, and exhales roughly. “Shit. Okay. I’ll go get your construct, but if you need any help at all you tell me, alright?”

At Mineru’s flat glare, she grimaces. “Sorry. I’ll get you a bell.”

The two sit in companionable silence after that. The construct mineru chose is a small, light weight thing. She is considering adding some sort of projectile weapon when she hears the low rhythmic hum of a song.

Oh, Mineru thinks. This is the song my mother taught me, and I taught you. Oh, Mineru thinks after suddenly overwhelmed with the realization— she will never sing her mother’s song again. She will never be able to join the chorus that was her last, remaining link. She will never-

Mineru wipes her eyes angrily. She can learn how to play a harmonica. Or a flute. The option isn't actually gone, just changed. She should just be glad she’s alive.

Doesn’t stop the tears, though.

When Naborus quietly holds her arms out, Mineru doesn’t fight the pull and slumps into her friend’s arms, and tries not to think of how Ganondorf stole not only her project’s notes, but her history from her too.

He’s Naborus’s brother.

She hates him more, for it.

[buckysleftbicep]

winning streak 𐙚 b.b

pairing: hockey captain!bucky barnes x fem!reader (modern au)

warnings: just teeth rotting fluff, some sports trash talk,

summary: the national title on the line. one last goal. and bucky doesn’t skate to the trophy — he runs to you.

word count: 2.8k

author's note: hi my loves! i couldn't stop thinking about this idea! and because i am a swiftie, this is heavily inspired by the alchemy (one of my many favourite songs) i hope you enjoy this fic as much as i do, love you guys and stay safe!

i love soft!bucky so freaking much

The crowd was thundering.

Not the kind that rumbled in the distance no, this was the kind that cracked the sky open. The kind that rose and crashed in waves, relentless and hungry. 

The stands shook with boots stomping on aluminum bleachers. Painted signs bounced in the air, words blurring from the motion—GO THUNDERBOLTS, CAPTAIN BARNES #91, KISS FOR LUCK scrawled in lipstick. 

Faces flushed red with cold beer and high hopes. Flags waved, foam fingers pointed, and a hundred thousand hearts pounded in time with the bass of the pre-game anthem pulsing through the speakers.

This wasn’t just a game. It was the game of the year.

Finals night. National Hockey League Championship. 

The Thunderbolts vs The Avengers.

Two rival teams, two captains with so much history and one trophy gleaming behind the glass.

The anthem had barely ended before the roar kicked up again, raw and ravenous.

Spotlights danced across the crowd like searchlights over a battlefield, and the overheads dimmed just enough to make the ice glow—pristine, perfect, untouched, a fresh battlefield waiting to be claimed.

Cameras swung in wide arcs across the arena, cutting from row to row, finding the faces that made up the frenzy.

Fans in war paint, faces streaked with glitter and ink, jerseys layered over hoodies, fingers locked around hotdogs and cardboard trays of fries, beer sloshing over gloved hands. 

Everyone yelling. Everyone watching.

And then—the camera landed on you.

Dead center. First row behind the Thunderbolts’ bench.

Wearing his jersey.

“Barnes” stitched in clean bold letters across your shoulders. The deep navy fabric pulled snug where it was tucked into the waistband of your jeans. Sleeves rolled just past your elbows. The Thunderbolts logo—a silver lightning bolt spearing through a black-and-blue shield shimmered faintly beneath the lights.

Your grin bloomed instantly when you saw yourself on the jumbotron—sharp and nervous and entirely unfiltered.

One hand flew up to your cheek, laughing in surprise. The other still held tight to the paper soda cup you hadn’t touched in ten minutes.

And then the commentators pounced.

“Ooooh, and look who we’ve got in the front row tonight!” one of them crowed, amusement crackling in his voice. “That’s Barnes’ girlfriend, she’s already wearing the number 91 like a badge of honor!”

The other chuckled, already rolling with it. “You’ve gotta love it, Bill. Young love, big stakes. She’s all in tonight. And the question on everyone’s mind—will Barnes bring home the trophy tonight? Or will Rogers shut him down one last time?”

You flushed hard, heat flooding your cheeks, but your smile only widened. Your fingers twisted nervously in your lap, the cup long forgotten.

The spotlight swept on—and the thunder swelled again.

The Thunderbolts were being called onto the ice.

First came Ava. Sharp, and fast. She cut across the blue line like a blade, sleek in her uniform, her form low and agile as she glided across the rink. Her braid flicked behind her helmet like a threat, chin high, eyes locked forward.

Then Bob. Wild grin beneath his helmet, that familiar bounce in his stride like he was skating into a bar fight instead of a championship. He gave a ridiculous salute to the crowd, winked at someone in the third row, and pumped his stick once in the air.

John followed, big and loud, throwing a fist into the sky like a gladiator entering the ring.

Yelena came next. Practically vibrating with excitement, her grin so wide it looked dangerous. She skated backward just for the hell of it, flashed a peace sign at the Avenger’s bench, and flipped off Tony Stark when he yelled something back.

And then —

“Number ninety-one…BUCKY BARNES!”

The arena exploded.

The glass walls behind the benches vibrated with the noise. The rafters groaned. People were screaming his name—BARNES, BARNES, BUCKY, BUCKY—the rhythm of it echoing like a chant across the rink.

You shot out of your seat without thinking, hands flying to your mouth, heart stuttering in your chest like it couldn’t keep up.

And then he appeared.

Skating out from the tunnel like he owned the damn world.

No waving. No showboating. 

He skated clean, hard, powerful—straight across the rink like the ice had parted just for him. His strides were controlled, each one cutting smooth into the surface, blades singing. He stopped short of the bench, stick tapping once against the ice with a heavy clack.

Then, he turned. Just enough to find you.

His helmet was tucked low, shadowing his eyes, but it didn’t matter. You could feel him find you. See you. That weightless flicker of connection when two people find each other in a crowd of thousands.

And then—

That grin.

God, that grin, that same grin that made you fall hopelessly in love with him back in college.

Crooked. Boyish. And ever so infuriatingly sure of itself.

He didn’t wave, didn’t mouth a word.

Just gave you the faintest nod, like a promise. Like watch this, baby.

And then—

The puck dropped.

“Thunderbolts coming in fast from the left side, Ava’s on the edge with the puck, she’s got Bob tailing her for backup—”

The announcer’s voice rang loud over the speakers, almost drowned out by the buzz of the arena. 

Ava skated hard, slicing across the ice like a bullet fired from a gun, body low and focused. Her stick tapped the puck forward with quick, lethal flicks, weaving past one defender, then another.

Bob was on her tail, his form bulkier but no less agile, cutting in wide to draw a second Avenger off the line.

The Thunderbolts were moving as one, quick and ruthless, barely blinking.

“Wait for it—OH! Big interception by Wilson for the Avengers, clean take on the boards, he’s flying down center ice—”

The collective gasp was instant. 

Sam was fast. Too fast.

He pivoted so tightly off the wall it looked impossible, scooping the puck on his blade mid-turn and blasting down center ice. The Thunderbolts scrambled to recover, boots hitting the ice in frantic scrapes, blades cutting through the frozen surface like razors.

Yelena cursed under her breath—you saw it from the bench cam, the sharp twist of her mouth unmistakable as she shot back toward the neutral zone in a blur of motion. 

You knew that look. Knew it well. You’d been friends since high school, back when she used to play pickup games with the boys just for fun.

She hated being outrun, hated it like it offended her personally. And judging by the speed she was moving now, someone was damn sure about to pay for it.

Bucky fell in behind her.

Unlike the rest, he didn’t panic.

He skated backward, cool and calculated, reading the play like he’d seen it a hundred times before. His knees bent, balance low, eyes flicking between Wilson streaking down the middle and Rogers gliding up the opposite wing, already sizing up his angle just outside the blue line.

And then, Steve entered the zone.

The crowd went feral. The commentators lost their minds.

“Rogers, himself folks, lining up for the slapshot—!”

Steve adjusted his grip with deadly precision, dragging the puck across the line and winding up like a spring. The stadium held its breath. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs lit the glass.

And then —

CLANG.

Stick on stick.

Bucky didn’t just block the shot—he rejected it.

The blade of his stick met Steve’s with a metallic crack that echoed across the ice, the force of it spinning the puck up and off course like it had hit a steel wall.

The puck arced high, spiralling toward the boards as both captains skated through the impact. Steve’s blade skidded empty.

The crowd howled.

Steve turned slowly, arching a brow beneath his helmet. The half-smile that played across his face was all teeth. 

Familiar.

Bucky skated past with ice in his veins and zero hesitation. He didn’t look back. Just kept gliding, chin raised, mouth curling.

“Try again, punk,” he smirked, eyes locked with Steve’s as the puck spun away.

Steve chuckled. “Make me.” And peeled off.

Your heart was racing.

No, not just racing. Hammering.

You couldn’t stop bouncing in your seat. The coke you held in both hands had gone warm long ago, the paper cup soft with condensation, but you hadn’t taken a sip. Your eyes were locked on the rink like your life depended on it.

Every pass was a lightning bolt. Every movement a blur.

The game was brutal, but brilliant. A war fought in blades and bruises. This wasn’t teammates having fun. This wasn’t friendly competition.

This was rivalry.

Hits against the boards came hard and fast. Elbows tucked sharp. Shoulders thrown into chests with unapologetic force. You flinched each time someone slammed into the wall, the crack echoing up into your ribs.

Still, through the chaos, Bucky led.

He was everywhere. Every line. Every pivot.

You watched him bark something to Bob, nod once to Yelena, then slash down the rink with the kind of clean, perfect control that only came from years of skating like the ice was his home.

He skated like fire. Moved like smoke.

His stick kissed the puck and made it sing.

“BUCKY! HERE!”

Yelena’s voice split through the noise, loud and sure. She tore up the right side like she’d stolen something, and Bucky didn’t even look.

He passed blind.

A perfect no-look cross-zone—sharp, clean, so instinctual it looked choreographed. The puck streaked across the ice, too fast to track.

Crack.

Bob’s blade met it in motion, and the sound was surgical.

And then—

SLAM.

Straight into the Avengers’ net.

The red light flared. The buzzer screamed.

Thunderbolts: 1. Avengers: 0.

The arena exploded.

“WE’RE ON THE BOARD, BABY!” the commentator bellowed, practically lifting out of his seat. “What a setup—Barnes to Belova, Belova to Bob, and in she goes!”

Fans surged to their feet, foam fingers punched the air, and you clapped both hands to your mouth in shock, laughing, beaming, glowing.

On the bench, Alexei looked like he was going to combust.

“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT, BARNES! I TEACH HIM THAT!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, pounding the plexiglass like a drum. “YOU SEE THAT PASS? HE LEARN FROM ME!”

Stark, meanwhile, was livid.

On the Avenger’s bench, he was a one-man storm—clipboard flailing, tie half-undone.

“Rogers! Wilson! You gonna let him dance around you like that? I swear to god, this isn’t fucking disney on Ice!”

The camera caught John laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bench.

You could even see Yelena, skating backward toward center, roll her eyes from behind her visor, muttering something that made Ava snort.

And Bucky—

Bucky just skated to the bench like he hadn’t even tried.

Stick low. Jaw sharp. Eyes already on the next play.

Second period. Tie game.

The ice glistened with sweat and melted friction, grooves carved deep from blades and fury.

Both teams were breathing hard, skating harder, the weight of the scoreboard pressing down like a vice.

Every hit sounded louder now. Every pass carried desperation.

The Avengers had clawed one back.

It wasn’t a clean goal, not by Thunderbolts standards, anyway. It was sneaky. Wanda had slipped it in off a deflection, the kind of tip-in that no one even saw coming until the red light flashed behind the net.

Bob turned, confused, and smacked the post with his stick.

The crowd gasped, half in awe, half in protest.

The commentators were already on it.

“Oooh! Maximoff sneaks one past the line—unbelievable angle on that tip-in.”

“Barnes is not happy about that one, Bill. Look at that expression.”

“Stone cold. But if there’s one thing we know about number 91…it’s that he plays best when he’s pissed.”

You saw it too. Felt it. That flicker shift in the entire energy of the game. 

Like a match had been struck.

On the ice, Bucky reset.

His jaw was locked tight, the muscles ticking beneath his cheekbone. His knuckles curled around his stick like it was a lifeline. He muttered something sharp to John as they lined up for the next faceoff—you couldn’t hear it, but whatever he said made John nod immediately, all humor gone.

And then—

Breakaway.

John slingshot the puck out of the circle with brutal precision, snapping it straight to Ava as she darted up the ice.

Her skates cut the surface like blades through water, a clean, slicing motion that made her look more like a dancer than a forward. She passed to Yelena, who caught it mid-stride and bolted down the left wing like her skates were on fire.

The Avengers defence scrambled.

You leaned forward in your seat, one hand gripping the railing, eyes wide.

Yelena ducked her shoulder just before a check, spun out of the hit like she’d rehearsed it in a dream, and—with barely a glance—

“BUCKY!”

The shout rang through the air.

He was already there.

No hesitation. No delay. 

He’d read the play like a book with his name written in the ending.

The puck hit his blade like fate.

Three strides.

A shift in weight.

The low sweep of his stick.

Snap.

Like a bullet fired from center ice—the puck screamed into the net.

GOAL.

Red light. Horn blast. Thunder in the stands.

Thunderbolts: 2. Avengers: 1.

The stadium erupted. Fans on their feet. Flags waving. Voices cracking. Someone a few rows behind you screamed “MARRY ME, BUCKY!” and you couldn’t stop laughing, even as tears prickled the backs of your eyes.

Ava was pounding her stick against the wall. Bob leapt over the boards to tackle John in celebration. Yelena blew kisses to the camera and Alexei was hoarse from screaming.

But Bucky —

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t raise his arms or pump his fists or even look at the scoreboard.

There were thirty seconds left. Thirty brutal, breathless seconds. But the goal had done its job. The Thunderbolts were ahead. Now it was all defense.

And Bucky... he was locked in.

The final clock ticked down like a heartbeat.

Twenty seconds.

Ten.

Five—

BUZZZZZZZZZ.

The horn went off like an explosion. Final whistle.

The Thunderbolts bench emptied, skates clattering across the ice as the team poured toward center.

Players collided, hollering, helmets flying into the air. Ava jumped straight into Yelena’s arms. Bob tried to slide across the rink on his belly and crashed into the boards.

And behind it all—

The trophy waited. Gleaming, glorious and beautiful.

Spotlights swiveled. Cameras focused.

The announcers were already yelling.

“Thunderbolts take the championship! What a finish, what a goal—and Barnes with the game winner, folks! That’s number 91 doing what he does best!”

You stood with the rest of the crowd, clapping, screaming, face flushed with adrenaline and awe.

Your hands were over your mouth again, eyes sweeping the chaos for him—where was he?

And then —

You found him.

Or rather—he found you.

Bucky skated past the goal without slowing.

Past the glittering silver trophy being lifted onto its pedestal. Past the thunder of his teammates’ cheers. Past Alexei’s open arms and the blinding camera flashes.

His stick dropped to the ice.

Then his helmet.

And he skated straight to you.

There was no hesitation. No calculation. He ran.

Skates to the boards, gloves off, his hands catching the edge with one clean, practiced grip. Security blinked, caught off-guard—but he was already climbing over, lifting himself into the front row like it was nothing.

You gasped—half-laughing, half-stunned—arms instinctively reaching for him.

And he caught you.

His hands wrapped around your waist, and without a word, he lifted you straight into the air like you weighed nothing at all. 

You squeaked—breath catching—legs curling around his hips as he spun you, holding you there in the middle of screaming fans and cameras and flying confetti.

His mouth crashed into yours.

And everything else disappeared.

The noise, the lights, the rink, the pressure, it all dropped away like a curtain falling. All you could feel was him. His hands gripping your back, his lips against yours, rough and breathless. His chest shaking with laughter.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered, breaking the kiss only long enough to murmur it into your cheek.

Your laugh was pure joy. You buried your hands in his sweaty hair and kissed him again, not caring that you were in front of thousands of people, not caring that your face was probably all over the jumbotron.

“I told you you’d win,” you breathed.

“And I told you,” he grinned, eyes bright and unbearably soft as he pressed his forehead to yours, “you’re all I was playing for.”

Your heart melted.

Somewhere in the chaos, John’s voice rang out: “Go get her, Bucky!”

From the loudspeakers, the announcers cracked up.

“Well, there’s your answer, folks,” one of them laughed, his voice barely audible over the thunderous cheer. “Who needs the trophy… when she’s right there waiting?”

And Bucky—still holding you—only kissed you deeper.

Because he already had everything he wanted.

a/n: this fic was really just indulgence for me, i love this idea so much i typed half the fic on my phone during my train ride home 🥹 i am not the best at describing hockey and i'm sorry if i got anything wrong 😭. if you enjoyed the fic, please leave a comment of reblog!

[teaxtease]

₊˚.༄ J. YUNHO — magic hands

synopsis: a magical uni AU where your friend has an unusual way of tutoring you warnings: 2.3k words, first smut fic, porn with plot, afab reader, cursing, cunnilingus, oral sex (f receiving: over panties and without them), virgin reader and experienced yunho, soft/service dom yunho, pussy drunk yunho, ‘pretty’ used as a petname (once), not proofread.

yet another alchemy assignment you had procrastinated was splayed across the desk, mocking you.

the owner of the desk, your friend yunho, was seated right next to you, his chair practically glued to yours. he was much too close for comfort or concentration. he’d gone over the same question twice already, his hands pointing out highlighted terms and tapping the desk when you’d space out.

but he didn’t raise his voice. he didn’t give up on your grade or your attention, forcing you to focus with a call of your name and reassurance that you were almost there.

it was torture to pretend to pay attention to any of the complicated formulas coming from his mouth when all you could focus on was the scent of his laundry mixing with the mint of his breath.

fresh, comforting, reassuring. so very him.

so it was no surprise that a ten minute assignment turned into a half hour task, the clock marking each minute in the corner of his room.

you weren’t stupid. lazy, perhaps, with how last-minute you’d decided to begin even writing your name on the paper, but you absolutely knew what you were doing: showing up to yunho’s apartment on a late sunday night. lightly perfumed, body shaved, clothes ironed perfectly, and teeth freshly brushed.

you were justified; he was one of your closest friends, your partner in class, among the top students, and willing to help. you just wanted to… double check your work. eye-candy was just a plus.

but half an hour wasn’t nearly enough, so you stalled before leaving, your chair still pulled close to his as you doodled on your scratch paper.

“so… how do you know when you’ve manifested enough energy for healing?” you asked him, referring to the new skill you were expected to master in the next year. it was supposed to be easy enough, much more simple than other sorcery you’d already begun, but it always escaped you just barely every time you practiced it.

his warm eyes remained on your hands for a moment before flicking towards your shorts for a fraction of a second. “it’s not really easy to describe… i’d have to make a weird comparison.”

“weird?” you mumbled, frowning as you examined his sudden shift in posture.

he nodded silently, his dyed honey hair shaking softly with the movement, before adding, “the closest i can get is the intense wave feeling you get when you cum.”

“oh,” is all you managed, looking down at your lap and then powering through the silence, “you’re telling me it feels orgasmic?”

he exhaled amusedly, as if you’d said something adorably naive, “no— i mean, the way your nerves feel like they’re going into overdrive but… in waves.”

“right.”

there was a stretch of silence as you digested his words, part of you wishing you hadn’t asked. sure, talking about sex with your crush would normally be exciting, but in this context, it was mortifying. so you avoided his eyes as you normally did when he said something suggestive so casually that it made you want to jump out of your skin.

he watched your inner turmoil, struggling to fight a smile off his lips, “why’d you say it like that?”

“like what?”

“like you don’t know what i’m talking about,” he replied simply, eyes tracing over your features as you finally glanced up at him.

you forced yourself to shrug, trying your hardest not to read into the implications of his statement. but there wasn’t much you could do to save yourself from the truth that you couldn’t relate to the analogy in the slightest.

his attempts at staying serious crumbled, and his shoulders shook with laughter, “you actually don’t know what i’m talking about.”

“well,“ you winced, not wanting to get into details with him of all people, “not really. it’s not intense, not like you’re describing.”

he pursed his lips, seemingly deep in thought as he replied, “then, no offense, but you’re doing something wrong.”

you couldn’t help but feel insulted by his words, your eyes narrowed as you spoke, “what— no? i just don’t think it’s as intense as some people make it out to be. like your stupid neighbors.”

the mention of the couple next door to his apartment made yunho sigh in annoyance, but the corners of his lips curled, “yeah, i don’t think that poor girl’s really feeling the way she sounds like she is. but it’s not impossible to make someone sound like that genuinely.”

“like you would know,” you scoffed, still peeved by his unnerving comments.

he looked down at you with an unreadable expression, holding your gaze for a moment before turning away and laughing. “maybe, maybe not. the point is,” he paused, taking a hold on your right hand and flipping it over, tracing his finger over your open palm, “it’ll feel like concentrated warmth. right here.”

the slight tremble of your pinky didn’t go unnoticed by the blonde man, and he held your hand steady, “you’re overthinking it. you’re talented, it’ll come naturally to you.”

“but how will i know when i’m ready?” you insisted, the furrow of your brow deepening with frustration.

he used his other hand to smooth a finger over the crease of your forehead, “you’ll know when you feel it. it’s overwhelming at first, but it’s pleasant, i promise.”

“but if i’ve never experienced a feeling like that,” you trailed off, the tips of your ears feeling hot under his touch.

he inhaled sharply, “then you have two options. wait it out, expect the unexpected. or train your nerves a little.”

the suggestion made your stomach churn, words slipping from yours lips before you could think twice, “train with who?“

you saw the slight twitch of your friend’s jaw, a puff of air coming out roughly from his nose, “i mean, i don’t know. obviously whatever guy you’ve been with hasn’t worked.”

you thought you saw your chance open up after months of you planting seeds, but you couldn’t be sure he was interested the way you were. so you danced around what you really wanted to say, “i haven’t.”

“haven’t what?” he asked, knowing exactly what you meant but needing confirmation from you.

“been with anyone. i guess whatever i’m doing with myself isn’t the same as…” you trailed off, your chair suddenly feeling too stiff and the air feeling heavier.

his adam’s apple bobbed up and down slowly as he registered your words, his eyes closed as he gathered his thoughts, “really? i didn’t mean to assume, it’s just… you’re…”

“yunho,” you interrupted his train of thought, your thigh brushing against his as you shifted in your seat, “would you help me?”

yunho’s fingers travel across the backs of your thighs, gently pushing you to lie all the way on your back as he settles down on his chest. his bedsheets are cold, an exciting contrast to the warmth of his breath over your calves.

you shudder against the cool air, clad only in your panties; his kiss-swollen lips placing kisses up your legs, stopping at your knees to pull them open for him.

“are you sure this is okay? you’re tense,” he mumbles against the inside of your calf, his hands hovering under your knees.

you nod, trying to relax your legs and feeling your muscles twitch as he slides his body between your legs, “just nervous.”

he eyes the waistband of your underwear, feeling his restraint dwindle by the second, “nothing to be nervous about. but i want you to let me know what you feel.”

you agree with a hum, earning you a quick smile from the man below you. he’s slow, his patience translating even into this aspect of his personality as he climbs back over you to leave lingering kisses on your lips.

he swallows the almost silent noises you make greedily, one of his hands resting on the base of your neck while the other plays experimentally with your nipples. you can feel the noises he holds back when you respond to his touch, seemingly just as aroused as you.

when he breaks the kiss, he wastes no time in trailing open-mouthed kisses down your abdomen, reaching just above the last piece of cloth covering you before pulling away.

you’re about to complain when he straightens up, taking off his shirt with practiced quickness and lying back down on his stomach. instinctively, you almost seal your eyes shut but you force them to stay open and witness the sight you’d been craving for over a year.

“is this okay?” he asks quietly, pointer finger hooking under the waistband of your underwear. he smiles when your back arches slightly in anticipation, “c’mon, gotta hear a clear yes.”

“yes,” you breathe out, squirming against the sheets, “yes, i’m just… embarrassed.”

he hums thoughtfully, suddenly tracing his thumb over your slit, the cloth of your underwear clinging to you. he smiles when you exhale shakily, “that’s okay, i’ll help you with that.”

before you can even begin to question what he means, his tongue is already laid flat against you, his saliva soaking the lace even further. he gives a few, slow licks before pressing a kiss where he supposed your clit was, “you wore lace panties to study?”

an apology dies in your throat as you attempt to speak over the dizzying temperature of the room, but he cuts you off, “don’t be sorry. they’re cute. i’ve always liked this color on you.”

he makes quick work of sliding the waistband down your thighs, a groan falling from his lips as strings of arousal cling to you. he mutters something incoherent under his breath before setting the cloth to the side and placing your legs on his shoulders.

"i'll be gentle," he says quietly, more of an oath to himself than a promise to you. he leans in to lick a stripe up your heat, gauging your reaction before placing another and then another, each with more precision and pressure than the last.

"fuck, yunho," you say, your head buzzing slightly with the rhythm he's set, "feels weird."

he smiles against you, expecting your reaction. his hand moves from the back of your thigh to rest his arm's weight over your hips. "i know," he muses, replacing his tongue with his thumb. he coaxes a whine out of you as he traces circles on your clit, "you wanna stop?"

you shake your head almost too quickly, "no, i just didn't expect— i feel like i can't control my body."

"you can let go," he reassures you, slipping a finger down your slit as he distracts you with soft kisses on your clit, "i want you to. don't think about it, just relax." you moan in agreement when you feel his finger prod at your hole. he's careful to ease you into the feeling, pumping that finger slowly, his lips still sucking around you before inserting another one, "so good for me, pretty."

the feeling is foreign at first, his fingers reaching spots you hadn't even breached before, but the pumping of his hand paired with his relentless mouth makes your neck crane all the way back.

soon enough, you find yourself bucking your hips absentmindedly, your hands brushing through his hair and pushing him against you, "right there, please, yunho."

his eyes roll back at your pleas, his hips twitching against the bed in search of relief. he wants to pull back, tease you a bit, ask if you're feeling the waves he'd described to you, but he takes one look up at your scrunched up features and abandons the idea completely.

he doesn't ask you if you're close, the clenching around his fingers and progressively more erratic breathing giving you away. he simply moans in response, allowing you to use his face in your final moments as you reach your peak.

if he were in his right mind, he'd undoubtedly make fun of you for the volume of your moans, but they only spurred him on to help you ride your orgasm all the way through, his strong hands pushing your hips down and his mouth still lapping at you.

once he figures you've had enough, he pulls his fingers out, quick to prop himself up to take a look at you, "you there?"

your eyes are unfocused but you nod, trying to stabilize your breathing, "yeah, i'm fine."

he smiles as he glances down at your closed legs, running a soothing hand over the side of your thigh and moving off of you, "how was that?"

"overwhelming, like you said," you admit shyly, suddenly hit by the vulnerability of your nudeness.

"imagine a toned-down version of that concentrated in your palms," he says, moving onto his side and watching your chest shake with uneven breaths.

silence floods yunho's room once more, and he allows it to span out until you've regained control of your breathing before speaking up, "i'm really hoping you wore that lace for me."

your widened eyes flicker over to him as he tugs a blanket over you, "what?"

"i mean, i hope you did this because you've been wanting to for as long as i have. i hope this wasn't a spur of the moment kinda thing," he clarifies, gazing at you with that familiar look you now recognized as fondness.

a fit of laughter courses through your body and you turn away from him, face in his pillow, "you've been wanting to fuck me?"

he chokes on his laughter, shaking his head and reaching out to grab your forearm to get you to face him, "no, i haven’t even... i mean, yes, the fact that you chose me to do this for you means a lot. but i don't want this to be a one-time thing. or something we do with other people. or all we do."

you glance from the man in front of you to the alchemy worksheet on his desk, heart warmed by his unconventional confession, "i have a perfect grade in alchemy, yunho, i never actually needed your help. but i do suck at sorcery."

"so the lace was for me!"

writing tension is so much more fun than the actual smut... stay tuned for pirate hongjoong, or knight yeosang, or prince san?

[magical-regical]

Code Red

A Leona Kingscholar x AFAB!Yuu fic

Word count: 781

Yuu is AFAB but is referred to using they/them pronouns. This one goes out to all the girlies (said gender neutrally) whose periods always somehow manage to sneak up on them.

(Period tracker? Never heard of it. My cycle's too irregular for that)

It was a quiet morning. Yuu had their head laying on Leona's bare chest with his tail wrapped around their waist and one of his arms resting on their back. If they looked up they could have seen his handsome face devoid of its usual scowl. A rare opportunity to truly see the lion prince truly at peace.

And yet, when Yuu opened their eyes the first thing they noticed was the dull ache in their abdomen and a familiar wetness between their legs.

'Ah fuck...'

"Leona, hey Leona, wake up." They whispered, patting his cheek and trying their best to wiggle out of his grasp.

Leona stirred, "Shut it... 's too early for this..."

His grip tightened, which only made them panic even more,

"Babe, I swear to the Sevens if you don't wake up right now I will bleed all over your sheets." they hissed practically slapping him awake now.

The word 'bleed' made his ears perk up as his sleep-addled brain tried its best to process what he just heard. As the rest of his body started to wake up he finally smelled it, the faint but unmistakable scent of blood.

Yuu got out of the bed the moment they felt his grip loosen, checking to see if they bled through their underwear and sighing in relief when they found out they hadn't. They had a spare uniform stashed in Leona's closet so they could change into clean underwear but it wouldn't stay clean for long unless they find a pad. They're going to have to make a break for Ramshackle weren't they? Their stomach clenched in protest, making them wince.

A hand grabbed their wrist. Leona had sat up, using his other hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"You see that desk across the room? Open the middle drawer." he said, his voice a rough drawl.

"Huh?"

"Just do it." he growled.

Yuu had half a mind to chew him out for being so crass, especially when he knows it's that time of the month but still did as they're told.

They opened the middle drawer and found a small cardboard box with a familiar design on it.

"No way..." they muttered as they took out the brand new box of pads, "How did you know what my usual brand is? Is Rook rubbing off on you?"

"I think the words you're looking for are 'thank you my wonderful, amazing boyfriend' " He grumbled, "Besides, any boyfriend worth their salt knows to be prepared."

His tone was dry but the swishing of his tail gave away how proud he was of himself. Yuu couldn't help but laugh, gesturing at him to come closer so they could kiss him.

"Thank you, my wonderful, amazing boyfriend who I love very much."

Leona hummed, satisfied with his reward before following them to Savanaclaw's bathrooms.

"You don't gotta follow me you know. You can go back to bed." Yuu said.

He let out a yawn, "Oh I thought about it, trust me. But with how bone-headed some of the guys here are, someone's gonna try to break the door down if they smell blood, especially if it's yours."

Once they were done changing he scooped them up into his arms and carried them back to his room, their protests falling on deaf ears.

"Stop being stubborn. It hurts doesn't it?" he said, carefully placing them on his bed. "You're staying here today. Anything you need, you tell me. Got it?"

"I'm being stubborn? Pot meet kettle..." Yuu muttered.

Another cramp quickly silenced their complaints, the persistent ache growing worse by the second.

"Could you... Go to alchemy for me today?" they said.

"Of course you'd ask for something like that..." He knelt next to the bed, his eyes half-lidded as he stroked their cheek with the back of his hand, "Wouldn't you rather have your lion here, cuddling your pain away?"

Yuu leaned into his touch, "We have an exam next week and Crewel's doing a review today."

He clicked his tongue, grabbing his phone to send some messages, "There. I asked Jack to take those notes for you and I'm getting Ruggie to get painkillers and that ice cream you like from Sam's."

He tossed the phone aside and laid down next to them. Yuu cuddled up to him, their body curling into his. Leona rubbed their back, "Need anything else, darling?"

He felt Yuu shake their head.

"Good. Now go back to sleep. You'll have breakfast waiting when you wake up."

"Are you gonna feed it to me?"

"If you want me to." He kissed the top of their head, "Anything for you, kipenzi changu."

Divider by @/cafekitsune

A/N:

kipenzi changu means 'my love' in swahili according to the wiktionary (they cited this paper, which talks about different terms of endearment in swahili, which I found pretty fun.)

[pomefioredove]

Omg hiii! I saw that your requests were open again! Please take your time and prioritize your rest, and as always your writing is such a delight to read! I always look forward to your posts! 💖💖💖

That being said, can you please write for a Yuu/reader that has a love for painting (but is shy about showcasing their skill) , and was absolutely taken by Vil's beauty even before they met him? Of course they didn't know that he was a famous actor at first. What if Vil one day finds their sketches and paintings of him after months of knowing him? (hmm preferably after the events of book 6..? 👀)

SO CUTE!!! kicking my legs back and forth at this anonnn

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ the picture of vil schoenheit

type of post: short fic characters: vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

How were you supposed to know?

It's not like Crowley had given you a guide on Night Raven College or its students (though, wouldn't that have been nice?)

I mean, you had to reminded of Trey's last name not two weeks ago. How were you supposed to know who Vil Schoenheit is?

You'd only seem him at a distance. Passed him by in the halls while he scolded some poor first year. He even looked beautiful when he was angry.

He was just made to be painted.

You didn't show your friends the art. You didn't need to give Ace another reason to tease you, and being a stalker would've really been the cherry on top of your weirdness sundae.

Besides, it was just drawing. Practice! Sketches from a distance, doodles done in the margins of your notes, watercolors and paintings from memory...

It felt familiar. This man, this stranger, someone you hadn't even spoken to, made you feel a little closer to home.

.

"Really, you should have some sort of organizational system,"

Vil leafs through pages of alchemy reports and history of magic homework. "Might I suggest a recycling bin?"

You smile. It's not often that your friend- Vil Schoenheit, that is- has a day off. But today is Saturday, and your room is in desperate need of his touch.

"This is... chaotic," he says, brushing a clump of Grim fur off his shoulder. "And you live like this?"

You shrug. "I try,"

"Well, try no more. We'll have this done before dinner,"

His commitment is touching. Millions of screeching fangirls would give anything just to spend five minutes with Vil, and here he is, tidying your room for you.

It's almost cute. He's humming to himself, hair tied back in a ponytail, in one of your shirts (his are too nice to get dirty), sweeping Grim fur out from under your bed.

"Rook and Epel couldn't make it?" you ask, pretending not to care that it's just the two of you.

"I told them not to bother,"

"Oh?"

Vil tsks. "They would get in the way. We're much more efficient on our own- we work well together, after all,"

That's something he'd said before. You'd always wondered what it meant.

"Right,"

You switch places, going to strip your bed of its sheets for washing while Vil tidies your desk.

Off go the pillow cases, the comforter, the blankets. You're wrestling with your mattress when you notice that he hasn't moved in a while.

He's looking through some of the papers from within the bowels of your desk, smiling to himself, a finger held to his perfect lips.

"What?"

"Hm?" he hums, but he doesn't look at you. "Oh, just... admiring your work. You have quite an eye for detail, have I ever told you that?"

He's being weird. You let go of your bundle of bedding and look at what he's holding, but it's just your sketchbook.

Oh. Oh, no. It's your sketchbook.

"OH! Um, wait-" you say, rushing to his side. "Don't- don't look!"

Vil smirks, and he holds the art over your head. "How unfair. The muse should always be the first to see, you know,"

Damn his height and perfect, slender arms!!! Your eyes widen. "It's not what it looks like! I didn't know you when I did those!"

"Yes, I saw the dates. You could make a career out of admiring me, you know~" he chuckles. "I'd pay for these. I'm sure Rook would like a few, as well."

You're practically melting with embarrassment. "Come on- give it back!"

Seeing your pathetic, embarrassed whining, Vil relents, handing you the sketchbook with an eye-roll.

"What are you ashamed of? They're fine pieces,"

"It's not that," you clutch the book to your chest. "It's just- uh- weird, isn't it?"

Vil scoffs. "I'm weird?"

"NO! I meant- I didn't even know you, and I drew you almost every day- that isn't... strange?"

He takes a moment to study you, your body language, the embarrassed look on your face. From head to toe. And then he smiles, warmly.

"I am in a dorm with Rook. There are very, very few things that I find strange now. You admire me- I'm flattered,"

He gingerly takes sketchbook out of your arms and opens it again. "Not to mention, you have an artistic eye that any director would kill for."

You stand there, a little dumbfounded, but mostly very, very grateful that he's your friend, and that you can laugh about this together.

"I'm... well... thank you," you finally say.

Vil smirks, and pinches your cheek. "You're precious. Now, back to work. I want this room over with. These paintings won't frame themselves, will they?"

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Hehehehe okay so what if you like wrote a fic about remus lupin x reader. The reader is a teacher (preferably like astronomy) and they're sneaking around together. students are making bets and stuff to see if they'll end up together, some girls just ship them really hard.

They're trying so hard to keep it a secret but they are so bad at it.

Me @ every guy who isn't a fictional wizard from the 70s ^^

An: This fluff attempt goes out to you, rip

Rumors

Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader

cw: A lot of kisses and cursing, stapler mishandling

Masterlist

WC:4181

The halls of Hogwarts were filled with hushed whispers and mindless patter of gossip. The newest topic of the year? 

Professor {L/N}, the newest astronomy hire. An Alchemist who perfected her work through star charting. Lupin had recommended you for the post to assist Sinistra. Mostly, however, you were hired on to assist with the newest project under Dumbledore. With your studies in the North Pole, you were tasked with on and off communications with the centaur herd within the Forbidden Forest. Specifically, their astronomy masters. It was easy, given your track record with magical creatures. Creating a bridge of mutual understanding between the professors and the herd. Dumbledore also saw you valuable to both potions and alchemy class; meaning you met a lot of students very fast.

So almost everyone knew you, you ran a tight ship in class, playful and respectful to the students paired with a charming personality, no one could bring themselves to even hate you.

That's probably how the rumors began, truthfully. Who doesn't want their two favorite teachers to end up together?

Much like Lupin, the students adored you. Hermione especially, after learning of your academic achievements of the past, while being a muggleborn witch. 

Your first reaction to seeing him probably don't help. First few steps into your new place of employment and you hurry over to the only face you cared to recognize, and give him a hug and a thank you for the recommendation. 

It wasn't anything big and it wasn't anything of a spectacle, but Merlin, was Hogwarts boring. The thrill of gossip seemed to have every student in a choke hold. Some said you were both childhood friends turned lovers, some said you were married and it was a scandalous affair, most of the rumors were just students talking about how perfect you both fit together. 

Your caring, funny, and nurturing behavior, to his stern more rugged form of bonding, you were affectionately dubbed ‘mum and dad.’ 

Never to your face however, and mostly by the first and seventh years. Something about growing shame and losing it in your final days of Hogwarts, remarkable.

~~~

“I'm telling you! He looks at her like she is the very stars she teaches us about!” A seventh year sighed dreamily with her friends. She had her chin in her palms and was staring up at the front of class while a few of their classmates took the practical exam. “I wish someone would look at me like that.”

“Really! I haven't seen so much tension between two faculty before! I wouldn't be surprised to find them snogging in the halls!” One of them joked and the other girls laughed.

“Truly, but I saw Professor {L/N} wearing a wedding ring. She took it off and put it in her pocket before class started. I wonder if they are, you know~ Never have I seen Professor Lupin wear one.” She wiggled her eyebrows and the original girl spoke up with a gasp.

“Oh don't you say that! Professor Lupin and Professor {L/N} would never!” She tutted and another voice chimed in, a boy from a seat behind them, making the three turn.

“I heard that they spent Christmas at school together.” Cedric cheeked and the three girls gasped and began to murmur among themselves about it, before Lupin clapped his hands.

He found it a bit amusing, he had let them continue that far. This is what his classes have become, listening to the students muttering about him and you, seeing how close they could possibly get to the truth. Remus, at a fault, was a gossip. He learned to love the thrill of rumors from Sirius and James, but what was better than rumors about you and a colleague? Rumors about you and a colleague that were so close to the truth.

“Right now! Who's next?”

The rest of the class went smoothly, everyone finished their exams and the classroom began to file out. As Lupin got comfortable in his seat, his door peaked open.

“If you are here for tutoring, please note my hours are posted on the door, this first hour has been reserved already.” Lupin called out from his chair, head leaned back. 

“Tutoring, hm?” A song-like voice rang out from the door. He slowly smirked and leaned forward, eyes locking onto yours. You were holding a box of Merlin knows what, walking straight up to his desk with that beautiful smile. 

“Is that so unbelievable?” He teased, voice lower as he stood up and walked around his desk. Looking over your shoulder to peek into the box, seeing several random objects, including a stapler, a retractable ruler, a metal pointing stick, and other random muggle things.

“Oh, totally. I think I remember you almost lost it when Peter asked for your notes.” You teased him and he chuckled, his breath brushing against your neck. He admired the way you seemed to not flinch, but melt into his proximity. 

“Peter was a terrible student.” He mumbled and you laughed, his hand slipping around your waist and leaning down to kiss the side of your neck. You laughed harder and squirmed away. 

“Hands to yourself. Now, show me where I can hide this contraband.” You lifted the box and shook it a bit. “The things they allow in muggle schools! Hmph!” You mused and he laughed, walking you up to his office and to the far back near a storage closet. He opened the door for you and you set the box down, looking around curiously.

The room was small, but big enough for four people to stand in it comfortably. The walls were covered in shelves filled with items from all over the school years, you ran your finger along one of the shelves and let the dust collect.

“What's on your mind, hm?” Lupin mused and you turned to smirk at him.

“Just wondering where they are hiding the really bad stuff. Still in Filtch’s closet?” You hummed as he stepped into the small room with you. His eyes looked you over and you gave him a look.

“Why's that, darling?”

“Just curious, out of all the things in that closet,” You hummed as Remus wrapped his arms around your middle and pulled you against him. Your fingers dancing along his shirt collar. “Wonder how many of them were from you and that little gang of yours.” You hummed and he laughed.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to yours. It was chaste and sweet. He loved moments like this, away from everyone, where he could love you properly. He gave a hum as you got on your toes and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down as he pulled you closer.

~~~

“I truly don't  think they have something going on. It's maddening really! The whole school seems to see it but me!” Ron groaned as he walked down the hall with Harry and Hermione, seemingly offended at the idea that the new Astronomy teacher was dating or even had interest in Lupin.

"I wouldn't put too much stock in rumors about someone's love life, Ronald," Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, sorry Ron, but you're kind of…” Harry rolled his wrists and Ron narrowed his eyes.

“Kind of what?” 

“Kind of..” Harry trailed off.

“Kind of a complete idiot when it comes to love.” Hermione finally snapped, hugging her books to her chest. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to meet Professor Lupin.” She huffed and stomped off.

Ron was left standing there like an idiot, looking over at Harry. 

“What did I do?”

Harry tried to hide his smile and patted Ron's shoulder to urge him along and out of the halls.

~~~

The kiss had grown a bit heated, Remus pushed you deeper into the closet as he muttered about how badly he needed to have you in his arms. How much he loved you, how he wanted you closer, so impossibly close.

You, of course, returned the sentiment. He was made for your hands it seemed, every moment he wasn't between them made you yearn for just another hour of listless cuddles or moments like this. Sneaking away from responsibilities to show your love and devotion to one another. 

If only it could last longer-

“Professor Lupin?” Hermione's voice called out into his office. Remus cursed and you quickly stumbled back. He cleared his throat, shuffling through the confiscated objects, to find anything he could snag. 

“I'll be out in a moment!” He called back as you fixed his tie and ruffled shirt, he grabbed the first thing he spotted and stole another quick kiss from you before leaving the room.

You leaned against a shelf and watched from the crack of the door in amusement as Lupin hurried to his desk.

“Ms. Granger, I am terribly sorry, is it possible for us to reschedule?” Remus pressed and looked at what he had in his hand.

A stapler.

Why on earth did he grab a stapler?

Quickly he sat at his desk and pulled out a few assignments. Grabbing some he had already graded and began to staple them together. 

Hermione was no fool and he knew that, she stared at him in bewilderment, slowly putting her hands on her books tighter. “Uhm, Professor? Isn't that the stapler Professor {L/N} confiscated from Creevey?” 

Lupin began to staple things a bit quicker, waving her off. 

“Yes, Ms. Granger, I think it would be, but I did borrow it from the confiscated,” He weaned on, collected and poised, a bit too good at putting up a face. Everytime you two have almost been caught, he's shown this side. 

“Why would you possibly need a stapler?” He asked in disbelief.

“To.. staple?” He lifted his eyebrow at her. “I do appreciate your curiosity, but I assure you this is none of your concern.” He spoke idley, having opened the stapler and pressed the top down against the pages and his table. Hermione seemed appalled at the misuse. 

“Now, if you'll please allow me to pick another time-” Before he could finish his statement, he attempted to raise his hand, only for his wrist to be locked in place. He looked down, just to see he had stapled his own sleeve to the desk under a few pages of paper. 

You had to cover your mouth and so did Hermione.

“Uhm, on second thought, sir, I think I'll spend my study hour in the library.” She slowly smirked, turning to briskly walk away.

Remus slowly sunk his face into his hands, the second his classroom door was closed he waved his hand to shut his office door. Only for the room to be filled with your laughter.

You walked out of the room, holding your sides as Lupin lost his front and stared at you with flushed cheeks.

“Not a word-”

“No! No please!” You wheezed out. “Several! Several words must be had!” You doubled over his desk, struggling to get the staple from his sleeves, when you finally managed, you were throwing your head back absolutely lost in boisterous laughter.

Remus wasn't even mad. How could he be? You looked so damn happy. So giddy with joy at the embarrassing show he put on. Quickly, he stood, walking around his desk with a purpose and grabbed your cheeks. You were still struggling to catch your breath as he playfully scoffed at you.

“Not very polite, Professor {L/N}.” He taunted and you grabbed his biceps and clung to him to try and clam down. It didn't help when he leaned down and began to pepper kisses all over your hot face. 

“Mercy!” You wheezed and he shook his head.

“What happened to all those words, Professor?” He teased and you shook your head, giggling as he absolutely mawled you with his lips.

~~~

The Grandhall was lively with the buzz of Sirius Black’s attacks. Managing to get into the Gryffindors’ common room was a feat that bewildered everyone.

However, what everyone was truly talking about was how he broke into the astronomy tower and Professor {L/N}’s office. It had managed to get out that Sirius Black himself left you a note that Dumbledore promptly confiscated. More accurately, the conversation was about how unbothered you were about the news.

That, and how a certain professor reacted to that news. 

He had gone down to the commons with McGonagall to check on Harry and the other students. Only when Flitwick came up in a rush and announced the break in and how you were nowhere to be found, the students watched in horror and shock as Lupin pulled his wand and ran from the towers at a speed they couldn't determine was truly human.

He found you soon after, running down the hall towards the Gryffindor tower, also looking for Harry. He stopped and pulled you into a tight hold no one could see. You were confused at first, but you eventually melted into him. You two were spied on by none other than Colin Creevey, who snapped a photo and was showing it around the lunch table. 

“See! I knew it! What a romantic! Ran straight to her in the face of danger?” One of the seventh years swooned and Ron scoffed.

“I don't get it, it's just two people hugging.” He mumbled and began to poke at his food, the twins giving each other a look before they rushed to tease Ron.

“Two people hugging,” Fred started.

“Hands below the waist!” George chimed in, holding up the photo as if to emphasize his point, gesturing to where Lupin's hands were holding you so tight your heels were slightly off the ground.

“Oh, how scandalous.” Fred concurred and Ron rolled his eyes.

“I hug Hermione, does that make us secretly married?” Ron pushed and Hermione quickly looked down at her book in a slight flush. 

“You wish.” George snickered and Fred clapped his hand on Ron's back, making him cough on his potatoes.

“Really, Ronald dearest, you wouldn't know the difference. You hardly know how to hold a girl now.” He teased and George nodded along.

“You'll get there one day, brother. For now you'll have to trust us.”

“This,” They both pointed this time.

“Is not a normal hug.” Both of them spoke at the same time.

Angelica finally spoke up. “Given the context, that man is whipped. Even if nothing is happening now, he is so in love it's humbling.” She got up and gathered her Quidditch gear.

“Come on boys.”

“Right behind you.” Fred purred and earned himself a look from her over her shoulder, George laughed as the three of them hurried off. Leaving the photo for Ginny to pick up.

“Oh yeah, there is absolutely no platonic explanation for this.” She hummed and tossed it to the center of the table, Neville shrugged, no wanting to contribute. 

“I think that whatever is happening between those two, it's clear they care about each other.” Hermione hummed and Harry finally agreed. Suddenly, he looked at his friends with a look of absolute mischief.

“Do you know how we can find out?” He mused and Hermione gave a groan and Ron shot up in his seat.

“How?”

Harry smirked and pulled out the map the twins had gifted him, showing it off to his friends with a cocky smirk. You had caught him with it days ago, and simply zipped your lips and walked away.

“If they are meeting anywhere, it's likely the astronomy tower.”

~~~

Now.. the plan didn't go exactly as planned.

“And I simply can not comprehend how all three of you continue to be the only Gryffindors I've had to reprimand this year!” Lupin’s voice filled the otherwise silent and empty Defense Against The Dark Arts classroom. Unfortunately for the trio, who were out far past curfew, Lupin just so happened to be on his way to the Astronomy tower when he spotted them seemingly just on time for his arrival.

“What about my brothers?” Ron muttered before Hermione shot him a look, elbow jabbing his side.

“Ronald.” She hissed.

The entirety of Hogwarts Valley had been buzzing with the news of Sirius Black’s newest escapade into the castle and Lupin could not comprehend why the three thought it was a good idea to do everything but what they were told. 

“Safety comes first and for me to find you lot outside of your dorms with a murder on the loose? With this bloody-” Lupin began to lift the map before his eyes snapped up at the sound of his door opening. He quickly shut his mouth when he saw you peak into the dark space.

“Remus?” You called out, before you paused and stared at the four infront of you. Your mind firing off a million excuses in quick succession. “Oh, I was unaware you had company.”

Lupin sighed and rubbed his face, seeming to untangle himself from the thralls of his anger. It wasn't uncommon for you two to find eachother late at night like this, but was certainly not the greatest idea of his yet- reprimanding the trio when he knew you'd be coming. As you always did when he didn't meet you at the Astronomy tower as promised. His favorite part of the end of a stressful day was a night full of whispers, stories and playful remarks. Reminiscing on your school years while recreating some memories long forgotten after the war. This time, not in his dorm, but his office or your room. “It's quite alright. I can still review your lesson plans.”

He was a terrifyingly good liar. That should not be attractive.

“Right. I will be in your office, Lupin.” You remarked and began to walk past the group of three who looked at you like you might save them. Sorry kiddos- he was grumpy enough as it was. 

You gave them a grimace, glancing at the map before quickly looking away with wide eyes and hurrying over to the office. Lupin caught the look and held up his hand. “Stop.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and slowly turned to face him. Giving him your adorable nervous look that you knew didn't work on him- well, you tried.

He made a come hither motion and you walked over, ready to be lectured like the kids beside you. He held up the map and you gave a nervous smile. 

“What? However, did you find this, Harry? This is supposed to be in Flinch’s office!” You gave the worst and most unbelievable fake disappointed tone, hands on your hips and frowning down at the three. You struggled not to smile as Harry gave a small one, before laughing a bit. Hermione covered her face in a mix of fluster and secondhand embarrassment. Ron was grinning ear to ear. 

“{L/N}...” Lupin warned and you huffed.

“You got me in trouble with the big boss here, Harry.” You teased and he finally cracked his lips into a brighter smile. You looked back at Remus and slowly interlocked your fingers in front of your lips, as if it did anything to hide your face. “In my defense-”

“You three are dismissed.” He mused quickly and slammed the paper on the table beside him. You tried your best to hide your smile. It was hard to take him seriously when you have seen him panic and staple his sleeve to a desk. The trio hurried to shuffle out, Harry sent you a greatful look and you simply winked at him. Something Remus rolled his eyes at.

“Did you see Harry with the map?” He asked in a stern tone when the kids left. You looked away and tried to look a little regretful. 

“It's very possible.” 

“And you didn't think to take it?” He asked in an incredulous tone.

“I mean, it certainly crossed my mind.” You slowly stopped hiding your smile and looked back to the taller man who was taking a few steps into your space.

“And you didn't?” He pushed.

“Well, in all fairness, Rem. It is technically his.” You snarked back finally and Remus gave a bitter laugh. 

“Professor {L/N}, did you think that maybe if this map fell into the wrong hands it could cause a serious danger to Harry?” He pushed and you clicked your tongue. You knew who he was talking about. A conversation you've had a million times, well, more an argument. It got worse when he heard of the note.

He was so willing to believe Sirius Black to be a killer, while you believed Sirius could bring himself to the point of ending someone's life, James Potter was more than a human to him. Even with his plea of guilty, you couldn't believe it. James, Lily, and Harry? You would stake your life on it. He was innocent.

It was what you were looking for, an explanation, hopefully that was what the note was for. But unlike your communications with the magical creatures of the forest, Dumbledore was not so willing to give up information when he had it. The old prick-

“I hate when we talk about this.” You huffed in honesty and leaned back on one of the desks of the room. He sighed through his nose and pinched the bridge that connected it to his forehead. “Honey-”

“Ah ah ah! Honey is for marriage.” You mused and he did his best to fight the smile growing on his face. Easily letting you steer the conversation from his own negative thoughts, he hated being upset around you. “That so?”

“It's very so. More so than most so’s.” You hummed and he blinked a few times at you before he couldn't help but smirk. 

“Give me my mother's ring back then.” He mused and held out his hand. You have a faux gasp. 

“Excuse you, sir. I seem to remember your mother telling you this belonged to me.” 

“When we were 18!” He challenged, letting himself fall victim to your antics. Like school children. “And last I checked, your reaction was less then pleasant.”

“We had been dating for a year and I was going to the North Pole in my defense, tart boy.” You scoffed and cringed at the memory. How you practically fall out of your chair when Hope made a comment about her ring. 

“Tart boy?”

“Tart boy.”

“I'll show you a tart boy.” He scoffed and took your cheeks. You giggled like a goofball, grabbing his lapels and trying to pull him closer. He smirked at you and kept his distance.

“Remus-” You huffed and glared at him a bit. His smirk only grew as he reached into your pocket, pulling out the modest gem. You rolled your eyes fondly and held out your hand for him, he slipped the ring back in its rightful place.

“Sorry, call me old fashioned. But I'd like to kiss my fiancé, not my coworker.” He teased and you couldn't help but laugh. 

“You absolute sap.”

“Hard not to be.” He mumbled and leaned in, finally kissing you. Both your eyelids lowered but he held eye contact. So much affection bumbling in your chests, it was too much to look away. Eventually, you gave into your shyness, closing your eyes. He slowly pushed your knees apart and slipped between them, making your face grow hot.

He pulled away at this and you huffed, he smirked at you when you looked back up at him. “Hey, sir, your lips on mine again. It's a marital duty and all that jazz.”

“Thought we had to be married for marital privileges, honey?” 

“Oh don't use anything I say around you against me, I can hardly think.”

He bellowed out a laugh at your mischievous look up at him. Slowly biting your lip as you struggled to keep your confident act up.

“Whatever will I do with you, {L/N}?”

“Well, I have a few ideas.” You hummed and began to fiddle with his tie. He curled an eyebrow and you looked forward, looking up at his hazel eyes with a playful pout. “Kiss me again. I promise, you keep my lips occupied, no more bad behavior.”

“Because you won't be able to talk?” 

“Precisely.”

“What in the world!?” You suddenly heard from the far corner of the room. Your face filled with shock and snapped over to see an empty corner, you could of sworn you heard Ronald just a moment ago.

 Remus quickly moved from between your legs and waved his wand, yanking off the invisibility cloak to reveal an appalled Ron, a delighted Harry, and a flustered Hermione.

“Bloody hell!” Remus boomed and you covered your mouth and looked away. Doing your best not to laugh.

“Yes, mum and dad do kiss when the kids are away.” You cheeked and Remus looked at you like you had just made some grand offense to his ears.

Hermione giggled and Harry’s smile grew ten fold.

Ron, however, seemed very displeased.

“I owe the twins so much money.”

[heesmiles]

HOW TO HEX A HEART k.th

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇  7.5K ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairing s𝜗𝜚 ravenclaw ! taehyun ៹ hufflepuff ! reader ᧁ; angst ˒ fantasy ˒ hogwarts au

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ angst hogwarts au grumpy x sunshine academic rivals to lovers yearning characters are aged up set in a college like hogwarts setting ft sunoo (enhypen)

in which୨୧ ㅤִ Love was sacred, love was rare, love was fleeting...but Taehyun wanted none of it. Instead searching for a fullfilling life in the pages of texts books and viles filled with potions, your cheery personality and natural smarts did little for his ego and too much damage to his high standings in all of Hogwarts academics. He must put a stop to it...if he wished to stay on top.

★ !rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . chat I'm so excited!! This is apart of a collab I'm doing with my fellow writers and friends: the nine and three quarters collab. I hope ya'll enjoy. guys I actually hate how rushed this is. I'm sorry!! i wrote it ages ago for our event and it’s been siting in the drafts for a while now, i can honestly say….its not even nearly close to my best work. i wish it was better because taehyun deserve better! i’ll be writing my coraline fic soon as a redemption arc for tae, i swear by it!

The dungeon was alive with a symphony of simmering cauldrons and chattering students, the air thick with the sharp tang of fluxweed and the earthy musk of powdered root of asphodel. Candles floated above the stone tables, flickering with a lazy indifference, casting golden halos across glass vials and worn parchment. You sat hunched over your cauldron, stirring clockwise; then counterclockwise, exactly as the textbook instructed, though you liked to think you added a little flair to your technique. Beside you, Sunoo leaned over to check your progress, his face drawn in a mix of admiration and mild panic. 

“I swear mine’s more brown than bronze,” he whispered, frowning at his own mixture. 

“It’s because you’re overthinking it again,” you giggled, nudging him gently. “You have to let the potion speak to you. Feel the ingredients. Make a little magic of your own, y’know?” He rolled his eyes but smiled, accustomed to your blend of mysticism and mischief. You were sunshine in a bottle, golden, glowing, maybe a little overwhelming on days like this, but endlessly kind, brimming with a passion for the craft that made even the most monotonous ingredients feel like keys to a hidden kingdom. You adored Potions. It was alchemy and artistry, mystery and discipline, all bubbling into something beautiful. 

“Alright, ingredients table, now!” barked Professor Oakenhart from the front of the class, his robes flaring dramatically as he paced. “Step carefully. If you spill the unicorn hair again, Nott, I will make you polish the cauldrons with your tears.” You perked up immediately, hand shooting into the air before anyone else could even blink. “I’ll go!” you chimed, hopping up from your stool and bouncing toward the table with a spring in your step.

But in your unbridled enthusiasm, you didn’t see him. Kang Taehyun. Towering. Silent. Cold as the dungeons themselves and twice as sharp. He was the kind of student who didn’t just read the textbook — he memorized the footnotes, corrected the professor’s misquotes, and brewed potions with the precision of a seasoned apothecary. And he hated you. Not in the way someone hates a rainstorm or a bad meal; no, he hated you with purpose. Your effortless charm, your laughter echoing across the corridors, the way professors smiled just a little too brightly when you answered questions correctly. Worst of all, you matched him. In test scores, potion grades, practicals. You were sunshine to his storm cloud. And it infuriated him. 

So when you turned and smacked straight into his chest, your half-filled vial of brewed Knotgrass solution flying from your hand and splattering all across the front of his pristine uniform, it was more than an accident. It was an act of war. “Oh—oh my god—I didn’t see you—! I’m so sorry!” you gasped, hands fluttering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to mop it up or vanish into the floor. “It was an accident, really, I didn’t—” 

“Obviously it was an accident,” Taehyun cut in, voice cold and clipped, The potion dripped from his vest in sluggish streaks, soaking into the ravenclaw blue. “Next time, try looking where you're going instead of skipping around like some deranged fairy” You blinked, momentarily stunned by the venom in his tone.

“I—” But he was already striding off toward Professor Oakenhart, presumably to report the offense and extract his revenge in the form of docked house points or an extra essay. The silence he left in his wake felt oddly loud, like someone had extinguished the warmth in the room. You returned to your seat with what you hoped was dignity, though your cheeks burned and your heart thudded a little too loudly in your chest. Sunoo was watching you, eyes wide.

“That was brutal,” he whispered. “Are you alright?” You forced a bright smile, even though the potion fumes still clung to your nose and your pride felt a bit bruised. “Just peachy!” you chirped, plopping back onto your stool and picking up your ladle. “Besides, a little Knotgrass never hurt anyone. Except maybe his ego.”

Sunoo snorted into his sleeve. Somewhere behind you, you swore you could feel Taehyun’s glare like a knife to your spine. 

Professor Oakenhart clapped his hands for silence, the crystalline ting-ting-ting of his silver rings against his wand echoing through the vaulted stone. Bubbling cauldrons fell obediently to a hush, the once-lively chatter collapsing into a hush so complete you could hear the delicate pop of fluxweed bladders bursting in the brew. Oakenhart let the hush linger, he enjoyed suspense the way a sphinx savors riddles; before letting his voice pour down like cold mountain water. 

“Next year’s class prefect,” he announced, letting the words hang, “will be chosen in three weeks’ time. The badge will go”, his dark eyes skimmed the room, “to the student who best embodies the virtues that keep this ancient castle alive: scholarly excellence, unwavering helpfulness, and the kind of leadership that does not require howling at those beneath you.” His gaze flicked, ever so briefly, toward the Ravenclaw benches, then to you in your Hufflepuff yellow, where you sat up straighter on reflex. A hush of anticipation prickled through the air, sparking like powdered moonstone hitting hot embers. 

It took no more than a heartbeat for both your hands and Taehyun’s to shoot skyward, mirror images of ambition in two very different skins. Your arm rose with sunshine optimism, sleeve fluttering like a pennant above a castle tower; Taehyun’s lifted with predatory precision, elbow locked, fingers slicing the air as if claiming rightful territory. Two comets on intersecting orbits. “Questions?” Oakenhart invited, his thin smile hinting that questions were only respectable if they tasted of genuine curiosity and not vanity.

Taehyun noticed you first, noticed the way your fingertips wiggled for attention as though determined to catch falling starlight, and a quiet scuff of disapproval hissed past his teeth. “Little miss perfect,” he muttered under his breath, the phrase delivered like a curse brewed from nettle and spite. But the professor’s nod landed on you, not him. You stood, straightening your robes with a soft brush of palms, and the dungeon’s torchlight caught the hopeful glimmer in your eyes. “Professor,” you began, voice warm as summer rain, “will academic collaboration — tutoring students outside one’s own house, for example; count toward the leadership criterion, or is it measured strictly by individual achievement?” The question sailed across the room, thoughtful and earnest, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon from the potion still clinging to your cuffs. 

Taehyun’s scoff was immediate, a low, velvety sound of contempt. “It’s hardly rocket science,” he drawled, loud enough for the nearest cauldrons to tremble. “Prefects inspire excellence, they don’t spoon-feed it. Obviously individual performance weighs heaviest.” His sarcasm slithered through the air like a smoky serpent, confident that everyone would see the answer as plain as daylight. 

Instead of bristling, you turned to him with the brightness of a heliotrope bending toward dawn. You dipped your head, just a fraction and let a beatific smile unfurl, soft and sincere. “Thank you, Taehyun,” you replied, voice edged with honeyed cordiality. “But I find that shining your light helps others see where they’re going, and what’s leadership if not lighting the path?” Your gentle retort glimmered with the audacity of grace, and the dungeon seemed to flicker brighter for a heartbeat. The sight of your tilted head and unconquerable optimism struck Taehyun like a spell gone awry. A low, involuntary snarl rasped from his throat, a feral sound quickly smothered behind a pursed line of lips, but not before you caught it, not before half the class saw the flash of winter in his eyes. The tension between you twanged like a harp string wound too tight: one pluck away from music, one tug away from breaking.  

Professor Oakenhart cleared his throat, once, sharply, expelling the storm before it could fully gather. “An astute question, Miss, Yes, mentorship and cross-house assistance will be tallied.” He inclined his head toward you with a hint of approval, then pivoted to Taehyun. “Mr. Kang, if you have a different inquiry, do raise your hand properly rather than providing commentary mid-air.” A ripple of muted laughter swept the benches, but your gaze held steady on Taehyun’s. Where his irises turned to flint, yours softened to amber, and in that quiet, smoldering stalemate something unspoken sparked, an ember that might turn to wildfire or to warmth, given time and care. For now, though, it merely glowed, pulsing in the shadowed dungeon like a promise you both refused to name. 

Sunoo nudged your elbow the moment you sat, wide-eyed and whispering, “I think you just poked a Hungarian Horntail.” You responded with an easy grin, quill poised to continue your notes. “Better a Horntail awake,” you murmured, “than a dragon who never learns how bright fire can be.” Across the aisle, Taehyun pressed a palm flat to the cool desk, steadying himself against the tremor of unfamiliar emotion. His quill scratched furious strokes into his parchment; ink as dark as midnight vows, but beneath that practiced scowl, a new question brewed in secret: How does one extinguish sunshine…without first stepping into its light? 

After the classroom became a quiet hush, everyone working silently alongside their partners, Professor Oakenheart instructs Taehyun and yourself to rise and follow him to his desk. “You will both report to the potion storeroom tonight. Seven o’clock. No excuses. And no magic.” He says with a sigh. “I cannot have students arguing in class, it’s unsavory.” 

“Yes, Mr. Oakenheart.” You say with the downward tilt of your head. Taehyun didn’t say a word. His robes still glistened from your accidental splash, the potion drying in uneven patches across his sleeve. He glanced at you once, briefly, with all the warmth of a midwinter frost, then turned away. 

You walk back to your seat next to Sunoo solemnly, sitting down next to him silently. Sunoo whispered, “You’re cursed,” under his breath as you sat back down. You grinned and whispered back, “Just peachy.” 

–

Seven o’clock arrived like a tolling bell, and the potion storeroom, usually locked, usually silent, opened with a low groan as Professor Oakenhart wordlessly ushered you both inside. The room was narrow and cluttered, lit by a handful of enchanted lanterns that hovered in lazy loops, casting golden light onto rows of old wooden shelves. Vials of powdered roots and dried wings lined the walls, their labels yellowed and curling at the edges. The air was rich with the scent of earth and time; rosehips, wolfsbane, peppermint, and mildew. “You’ll sort and organize all of this,” the professor said, gesturing to a chaotic pile of unbottled ingredients and stained glassware stacked across the center table. “Without the use of wands. You leave when it’s done.” 

Then he left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with an ominous finality. You turned to Taehyun with a sheepish smile. “Well… could be worse.”

Taehyun didn’t even glance at you. “Could be over faster if you stopped talking.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, grabbing a jar of shriveled billywig stingers. “You act like I spilled that potion on purpose.”

“You didn’t not spill it,” he muttered, picking through a box of dried dittany leaves with the care of a jeweler inspecting glass. “You’re always fluttering around like a butterfly with no sense of direction. No wonder you can’t stay upright.” You rolled your eyes and tossed your hair back defiantly. “You’re so dramatic. One splash of Dreamless Sleep on your sleeve and you act like I’ve ruined your career.”

“That potion was for me, actually,” he snapped. “A concentration tonic. For my study schedule. Unlike you, I don’t need to flirt my way through classes.” The words hit like a slap; sharp, misplaced, and far too personal. 

You blinked. “I wasn’t flirting, Taehyun.” He didn’t reply. Just turned, his fingers tight around the neck of a decanter filled with bluebell essence. The silence stretched long and brittle. You turned back to the shelves, trying to focus on alphabetizing vials instead of the heat rising to your cheeks. You hated that he could twist your sunshine into something shallow. You hated that it hurt a little, even if you knew better. It was when you were climbing a rickety step stool to reach a jar of flobberworm mucus that it happened, your foot caught on a crooked rung, and the world tilted sharply. You yelped, arms flailing for balance, but gravity was faster. 

And Taehyun; curse him, was there. He caught you by the waist in a startled breath, your chest nearly colliding with his, both of you frozen in a strange, suspended heartbeat. For one unbearable second, the air was different. He smelled like cloves and parchment and the faint memory of apples. His hands were warm through the fabric of your robes. Your face was tilted up to his, and his jaw tightened like he was holding back a thought that tasted too much like truth. Then he let go. 

You stumbled back with a startled gasp, catching yourself against a shelf just in time to stop an entire row of beetle eyes from toppling to the floor. “You—!” you started.

“I’m not your babysitter,” he snapped, brushing his hands down his robes like your presence had scorched him. “You’re so dramatic,” you said again, this time with venom. “One second you’re catching me, the next you act like I’ve hexed you.”

“And you’re unbearable,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous. “Always smiling, always talking, always pretending the world is sugar and stars. It’s exhausting.” You stared at him, chest heaving, the light from the lanterns catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the irritated furrow in his brow. But underneath all that anger; buried like a secret, was something else.

You exhaled slowly. “Maybe it’s not pretend.” Taehyun said nothing. Just turned back to his work, jaw clenched, knuckles white where they gripped a jar of valerian root. 

You returned to the pile of unsorted ingredients with a huff, brushing the dust from your skirt and refusing to meet his eyes. The silence between you wasn’t peaceful, it was brittle, strained, the kind of silence that creaked like a staircase in an old manor, aching to be broken. Taehyun was the one who cracked first. “Maybe if you focused half as much on your work as you do on being liked, you wouldn’t be in detention.”

You turned sharply, a vial of crushed lovage seeds in one hand. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did. I’m just stunned you think being liked is a flaw.”

He scoffed, not looking up from the set of empty phials he was aligning by size. “Popularity isn’t the same as talent.”

“And coldness isn’t the same as intelligence,” you snapped. “Just because you glare through every lecture doesn’t make you smarter than everyone else.” He finally turned to face you, eyes flashing like lightning behind stormcloud lashes. “I’m not cold. I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

You stepped closer, your arms crossed now, potion dust glittering faintly on your sleeves like constellation flecks. “You’re so scared someone else might outshine you that you treat everyone like competition.” 

“No one has outshined me,” he replied, voice like steel. “Until you.” 

The silence that followed was a strange one. Thicker. Quieter. Like the world had taken a step back to let those words hang between you — taunting, trembling, true. You blinked. “What?”

He looked away too fast. “Forget it.”

“No, you said—” You took a step closer, your heart thudding, not from the argument, but from the accidental confession strung beneath it. “You said until me. You think I’ve outshined you?” 

“I think you’re exhausting,” he muttered, back to organizing now with unnecessary force, placing bottles like they’d offended him personally. “You breeze through everything like it’s easy. People like you. Professors praise you. And somehow, despite all your little smiles and your sunshine-and-daisies attitude, you’re still top of the class.” You stared at him, stunned. “You think I haven’t worked for this?”

“I think you’ve never needed to work as hard,” he hissed, not cruel but bitter, like it was a wound he’d carried for too long. “You show up and everyone adores you. I have to fight for everything.”

Your voice softened. “That’s not my fault, Taehyun.” He paused, a jar of dried mint frozen in his hand.

“No,” he said, after a breath. “It’s not. But it still feels like I’m running a race you get to skip the hurdles for.” You didn’t know what to say to that. The space between you wasn’t so wide now. Just one potion-stained table and a pile of unsaid things.

“I don’t try to make you feel that way,” you said, quieter now. “I just… I like being here. I like learning. I like this world. It’s not about beating you.” Taehyun exhaled, slowly. “It’s always been about beating me.” You looked at him then; really looked. The precision of his posture. The tension in his shoulders. The fury not just with you, but with himself. With his need to win. And buried beneath that, the fear of what it might mean to lose to someone like you.

“Maybe,” you said gently, “it doesn’t have to be a race.” He looked up, and for the first time, he didn’t seem angry. Just tired. And quietly, painfully aware of you in a way that went far deeper than rivalry ever could. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said, but his voice had lost its edge.

You tilted your head and smiled; not mockingly, but softly. “Maybe I would.” He didn’t smile back.

–

The sky was ink-blue, bruised with stars. The Astronomy Tower stood quiet, wind whispering through the slits in the stone as if the castle itself was holding its breath. The hour was late enough that most students had turned in, their dormitories dim with drowsy candlelight and dreams. But you couldn’t sleep. Something in the air tonight felt unsettled. Heavy. Like the prelude to a storm, but not one outside. 

A strange instinct tugged at you; soft and insistent. So you wandered, slippers padding across stone, drawn not by sound but by silence. You found him there. Taehyun. Perched on the low ledge of the Astronomy Tower with his knees pulled up and his arms resting on them, his robes dark against the greystone, face upturned toward a sky he didn’t seem to be seeing. There was something wrong in the stillness of him.

He was always sharp in class, always stiff with pride, always holding himself like a blade; ready to cut, ready to be cut. But here, under the stars, he looked… tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. The kind that came from being measured too often. From being whittled down into something small and perfect and hollow. You approached gently, your footsteps careful. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you at all. Just kept his gaze fixed forward, eyes unreadable, expression carved from stone.

But you saw the parchment clutched in one hand, wrinkled and shaking slightly in the wind. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t need to. The way his shoulders curled inward, the way his mouth pressed into a thin, unfeeling line; it told you enough. So you sat beside him. You didn’t speak. Didn’t press. Just opened your satchel and wordlessly held out a Chocolate Frog, your last one. You kept it for exam days and rainy Sundays, but tonight, it felt like he needed it more than you. For a second, he didn’t move. Then, without looking at you, he took it. His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Tense. But real.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t tease. You just sat beside him in silence, letting the stars be the only witnesses. Letting the wind pass between you like breath. Letting kindness be quiet and simple and soft. And when you left, he still hadn’t spoken. Still hadn’t looked at you. But the Chocolate Frog wrapper sat folded neatly on the ledge when you returned the next day.

The next morning in Potions, everything feels almost normal. Almost. You and Sunoo arrive late, breathless from a stairwell that decided halfway through to rotate in the wrong direction. Professor Oakenhart levels you both with a tired glare, but waves you in without comment. You settle into your seat and reach for your ingredients; belladonna, porcupine quills, armadillo bile, your fingers moving on instinct while your mind drifts elsewhere.

To the Astronomy Tower. To the letter he never spoke of. To the way he never thanked you. To the way you hadn’t needed him to. It happens so fast you barely register it. A soft pop. A hiss. The sharp crack of glass. And then, boom. Your cauldron erupts in a bloom of green smoke and sparks, a chemical chaos that splashes up in a hot rush of steam and acrid potion. You flinch, arms flying up to protect your face, heart hammering in your throat. But nothing touches you.

Because in the heartbeat before the blast, a shield spell snaps into place; silver and curved like a falling star, held firm by a voice you know too well. “Protego.” When the smoke clears, you’re blinking through tears, more from shock than anything and coughing through the haze. Your cauldron is scorched, bubbling like a wounded beast, and Sunoo is somewhere under the table muttering prayers. 

But all you can see is Taehyun. Standing across the aisle. His wand still raised. His hair mussed slightly from the force of the blast. His robes dusted with soot and powdered nettle. He says nothing. Just looks at you for one long, unreadable moment. Then lowers his wand, turns on his heel, and walks back to his seat like nothing happened. You stare after him, stunned. Because it wasn’t like him to help. It wasn’t like him to notice. But he had. And something in your chest warms like sunlight over frost. 

The Professor grumbles something about careless brewing, assigns a week’s worth of clean-up duties, and moves on. But you don’t care. You’re still staring at the back of Taehyun’s head, and the words you didn’t say last night echo louder now than ever: Maybe it doesn’t have to be a race.

– 

Snow had draped itself over the castle like a dream.

Hogwarts shimmered under winter’s enchantment, its towers crowned with frost, its courtyards glowing gold with fairy lights. Students bustled about in robes lined with velvet, their laughter rising with each breath like smoke into the star-splattered sky. Tonight wasn’t the Yule Ball, not exactly, it was something smaller, softer. A midwinter celebration organized by the Prefects and Professors: music in the Great Hall, warm drinks passed from student to student, and the magic of December clinging to every flickering candle. You arrived with Sunoo, cheeks flushed, hair kissed with snow. Laughter danced on your lips before you even crossed the threshold, Sunoo telling a joke that made your sides ache, your friends gathering around like stars drawn to your gravity. You were radiant in your winter robes, something golden in your grin. You loved nights like this. Nights full of warmth and wonder. Nights where the world felt like it belonged to you.

He was already there. Taehyun stood on the far edge of the room, near the refreshment table but untouched by it. Alone. Always alone. His Ravenclaw blue scarf hung loose around his neck, frost still clinging to the hems of his sleeves, and his expression unreadable, carved from cool stone.You didn’t notice him at first. Not really. Not until someone asked you to dance.

It was a boy from Gryffindor, tall, smiling, a little shy. He offered you his hand and you, ever the sun, said yes without hesitation. Your friends cheered. Sunoo nudged you playfully. And soon, the two of you were spinning between floating candles, the music lifting your steps, your laughter like honey and light. Taehyun noticed. He noticed the way your head tipped back when you laughed. The way your hands fit so easily into someone else’s. The way you looked, joyful, unguarded, lovely, and not at all like the girl who once gave him her last Chocolate Frog in silence.

He didn’t stay. He turned before he could think better of it, his footsteps soundless on the marble. The corridor outside the Great Hall was quiet, save for the distant hum of music and the soft hush of falling snow through an open window. He didn’t know why he left. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t have the words for it. He just knew he hated watching someone else hold your smile. So he left. And you followed. 

You found him near the foot of the grand staircase, his back to you, the golden candlelight brushing against his shoulders, setting soft fire to the edges of his silhouette. “Taehyun.”

He didn’t turn. You stepped closer. “You left early.” 

“I wasn’t enjoying myself.”

“Why not?”

A beat. Then: “You looked like you were.”

There was something sharp in the way he said it. Something jealous. Something that trembled beneath the surface, unwilling to admit what it truly was. You folded your arms. “So you were watching me.” He turned to you then, slowly. His expression unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes were thunderclouds.

“You always want people to look at you,” he said, low and quiet. “So don’t act surprised when they do.”

Your breath caught, more from the venom than the words themselves. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you always have to be seen, don’t you? Always the center of the room. Always dancing, laughing, shining — like you need everyone’s attention to survive.” You flinched. But you stood your ground. “And you push everyone away because you’re afraid they’ll see something you’re hiding.”

“Better than parading around like you have nothing to hide.”

“At least I’m not cruel about it.” You quip back, hurt. 

“Oh?” he snapped. “You think I’m cruel because I don’t fawn over your every word? Because I don’t melt under your smiles like everyone else does?”

“No,” you said, stepping closer now, your voice trembling not with fear but with fury. “I think you’re cruel because you can’t stand that someone else might be your equal.” His jaw clenched.

“And because you’re angry,” you whispered, “that I make you feel something you can’t control.” Silence. Thick, aching silence. 

“You’re insufferable,” he breathed.

“And you’re impossible.”

“I hate the way you laugh.”

“I hate the way you lie.” A pause. A breath.

“I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you.” Your breath catches in your throat. Your mouth suddenly like cotton. 

Then, like a flicker of a flame Taehyun was kissing you. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire meeting fire, snow melting on burning skin. His mouth met yours with all the tension of months pressed into a single, trembling heartbeat. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every insult, every rivalry, every bitter word. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for him to stop running. When you pulled apart, breathless, your hands still clutched his robes. He stared at you, stunned. Like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he wanted to do it again.

You smirked, the corner of your mouth curling just so. “Still hate me?”

His lips twitched. “More than ever.” But his voice was hoarse. And his fingers didn’t let go.

Morning broke cold and silver, the kind of pale light that softened the snow but sharpened the air. In the Great Hall, everything looked the same. Students chattered over toast and pumpkin juice, scarves half-tangled around their necks, steam curling from mugs like the remnants of dreams. The enchanted ceiling swirled with drifting snowflakes and a pale winter sky. But something was off-kilter in the space around you. Something missing You scanned the tables without thinking, eyes flickering past familiar faces. Sunoo noticed, you could feel his gaze as you forced a too-bright smile, buttered your toast with robotic precision.

“Did something happen last night?” he asked, voice soft, careful.

You shrugged, looking down at your plate. “Nothing.” But your hands trembled. And Taehyun wasn’t at his usual place near the end of the Ravenclaw table. Not that you were watching. Not that you were waiting. But still. You saw him again outside the library, later that morning. His robes were immaculate as always, scarf draped neatly over one shoulder, a book in his hand he wasn’t reading. You approached him cautiously, your heart fluttering like a sparrow trapped in your ribs. 

“Taehyun,” you said, gently, like the name itself might break if you spoke it too loud. His eyes flicked up. Cold. Unbothered. Your smile faltered. 

“Can we talk?” you asked, hands twisting in the hem of your sweater.

“No.” Just like that. Clipped. Sharp.

You blinked. “What?” 

“I said no.” Something inside you shrank, just a little. “Taehyun… what happened last night—”

“Was a mistake.” The words hit like a slap. You felt the breath leave your lungs, staggered by the sudden, cruel distance of him. “You kissed me,” you said, voice small, cracking. “You said—” 

“I got caught up in the moment.” His tone was flat, practiced. Like he’d already rehearsed these lines. Like he’d spent the whole night scrubbing every softness out of himself. “It didn’t mean anything.” The world tilted. Your lips parted, your voice caught in your throat. You could feel the sting building in your chest, behind your eyes. He didn’t look at you, wouldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the spines of books he wasn’t reading, as if pretending you weren’t there would erase what happened.

“I thought you—” You bit your lip, hard. Swallowed. “I thought you cared.”

“I don’t.” It was brutal, how easy he made it sound. And that was what broke you.

You turned before he could see the tears spill, before your voice could crumble entirely. You ran, not caring who saw, not caring where you were going, just needing to escape the weight of that hallway, of his voice still echoing inside you like the last note of a song gone wrong. Snow flurried around you as you burst outside, not feeling the cold through the heat in your cheeks. The castle loomed behind you, windows glowing warm with light you couldn’t bear to be near.

You collapsed beneath the shadow of a tree near the lake, the frost crunching beneath your knees, and let yourself cry. Quietly, messily. Like the sky had fallen only for you. You hated how much you’d hoped. Hated that one kiss had unraveled you. Hated that even now, even with his cruelty still ringing in your ears… You still wanted to believe he didn’t mean it.

The next morning came like a betrayal. Sunlight poured through the dormitory windows, golden and gentle, but it felt wrong against your skin. The castle still breathed with its usual rhythm, owls cooing in the distance, portraits murmuring, fireplaces crackling softly, but none of it reached you. It was as though something inside you had gone still. Quiet in a way that even your cheer couldn’t touch. You sat beside Sunoo in the Great Hall, picking at your breakfast with no real interest. Your usual glow was gone, dulled into something shadowed and quiet.

Sunoo nudged you gently with his shoulder. “You didn’t say much last night.” You didn’t meet his eyes. “There wasn’t much to say.”

He watched you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “This is about Taehyun, isn’t it?” Your fingers curled tighter around your spoon.

“We kissed, ” you whispered, barely audible. “And then he said it was a mistake.”

Sunoo’s brows lifted, and then quickly drew together in concern. “What?” 

“I thought it meant something,” you said, voice cracking. “But he shut me out. Said it didn’t mean anything. Like I was just… a moment to him. A mistake to be scrubbed out.”

Sunoo’s expression darkened. “What a bloody idiot.” You gave a weak laugh, one that didn’t reach your eyes. He reached across the table and covered your hand with his. “Look, I know you like to see the good in everyone, even in jerks who don’t deserve it, but maybe it’s time you started putting that heart of yours somewhere safer. Someone who’ll actually protect it.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. “You’re right.” But the ache didn’t lift. Later that day, you filed into Potions class with the rest of the students, your bag slung over one shoulder. The scent of crushed herbs and simmering roots clung thick to the dungeon air. You walked with your head high, shoulders back, smile forced into place like armor. He was already seated when you walked in. Taehyun.

Sitting at his usual spot near the front, posture rigid, jaw tight. His fingers tapped soundlessly against his textbook. He didn’t look up when you entered. Didn’t so much as flinch. But you felt the chill in the room anyway, the weight of all that was unspoken crackling between you like a live wire. Still, you were you. Still sunshine, even with cracks in your light. You walked over, careful steps echoing softly, and perched on the edge of the desk beside his. “Hi, Taehyun,” you said, your voice light, as if your heart wasn’t twisting. “I was wondering if you finished the reading for today. The part about powdered asphodel, wasn’t that fascinating? I thought—”

“Can you just shut up for once?” His voice cut through the room like a blade. The entire class went still. You froze. “I’m trying to concentrate,” he said, still not looking at you. “And I don’t need your insipid, cheery commentary. Merlin knows it’s exhausting enough seeing you parade around like everyone’s personal ray of sunshine.” 

A few people snorted with laughter. Someone whispered behind their hand. You felt every eye in the room swing toward you, your face, your smile, your frozen stance. And Taehyun finally looked up, and his expression was cold, clipped, composed. But your world cracked. You swallowed the lump in your throat, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. You looked around, saw the amusement on their faces, the mockery, the disbelief that anyone as soft as you could’ve tried to reach someone as sharp-edged as him. And then your gaze landed back on Taehyun.

“All I’ve done,” you said, voice trembling, “is try to be nice to you. To care for you. Even when you were cruel. Even when you didn’t deserve it.” He said nothing. Your voice dropped to a whisper. “But I’m done.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see if there was even a flicker of regret in those storm-grey eyes. You turned on your heel, your shoes tapping hard against the stone, and fled the classroom. Again. But this time… you didn’t cry. This time, your chest burned with something else. This time, you were done being soft for someone who only knew how to bruise.

Taehyun sat frozen in the aftermath. The laughter had faded. The stares had drifted away. But the silence that followed your exit rang louder than anything else in the room. He stared at the empty space where you’d stood, chest hollow and knotted, something sour rising in his throat. The words he’d thrown at you echoed back in his ears; sharp, venom-laced things forged in fear, insecurity, and pride. And regret, thick and immediate, curled in his gut like poison. “Taehyun?” the professor called. But he didn’t answer. He stood up abruptly, chair scraping back, and bolted.

His shoes struck stone as he ran through the corridor, breath tight, wand forgotten. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to find you. That he had to. His heart beat painfully against his ribs. The hallways blurred past him, students turned their heads as he passed, but he didn’t stop. He found you in the greenhouses, your favorite place, tucked behind the castle where the air smelled of earth and mint, where your emotions could breathe. You stood alone beneath the arching glass dome, surrounded by sleeping winter blooms. The late afternoon light spilled through the frosted windows in ribbons of gold. You had your arms crossed, head bowed, lips pressed tightly together. When you heard the door open, you stiffened.

“What do you want?” you said, voice hoarse, but strong.

Taehyun’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry.”

You laughed, bitter and soft. “You’re always sorry.”

“I know.” He took a step closer. “I know I keep ruining things. I know I keep hurting you. But I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t mean to.”

“Then why do you?” you snapped, eyes glassy, anger trembling under your skin. “Why do you keep pushing me away? Every time I try to be kind, every time I try to care about you — you throw it back in my face.” Taehyun looked down at his hands, curling them into fists. “Because you make it hard to pretend I don’t feel anything.” You stared at him. 

He looked up, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were wide, vulnerable, raw. “You’re always happy. You shine so damn much it hurts. And I... I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfect, trying to be what everyone expects. And then you walk in, and you’re better than me, and kinder, and I didn’t know what to do with that. So I lashed out. Because it was easier than admitting I—” He swallowed. “I like you.” Silence bloomed between you. Quiet. Fragile.

“You’re such a bloody idiot,” you muttered.

Taehyun blinked, startled. “What?” And then you stepped forward. Fast. Sure. Your hands came up to grab the collar of his robes, tugging him down before he could react. Your mouth crashed into his with a force that knocked the air out of both of you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was furious, raw, earned. Taehyun made a soft, strangled noise in the back of his throat, his hands fluttering for a moment before settling; one on your waist, the other braced against the table behind you. But you didn’t wait for him. You deepened the kiss, teeth and warmth and heat and something frantic behind it all. You poured your anger and your longing into him, tasting the apology on his tongue, daring him to mean it.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, your eyes burned into his. “I’ve liked you for ages, you emotionally constipated genius,” you whispered, chest heaving. “But I’m not going to keep running after you if you’re going to keep running from yourself.” His mouth parted. He didn’t speak. He only nodded, once, reverent. 

“I won’t break for you again, Taehyun,” you said, softer now. “So if you’re going to kiss me back next time… mean it.”

“I will,” he breathed, eyes wide, lips swollen, still stunned by the hurricane of you. “I swear.” And this time, when you kissed him again, it was slower. Sweeter. The first page of a new chapter written in ink instead of fire. And for once, he let himself feel it.

–

The announcement came quietly, a simple flick of parchment and a name spoken with no ceremony. At breakfast, the Great Hall was humming; spoons clinking against porridge bowls, owls flapping in with the morning post, low chatter weaving between house tables like mist. Professor McGonagall stood at the podium, spectacles glinting as she unrolled the scroll of student appointments. Her voice carried with its usual sharpness, precise and unyielding. “The Prefect position for next term,” she said, “has been awarded to Miss Eliza Rowe of Gryffindor.” 

A polite smattering of applause followed. Nothing loud, nothing triumphant, just the rustle of hands clapping out of obligation more than celebration. Eliza, three seats down from the golden trio’s old haunt, blinked, then straightened her back and nodded once, the picture of composed satisfaction. She’d dotted her i’s with logic, crossed her t’s with ruthlessness, built her empire from timetables and perfectly executed essays. And she deserved it. You blinked, mid-sip of pumpkin juice. Across the table, Taehyun paused, one hand wrapped around a buttered scone. For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other. And then, like a shared secret, you both burst into soft, startled laughter.

No bitterness curled on your tongues. No resentment twisted in your chests. There was no sting to the loss, only the warm realization that you hadn’t even noticed the stakes anymore. Taehyun leaned forward, elbows brushing the edge of his plate, eyes gleaming in the slanted morning light. “You know, I think this might be the first time I’ve lost anything and not wanted to hex someone about it.” You smirked. “Wow. Character development.” 

He grinned, actually grinned, the corners of his mouth curling like sunlight creeping through storm clouds. “Don’t push it.” You looked down at your plate, then back up at him. “I mean, we both lost, technically. And yet…”

“And yet,” he echoed, voice low and warm, gaze lingering. His fingers brushed yours under the table, just a whisper of contact, but it said everything. You glanced around at the bustle of the Hall. No one was paying attention to you anymore. The spotlight had shifted elsewhere. You and Taehyun were no longer the top contenders, the academic titans vying for dominance. And you didn’t care.

The rivalry had sharpened you both, carved out the edges where you met, but now, here, in this quiet moment between spoonfuls of marmalade and melted butter, it felt like something new was blooming. Not softer, exactly. But truer. Less about pride. More about presence. “I think,” you said slowly, “I’d rather have this.”

He tilted his head. “This?”

You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Us. Whatever we are now.” For a moment, Taehyun didn’t answer. Just looked at you, like you were the only person in the castle worth watching. Like maybe, in some unspoken way, he’d already chosen this over everything else. Then he said, “Me too.”

Epilogue 

The letter arrives on a Tuesday. It isn’t sent with an owl, or folded with formal corners. It’s slipped into your Potions textbook, tucked between a page on amortentia and the properties of powdered moonstone. You find it when your fingers brush against the soft, familiar parchment, sealed with nothing more than a pressed flower. A heliotrope. His favorite. And yours. Your name is scrawled across the front in his ever-meticulous handwriting, slanted and confident and just a touch dramatic. But inside; it’s him, wholly and undeniably.

Meet me at the Astronomy Tower. Tonight. Midnight. Don’t bring Sunoo, or I swear. 

Stop asking questions you already know the answer to, Little Miss Perfect. It makes me want to kiss you. Which is inconvenient. Because I hate you.

—T.K.

You laugh, soft, delighted, head shaking in disbelief. The paper crinkles in your hand as your fingers clutch it tighter, your stomach blooming with something golden and giddy. You press the letter against your lips, a half-suppressed giggle escaping. He still says he hates you. You roll your eyes, slip the letter into your sleeve, and go anyway.

The Astronomy Tower is quiet when you arrive, the air tinged with cold and the faint, fragrant echo of spring pushing through winter’s shadow. Snow clings in delicate lace to the ramparts, the sky a deep indigo velvet scattered with stars. Hogwarts sleeps below, its windows glowing faintly, warm and distant. You find him leaning against the parapet, robes fluttering slightly in the breeze, curls tousled and dark against the moonlight. He doesn’t turn as you approach, but you know he hears you. He always does. “You’re late,” Taehyun murmurs, without looking.

“You’re impossible,” you reply, stepping beside him, shoulder brushing his.

He finally glances at you. “And yet, here you are.”

You smile. It’s soft, easy. “What’s the occasion?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks up, at the moon, at the stars, at anything but you. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. “I used to come here to get away from people. To think. Sometimes just to breathe.” You say nothing. You let him unravel in his own time.

He exhales, long and slow. “Now all I think about is how badly I want you here. All the time. Even when you’re babbling. Even when you’re winning at things I swore I needed to beat you at.” You glance at him, heart beating like a drum beneath your ribs. He turns to face you fully now, the night making a poem of his profile, sharp lines, soft edges, eyes full of unspoken things.

“You ruined my solitude,” he whispers. 

You tilt your head, teasing. “You’re welcome.” 

His lips twitch. “I should hate you for it.”

“And yet?”

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to be wrong with.” You reach for him first this time, fingers brushing his, pulling him into your gravity. He meets you halfway. The kiss is quiet. Slow. Like a confession. Like a wish. Above, the stars burn steady. Below, the castle dreams. And somewhere between the heavens and the earth, a boy who built walls and a girl who tore them down find something far sweeter than victory. Not perfection. But something better. Home

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[shanastoryteller]

Happy almost 2025 🎇🎇 I’m feeling nostalgic for some of your ”old fics”, can we have some inbetween or post scenes from either HITTWF, NGAW or BYWOTWD, whichever you’re in the mood for!

Ed's pretty sure he's being punished for something. "Get out."

Nina makes a face at him. She's even more of a brat at sixteen than she was at ten. He really hadn't thought that was possible. "I don't want to be here either."

The other students are looking between them in confusion. This maybe isn't the best first impression to leave on them, considering they always start so frightened of him anyway, but come on. Is this some sort of practical joke?

"The registrar won't take me at my word and I don't have any formal training," she says. "They don't have time to test me for placement until next week."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright, let's go. The rest of you, just don't break anything."

He's not dealing with Nina in his intro to to alchemy class. She'll just get bored and destroy shit while he's trying to teach the rest of these kids how to draw a circle.

[soobnny]

the alchemy — athlete!chan x reader ; established relationship (0.9k words)

where’s the trophy, he just comes running over to me

olympic inspired fic

Chan told stories.

His hands, rough with hard work, held strength and sacrifices. Years of training manifested in his calloused palms, in the occasional cuts and bruises.

They were proof of his passion, his dreams, his ambitions.

It’s almost funny how that entire world he had crafted with tears and sweat and sacrifices all boils down to a single moment, to right now, under the watchful eyes of thousands. Maybe even millions.

On the other side stood a realm, a place he can reap the efforts he’d planted step-by-step. He can faintly see victory from where he’s standing.

The crowd is a blur of color and noise. There are hands with flags waving, faces of anticipation, voices that brewed with support. Chan can feel the weight of the entire stadium pressing against his chest.

There is drumming, and beating, and shouting, and cheers.

And then static.

He breathes in, the space falling away in consequence. There is only the wall of focus he’s just built for himself—only the track, the runway, the pole, the leap.

The bar was set higher than it had been on his first attempt. A podium finish was in his reach with the pole in his hands and the runway in front of him if he would just make this jump.

A sharp breath.

The faintest rustle of the uniform he’s wearing.

And then the low hum of static.

There is nothing but the vault.

His pulse is thudding in his ears, heartbeat echoing a steady beat of anticipation. The sound of his shoes hitting the ground seemed louder than it was earlier.

There was only one thing to do now.

Chan’s gaze falls straight to the landing zone. He zeroes in on the marks, the mat awaiting his landing, the exact moment the pole would bend, how his body should fly above the vault.

That entire world, the callouses in his hands, the roughness of hard work, the countless hours of repetition were all about to be reduced to that one line on the horizon.

His grip tightens on the pole, familiar yet too rigid for comfort. And then he’s at the starting line.

At a last effort of any fragment of comfort, he searches for you where you stand. You were there, always have been, with eyes holding softness, and hope, and comfort. Something no one else could ever replicate.

A flicker of a smile curves at his lips, and then, as if his body has always known the exact timing, his legs start to move. One step, two steps. One after the other. His speed picks up, his hands instinctively tighten around the pole as it digs into the ground beneath him, and then he flies.

Chan flies, and the crowd falls silent in anticipation.

His entire world spins in such a short amount of time, even stills as his body—taught with the thrill of possibility—twists. There is muscle memory in the way he soars in the air, the same air heavy with the taste of victory that wasn’t his yet.

Gravity takes over.

Everything else falls behind him. Flashbacks of late night practices, and crying, and thinking he’s not good enough. Moments when he’d almost given up. Days when he’d felt like his efforts were going nowhere.

You’d always been there to help him back up.

You. You. You.

Thud.

His body hits the mats, and the sound echoes for half a second.

Just like that, it was done. He had done it.

His breath comes back in quick bursts, heart hammering in his chest.

When the mat propels his body back up, he lands on his feet. And before he can really process the victory he’d been working upon, he’s already turning. Sprinting.

The only direction to go now was the stands, the only direction left was to you.

You. You. You.

His legs carried him faster, and faster, and the world moved in a similar slow motion as he was when he was flying. The cheering, the flashing lights of cameras, the explosiveness of the stadium, everything was abandoned in the background.

Chan barrels into you, arms pulling you into the tightest embrace he could muster. For a moment, nothing else mattered—the gold medal, the record, nothing. Except for the fact that he had made it, and you were there with him to see it happen.

“Channie” is the only word you can muster, voice thick as you loop your arms around his neck.

Apparently, it’s also the only word he needs to pull himself back, hands resting on your shoulders as if needing to anchor himself to the moment. His eyes look into yours for a split second.

His eyes told stories too. It was always his most honest and obvious tell. And right now, they were looking at you with so much love.

Yours, with pride.

“Baby—“

Without warning, his lips find yours.

You feel everything in one kiss. The adrenaline, the years of work, his entire world. Chan leans into you, breathing you in, feeling the surge of everything he had accomplished into someone that felt like home.

Fuck, you make him happier than any Olympic gold medal ever could.

Somewhere in the distance, the announcer’s voice rings out his name as champion, but all he can ever see and hear right now is you. It was done. He’d made the vault, now all he needed to do was hold onto you.

There’s plenty of time for the rest later, plenty of time for celebrations, for the podium, for the journalists.

Right now, it was only ever you and the bright smile on your face, and the same smile he’s mirroring on his own.

And right now, in this moment, Chan doesn’t have to jump to know what it feels like to fly.

[the-winter-spider]

The Alchemy | Part One

NFL Bucky x reader au

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Angst, fluff,

A/N: I only have one more chapter of Invisible to post so ima get this new series out there. I plan to alternate with this one and Say Don Go! Also im Canadian, ive never watched football in my life before Taylor Swift & Travis Kelce so bare with me, Im a hockey girl 😇🤣

ALSO WOW another ts inspired fic what are the odds lmaoooo

------

The stadium buzzed with energy, every seat packed with fans decked out in the team’s deep blue and silver. Flags waved, chants echoed, and the floodlights bathed the field in an electric glow. The scoreboard flashed 20-24. Fourth quarter. Six seconds left on the clock.

Bucky Barnes stood on the field, his cleats dug into the turf as his breath came in steady bursts. His number 17 jersey clung to him, streaked with sweat and dirt, but his focus was absolute. Across from him, defenders crouched low, their eyes locked on him. Everyone in the stadium knew where the ball was going. The golden boy, the clutch player, the one who could pull miracles out of thin air.

At the line of scrimmage, Steve Rogers—number 18, the quarterback—barked out commands, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Green 18! Green 18! Set!” His hand hovered under center, waiting for the snap.

Next to Steve, Sam Wilson—number 78, the running back—grinned as he looked to his left. “Hope you’re ready to make me look good, Barnes,” Sam called to Bucky, his voice tinged with a mix of adrenaline and humor.

Bucky smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “Always am, Wilson. Try to keep up.”

The ball snapped.

Time slowed, the roar of the stadium dimming to a dull hum in Bucky’s ears. He exploded off the line of scrimmage, his legs pumping as he darted past the first defender. His route was a perfectly calculated arc, his sharp cut leaving his opponent scrambling in his wake.

Steve dropped back, his eyes scanning the field, calm and composed as chaos erupted around him. The offensive line was holding—barely. Sam sprinted out to the right, dragging a defender with him and creating just enough space for Bucky to hit his mark.

“Buck!” Steve’s shout was clear, even over the thunder of the crowd. The ball left his hands in a perfect spiral, arcing high into the night.

Bucky didn’t slow. He kept his eyes on the ball as it sailed through the air, his body moving on instinct. A defender lunged at him, but he sidestepped, his cleats digging into the turf and propelling him forward. Another defender was closing in, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Bucky leaped, his arms stretching to meet it. For a split second, the stadium seemed to hold its breath. His fingertips brushed the leather, and then the ball was in his hands, secured against his chest as he crashed to the ground in the end zone.

The buzzer sounded.

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, the stands a blur of jumping fans and waving flags. Bucky pushed himself to his feet, the ball still clutched tightly in his hands. His teammates swarmed him, slapping his back and tugging at his jersey.

“Hell of a catch, Buck!” Steve shouted, pulling Bucky into a quick hug, his grin as wide as the field.

“Couldn’t have done it without that throw,” Bucky replied, though his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sam jogged over, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Man, you’re gonna make the rest of us look bad if you keep pulling off plays like that.”

“Just doing my job,” Bucky quipped, though his voice carried a hint of weariness.

The cameras swarmed, capturing every second of the celebration. Bucky turned, tossing the ball to an equipment manager as he ran a hand through his damp hair. He offered a practiced smile to the crowd, raising his hand in a quick wave. The adrenaline still pounded through his veins, but underneath it all, he felt…empty. Moments like this used to mean everything. Now, they were just another show.

----

You stood just behind the sidelines, your camera in hand as you captured the final seconds of the game. The stadium’s energy was almost overwhelming, but you kept your focus, snapping shot after shot as the ball spiraled through the air. The lens followed Bucky, capturing the moment his fingertips grazed the ball and the exact second he pulled it to his chest.

Your thumb hovered over the record button as he hit the ground in the end zone, the buzzer blaring through the stadium. The noise was deafening, but you barely noticed, too focused on capturing the raw emotion of the moment—his teammates rushing to him, the grin splitting Steve’s face, Sam throwing his hands in the air as he jogged over.

Through the lens, you could see every detail: the streaks of dirt on Bucky’s jersey, the intensity in his eyes, the way he stood a little apart from the celebration even as he was surrounded by his team. You lowered the camera for a moment, watching as he turned to wave at the crowd, that effortless smile on his face.

There was something surreal about seeing him like this, so different yet so familiar, especially after all these years. The golden boy of the NFL, the star of every highlight reel, and yet…still Bucky. You just wondered what he would think if he knew you were tasked with covering his team for the duration of the season.

-----

The press room buzzed with energy as reporters jostled for position, shoving microphones and cameras toward the front. Bucky sat at the table, effortlessly commanding the room. His jersey clung to him, still damp with sweat, and his dark hair fell messily across his forehead. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his easy smile lighting up the space.

“Bucky, talk us through that final play!” one reporter called out.

Bucky smirked, shaking his head. “It’s not just me. That was all teamwork. The guys up front gave me the space, and Stevie threw a perfect pass, I just had to do my part.”

“Just your part?” another reporter pressed. “That was your second game-winning catch this season and it just started! You’re making it look easy out there.”

“Well,” Bucky replied, flashing a quick grin, “it’s never easy, i’ve just got a great team behind me. We work hard for moments like that.”

More questions came, volleying back and forth. He answered them all with polished charm, his practiced media persona never faltering. But as the questions wore on, his gaze started to wander, skimming over the sea of faces and microphones. That’s when he saw you, his blue eyes did a double take before confusion and shock swam through them.

You were standing off to the side, not pushing to the front like the others. You weren’t yelling over the noise or angling for the best shot. You were just…there. Scribbling something into your notebook, head ducked slightly as if you wanted to disappear into the crowd.

Bucky froze for a fraction of a second, the polished grin faltering for the briefest moment before he caught himself. His heart stuttered in his chest, a wave of recognition crashing over him. He blinked, his brain scrambling to catch up. No way. It couldn’t be.

You were trying to stay out of the fray while still capturing the scene. Your notebook was a familiar weight in your hands, its pages filling with shorthand notes that you’d polish later. It was your way of staying grounded—your way of not staring too long at him.

The boy you’d grown up with. The boy who used to challenge you to races down your block, who teased you mercilessly, who knew all your secrets. Seeing him now, years later, as the NFL’s star receiver, felt surreal. He’d become everything the world expected him to be. And yet, in some strange way, he was still the same.

You ducked your head lower, scribbling furiously to avoid the wave of memories threatening to crash over you. Focus. Professional. Objective. That was your mantra when you’d taken this assignment. You hadn’t even known it would be his team until you arrived. Now, all you wanted was to finish your notes and leave to compose yourself fully before he could notice you.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the game he’d just played. He said your name softly, testing it on his lips. It felt foreign and familiar all at once. You didn’t react—too far away, too focused on your notes.

“Hey, Bucky!” another reporter called out. “What’s your mindset going into the rest of the season?”

He barely heard the question. His focus was entirely on you now, watching as you slipped your notebook into your bag and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. You were leaving.

“Uh, sorry,” he mumbled to the reporter, not bothering to look at them. “I need to…” He trailed off, standing abruptly.

The room went silent for a moment, the reporters exchanging confused glances. “Bucky, are you—?”

“Yeah, uh, excuse me,” he muttered, already moving. He left the table, ignoring the murmurs that followed as the cameras swung to track his movements.

His heart stuttered.

“Y/N?” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din. He blinked, half-convinced his mind was playing tricks on him. He tried again, louder this time. “Y/N?”

You didn’t look up.

----

The late summer air clung to your skin, thick and still, like it was trying to hold you in this moment forever. The roof beneath you was rough and familiar, each crack in the shingles a memory. Nights like this always felt infinite—just you and Bucky under the stars, talking about everything and nothing. But tonight, that comforting rhythm was broken.

You sat side by side, the glow of the streetlights catching in Bucky’s messy hair. He leaned back on his elbows, that cocky grin you knew so well plastered across his face. “So,” he said, breaking the silence, “you wanna go to prom with me next year? You know, as friends or whatever.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, but it sounded hollow even to you. “Prom’s not for another year, Bucky. Don’t tell me you’re turning into a planner now.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged, the grin widening, his confidence practically radiating. “I like to lock down the good ones early.”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a light shove, but your hand lingered on his arm for just a second longer than it should have. He felt it. He always felt it.

“Alright,” he said, his grin fading as he sat up straighter, his piercing blue eyes narrowing in concern. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird all night.”

Your fingers twisted together in your lap, your gaze dropping to the shingles. The words felt too heavy to say, but they burned in your chest. You couldn’t keep them in any longer.

“I’m moving.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. It stretched between you like the whole world had opened up, and all you could do was stare into the void. When you finally looked at him, his expression was blank, unreadable. That cocky smile you’d always known so well—it was just gone.

“You’re lying,” he said, his voice low, almost like a challenge.

You shook your head, your throat tightening. “I wish I was.”

His brows furrowed, the disbelief quickly turning into something sharper. “Why?” he asked, leaning closer. “You don’t have to go. You’re almost eighteen—just stay.”

“Bucky—”

“No, listen to me,” he cut you off, his words coming fast now, his tone filled with something you rarely heard from him: fear. “You could stay here. My ma wouldn’t care. Hell, she’d love it. You could move into the basement. You practically live at my house anyway. No one would even notice. You don’t have to go.”

The desperation in his voice broke something in you. You had known it would hurt, but seeing him like this—Bucky, who was always so strong, so steady—was unbearable.

“I can’t stay,” you said softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Why not?” His voice cracked as he sat up fully, his hands curling into fists against the roof. “Am I not enough for you to stay?” He knew he was being selfish but he was so blind sided he couldn't help it.

The question hit you like a punch to the chest. Your breath caught, and you had to blink hard to keep your vision from blurring. “Fuck, Bucky,” you whispered. “Of course, you’re enough. You’re my best friend. You’re everything. But my mom…” Your voice broke, and you had to take a deep breath before continuing. “She’s finally leaving him. Bucky, we’re finally getting out.”

His jaw clenched, and his chest rose and fell unevenly as he processed your words. His hands gripped the edge of the roof like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “Your mom…” he started, his voice trailing off. Of course, he was happy for her. He knew what it had taken for her to finally leave that asshole. He’d seen the bruises you never talked about, the way your voice would falter when you mentioned home. Of course, he understood.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less. She was taking you away from him, and he couldn’t stand it. "What about school? We have one more year left."

"They have schools everywhere Buck..." Your voice was soft and quiet.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The night stretched on, heavy and endless. You thought he might fight you on it again, throw out another plan, another reason for you to stay. But instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Well,” he said, his voice sharp and hollow, “I guess this is it then.”

“Bucky, don’t do this,” you pleaded, the words rushing out before you could stop them. “Please.”

He stood up slowly, brushing off his hands like he was trying to shake off the weight of your words. His expression was unreadable now, his eyes cold and distant in a way you’d never seen before.

“It was nice while it lasted,” he said, his voice clipped and emotionless. He paused at the edge of the roof, looking back at you one last time. “Hey, take care of yourself, alright?”

And then he climbed down the ladder, disappearing into the shadows below.

You didn’t call after him—you couldn’t. You just sat there on the roof, staring at the place where he’d been, your heart breaking under the weight of his absence. For the first time, the stars felt impossibly far away.

That was the last time you ever talked to Bucky Barnes.

----

You were halfway down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the empty space, when you heard him.

“Y/N!”

You froze, halfway down the hallway. The voice was unmistakable now—stronger, sharper, but undeniably his. Slowly, you turned, and there he was, jogging toward you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. His broad shoulders filled the space, but it was his eyes—wide and almost boyish—that sent your heart racing.

“Is this really you?” he asked, stopping just a few feet away. His chest rose and fell as if he’d just run the length of the field. His gaze swept over you, disbelief and something like relief flickering across his face.

You laughed nervously, a sound that came out more like a breathless exhale. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

Bucky’s lips parted in a huff of incredulous laughter. “Are you kidding? I could find you in any room.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Before you could respond, he closed the distance, wrapping you in a hug so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. For a moment, the world fell away—the noise, the cameras, the years. It was just Bucky, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear. It was like you were kids again, sitting on rooftops and talking about everything under the stars. Holding you in a way where you finally felt safe like nothing or no one could hurt you because you knew these arm’s wouldn’t.

“Holy shit,” he muttered into your hair. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still on your shoulders. “I haven’t seen you in years. What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you—I’m just…wow.”

You smiled, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m here to cover the team for the season.” You held up your press badge, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips. “Didn’t realize I’d be covering you.”

Bucky barked a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fate, huh? Guess it wasn’t done with us yet.”

You both stood there for a moment, the hallway around you seeming to blur. His thumb brushed against your arm absently, like he was reassuring himself you were real. Finally, he stepped back, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ve got about a thousand questions,” he said, tilting his head. “But I guess we’ve got the whole season to catch up, right?”

“Right,” you replied, the warmth in his eyes making it impossible to think straight. “The whole season.”

[rendy-a]

Omg the courting fics with Malleus and Sebek were really cute! Could you make something like that with the Octatrio?

I had every intention of writing for all 3 members of Octavinelle but the Azul piece ended up being so long that I thought I’d just post that. 

You’d been avoiding Azul for days now and you knew that, sooner or later, your luck would run out on that front.  Why were you avoiding him?  Not even you were sure; you just knew that he was looking for you.  In your limited experience with the suave dorm leader of Octavinelle, you’d come to learn that the more Azul wanted to speak with you, the riskier the deal would be.  When you turned the corner and saw Azul waiting for you at the top of the stairs, you knew your luck had run out.  This hallway was the only way to reach your alchemy class and you were running far too late to wait him out.

You grimaced as Azul gives you a confident smirk, both of you knowing he’d had you trapped.  Finally, you sigh, “Five minutes, Ashengrotto.  I’ll give you five minutes.”  His mask of confidence waivers and you sense the relief behind the façade.  “That will be more than enough to start with.  Thank you for your consideration, Prefect.”  Then he clears his throat nervously before beginning to move.  He rolls his hands around each other while alternating leg shakes.  You can hear him quietly counting to himself.  After a few moments, he is finished and looks at you expectantly.

“Ah?” you let out a questioning sound.  He covers his embarrassment with a cough and explains, “It was a dance.”  You know your eyes are open wide and you suspect your mouth is hanging open, but you still manage to stammer, “I…I see?”  You did not see.  After a few more moments of silence, Azul clears his throat again and wishes you a pleasant class before sliding past you and down the staircase.  What was that all about?

The next time you encountered Azul, it was coming back from flight class.  He seemed as startled as you at the meeting.  With the memory of your last meeting still fresh in your mind, you thought you’d try to just quickly excuse yourself.  “Ah, I’ll just be passing on your left, ok?”  Before you could pass him though he interrupts, “Prefect, if I may, another moment of your time?”  You cringe a little, “Oh, s.sure?  I guess.  What…what’s up?”  He visibly braces himself before he starts moving.  This time it was mostly arms moving at certain times and angles.  It almost felt familiar and after a moment, you had it.  “Is this that dance from Magicam?”  Cater had shown you a video of the viral dance moves that were sweeping Magicam currently and you were fairly certain this was an interpretation of that. 

He finishes by striking a pose that seems perfectly fit for a photo.  You clap politely and ask, “Are you practicing for your Magicam account?  Going to have the whole lounge staff join you or something.”  He frowns slightly, “No Prefect, that was not my intention.”  Then he turns his face to the side, and you notice a red creeping up on the tips of his ears, “This is more of a personal performance goal.”  You hold up your hand, gesturing toward him, “Well that was pretty good.  I think you are on your way to that goal.”  He looks very relieved at your reply, “Is..is that so?”  Then he gathers his composure and bows his head a little, “Well, I thank you for your notice.”  You wait a moment to see if he has more to say, but he continues to just look at you expectantly.  Finally, you fidget a little and remind him, “Well, I should be going.  Class and all.”  You wave and turn to jog away and back to your next class.

It was a hard day of studying when you wandered over to Mostro Lounge to have a small dessert as a reward for your long session.  Looking up from your tea and cake, you see Azul across the room speaking to the students staffing the bar.  The confident business Azul strikes you in comparison to the awkward Azul you’ve been interacting with these past few days.  He gestures with his hands to finish off whatever direction he was giving, and you suddenly decide to approach him and say hello.  You slide up behind him and place a hand on his back, “Hey Azul, nice to see you again.”  He turns to gaze at you coldly, muttering, “Prefect?”  Then his eyes widen and he sputters, “Pre..Prefect!  What are you doing here?” 

Instead of responding, you decide to give him a moment to gather his thoughts and composure.  He quickly does and dons his usual suave persona, “I mean, why how wonderful to have you dine with us this evening, Prefect.  You should have told me you were coming, and I’d have been certain to save you a table by the window.”  You smile at the quick change in tone, “Oh that is fine, I just came over to see you, Azul.”  He flushes a touch along his checks, “M..me?”  You lean in and whisper, “Yes, you’ve really tried hard lately to catch my attention, so I thought I’d reward you by giving it to you.” 

He looks shocked by your statement for a moment before leaning in to whisper carefully, “You’ve noticed then?”  He looks around at the number of interested eyes on your conversation, “Ah, this is not the best place for conversation, Prefect, won’t you follow me to somewhere more suitable for this conversation?”  You nod and turn to head to his private office, but he lays a hand on your arm quickly, “No, not in there.  I have a better place.”  So, you allow yourself to be escorted from the lounge and down into the corridors of Octavinelle.  “Sometimes, it’s nice to get away from work,” he comments softly. 

You smile gently, thinking about how you’ve just discovered a new side to the serious Azul you know.  You’ve been doing that more often lately; you think as you remember the strange dances you’ve seen him attempting.  As if thinking a similar thought, Azul asks, “I hope I haven’t been too distracting for you lately, Prefect.”  You smile, “I wouldn’t say distracting is the word.  It was more like memorable.”  He gasps and squeezes your arm a touch tighter, “Is..is that so…” before muttering under his breath, “so it is working after all…”   You ponder out loud, “Although you seem to be not quite used to dancing.  Is it because you aren’t used to being on land?”  Azul halts, causing you to also need to stop.  He seems lost in thought as he mulls over your question.  You continue to quietly observe him, and he finally notices your gaze, “On second thought, Prefect,” he begins hesitantly, “I think I have something special to show you.” 

He pivots on his heel and pulls you toward a different hallway leading deeper into the dorm.  You hesitate but seeing his nervous smile, give in and follow along.  He takes you past the public lounges and study rooms and toward a corridor that smelt strongly of salt and sea.  You figured this must lead to the very edges of the dorm and the water beyond.  As if to confirm your thoughts, Azul pulls you into a locker room and shows you where you can change into borrowed swimwear.  You wonder for a moment how they can possibly have something that fits you and that just happens to be sitting around but, after pulling the garment on, it conforms to fit perfectly and you realize the answer is, of course, magic. 

You pull a towel across your shoulders and head into the adjoining pool room.  The near end of the pool was shallow enough to step into, but the far end disappears into the gloom.  From the rhythmic way the water moved, it was clear that the pool connected to the sea outside.  You hadn’t realized Octavinelle had such an exit into the sea, but you supposed considering the location, it made sense.  “There are potions in the cabinet to your left,” comes a voice from the deep end of the pool.  You suppose Azul must be above water for you to hear his voice but any bit of him you could glimpse was hidden by the darkness of the deep sea beyond.  You pull a familiar potion from the cabinet.  It seemed not so long ago you’d used such a potion to visit Atlantica Museum to satisfy the bet you’d made with Azul.  “Are you sure its not too late to swim all the way outside?  Maybe we could have a nice night just swimming in here,” you say as you swirl the potion around in the flask, looking at it meditatively.  “We’ll be fine.  There are lights here and there once you get past the dorm.  I know a good spot for an evening swim.  I am Dorm Leader of Octavinelle, after all.”  You supposed that was true, so you uncorked the bottle and swallowed the potion down.

You head hesitantly into the pool and hear a voice when you are below the waves, “This way Prefect, don’t be frightened.”  You follow the pool down as the tile floor gives way to cement and then finally just the seafloor.  You reach the opening at the far side of the pool and poke your head out cautiously.  As promised, there were lights here and there once you exited the dorm.  The light they gave off didn’t appear to travel as far as you’d suspect underwater.  You look about, unsure of where to go when you hear Azul call again from beyond the nearest light.  You swim in that direction and the sound of his voice guides you away from the dorm and to a nearby reef. 

You gaze in interest at the colorful corals when you hear Azul’s voice right at your ear, “You should hold onto one.  Humans are buoyant and have difficulties staying on the seafloor.”  You take his advice and grab hold of a nearby coral to help keep you stead as you float weightlessly on the seafloor.  You turn to thank him and are caught speechless at the sight.  You’d seen Azul in his merform only once before, during his overblot.  Now, without the imminent danger of rampant magical warfare, you had the chance to really take him in.  The blackness of his tentacles crept up to his chest and turned to cover his arms.  You thought offhandedly he looked like he was dressed in a sleek suit with no shirt beneath it.  That wasn’t what was most eye-catching though, in the darkness of the sea, the underside of each tentacle had a bioluminescent glow that highlighted each sucker and edge. 

“Stay there and watch,” Azul asked gently.  You could only nod mutely as the swaying of his glowing limbs mesmerized you.  Then the movement of his tentacles increased until you realized it was no longer motion from the sea but a purposeful cadence from Azul himself.  You watched them move in captivated silence until you realized you were seeing another dance from him, a dance from under the sea.  You had no idea how long it lasted, you sat holding onto the coral and gazing at his display in quiet awe until finally you realized the gentle swaying of his luminous limbs was merely the motion of the waves once again.  You look up and meet his curious eyes, “Do you approve?” he asks simply. 

You tilt your head and smile up at him, “What was that?  It was so beautiful.  I’ve never seen such a thing.”  He reaches out a hand before lowering it slowly.  Then, with a few flicks of his tentacles, he manages to settle himself on the seafloor next to you.  “It was a dance, an octomer dance.”  You carefully reach out and set one tentative finger on the nearest tentacle, feeling the strange texture of it under your digit, “I wouldn’t have taken you for such a good dancer.  Not after those attempts on land.”  He laughs shallowly in a self-mocking way, “Grandmother insisted I learn the traditional dances.  ‘Don’t underestimate the importance of body language,’ she always said.”  Your smile turns a bit coy as you reply, “Well, I’m not sure what your body was trying to say there but I was definitely listening.”  He turns a hopeful look to you, “Does that mean you’d like to stay a bit longer and chat?”  Finally, you felt like Azul had made you a deal that captured your full attention. 

[faeryseiko]

Ahead of me || Katsuki Bakugo

-----------------

A/N: Hi ! I haven't wrote since 2022 so I'm sorry if this one sucks but please take the time and tell me your thoughts on this one !! It is a song lyrics based fic, I LOVE the quirk I just cooked and might do an AO3 story with it...

WARNINGS : season 7 BIG SPOILERS. death, blood.

----------------------------------

Muffled screams, tears running down soft cheeks.

"If I could, I'd be your little spoon"...

I looked as Shigaraki threw Bakugo's body like an useless doll that he didn't want to play with anymore. My heart was beating strongly fast in my chest. I got up on my feet and ran to his side, sliding on my knees as I did so. I started to scratch my arms, the red powder falling on the hole of his chest.

Quirk name : Philosopher's stone

I kept scratching, normally it wouldn't even take a second before healing. But it didn't this time. I felt my own blood rolling on my arm and saw it going to mix with his on his chest. I heard Best Jeanist next to me as he just saw the student he taught yet learned so much from.

"No. No no nonononono" I started to panic as my eyes watered down. I was shaking a corpse, trying to wake it up. I put my forehead on his and was breathing uncontrollably.

"Y/n-san, with you around, we will not be scared of our injuries anymore. I know we can count on you !"

I remembered Izuku's words, now stabbing me as I felt useless again in my life. My best friend was lifeless before me and I couldn't even bring him back or save him.

My quirk wasn't a flashy one, nor did it help for defense. I had to work harder to prove myself worthy of being a hero. The number of times I felt useless watching my class fight as I could only stand watching on the sidelines. I hate it, I'm thankful for Aizawa that have let me show my worth.

"Your quirk is special, Y/n. Great sacrifices and hard work will have to be done to reach it's full potential."

I was shaking, taking his numb upperbody on my knees as I carressed his cheek with my thumb. His beautiful crimson eyes were now turned a pale pink color and his mouth gaped open to show the last breath he took. I let my forehead fall on his chest.

. . .

"One day, I'll become number one and will beat all bad guys like All Might !"

It was one of these times where Bakugo and I's parents would hang out and we would play in the park together. We were on top of the slides as we practiced our hero poses while laughing.

"I'm excited to see my quirk so I can now start ny hero journey, aren't you Bakugo?" I asked with a smile and to this he nodded with a proud smile.

"I already know mine will be awesome ! You'll just have to wait and see. It'll be so strong that it will surpass even All Might and AH-"

I jolted in surprise and panicked as I saw Bakugo fall from the slide's top. I carefully went down and sat down next to him. He winced in pain as he was holding his arm. After a few seconds, a blue color was appearing and that's when I knew it was broken.

"Bakugo, y-your arm-"

"Shut up I know !"

He tried to not let his tears fall and when I saw this, that's when I suddenly took his arm. I don't know how this happened... Even today, I am not able to reproduce what I did that day, but when I touched his arm, his arm healed itself, but in the process broking mine completely.

Bakugo smiled as he saw his new and healed arm.

"Y/n! Your quirk it finally came-"

His eyes widened, seeing me holding my arm in pain. His smile disappeared and I don't know what he thought at that time. That I had an useless quirk ? That I was pathetic ?

. . .

That day was my quirk's first appearance and I couldn't understand how I did it. I had the properties of a stone made with alchemy. Yet, I couldn't understand them exactly.

"And kiss your fingers forevermore..."

But then, it clicked.

I gently lift up Bakugo and hugged his figure, closing my eyes in the process. I focused on him, I had to.

"but big spoon, you have so much to do..."

Water filled my eyes as I sobbed, hugging him tightly, knowing this was my first and last.

....

I remember when I saw Bakugo and Deku fight against eachother, their first fight when they were teammed up with Uraraka and Iida. I looked in awe at both strenght.

Even though Izuku used to be quirkless, he showed himself worthy for All Might to give his quirk. Bakugo was mad and confused at the time, mad that Izuku had showed up randomly one day with a quirk that was strong. And confused on how it happened.

I was selfish to think that... but with Izuku I felt less alone next to Bakugo with his amazingly strong quirk. I had to work extra harder and might never catch up to them.

I also remember at the festival, against Kirishima I was nothing but an easy target. I have cried that day so hard, I even wondered what I was doing at U.A and why I stayed. Also on why our teacher kept me.

Aizawa taught Shinsou and I to still be strong even with a quirk that didn't give us boosted strenght, rapidity or stamina.

I have made so many good friends at U.A, but I knew that if for whatever reason someone had to leave, they had too much potential, too many hopes and dreams for it to be them.

"And I have nothing ahead of me..."

I have made so many great memories, so many. I felt my chest getting lighter and breathing turned so easy to do. Weights on my shoulder turned into empty ones, you know that feeling before falling asleep ?

And as my chest softly stopped to move, I felt against my ear a heartbeat. By now, I was too weak to great him happily like I usually do.

I wish we had more time, more time for me ask for his help for math homework, more time for him to look behind him to look at me, as if having me helped feeling more confident.

Or more time for me to go shopping one last time with Mina, one more time for Shinsou and I to proudly look at our better fighting forms, one more time to play video games with the squad.

More time so I can admire the developpment Bakugo has made on himself.

Maybe, I can finally be useful to you, Katsuki ?

....

Bakugo's eyes opened softly as he heard Best Jeanist yelling out someone's name. Surprisingly, it wasn't his.

The pain he had felt on his chest left and the blood disappeared, he still felt some weight on his chest. He had a hard time moving, but when he looked down, he saw your h/c hair, your normally e/c vibrant eyes that were now closed forever.

He would call you a dumbass, but he knew you wouldn't hear him this time. He would call you a selfless idiot, because since the day you had your quirk, the coolest quirk he've seen in terms of healing, that's just who you've become.

His eyes watered down. He focused so much onto catching up with Deku that he hasn't looked behind him at the person who destroyed themselves just to catch up to him.

And now, it was too late for him to simply catch your hand to help you run with him.

---------------

song : Your Best American Girl - Mitski.

[diorcities]

with you (teaser)

spiderverse chronicles. haechan x reader, mark x reader genre fluff, action, mature content content spiderman au, enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, selective mutism, sign language, smut (not in the teaser) more tba teaser wc 1.5k full fic est. 20k

an: since i'm making progress on the story (shocking) i'll share a little teaser. the past few days i've consumed a lot of spiderman content, it's not funny anymore. it was a sign of the times. i'm so excited to write this. happy reading ♡

description: after a catastrophic scientific explosion, chaos is unleashed in new york. a deaf girl must face the city that she once knew now submerged in a mayhem, pairing with a daily bugle intern to try to solve the mystery when one of the many affected with extraordinary abilities seems to have a duplicity between good and evil.

he can sense you're there.

just moments ago he had swept the area, now, he looks intently at the boxes loaded into the helicopter.

“planning on stealing the moon tonight?” he's growing bored. “you guys aren't elusive at all, you should practice a little at that.”

the ambiguity of his own reaction puzzles him. there was no hurry in his movements, nor the usual tension. instead, there was a deliberate pause, and this unbearable boredom.

he's quick to deflect a couple of bullets; it comes out spontaneously now. all his senses are enriched. everything vibrates. everything sings. he's sneaky instead of a fighter. and he's also fond to make jokes at inopportune times.

“isn't this labor exploitation?” he inquires. “i hope you get paid overtime,” he says again when in response, a dozen men point their guns at him. he reacts shooting his hands upwards.

“easy, i'm your friendly neighbor.” a man turns to him. the big fish. “oh, my bad, i mistook you for some lookalike with a bunch of small yellow people.” he also doesn't miss the opportunity to make an emphasis on his size.

wilson kingpin snorts, annoyed. “after months, i'd think you'd stop acting like a kid.”

“i am a kid.” he chuckles, removing the mask.

there was no point in hiding his identity when the old crow knew who he was from the very beginning, though it also made him a prospect for his tasteless jokes.

he takes a look at the containers when the man turns his back at him and shout instructions. “nano-technology prototypes...” his voice comes out in an interrogatory tone, sniffing through the large box.

the man in charge sees him snooping around when he speaks. “are you interested?”

“they wouldn't hurt,” he replies, distracted; something stirs inside him when you move closer.

“take a few, see if you put it to good use.” he sneers and he mimics him, nonchalantly.

he's pretty quick and elusive. skills, he guesses, his best traits; but even though, he might need some; he's been doing alchemy lately, so he grabs two and when the man looks away, grabs a few more. he can put good use to that kind of technology. “any other tasks you need me to do?”

he bristles when the man smiles, agreeing; he's been waiting for the moment. doing silly tasks, dirty work. finally he was getting closer to get what he wants. “yes. why don't you take care of that little reporter mouse?”

fisk goes back to his job as if he's bored, and his lips tighten into a grimace that he already knows, making him take care of you.

“was this what you wanted, to steal technology?” you ask to the wind. the men hardly pay attention to you, but he does.

he must acknowledge that you have guts even though fisk is giving you a window because you don't pose a threat. not because of his size, but because of his influence.

“what's in the boxes?”

“as if i were going to tell you.” he mocks, hiding behind the mask. “why don't you cover tonight's weather instead, family of murderers?” he sees you freeze. “why don't you leave these matters to us and you take care of yours? seems like you're in deep shit,” he says, taking one step closer.

when you realize it, he's in front of you and you have nowhere to run. yet your feet recede to the edge. “mmm? don't test your luck and stay out of it.”

he gives you recognition that you don't look even a little intimidated. “who are you?”

his smile almost reach his eyes, “as if i were going to tell you,” he repeats, morbid.

fisk growls behind you, and something dark spreads on his gut, “get done with it, bug.”

he does what he says. first, he steals it from you in one move. and you're not quick to protest when his hands half-push you and your feet stumble. doing silly tasks, dirty work. one more thing and it will end.

nevertheless, getting rid of you is hard for him.

your hands try to hold on but he pulls away, so you fall into nothing.

like a bullet, he watches you fall, waiting. and when a blue boost barely flashes around you, he moves away from the edge. afterward, you just fall into new york.

[vera-deville]

Lips Like Trouble, Eyes Like Yours

06/30/2025 - 07/02/2025

Pairing: Jamil Viper x Reader Word Count: 4,269 Warnings: PRETTY suggestive; the reader keeps making spicy jokes and stuff, and that's what started this whole fic Tags: @achy-boo, @savanaclaw1996, @qaxdea, @katzline Notes: This was originally going to be part of a 5 + 1 things fic, but I ended up writing the characters separately, and even though I started with Trey, I ended up finishing Jamil's fic first. Also, inspired by this post. Masterlist

Potionology with Professor Crewel was a class that you didn't actually mind attending - not because you were particularly good at it, but rather because you enjoyed watching the drama that unfolded when students inevitably blew something up. However, today, your source of entertainment sat directly beside you.

Jamil Viper.

Flawless posture, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms, and that sharp, aloof gaze focused on the cauldron like the fate of the world rested on getting the temperature just right. He moved like someone born into precision - deliberate, practiced, untouchable.

And by the Sevens, did that make him an irresistible challenge.

You leaned onto the lab table, one manicured hand supporting your chin while the other lazily stirred the base mixture of honeyroot and belladonna in your shared cauldron. Your eyes flicked over to Jamil's profile, watching as he measured out the powdered mandrake root with military precision.

"Is it supposed to bubble like that?" You asked sweetly, voice dipped in honeyed feigned innocence.

Jamil didn't even glance at you. "The bubbles are normal. We're at the catalytic stage."

You hummed thoughtfully. "Hmmm...I wonder if it's reacting to your natural hotness."

This time, his hand faltered - just barely - but you saw it. A beat of hesitation in his otherwise flawless technique. You smirked.

Bingo.

"You do realize that this is a graded assignment?" He muttered without looking at you, lips tightening.

"Oh, of course," You replied, stirring the brew with a deliberately slow swirl. "I'm just making conversation. I find it helps the potion's vibes when the room has a bit of...chemistry."

Jamil exhaled through his nose. "That's not how alchemy works."

"Isn't it?" You teased, leaning over to glance at the thickening potion in his beaker. Your shoulder brushed against his arm. "You're awfully tense, Jamil. You should let me massage your shoulders after this."

"I'd rather keep my spine intact, thank you."

"You wound me." You pouted dramatically, batting your lashes at him.

"You're going to ruin the stirring ration if you keep fluttering like that."

Sevens, he was so stoic. But not immune. You could see the tension in his jaw now, the ever-so-faintest dust of redness on the tips of his ears. He was trying so hard not to engage. It only made the game that much more fun~

The potion had begun to take on a soft violet hue, meaning that it was time to add the purified dew essence. Jamil reached for the vial carefully, concentration etched into every line on his face.

You leaned in, close enough to count his lashes, your voice low and sultry as your breath ghosted across the shell of his ear, "Careful, Jamil...one drop too fast and things might explode. Wouldn't be the first time a little tension caused something to blow."

His grip faltered.

The vial slipped just slightly, but enough - a splash of dew essence fell into the cauldron all too soon. The mixture hissed with the tenacity of a rattlesnake before erupting into a dramatic puff of violet smoke, swirling with glittering sparks and the undeniable scent of singed lavender.

You both coughed.

Professor Crewel turned so fast, his coat flared like a dramatic cape (which you suppose was exactly that in a way).

"Y/L/N! Viper! What is the meaning of this?" He snapped, heels clicking rapidly toward your table.

Jamil opened his mouth, clearly ready to take the blame, but you were faster.

"I'm so sorry, Professor," You said, wide-eyed and innocent. "That was my fault. I knocked Jamil's elbow by mistake."

You didn't miss the sharp side-glance Jamil gave you. Crewel narrowed his eyes.

"Hmph. Typical of you to treat my class like a fashion runway. Perhaps if you focused on your brewing instead of making doe eyes at your lab partner, you wouldn't be sabotaging his work, which through extension is yours as well."

You bowed your head. "Yes, Professor."

The scolding went on for another minute before Crewel finally snapped his fingers to clean up the mess and stalked off in a flurry of expensive cologne and disdain over his students' shenanigans.

You turned your head slightly to peek at Jamil. He was staring at you, his brows drawn together - slightly in annoyance, but more so in confusion. Something a tad unreadable.

"What?" You asked, smiling. "Surprised I'd take the blame for once?"

"I'm surprised you didn't let me take it." He said, voice softer than before. "Most people do."

Your expression softened (just a little, mind you). "Well, I'm not most people."

He was quiet again. His eyes lingered on you for a second too long, then returned to the fresh beaker of ingredients. His cheeks were a little flushed now.

You sat back in your chair with a satisfied sigh. "Besides," You added, flipping your hair over your shoulder, "Now you owe me~"

"I don't owe you anything," He muttered, but the words lacked their usual venom. He didn't meet your eyes.

Oh yes. The walls were cracking.

And you couldn't wait to keep pushing.

It all began with a simple errand.

Jamil had been tasked with delivering a set of enchanted scrolls to one of the faculty offices across campus (a rare occasion when Yuu wasn't called to the job). Normally, he'd have used some other method to do it alone and in silence - no fuss, no nonsense. Just efficient. That was the plan.

Until you spotted him unlocking his magic carpet outside Scarabia's dorm, scrolls neatly bundled beneath one arm, and a look of focused intention etched onto his face.

You slid up beside him with a little hum of interest, your eyes raking over the floating carpet with mock curiosity. "Running away from all your adoring fans, Viper?" You purred, arms behind your back as you leaned in slightly. "Or is this your version of a gallant escape?"

Jamil (as usual) didn't even spare you a full glance. "It's an errand."

"Even better," You said, stepping onto the edge of the carpet like it was the red carpet at a gala. "Let me tag along. I could use a break...and besides, I've always wanted to know what it feels like to straddle something that responds to your every command."

That got a reaction. Jamil's shoulders stiffened just slightly - a crack in his typically composed armor. He exhaled slowly, eyes forward, face unreadable.

"It's not a toy."

"Oh, sweetheart," You cooed as you sat down behind him with practiced ease, brushing imaginary lint from your miniskirt. "Neither am I."

With a sharp mutter under his breath and a reluctant motion of his hand, the carpet lifted into the air, floating smoothly over the campus grounds. The breeze tousled your hair and his, the sun casting a glow across his face - focused, serene, and unfairly handsome.

You, of course, couldn't resist.

Leaning forward, you gentle wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the taut definition beneath his robes. "Safety first," You said sweetly into his ear. "Wouldn't want to fall off...though I imagine falling into your arms wouldn't be the worst thing."

Jamil's fingers clenched tighter around the tassels. "You're perfectly stable without clinging to me," He muttered.

"Maybe," You whispered, letting your lips graze the shell of his ear just enough to make him flinch, "But I like how you feel."

He faltered for a split second - the carpet dipping slightly before steadying. You smiled smugly.

"You know," You continued, dragging your hands along his sides, "I've always had a thing for strong, silent types. Especially ones who know how to handle...sensitive equipment."

The tassels twitched in his hands.

You tsked gently. "Tense much? Maybe you need to relax. Should I give you a shoulder rub? Or maybe a kiss for bravery?"

He turned his head slightly - just enough for you to see the tightness in his jaw and the faint, stubborn oink burning in his cheeks. "Stop talking."

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder with an exaggerated sigh. "'It's criminal, really. Just the two of us on a floating carpet, your body between my legs, the wind in my hair...feels like the setup for something a little less PG."

Jamil's back tensed even more beneath you.

"Oh, don't get shy now," You purred, voice dipping like melted chocolate. "You're the one steering. I'm just here...enjoying the view." You slid your hand slowly down his arm. "And the ride."

His fingers visibly twitched, still gripping the tassels with all his life force.

"What really gets me," You continued, your breath brushing the edge of his jaw, "is how you've managed to keep your composure. All this heat, all this tension - and if he gripped the tassels any tighter, they might've snapped.

Jamil's grip tightened again, and this time the carpet pitched into a sudden, dramatic turn - a clear attempt to throw you off his rhythm or distract you into silence.

It didn't work.

You shrieked with laughter, clutching him tighter. "Are we doing tricks now?" You giggled into his shoulder. "Because I'm flexible, but I didn't bring a helmet!"

He groaned low in his throat, but it was too late. You were fully in your element now - lounging behind him with legs cross, hair wind-tossed, and the look of a mischief goddess on your face.

Eventually, with exasperation practically radiating from every movement, Jamil directed the carpet down in front of Ramshackle Dorm. You made no move to dismount.

"Home already?" You asked innocently, trailing your hand up his arm. "And here I thought we'd take the scenic route. Maybe stop by the woods, find a quiet little clearing...share secrets, maybe more-"

"Off."

You blinked.

He didn't even look at you. His ears were slightly pink, his jaw locked. But his voice was level, if strained. "Off the carpet."

You sighed dramatically. "You're no fun."

You dismounted with theatrical flair, smoothing your skirt and tossing your hair back as if stepping down from a royal procession. "But thanks for the ride, darling," You said over your shoulder. "If you ever need help...handling your gear again, you know where to find me."

Jamil didn't respond.

He didn't even look at you.

He simple snapped his fingers, and the carpet whipped back into the air with a swish and vanished into the sky, leaving a faint blush behind and a smirk on your lips.

The stately, mirrored dance room in Night Raven College's athletics wing was usually reserved for ballet or ceremonial formations. But these days, the pounding beats of off-beat music echoed between the walls as Jamil Viper practiced his own stress-relief routine - a private break-dance choreography born from hours of restless tension, endless assignments, and a mind that seldom shuts off.

You found him there in the late afternoon: the sun streaming through high windows, dust motes glittering in shafts of light. He moved with controlled confidence - spins, slides, freezes - all executed with the kind of graceful precision that only someone who had practiced dance for years could muster. His demeanor was calm, composed, yet there was excitement, passion in his movements. A true king in his element.

For you, it was an absolutely irresistible opportunity.

You slipped in behind him, every bit the vision of sultry control: a wine-colored dress with a ruffled hem that clung to curves and teased glimpses of skin with each shift, paired with slender heels that clicked faintly across the polished floor. You drew in a breath - rich, self-satisfied - before stepping forward and clapping once, sharply.

He froze mid-move, head snapping up, brow arched. You pressed a hand to your chest, feigning surprise.

"Ooh, Jamil..." You murmured. "I didn't realize break-dance classes were part of your daily routine."

He slid his foot out of a pose and smoothed back stray hair. "You said you'd leave me alone."

You smiled wickedly. "Who? Me?" Jamil sighed in exasperation. "Even if I did, you just...looked so tempting."

He crossed his arms. "I'm not practicing for an audience."

You tilted your head. "Is that why you paused mid-step? Because I showed up?"

He didn't respond.

Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you drifted toward the speaker, Jamil's phone resting beside it - your target. You tapped the screen, fingers gliding with casual intent - but the lock screen blinked back at you, cold and unyielding. No surprise there. Jamil wasn't the type to give away access lightly (as any responsible person should).

You picked up the phone, letting your gaze linger on it a moment longer than necessary, then turned and made your way back to him. He didn't look up right away, but you could feel the shift in the air as you approached.

Holding the phone out, you met his eyes. "Mind unlocking this for me?"

His jaw tightened - just slightly. Irritation flickered behind his gaze, but so did something else. Without a word, he took the phone and unlocked it, his fingers moving fast, precise. Then he handed it back, his touch brushing yours for half a second too long.

He didn't say a thing. He didn't have to.

You typed something into the search bar, intent on making sure that Jamil couldn't see you fiddling with his phone. The speakers started blaring again, and then you set the phone back where it originally was. The music began again, washing over you - elegant, flowing, rhythmic.

Extracting a corner of the toe of your heel, you dragged a clean line down the floor - a slow, deliberate movement.

Jamil's eyes narrowed - half irritation, half something else. You stepped across the hardwood floor, the rhythm from the speaker guiding you.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

Your heels pivoted lightly, sliding into the familiar cadence. A waltz. Or rather, the footwork for it, anyway.

You moved through the basic steps - slow turns, sweeping glides - the ruffles on your dress fluttering around your figure with every rise and fall. No partner. Just you and the music.

You watched Jamil with the eye of a hawk. Circling closer, footwork still carrying that elegant sway, you stepped into his space, and lifted your arms, one brushing his shoulder, and the other sliding neatly into his hand.

His body went rigid.

Your voice was lavender and velvet. "Waltz with me."

"I'd rath-" He started, tone clipped.

You tilted your head, fingers tightening slightly where they rested. "Dance with me."

He hesitated.

But your steps were already drawing him in, guiding him through the tempo - subtle turns, measured breath, contact that sparked more than rhythm. And for a moment, he followed. Not just because he wanted to. But because he couldn't help it.

You smiled.

You led him into the simple hold - right hand to his shoulder, left hand in his - and pressed forward onto the floor. The swell of a smooth, orchestral Viennese waltz began playing. The ruffles on your dress continued to swirl according to your movements; now with Jamil's stance recast from audience to partner.

Despite you leading him into the dance, Jamil naturally took the lead and guided you carefully with that firm, practiced grip.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

The steps were measured. The turn was tight. The closeness familiar yet thrilling.

"I didn't know you could dance like this," You murmured, voice low enough only he'd hear.

He blinked. "I can dance many styles."

Jamil was a practiced dancer, gifting you perfect posture and fluid motion. You used this chance to brush your hip against his a little longer, your gaze dipped to his neck as you followed his lead.

The height in the waltz built, and you subtly released his shoulder and pressed your chest against his closer. He still didn't flinch. He guided you.

You whispered, "If this is how you hold me now, I'm excited to see how you hold me later."

His step faltered, just a touch. He swallowed.

You slowed, accordingly to the melody, coaxing him into a sultry foxtrot. Each step was sumptuous, like the finest velvet - smooth, intentional, undeniably close. The ruffles whispered around with every turn, every slide a promise made in silk and motion.

You let your fingers trace ever so slightly over his shoulder as you moved.

"You're not trying to seduce me, are you? You questioned, voice dripping like warm honey. A pause. "Because it's working."

His breath hitched. Barely, but you felt it.

Your smile grew more wicked, more hazy.

"Careful, Jamil. If you keep dancing like that, I might forget we're just practicing."

He didn't answer with words. His hand tightened at your waist. His steps grew sharper, more deliberate - every shift of his body brushing closer, every movement carrying a kind of heat that left no room for misreading.

You realized with a slow, thrilling surrender - you weren't the one leading this dance anymore.

Before you knew it, a vibrant salsa tune reverberated throughout the room as you spun sideways, allowing yourself to be pulled into a livelier pattern. You clicked your heels, you flicked your head - classic salsa, but with an effortless allure.

His muscles flexed beneath his shirt. His leading was strong, firm, unflinching. Your bodies pushed and pulled, buzzing with magnetic energy. You uttered softly, "That's it, I knew you had it in you~"

His jaw angled. Sweat glistened on his temple. The fire of the salsa matched the fire in your eyes.

He dipped you low.

Your dress flared.

And your glossed lips parted.

The music changed on your breath - a tense, dramatic tango. You slid your hand along his chest, drawing your pulse to his sternum.

He let go of the salsa rhythm, leaning in for a true tango embrace. Chest to chest, cheek to cheek. Your hand went to the back of his neck, hair slipping through his fingers. His arm slid around your waist with surprising gentleness - tentative, but real.

He led. You pivoted. You pressed your hip against his. His eyes glittered in the mirror. Your hair flew wildly with the tempo. He guided your close, closer - hips aligned, shoulders aligned, heartbeats aligned.

As the music reached a crescendo, he dipped you - gravity and control in perfect synergy. You leaned back in the dip, your dress sliding temptingly, your pulse racing. Who would have known that Jamil Viper was this good of a dancer?

Suddenly, he lost balance.

Mid-dip, he staggered. But as quick as a pit viper, Jamil caught your head as you felt yourselves crash to the ground all too slow, his strong arms creating a barrier between you and the floor. His chest heaved, and his gaze was charged.

You blinked, hair falling forward. He brushed it aside, still holding that dance hold - intimate, warm, safe.

He nodded once, sharply. "I...you okay?"

You smiled back, breathy. "More than okay."

Jamil let go of you, setting himself up vertical, and offering a hand to help you up.

You rose up to your knees as you gently pulled him back to sit.

"I saw you wince when you got up," You said, voice laced with concern, but carrying a teasing edge. Jamil did not miss this. "Did you pull your side?"

He shot you a sharp look. "How'd you know?"

You flashed a knowing smile, leaning closer as your fingers brushed his arm lightly. "Kind of hard to miss. And you're not exactly the best at hiding things."

His eyes narrowed, but softened as you moved in closer, your gaze intent, lingering on his form. "Maybe you should stretch a little," You suggested. "I could help. You know, with that side of yours."

Your lips curled into a knowing smile, the offer looming in the air - a challenge.

You shuffled closer to him and placed your palm against his ribs. "Let me help you loosen up." Your tone was soft now - gentler with the teasing.

He stiffened and relaxed only when your touch remained focused, controlled.

"Everything alright?"

"Are you okay?"

You both asked at the same time.

A laugh, soft and breathy, slipped past your lips. "I've never been better. Though I wouldn't say no to a repeat performance - maybe with less falling, though."

He groaned and tried to move, but you reached up gently and brushed your fingers along his cheek. Your thumb ghosted just under his eye, and his breath caught.

You smiled at him, a soft, private smile that didn't match the typical wicked one you wore like armor.

"I think I broke you," You said playfully, though your voice had quieted.

Jamil didn't reply right away, just looked at you with those impossibly sharp eyes of his, reading more than you meant to show. His gaze swept from your flushed cheeks to your still-parted lips, and you could practically feel the turbulent energy strumming beneath his skin.

"You're pushing too far," He said quietly, voice taut.

You held his gaze, steady.

"Maybe. But you haven't stopped me yet."

The moment stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. Your fingertips still lingered against his face, and when you didn't pull away, neither did he.

"I like you, Jamil."

It came out quieter than you'd expected.

Even with your usual confidence, even with all your practiced lines and sultry jokes, this part - this truth - was vulnerable. Your stomach twisted as the words hung in the air.

Jamil narrowed his eyes, stunned for a breath.

You kept your fingers on his cheek, grounding yourself.

"I mean it," You said, your voice lower now, calmer, but clearer than ever. "I tease you, sure. I get under your skin. But with you...it's not just a game. It's different."

Light from the chandelier kissed the contours of his face, shadows settling in the hollows like secrets. His brows drew together, silent in focus.

"You drive me up the wall," You admitted with a nervous little laugh. "You're smug and unbothered and infuriatingly self-controlled. And still...you're all I think about lately. Every comeback, every glance...it's like a dance I don't want to end."

Jamil was still quiet.

You could feel your pulse in your throat now. Too exposed.

Your voice dipped again, hushed and a little shaky. "You don't have to say anything. I just...I wanted you to know. I know I'm a lot to deal with. But when it comes to you, I really am serious. Scary serious."

Still silence.

Then - very slowly - Jamil's fingers rose to your wrist. He didn't push your hand away. Instead, he curled his hand around it, warm and steady, as if anchoring himself there.

"I know you mean it," He said at last, voice somber and timbre. "I've always known."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Then why pull away?" You whispered.

He leaned in closer, the space between you narrowing until your breaths were shared. His body hovered over yours, but it wasn't dominance - it was hesitance. Like he was waiting for permission he didn't think he deserved.

"Because I didn't understand it," He murmured. "I still don't." His gaze searched yours, guarded but unraveling.

"I don't see why it's me. Why you'd look at me like that. There were moments I convinced myself it wasn't real - that you were just...being you. That I was passing fancy."

He exhaled, a shaky sound.

"But then you kept showing up. And you kept meaning it. And I couldn't stop wanting to believe you."

Your expression softened. "And what do you think now?"

"I think..." He hesitated. His voice dipped low, like river water flowing over stone. "You're absurd. And I haven't stopped thinking about you since the first time you blew me off with that ridiculous wink."

A slow smile curved the set of your mouth. "You liked the wink?"

"I hated it," He said, not sounding like he meant it at all. "But I couldn't forget it."

You sat up a little, your face now barely inches from his. "And now?"

"Now, I'm in trouble."

Your peals of laughter were tender and pleased, but something in you was still fragile. Still aching for more than banter. "Do you like me, Jamil?"

He exhaled, letting his forehead rest gently against yours. His hair brushed your cheek, silky and warm.

"I like you," He confessed, barely above a whisper. "More than I want to. More than I know how to deal with. You've turned my whole world upside down."

You swallowed thickly, "Good."

Then you tilted your face, so your lips hovered near his ear, your breath pleasant against his skin.

"Can I kiss you?" You whispered, soft but steady.

Jamil's fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist. His eyes found yours - intense, unreadable for a heartbeat.

Then they dropped to your lips.

"Yes."

You leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't a playful peck or a teasing brush.

It was the kind of kiss that melted time.

His mouth met yours with careful reverence at first, like he wasn't sure this was real. Then, as your hand tangled in the loose hair at the nape of his neck, he deepened it, pulling you closer, tilting your chin, kissing you like he'd been holding back for far too long.

Though, you supposed that was exactly the case.

You tasted like mischief and jasmine and stolen moments.

He tasted like order, oud, and tender hours.

When you broke apart, both of you breathless, you touched his chest lightly with your palm, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat.

"We're a mess," You chortled, smiling.

Jamil smirked. "You more than me."

"Rude," You teased.

"And yet," He murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek, "I still want more."

You leaned in again, your lips just grazing his. "Then you'd better keep up, Viper."

He kissed you again.

And this time, you didn't stop for a long, long while.

Author's Note: So I was supposed to post the Trey x VERY suggestive reader fic version of this before I posted Jamil's, but here we are! The process for creating these fics was NOT easy at all. To add on to Jamil's part, I originally did not plan for the dancing part of the fic to be as long as it was. I just figured that since Jamil is canonically really good at dancing, I could write about it. He obviously loves to break-dance, but he canonically is also really good at ballroom styles, and since this would technically be my first ever Jamil fic, I wanted to do him justice. :>