#I think it’s absolutely a fantastic book though | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elikajinnie · 6 months ago

Note

Hi!! Idk if you do actual Hogwarts crossover but Heeseung and Draco Malfoy in the same story would be a dream 🙌💞💞

Just a thought though… haha. I love your work!

I Am Not In Distress - L.H & D.M

a/n: .... i could kiss you.. i LOVE THIS! Thank you for ur support! Hope you enjoy<3

P: Slytherins!Heeseung & Draco Malfoy X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Rivalry, Tension, Teasing, Suggestive Content, Ambigious Ending, they both desperate for you.

Synopsis: Purebloods are bad news—that’s what you always told yourself. Yet here you are, caught between two of them, both determined to have you. And this? It’s far from a friendly rivalry.

now playing: heartless by the weeknd | alejandro by lady gaga | bored by ari abdul

hogwarts au masterlist

You disliked purebloods to an extent—not enough to hate them outright, but just enough to stay clear of most of them. It wasn’t hard to form that opinion, not when so many of them walked around with a superiority complex, like the simple fact of their lineage made them better than everyone else. Half-bloods? Muggleborns? Practically dirt under their expensive shoes.

Most of them were in Slytherin, of course, which only cemented the stereotype further. And while you knew not every Slytherin was like that, it was easier to assume the worst and keep your distance. You didn’t have the patience for their arrogance, their entitled sneers, or the way they always traveled in packs, like a group of sharks smelling blood.

Out of all of them, though, two stood out as the absolute worst in your book. Draco Malfoy and Lee Heeseung.

Both were practically Slytherin royalty, both pureblooded to their cores, and both annoyingly aware of it. Wherever they went, people trailed behind them like lost puppies—giggling, flattering, desperate for their approval. It was sickening. You never gave either of them a second glance, which wasn’t difficult considering they were always too busy basking in their own popularity. And honestly? You thought you’d never have a reason to interact with either of them. Hogwarts was a big school, after all. You could go years without crossing paths in any meaningful way.

Or so you thought.

One stupid dungbomb. That’s all it took. Filch had caught you red-handed, and before you could even think of an excuse, you were marched off to detention, grumbling all the way. Cleaning duty. Fine. You could deal with that.

But what you hadn’t expected—what you couldn’t believe—was that you’d be stuck in the same room with both Draco Malfoy and Lee Heeseung. Just the three of you.

Fantastic.

This was shaping up to be the longest detention of your life.

When they spotted you, their conversation halted mid-sentence. Both Heeseung and Draco turned their heads, their sharp gazes locking onto you like a pair of predators catching sight of their prey. You could feel their eyes tracing over every inch of you, sizing you up, as if your mere presence had somehow interrupted their perfect little world.

It was unnerving.... to say the least. Their stares weren’t casual—they were calculated, assessing, almost intrigued. You shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of your robe as if that would somehow shield you from their scrutiny. Without sparing them another glance, you made your way to the table and began organizing the potion ingredients the way Professor Snape had instructed. If you focused on the task, maybe they’d leave you alone. Maybe you could get through this detention without having to speak to either of them.

But, of course, life wasn’t that kind.

“Well, well,” Heeseung drawled, his voice smooth and just a little too smug for your liking. “Who would’ve thought you’d end up in detention?”

You didn’t look up, keeping your eyes trained on the jars of dried herbs in front of you. “Yeah, real shocking,” you muttered under your breath, hoping he’d take the hint and drop it.

He didn’t.

Draco chimed in next, his tone dripping with his usual snide arrogance. “Didn’t take you for the type. I thought you were supposed to be all proper.” He let out a quiet laugh, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Or did I get that wrong? Maybe you're more suited to being a troublemaker.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay focused on the task at hand. You weren’t about to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. “Maybe you should mind your own business,” you said evenly, not even sparing them a glance.

That only seemed to encourage them.

“Oh, don’t get all shy on us now,” Heeseung said, his voice laced with mock amusement. He stepped closer, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the empty room. “You’re already in detention with us. Might as well make the most of it.”

Draco chuckled at that, his laughter light but tinged with malice. “Exactly. It’s not every day we get to be with someone so... charming.”

The sarcasm in his voice was impossible to miss, and your patience was starting to wear thin. You slammed a jar of powdered asphodel down onto the table a little harder than necessary and finally turned to face them.

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is,” you snapped, your eyes narrowing as you glared at them, “but I’m just here to serve my detention and leave. So why don’t you both do the same and stop bothering me?”

For a moment, they both just stared at you, as if surprised you’d actually spoken up. Then, to your irritation, Heeseung’s lips curved into a slow, amused smile.

“Feisty,” he remarked, his tone almost teasing. “I enjoy that.”

Draco smirked as well, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the table. “Careful, Heeseung,” he said, his voice dripping with mock warning. “You might scare her off.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the ingredients with a muttered, “Idiots.”

The three of you carried on with your assigned tasks in silence—at first. If you pretended hard enough, it was almost like you were alone in the room.

But, of course, they couldn’t leave you in peace for too long.

“Is it just me, or does she seem a little too focused on her work?” Heeseung mused aloud, his tone light and deliberately provoking.

Draco snickered. “Overcompensating, maybe? Trying to make up for their little... incident.”

You ignored them, carefully placing a jar of beetle eyes onto the shelf. They were just trying to get a rise out of you. If you didn’t react, they’d get bored and move on.

“Oi,” Heeseung called out after a moment, his voice laced with mock curiosity. “You’re not ignoring us, are you? That’d be rude, don’t you think, Draco?”

“Oh, very rude,” Draco agreed, feigning an exaggerated gasp. “But then again, I suppose we shouldn’t expect much better. Detention and manners don’t exactly go hand in hand, do they?”

You tightened your grip on the jar in your hand but still refused to look at them. Breathe in. Breathe out. They were just words. Nothing worth wasting your energy on.

“Think she’s mad at us?” Heeseung asked, leaning lazily against a nearby desk, his voice full of mock innocence. “I mean, it’s not like we’re the reason she’s here in detention. Are we?”

Draco chuckled, leaning forward slightly as if to get a better look at you. “Oh, I don’t think she’s mad, Heeseung. I think she’s just too embarrassed to talk to us. Can’t blame her, really.”

This time, you rolled your eyes but kept your mouth shut, stacking a few jars onto the shelf with more force than necessary. You could hear them snickering behind you, clearly pleased with themselves.

“Nothing to say?” Heeseung pressed, stepping closer, his voice taking on a teasing sing-song quality. “Come on, it’s not like we’re that scary. Are we, Draco?”

“Terrifying,” Draco said with a smirk. “Absolutely petrifying.”

You finally turned your head just enough to glare at them over your shoulder. “Do either of you ever shut up?” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

Heeseung’s grin widened. “There it is,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Knew you couldn’t hold out forever.”

You gritted your teeth, cursing yourself internally for giving them even the smallest reaction. Without another word, you turned back to your work.

“You know,” Draco said, clearly still enjoying himself, “it’s actually impressive how much restraint you’ve got. Most people would’ve cracked by now.”

“Yeah,” Heeseung agreed, his tone dripping with amusement. “But I think we can do better, don’t you?”

Fantastic. They’d taken your response as a challenge.

The rest of detention dragged on painfully, with both Draco and Heeseung continuing their relentless teasing. It was as if they’d made a silent pact to see who could irritate you the most.

Draco started by pretending to inspect your work. He sauntered over, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the ingredients you’d just organized. “Hmm,” he muttered, tapping his chin dramatically. “You’ve mislabeled this one, you know. Wouldn’t want Snape to find out, would you? He’s not exactly forgiving when it comes to incompetence.”

You didn’t even glance at him, your voice flat as you replied, “I didn’t mislabel anything, Malfoy.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, picking up a jar and holding it just out of your reach. “So confident, aren’t you? Let’s see… powdered bicorn horn, is it? Or was it powdered something-else-entirely?”

“That is powdered bicorn horn, genius,” you shot back, snatching the jar from his hand and placing it firmly on the shelf. “Try harder.”

Draco blinked, as though surprised you didn’t falter, but the smirk quickly returned to his face. “Not bad,” he said, a lazy drawl in his voice. “But I wasn’t wrong about Snape, you know. One slip-up, and you’ll be scrubbing cauldrons for the rest of the year.”

“Good thing I don’t make mistakes, then,” you retorted, already turning your back on him.

Draco huffed softly but didn’t push further—for now. Heeseung, however, decided it was his turn.

“You’re pretty quick with comebacks,” Heeseung remarked, his voice smooth as silk. He leaned against the table next to you, watching you carefully. “Must’ve had a lot of practice, huh? Who do you argue with so much? Your friends? Or maybe your professors? Bet they love you.”

You exhaled sharply, doing your best to ignore him. Heeseung’s teasing was less obvious than Draco’s, but it was no less infuriating. He had a way of making everything he said sound like a compliment, even when it clearly wasn’t.

“You know, it’s kind of impressive,” he continued, smirking when you didn’t answer. “I mean, most people would’ve lost their temper by now. You’re… stubborn.” He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Or is it pride? Which one is it?”

“Neither,” you muttered, slamming another jar onto the shelf. “It’s called wanting to finish this detention without having to listen to you two.”

“Ah, so you are listening,” Heeseung teased, his grin widening.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to take the bait. If you kept engaging with them, this detention would feel even longer than it already did. You just had to make it through this. Just a little longer.

But they weren’t done yet.

“Do you think she’s always this serious?” Draco asked Heeseung, loud enough for you to hear. “I mean, look at her. Practically fuming. It’s like she’s never heard of having a bit of fun.”

“Probably doesn’t know how to have fun,” Heeseung agreed, shaking his head mockingly. “Sad, really.”

“Very sad,” Draco echoed with a smirk.

It wasn’t until the end of detention that they finally let up, though not without a parting shot.

As you were putting away the last of the ingredients, Heeseung leaned in closer, his voice low and teasing. “You know, this wasn’t so bad. We should do it again sometime.”

Draco snorted, smirking as he added, “Yeah. Let us know next time you get caught. We’d hate to miss out.”

You shot them both a glare before turning on your heel and leaving the room without another word. Their laughter followed you out, echoing down the corridor.

As frustrating as it had been, you were proud of yourself for not giving them the reaction they’d wanted—at least, not entirely. But as you walked back to your dorm, you couldn’t help but feel a sinking suspicion that this wasn’t the last time they’d try to get under your skin....

Turns out, your guess was absolutely, fucking correct.

The very next day in History of Magic, you settled into your usual seat near the back of the classroom, fully prepared to endure another hour of Professor Binns’ dull droning. Your plan was simple: take notes, avoid eye contact with anyone, and maybe even catch up on some homework if Binns got too repetitive. Easy.

Or so you thought.

The first sign that your day was about to spiral downward was the sound of a chair scraping obnoxiously close beside you. You looked up, confused, only to see Draco lowering himself gracefully into the seat next to yours, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His smirk was already in place, and you could feel your blood pressure rising.

Before you could even process his sudden and unwelcome appearance, Heeseung dropped into the seat on your other side with the kind of casual arrogance that only someone like him could pull off. He leaned back lazily, his long legs stretching out under the desk as if he owned the entire classroom.

“Morning,” Heeseung said smoothly, as if the two of you were old friends.

Draco didn’t bother with pleasantries, instead glancing at you with a raised eyebrow and a mocking smile.

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting for a moment as you stared at the two boys flanking you. They were both watching you expectantly, like they were waiting for some kind of reaction.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” you hissed, your voice low enough to avoid attracting Binns’ attention.

Draco shrugged, his expression annoyingly smug. “What does it look like? Sitting. Breathing. Existing.”

“Unfortunately for you,” Heeseung added, his lips twitching with amusement.

“Plenty of empty seats,” you snapped, gesturing to the rest of the classroom. “Go exist somewhere else.”

Draco leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the desk as he tilted his head toward you. “Why would we do that when we’ve got you right here?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could respond, Heeseung cut in. “Don’t be so cold. We’re just here to keep you company. You looked a little lonely.”

“Lonely?” you repeated, incredulous. “I was perfectly fine until you two showed up.”

“Exactly,” Draco said, smirking. “Too fine. Can’t have that, can we?”

You groaned quietly, dragging a hand down your face. Of all the people in the school, why did they have to decide you were worth bothering?

Class started, and you tried your best to ignore them, determined to focus on Professor Binns’ lecture. But, of course, neither Draco nor Heeseung had any intention of letting that happen.

Every few minutes, one of them would whisper some snide remark or another, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Do you even understand what Binns is saying?” Draco muttered at one point, leaning closer to you. “Sounds like he’s speaking Mermish, doesn’t it?”

You ignored him, scribbling furiously in your notebook.

“She’s actually taking notes,” Heeseung whispered to Draco, his voice dripping with fake awe. “How noble.”

“Very noble,” Draco agreed. “But, then again, she does have a reputation to uphold. Isn’t that right?”

You gripped your quill tighter, willing yourself to stay calm.

When you didn’t respond, Heeseung leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Are you really going to keep ignoring us all class? That’s no fun.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of looking at them.

Draco, clearly delighted by your silence, smirked and added, “Maybe she’s just shy, Heeseung. You know how it is. Some people get nervous around greatness.”

At that, your quill snapped in half.

The sound was loud enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby students, but thankfully, Binns remained as oblivious as ever. You let out a slow, frustrated breath, carefully setting the broken quill down before turning to glare at the two of them.

“What do you want?” you hissed, your voice low but venomous.

They exchanged a glance, their smirks widening.

“To keep you entertained,” Heeseung said innocently.

“Consider it a public service,” Draco added with a mock bow of his head.

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your notes. “You’re both insufferable.”

“Thanks,” Heeseung said with a grin, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

For the rest of class, they didn’t let up, continuing until you were practically counting down the seconds until the end. By the time class was over, your nerves were completely frayed. Bolting upright, you were determined to escape the classroom and leave Draco and Heeseung behind. But before you could even take two steps, you felt a hand at your waist.

You froze, glancing down to see Heeseung’s arm wrapping itself around you in a way that was far too casual for your liking. His hand rested lightly at your side, as if this was something he did every day.

“What are you doing?” you asked sharply, trying to twist away, but his grip only tightened—gentle, but firm enough to stop you from slipping free.

“Relax,” he said smoothly, his tone far too self-assured. “Just thought I’d help you out. Wouldn’t want you to get lost on your way to class, after all.”

You glared at him, but before you could retort, Draco sauntered up beside you. “Heeseung’s right,” he drawled. “We are all headed to the same place, after all. It would be terribly rude of us not to walk you there.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of you,” you snapped, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You tried to step away again, but Heeseung matched your pace effortlessly, keeping his arm firmly around your waist as he steered you toward the door.

“See? She appreciates it,” Heeseung said, ignoring your tone entirely.

Draco chuckled, falling into step on your other side. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t say thank you,” you shot back, glaring at them both.

“Not out loud,” Draco said, his smirk widening. “But I can tell you’re grateful. You just don’t want to admit it.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, deciding that arguing with them would only make things worse. Instead, you focused on walking as quickly as possible, hoping to reach your next class and put some distance between yourself and the two infuriating Slytherins.

Unfortunately, they seemed to have other plans.

As the three of you made your way down the corridor, Heeseung kept his arm firmly in place, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Draco, meanwhile, kept up a steady stream of commentary, most of it designed to annoy you.

“Do you always walk this fast?” Draco asked at one point, easily keeping up with your hurried pace. “Or are you just trying to get away from us?”

“Obviously the second one,” you muttered, not bothering to look at him.

Heeseung chuckled, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as he guided you around a corner. “Aw, don’t be like that. We’re just trying to be friendly.”

“This is what you call ‘friendly’?” you shot back.

“Of course,” Draco said, his smirk never faltering. “You should consider yourself lucky, really. We don’t do this for just anyone.”

“Oh, I feel so special,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“You should,” Heeseung replied, his tone teasing. “Not everyone gets to be escorted to class by the two most charming people in Hogwarts.”

You snorted. “Charming? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” Draco said, clearly enjoying himself.

By the time you finally reached the door to your next class, your patience was hanging by a thread. As you tried to step away, Heeseung finally released his hold on your waist, but not before leaning down slightly and murmuring, “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You shot him a glare, but before you could respond, Draco spoke up. “Looks like we’re all here,” he said, glancing into the classroom.

You groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to bang your head against the nearest wall. This was going to be a long day.

You slipped away from them quickly, weaving through the rows of desks until you found a seat at the very front of the class. If there was one place they wouldn’t dare to bother you, it was here—right under the professor’s nose. At least, that’s what you hoped.

You were determined to focus, to shake off whatever bizarre fixation Draco and Heeseung had developed on you since detention.

But, of course, you should have figured it out by now. Once you had their attention—for whatever inexplicable reason—they weren’t going to let up.

You’d barely settled into your seat when you heard the faint scrape of chairs moving directly behind you. Your stomach dropped as you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the two boys taking the seats directly behind yours, looking far too pleased with themselves.

Heeseung leaned forward, resting his arms casually on the edge of your desk. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low so only you could hear, “running away isn’t very polite. We walked you here, after all.”

“Not to mention,” Draco added from your other side, “we were hoping for a nice little chat. But here you are, acting like we’re some kind of nuisance.”

“Because you are,” you hissed under your breath, glaring at them both.

Draco feigned a wounded expression, clutching his chest dramatically. “How cruel. And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

“Keep dreaming, Malfoy,” you muttered, turning back to face the front of the class.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Heeseung said, his tone light and teasing. He poked you lightly with the end of his quill. “We’re just trying to make your day more exciting.”

“By annoying me?” you shot back, swatting his quill away.

“Exactly,” he replied with a grin.

Before you could retort, the professor entered the room, and the class fell into a semblance of quiet. You let out a relieved breath, grateful for the temporary reprieve. Surely, they wouldn’t risk drawing attention to themselves now—not with a professor watching.

But you should’ve known better.

Throughout the lecture, you felt the occasional nudge against the back of your chair—Heeseung, no doubt, trying to get your attention. You ignored him. Then there was the faint sound of parchment being crumpled, followed by a soft thud as a tiny ball of paper landed on your desk.

You unfolded it reluctantly, your irritation mounting.

Inside, in Draco’s neat handwriting, was a single line: “Having fun yet?”

You crumpled the paper back up and tossed it over your shoulder without a word, not caring where it landed. You heard Draco chuckle softly behind you, clearly amused by your reaction.

A few minutes later, another paper ball landed on your desk. This time, it was from Heeseung, the writing messier but just as irritating: “You know you can’t keep this up forever, right?”

You sighed, your patience wearing thin. Without looking back, you scribbled a reply on the paper and tossed it over your shoulder.

It wasn’t long before you heard Draco snicker. “Looks like she finally have something to say.”

Heeseung unfolded the paper and read your message, keeping his voice low. “Leave me alone before I hex you both into next week.”

“Hex us?” Draco repeated, his tone dripping with mock disbelief. “How positively violent.”

“Indeed,” Heeseung added with a grin.

By the time class ended, you were practically bolting for the door, hoping to escape before they could follow. But, of course, they were right on your heels, flanking you once again as you stepped into the hallway.

“See?” Draco said, falling into step beside you. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I barely noticed you were there,” you lied, shooting him a sideways glare.

“Ouch,” Heeseung said, clutching his chest dramatically. “You really know how to hurt a guy, don’t you?”

You quickened your pace, hoping they’d get bored and leave you alone. But as they continued to trail after you, still grinning like they’d won some kind of game.

You were practically weaving through the crowd of students filling the hallways. Surely, they had better things to do than to keep following you like persistent shadows?

Right?

But, of course, they didn’t.

“So,” Heeseung said casually, keeping stride beside you as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “What’s next on your schedule? Care to share?”

“I bet it’s something riveting,” Draco added on your other side, his smirk firmly in place. “Like Herbology or... Divination.”

You gritted your teeth, refusing to answer.

“Silent treatment again?” Heeseung asked, leaning slightly closer. “You know, that’s starting to hurt my feelings.”

“I didn’t realize you had feelings,” you shot back before you could stop yourself, your frustration finally bubbling to the surface.

Draco let out a bark of laughter, clearly delighted. “There it is! Knew you couldn’t stay quiet forever.”

“Careful, Malfoy,” you said sharply, stopping in your tracks to glare at both of them. “If you keep pushing me, you’ll find out exactly how much quieter your life will be with a Silencing Charm.”

“Oh, scary,” Heeseung teased, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes that made you want to hex him right then and there.

Draco, ever the instigator, stepped closer with that same irritating smirk. “Go on, then. Let’s see it. I could use a good laugh before our next class.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you snapped, narrowing your eyes at him.

Heeseung, clearly enjoying himself, stepped in as if to defuse the tension—though his tone was anything but sincere. “Now, now, let’s not resort to violence. We wouldn’t want anyone to get detention again, would we?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving past them both and continuing down the hallway. “I don’t have time for this,” you muttered under your breath, hoping they’d finally take the hint.

But, they didn’t.

Instead, they followed you all the way to your next class.

“Should we place bets on where she’s sitting this time?” Draco mused aloud as you entered the classroom.

“I’m guessing front and center,” Heeseung replied, trailing after you. “Seems like their style.”

You ignored them completely, choosing a seat near the middle of the room this time.

And the moment you sat down, they flanked you on either side, their presence looming before you could even pull out your notes. Heeseung plopped into the seat on your right, draping one arm casually over the back of your chair, while Draco claimed the seat on your left with his usual air of entitlement.

“Miss us?” Heeseung asked, flashing you an infuriating grin.

“Not even a little,” you replied, your tone flat.

“Liar,” Draco said smoothly, leaning just enough to invade your personal space. “Admit it. You’d be bored out of your mind without us.”

“I was doing just fine before you two started this little... whatever this is,” you shot back, glaring between them.

“‘This little whatever this is’?” Heeseung repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Ouch. You’re really struggling with words today, huh? Must be the company.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as the professor walked into the room, signaling the start of class. “Will you two just—”

“Shh,” Draco interrupted, holding a finger to his lips. “Class is starting. Let’s be respectful, shall we?”

You shot him a glare, but he only grinned in response, clearly pleased with himself.

For the next hour, they both continued their antics—soft whispers, poking at your notes, and the occasional “accidental” nudge to your arm. Every time you tried to focus, one of them would find some new way to distract you, and by the end of the lesson, your patience was hanging by a thread.

As soon as the professor dismissed the class, you bolted from your seat, determined to escape before they could follow you again.

But, they were right behind you in an instant.

“So,” Heeseung said as the three of you stepped into the hallway, “what’s next? Lunch? Study session?”

“Or,” Draco added, his smirk widening, “are you finally going to admit that you enjoy our company and stop running away?”

You stopped in your tracks, spinning around to face them both with an exasperated glare. “Why are you two so obsessed with bothering me?”

They exchanged a glance, their smirks never faltering.

“Because it’s fun,” Heeseung said simply, shrugging.

“And because you’re so bad at ignoring us,” Draco added, his tone practically gleeful.

You groaned, turning back around and storming off down the hallway. “You two are unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.

You were on the verge of snapping, your fists clenched at your sides as Draco and Heeseung trailed after you like determined shadows.

And just when you thought you’d never get a moment of peace, salvation arrived.

“Draco! Heeseung!”

A loud, familiar voice rang out from the end of the corridor. You glanced up to see a group of Slytherins heading toward you. Blaise Zabini was leading the pack, with Pansy Parkinson and a few others following close behind, their expressions curious as they spotted the two boys at your side.

“Oh, great,” you muttered under your breath, praying that this didn’t somehow make things worse.

“Looks like our friends are here,” Heeseung said, his grin widening as Blaise reached them.

“Friends?” Draco drawled, shooting you a quick, smug glance before turning to greet the others. “They’re more like pests.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Blaise retorted with a smirk, crossing his arms as his gaze flickered to you. “And who’s this? Your new... project?”

You bristled at the comment, opening your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, Pansy cut in.

“Draco, Heeseung,” she said, her voice dripping with honey, “we’ve been looking for you everywhere. What are you two doing hanging around here?” Her eyes flickered to you briefly, but she didn’t seem all that interested.

Draco waved her off lazily. “Just having some fun.”

“With her?” Blaise asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

You decided that was your cue to leave. With their attention now firmly on Draco and Heeseung, you took a slow step backward, careful not to draw attention to yourself.

To your immense relief, neither of them seemed to notice as you slipped away, blending into the crowd of students moving through the hallway.

Once you were out of sight, you quickened your pace, weaving through the corridors until you reached the library.

Finding an empty table near the back, you set your things down and let out a relieved sigh. Finally, some peace.

You pulled out your notes, determined to get some studying done before your next class. For the first time all day, you felt like you could actually breathe without the weight of two smirking Slytherins bearing down on you.

But as you started reviewing your notes, a nagging thought crept into your mind: why had they suddenly decided to fixate on you? And more importantly, how long would it last?

Whatever their reasons, you weren’t going to let them distract you any more than they already had.

Finally, without Draco and Heeseung’s incessant teasing, you could concentrate. The words on the page seemed to make sense again as you worked through your assignments, your quill scratching quietly against the parchment.

You were so immersed in your work that you didn’t notice someone approaching until they were right next to your table.

“Found you,” a familiar voice said, smooth and far too smug.

Your head snapped up, and your heart sank as you saw Draco standing there, his arms crossed.

Behind him, Heeseung strolled in, looking far too pleased with himself as he dropped into the chair across from you. “Nice hiding spot,” he said, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place. “Took us a minute to figure out where you’d run off to.”

You stared at them, utterly dumbfounded. “Are you serious? Do you two not have anything better to do?”

“Not really,” Heeseung replied with a shrug, as if the answer was obvious.

“We were bored,” Draco added, sliding into the seat beside you without waiting for an invitation. He propped his chin on his hand, turning to you with an almost lazy smile. “And you’re far more entertaining than whatever Blaise and Pansy were droning on about.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “What do you even want from me?”

Draco leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “What’s wrong with wanting to spend time with you?”

“Plenty,” you snapped, your tone sharp. “Because I don’t want to spend time with you.”

Heeseung let out a low chuckle, clearly unbothered by your hostility. “See, that’s what makes this fun. Most people fall over themselves to get on our good side. But you?” He gestured to you. “You’re not afraid to tell us off. It’s refreshing.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your notes in the hopes that ignoring them might make them leave. “I don’t care if you find it refreshing. Go bother someone else.”

But, of course, they stayed put.

Draco pulled one of your books closer to him, flipping through it idly. “History of Magic? Boring,” he commented, wrinkling his nose.

Heeseung leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he peered at your notes. “Are you really studying, or are you just pretending so we’ll leave you alone?”

You slapped your hand down over your parchment, glaring at him. “I was studying until you showed up.”

Draco laughed, tossing the book aside. “ Admit it. You’d miss us if we left you alone.”

“I’d celebrate if you left me alone,” you shot back.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Heeseung said, leaning even closer. “You’ll hurt our feelings.”

“I doubt either of you has feelings,” you muttered under your breath, turning your attention back to your notes.

Draco raised an eyebrow, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that.”

For the next few minutes, they continued their antics—poking at your books, making sarcastic comments about your notes, and generally being as insufferable as possible.

But then Madam Pince’s sharp voice cut through the air. “If you three can’t keep it down, I’ll have you removed from the library!”

You seized the opportunity, shooting to your feet and gathering your things. “Good idea,” you said, your tone clipped. “I’ll remove myself.”

Before they could say anything, you slipped past them and hurried out of the library, your heart pounding with equal parts irritation and relief.

Another thing you hated about pureblood Slytherins was their egos—massive, sky-high, and unrelenting. It would take a catastrophic event to bring them down a peg. And because of that ego, they always went for things that would feed it, things that would boost their status, power, and sense of superiority. They believed they deserved the best—whether it was fame, wealth, influence, or...

Well, apparently you.

Which made absolutely no sense.

Because here you were, in the middle of yet another detention (this time for hexing a Gryffindor who wouldn’t take no for an answer—big deal), and somehow, somehow, you’d ended up against the wall of the empty Potions classroom.

Kissing Heeseung.

Your brain struggled to catch up with the situation, thoughts running in frantic circles as his lips pressed firmly against yours. It wasn’t soft or hesitant, no—it was confident and teasing, much like the boy himself.

How the hell had it come to this?

Just moments ago, you’d been sitting at your desk, silently fuming as Snape rattled off on a long lecture before leaving you to clean up the mess of spilled potion ingredients. Heeseung, had been there too, lounging in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” he had said, leaning back with an infuriating grin. “Hexing people now? You’re starting to sound like us, you know.”

“Don’t lump me in with you,” you’d snapped, aggressively scrubbing the cauldron in front of you.

“Why not? You’ve got the temper for it,” he’d teased, standing up and sauntering closer.

You’d turned to glare at him, your grip tightening on the rag in your hand. “Say that again, and I’ll hex you next.”

“Oh, scary,” he’d murmured, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Go ahead. Hex me. I dare you.”

And then, before you could even think of a retort, he’d closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours with the same audacity that he carried in everything he did.

Now, here you were, pinned against the cold stone wall, your heart racing and your hands frozen mid-air as he kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your first coherent thought was to push him off, and you did—your palms pressing against his chest as you shoved him back. He stepped away with a smirk, completely unbothered, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

Heeseung tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “What does it look like? It’s called kissing.”

“You don’t just—just do that!” you sputtered, your cheeks burning with anger.

“Why not?” he asked, his tone maddeningly casual. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

You stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thanks,” he said smoothly, running a hand through his hair like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down.

“Don’t thank me—it wasn’t a compliment!” you snapped, still trying to wrap your head around what had just happened.

Heeseung laughed softly, stepping closer again—but this time, you pressed your back firmly against the wall, holding up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warned, your eyes narrowing.

“Relax,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m not going to kiss you again.”

“Good,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Because it wouldn’t happen even if you tried.”

“Really?” he asked, as he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. “Because I think you liked it.”

Your jaw dropped, and you opened your mouth to argue—but no words came out.

Because, unfortunately, a very small part of you had liked it.

And from the way Heeseung was looking at you, he knew it too.

That brief moment of hesitation—barely a second—was all Heeseung needed.

Before you could pull yourself together or think of something sharp to say, he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another kiss. This time, it was different. It wasn’t rushed or teasing—it was confident, and demanding.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your hands shot up to push him back, but he was faster. His fingers wrapped around your wrists, and with a swift movement, he pinned them above your head against the stone wall.

The shift startled you, and your lips parted to protest, but Heeseung used the moment to deepen the kiss, groaning softly into your mouth as his body pressed against yours.

Your heart was racing, pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. You hated the way his touch sent a shiver down your spine, hated the way his lips moved against yours like he knew exactly what he was doing.

But most of all, you hated that you weren’t stopping him.

It had been a while—a long while—since you’d let anyone get this close to you. And you couldn’t deny that Heeseung was... handsome. Annoyingly so. And, as much as it pained you to admit, a damn good kisser.

You fought it at first, your pride screaming at you to push him off, to put him back in his place. But the longer the kiss went on, the harder it was to ignore the way your body was betraying you by leaning into his.

Heeseung must’ve felt the shift because his grip on your wrists loosened slightly, as he realized you weren’t resisting anymore.

So, you let yourself indulge, just for a moment. Your lips moved against his, tentative at first, then more certain as you gave in.

His groan deepened, vibrating against your mouth, and the sound sent another shiver down your spine. His hands slid from your wrists, releasing you as his palms settled on your waist instead, pulling you closer.

For a moment, it was easy to forget where you were, easy to ignore the fact that this was Heeseung, an insufferable pureblood Slytherin.

But the moment couldn’t last forever.

The sharp creak of the classroom door opening snapped you out of it like a bucket of cold water.

You shoved Heeseung away, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants as you turned toward the sound. Filch’s scruffy silhouette loomed in the doorway, his squinting eyes scanning the room suspiciously.

“What’s all this noise?” he barked, his voice gravelly and accusing.

Your face burned as you quickly stepped away from Heeseung, who looked frustratingly calm and unbothered, like he hadn’t just kissed you senseless against the wall.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, smoothing down your robes and hoping your flushed face wasn’t too obvious.

Filch grumbled something under his breath before narrowing his eyes at the both of you. “Get back to work,” he snapped, before turning and stomping off down the hallway.

As the door slammed shut behind him, you turned to glare at Heeseung, who was watching you with a satisfied smile, his hair slightly mussed and his lips still pink from the kiss.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you hissed, keeping your voice low just in case Filch was still nearby.

Heeseung shrugged, his smirk only widening. “You didn’t seem to mind it by the end.”

Your face burned again, and you clenched your fists, tempted to hex him on the spot. “Don’t push your luck.”

He stepped closer, leaning down just enough to whisper in your ear. “If that’s how you react when you resist, I can’t wait to see how you act when you’re not trying to fight it.”

Before you could respond—either with words or violence—he was already moving away, leaving you standing there, furious, flustered, and more confused than ever.

Okay, so maybe kissing Heeseung wasn’t that bad. The guy had practically acted desperate for it, like he’d been waiting for that moment forever. And fine, you’d kind of enjoyed it.

But you’d sworn to yourself—repeatedly, in fact—that it would never, ever, in a million, trillion, gazillion years, happen again. You wouldn’t allow it.

…Except, apparently, self-control was harder than you thought.

Because here you were, pressed up against the cold stone wall near the Slytherin common room, Heeseung’s robes fanning out around you as he shielded you from view, his hand gripping the side of your neck while his lips moved hungrily against yours.

Your hands weren’t much better—they had a mind of their own, one gripping his tie and the other clutching at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

It was reckless. It was stupid. It was everything you’d sworn you wouldn’t let happen again.

And yet, when his thumb brushed the sensitive skin of your jaw and his tongue grazed your lower lip, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Heeseung broke the kiss for just a second, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath.

“You’re terrible at keeping promises to yourself, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low and slightly ragged.

“Shut up,” you muttered, but there wasn’t any real bite to it, not with the way your chest was heaving and your fingers were still gripping his tie.

Heeseung chuckled softly, leaning down to press another kiss to the corner of your mouth before trailing his lips along your jaw, making your breath hitch.

“This is a bad idea,” you said, even as you tilted your head to give him better access.

“The worst,” he agreed, his voice muffled against your skin.

“You’re going to get us caught,” you added, your fingers tightening in his shirt.

“Then stop me,” he challenged, pulling back just enough to look at you, his smirk creeping back now.

You hated how smug he looked, like he knew you wouldn’t actually do it. And the worst part? He was right.

Instead of pushing him away, you pulled him closer, tugging on his tie and crashing your lips back onto his. His quiet groan vibrated against your mouth as his hand slid down to your waist, gripping you like he was afraid you might change your mind.

But you didn’t.

At least, not until the sound of approaching footsteps made both of you freeze.

Heeseung cursed under his breath, quickly adjusting his robes and stepping back just enough to make it look like nothing had happened. You smoothed down your hair and robes in record time, silently praying that whoever was coming wouldn’t notice how flushed you looked.

A group of Slytherin students rounded the corner, laughing and talking amongst themselves. One of them narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the two of you as he passed.

“What are you doing lurking out here?” he asked, his tone dripping with suspicion.

“Just talking,” Heeseung said smoothly, flashing one of his charming smiles.

The slytherin didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged and kept walking, the rest of the group following him into the common room.

As soon as they were out of sight, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, turning to glare at Heeseung.

“This is why I said it was a bad idea,” you hissed.

Heeseung grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. “Bad ideas are more fun, don’t you think?”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him as you headed down the hallway. “Don’t get used to it, Heeseung. It’s not happening again.”

“Whatever you say,” he called after you, his tone confident. “But you’re terrible at keeping promises, remember?”

You didn’t bother responding, but the heat creeping up your neck told you that, once again, he was probably right.

And he was right… again, and again, and again.

It was infuriating how easily Heeseung managed to worm his way back to you, over and over. At first, it was once a day—a moment between classes or in an empty corridor. Then once became twice, twice became four, and before you knew it... you’d lost count.

It was like he’d memorized your schedule, always managing to find you at the exact moment you were alone. Whether it was slipping into an empty classroom, pulling you into a alcove, or even cornering you in the library when no one else was around, Heeseung always found a way.

And the worst part? You let him.

Every time, you told yourself it would be the last. Every time, you promised you’d shove him away, hex him, or at least say no. But the moment his lips were on yours, his hands gripping your waist or threading through your hair, your resolve crumbled like parchment in a fire.

And it was always him who started it—Heeseung who instigated, Heeseung who sought you out, Heeseung who acted like you were his personal secret to keep.

And you hated yourself for how much you didn’t hate it.

This time, it was in an empty stairwell, tucked away from prying eyes. You barely had time to register his presence before he was there, his hand grabbing yours and pulling you into the shadowed corner.

“Heeseung,” you hissed, but he didn’t give you a chance to protest.

His lips crashed onto yours with the same familiar desperation, one hand curling around the back of your neck while the other slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, fingers curling into his robes before you could stop yourself.

“Missed you,” he mumbled against your lips, his voice low and breathless.

“You saw me two hours ago,” you muttered, but your words were muffled as he kissed you again, stealing away whatever resistance you’d managed to muster.

Two hours, four hours, it didn’t matter. The way he kissed you made it feel like he’d been waiting an eternity.

And it was addictive.

“People are going to notice,” you said between kisses, your hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

“Let them,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, though you knew he didn’t mean it. Whatever this was between you, it was still a secret. A forbidden, reckless secret that you both somehow managed to keep under wraps.

For now.

But Heeseung didn’t seem to care about the risk. If anything, it only seemed to fuel him.

“Stop overthinking,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your jaw before trailing down your neck. You shivered, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his robes as he pressed a particularly firm kiss just below your ear.

For someone you were supposed to dislike, Heeseung had a way of making you forget all the reasons why this was a bad idea.

You would’ve thought that someone would’ve noticed. With the way things were escalating, it seemed impossible that no one had caught on. But somehow, miraculously, no one did. You figured you and Heeseung would keep this up for a while, maybe until one of you got bored, or until your resistance finally cracked through.

But of course, that didn’t happen.

Instead, what happened was Draco.

It started off like any other day—just another class, just another moment when you were certain you’d get through the day without any major complications. You were walking down the hall, trying to get to the library for a study session when you felt a familiar, irritating presence looming just behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Draco. The smug aura he exuded practically followed him like a cloud.

But then, before you could even make the decision to ignore him, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, yanking you to a stop.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, a sharp edge to your voice as you yanked your wrist back.

“I think we need to talk,” Draco said, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous light you didn’t trust for a second.

You crossed your arms, eyeing him with suspicion. “What, about what? How much of a pain you are?”

“Something like that,” he murmured.

You barely had time to react before Draco closed the gap between you, one hand gripping your shoulder as he pulled you towards him. His lips pressed against yours with a force you hadn’t expected, and your body tensed in shock.

It wasn’t like Heeseung’s kisses, not in the least. Where Heeseung was often teasing, in a way that made you shiver, Draco was… commanding. He kissed you like he thought he had every right to, like there was no room for resistance.

Your first instinct was to push him away, but then you froze. Your body didn’t react the way it had with Heeseung—there was no heat flooding your chest, no rush of excitement. Instead, you were caught between the confusion of why this was happening and the overwhelming sense of deja vu.

Draco pulled back just slightly, looking at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “Surprised, aren’t you?”

You blinked, still trying to process what the hell had just happened. “Why would you—”

“Because I can,” Draco interrupted smoothly, his tone all too familiar, like he was enjoying this more than he should.

You scoffed, trying to push him off, but his grip on your shoulder tightened, keeping you locked in place. "You’re insane,” you muttered.

“Yeah," Draco said with a smirk. "But you’ll always remember that i gave you attention.”

And with that, he stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, dazed and more confused then ever.

Well, this was a lost cause.

You really didn’t know if they had taken something, or if you had somehow been sprayed down by some potion that made them act this way. Or maybe they’d both gone completely mad. Because now, you were stuck in this strange, twisted mess where both Heeseung and Draco seemed to think they had the right to kiss you whenever they felt like it. And worse, you couldn’t resist.

Every time they were near, your resolve crumbled faster than you could rebuild it. One would find you in the hallway, the other in the library, and then it would happen again. Another kiss. Another moment you had no control over.

It was maddening, but also… tempting.

There was a part of you that couldn’t deny it. Sure, you could resist them, keep pushing them away, but what was the fun in that? Attention like this didn’t come regularly at all. Hell, it wasn’t normal for anyone to have two arrogant, handsome Slytherins fighting for their attention. And if you were honest, even just for a second, you kind of liked it.

So why not have a little fun with it?

It wasn’t like you had anything to lose, right? Besides your pride, maybe. But pride was overrated, especially when they were both so good at what they did. And maybe it was the thrill of it all—the secrecy, the danger of getting caught, or maybe the idea that you were wanted by two of the most insufferable, yet undeniably attractive, people at Hogwarts.

You didn’t know. You weren’t even sure you cared anymore.

One evening, you found yourself slipping into a quiet corridor, headed to the library for some much-needed solitude. But, of course, Heeseung was there.

“You’re awfully quick to retreat these days,” he remarked, his voice light, teasing. “Hiding from me?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. “Hardly.”

“Then why don’t you stay and chat with me for a bit?” He stepped closer, his eyes scanning you.

Before you could even answer, he’d cupped your face in his hand, pulling you toward him. His lips met yours with an ease that made it feel like nothing had changed. His kiss was soft at first, but the pressure grew quickly, the heat of his touch igniting a familiar spark within you.

And, just like that, the resistance was gone.

A few breaths later, Heeseung pulled back, looking at you with that same, infuriatingly smug smile.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he teased, his voice low and amused. “You like this more than you want to admit.”

You opened your mouth, about to defend yourself, to argue, but before you could form the words, Heeseung leaned in, capturing your lips in another kiss.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to.

Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his robes, the feel of his body against yours sending shivers down your spine. Slowly, Heeseung guided you backward, his lips still on yours as he moved you toward the wall.

When your back hit the stone of the wall, Heeseung broke the kiss just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was hungry, but there was also something tender in the way he watched you.

"See? I knew you’d come around,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You swallowed, trying to steady your thoughts. "Sure, sure," you muttered, but even you could hear the lack of conviction in your voice.

He smiled that smile, the one that made your stomach flip. “Admit it. You like it when I’m like this.”

You should’ve pushed him away. You should’ve told him to stop, to back off, but all that came out was a small, frustrated sigh as he kissed you again, this time more insistent.

His hand suddenly gripped your thigh, lifting it effortlessly to hitch it around his hip. The movement was quick, and before you could think, you found yourself pressed even closer to him.

You should’ve pulled away, told him this wasn’t you, that you weren’t this person. But instead, you let him.

His mouth left yours for a moment, just for a moment as his lips trailed down your jaw as you gasped for air, your hands moving instinctively to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his robes like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

"You're not pushing me away," he murmured against your skin, his voice laced with satisfaction, like he knew exactly what you were feeling. "Might start thinking you want this."

You clenched your jaw, unwilling to admit that he might be right, as he pulled you closer, his hand sliding to your back, his lips finding the soft spot beneath your ear.

Damn him.

All you could focus on was him—his touch, the way his body moved against yours, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.

You should’ve stopped. You knew you should’ve. But when his lips found yours again, slow and deep, you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away.

Then Heeseung's hand suddenly, ever so subtly, glided underneath your skirt, his touch gentle. You could feel his fingers trace the curve of your thigh, a sensation that sent a shiver down your spine.

Without breaking eye contact, you reached for his green tie, your fingers working to untie the knot. The fabric slipped from his neck, falling away with a soft rustle.

Slowly, you tugged at the collar of his shirt, pushing it aside, revealing more of his neck, and Heeseung let out a low, appreciative sound. His lips moved back to yours in a needy kiss.

And just when you thought you’d lost yourself completely, a voice—unexpected, unmistakable—cut through the haze of your thoughts.

"Really?"

You broke away from Heeseung, looking up to see Draco standing at the end of the hall, his eyes narrowed, his posture tense. He’d been watching the entire exchange, his expression a storm of emotion.

"Really!?" Draco shouted now, his voice was sharp, like a whip crack. "You think you can just—" He cut himself off, stepping forward, his eyes flicking from you to Heeseung. "Just take her like that!?"

You shifted uncomfortably, feeling your skirt rise higher as Heeseung kept you in place. You tried to ease out of his grasp, gently attempting to pull your leg down, but his hand tightened on your thigh in response, pulling you back toward him. It was like he refused to let go of you, like you were a prize he wasn’t ready to relinquish.

“Let her go, Heeseung,” Draco spat, stepping closer, his jaw clenched in frustration. His eyes darted between the two of you, and it was clear he didn’t like seeing Heeseung so close to you. “She doesn’t belong to you.”

Heeseung’s gaze remained cool, as he leaned in closer to you. "She doesn’t belong to you either," he replied back. His fingers traced the edge of your skirt, the contact sending an involuntary shiver through you. "But if she chooses to be here, with me," he added, "then that’s her choice, not yours."

Draco was visibly seething now, taking another step forward, his hand reaching out as if he could just take you from Heeseung. But before he could get any closer, Heeseung suddenly spun you around, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The movement was quick, shielding you from Draco’s view, and you were now facing Heeseung, back to Draco, as Heeseung’s hands gripped you tight, his breath warm against your ear. "You want her?" Heeseung’s voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. "You’ll have to do better than that."

You were trapped between them—caught in their struggle, their silent battle for possession. And as you stood there, something inside of you wondered how you’d gotten here, caught between two people who seemed determined to claim you, as if you were a prize in their war.

But you weren’t anyone’s to take, were you?

Before you could fully process the thought, Draco’s voice sliced through the air again, a low, mocking laugh slipping from his lips.

“You really think you can keep her to yourself, Heeseung?” Draco sneered.

And yet, Heeseung didn’t let go, didn’t back down. Instead, he kept you pressed against him, his breath still warm on your neck.

“Let her decide,” Heeseung’s voice was a growl, holding you like he wasn’t about to let go.

For a moment, everything went silent. You felt the heat of both their glares, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to move away from Heeseung’s grasp.

They had given you time to decide, but it was clear they were both impatient.

But you didn’t want any part of this. You hadn’t asked for this—any of it. All you wanted was a peaceful year, a chance to get through your classes, study, and avoid being caught up in whatever power struggle was unfolding between Heeseung and Draco. But here you were, stuck in the middle, torn between two people.

How were you supposed to choose between them?

Your heart raced, thoughts spinning in every direction. Both of them were waiting for you to make a decision, but the truth was, you didn’t want to choose at all. You didn’t want to get involved in their rivalry, didn’t want to be the reason for whatever animosity existed between them.

"I don’t want to be part of this," you muttered, frustration boiling beneath the surface as you finally spoke up, unable to keep it in any longer. "I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to be some kind of... trophy for either of you."

But both of them merely exchanged a glance before turning their attention back to you.

"Nobody said you were a trophy," Heeseung replied.

Draco, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes, stepping closer as if he were trying to close the gap between the three of you. "No one gets to walk away, not when we’ve already made our intentions clear," he said, his voice low. "So you either pick or let me show you why i am the better choice."

Your stomach twisted as the pressure mounted, and you felt that sense of dread creeping up on you. You had no idea how to navigate this—how to choose one of them.

It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. You just wanted to survive the year, get through it without becoming a pawn in some twisted game. But as you all stood there, waiting for you to make your move, you couldn’t help but feel like there was no way out.

How could you even choose?

a/n: im gonna end it here and leave it up to you dear reader! who would to choose? personally i was never a draco girl so yeah.

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azen13 · 4 months ago

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hello hello! This is my first time doing this but uhh could you make a yandere Jing Yuan where reader is his spouse but disappears out of fucking nowhere (Did reader get isekai'd to Teyvat or something) for damn centuries— No matter how much time has passed, he is still waiting, and waiting, and waiting... And yea, and then reader randomly gets back on a tuesday afternoon who looks absolutely fucking tired btw

"I'm back my homie"

"Yippeee :3 I missed you!!"

Sorry if my English is bad, it's my 2nd language. Also have a great day!

CW: Yandere Themes, Non-Sexual Intimacy

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

I love this idea Anon! I think that it genuinely works fantastically with Jing Yuan's character as a sort of inciting incident for his more possessive tendencies to emerge. Before you disappear, there are some glimpses of it: how he keeps you close to his chest at all times everywhere, from the bustling streets of Aurum Alley to the soothing sheets of the bed you share with him.

The scene was set so serenely. Lan THEMSELVES would have been enticed to lower THEIR bow and take in the fresh air. It was one of Jing Yuan's rare days of rest, when he could indulge in your presence more than he already did. A picnic in a garden, what could be more peaceful? Perhaps it was the way the air stilled when you simply snapped out of existence. There was no time for tearful goodbyes, no last words or final kisses. It was as though every atom in your body simply phased away, defying any natural principles. Jing Yuan wasn't able to even conceptualize it. The moment wasn't tragedy. Tragedy tightened the heartstrings so grief could play a mournful song. He knew tragedy well: Baiheng, Dan Feng, Yingxing, Jingliu, tragedy after tragedy.

But this feeling was not that. Instead, he felt his love—vast and radiant and bright—beginning to collapse upon itself. Without a center, it was simply a force pulling inward, until inward was outward and back again; eventually, every other feeling was lost in the implosion.

He tried to flee from its pull, reasoning that if he could find the center of his love again, it would restabilize. Fleets of Cloud Knights scoured the site of the disappearance, members of the Intelligentsia Guild were contacted. Jing Yuan even personally discussed the matter with several members of the Genius Society, desperate for any sort of purchase. Some explanation, however vague or improbable. Some way.

Try as he might, every road led back into that cool, weightless oblivion. He allowed himself to sink into a pool of it as the world went on. The Xianzhou Luofu needed its General, and this was nothing new. It was simply another loss, and after so many, they began to lose their meaning. It was as though Jing Yuan sat in a small glass tank. Each time he lost someone dear to his heart, the tank filled up to a certain point with water. By this point, he had already been drowning in desolation. But when you had wormed your way into his life, suddenly the walls had begun to crack. In little trickling streams, all his grief began to leave him. When you disappeared, the glass reformed, the tank refilled. Escape was impossible, he conjectured. This was his burden to carry as a Xianzhou General.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Years later, Jing Yuan still can't sleep in his own bed. The sheets, once a delicate dark red, have now begun to go grey with how much dust they are collecting. His home has become a mausoleum of your spirit, a museum of the last remaining marks of your existence. A book on the table. A half-empty cup of coffee. The bedsheets are pushed back in such a way that if Jing Yuan tries hard enough, he can conjure your image, sleepily clambering out of bed. The mental hologram lurches to the bathroom; after a few minutes, they walk back out. Some days you would climb back into bed, other days you would start cooking breakfast.

He performs this ritual every night before going to bed on the couch, and tries to remember every detail as exact as possible. But memories only fade. They are ephemeral, like autumn leaves and evening light. Their existence can be prolonged, but never immortalized.

In the middle of the night, Jing Yuan stirs.

"...Yuan?"

"Jing Yuan? Why are you sleeping on the couch?"

You. For a moment, the realization is so powerful, of such high dimensionality, it doesn't fully register in Jing Yuan's mind. He can only comprehend sections and slices of it. You're here. You're here with him.

The rest of the night is spent on the couch, as you hold Jing Yuan close. He stays awake for hours, afraid that he might lose you again if he falls asleep. When he wakes up with you by his side, the tank shatters. But the hole in his heart remains. It cannot return to its original state, cannot expand outwards; it can only draw its center inwards, and keep it there.

For the first few days, you understand why Jing Yuan is so protective, why he doesn't let you leave him for even a moment. You have no recollection of suddenly disappearing. Your mind fabricated events: after your picnic, you went home and fell asleep. Then you woke up in the middle of the night. If you had lost Jing Yuan for years, you would certainly be clingy.

But time leaks by quicker and quicker, like a dam slowly breaching, before you realize it's been months and you've hardly left your home. You've gone on a few walks, but those have been only on sparse streets. Though, with the way Jing Yuan clutches you so tightly, you'd think you're in the middle of a battleground.

When you pose the question to Jing Yuan, he only smiles and waves off your concerns. He assumed that with how long you've been gone, you needed some time to get reacclimated to life. You remind him that to you, there was no period between your disappearance and reappearance. Jing Yuan hums and draws you closer, placing a hand on your cheek. His thumb reaches up to your lip, gently brushing against it.

"I understand, dearest. But in any case, you must understand how...alarming the situation was for me. I simply fear I may lose you again and wish to keep you safe. Will you let me do that, my love?"

Suddenly, you find your question ricocheting straight back to you. Jing Yuan's hand squeezes gently, his eyes gazing at you with such placid fondness. But beneath the static surface, you can see the turbulence in his soul. There is something different about your husband, something deeply wrong. What is challenging is that you can't find any loose threads in Jing Yuan's logic. You understand how difficult it must have been for him. That doesn't mean his overprotectiveness is right either.

Even so, you find yourself acquiescing.

"Good," Jing Yuan praises. His other hand reaches against your back, pushing you into him. "I'm glad you agree with me. I would hate to have to make you understand." Despite how his voice coos like a sparrow, his eyes are as sharp as a hawk's, ready to swoop down and catch its prey.

And so the days continue to pass by in an unchanging domesticity. Jing Yuan takes you on more walks and gives you more freedom, but despite how far you wander, you can always feel the gravity of his love, pulling you back into his orbit.

#sorry this took me so long asodgjsdg thank you so much for the ask!!#yandere jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #yandere hsr #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere imagine #yandere honkai star rail #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan x you #yandere jingyuan

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helvegen-s · 4 months ago

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midnight in paris

a Charles Leclerc one-shot

Summary: A canceled flight, a midnight rain, and two strangers crossing paths in Paris. As they wander beneath the city lights, sharing laughter, stolen glances, and unspoken truths, the night becomes a world of its own. But when morning comes, reality awaits—leaving only the question of whether fate will bring them together again.

Word count: 6.1k

Warnings: alcohol, implied sex (not explicit), abandonment

A/N: Soooo, this would be my first one-shot! I'm really happy with how it turned out—I had never written one before because I feel more comfortable with longer stories. But I absolutely loved it! I hope you enjoy it and give it lots of love! <3

masterlist

The sound of loudspeaker announcements echoed against the high ceiling of Charles de Gaulle Airport, blending with the murmur of hundreds of passengers who, like him, were stranded there without a clear destination.

"All flights have been canceled until further notice. We kindly ask passengers to contact their airlines for more information."

Charles Leclerc let out a heavy sigh, resting his hands on his hips as he stared at the large departure board, where each line turned red one by one. Canceled. Canceled. Canceled.

Fantastic.

He was in Paris for a Ferrari event and was supposed to fly to Monaco that same night. But the storm sweeping across half the continent had brought air traffic to a standstill, leaving him with only two options: remain trapped in a crowded, frustrated airport or venture into the city and find a hotel.

His assistant had already tried to book him a room somewhere, but the nearby hotels were overwhelmed.

"What if I try leaving the airport?" Charles asked, sliding a finger across his phone screen as he scrolled through transportation options. He heard his assistant sigh through his earpiece.

"Traffic is awful," his assistant replied. "There are barely any taxis available, and the trains are experiencing delays too."

Charles sighed. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night in an airport chair, only to wake up with a stiff neck the next day.

"I'll try anyway. I'll let you know if I find something."

With that, he ended the call, grabbed his handbag, and wove his way through the throng of frustrated passengers.

The rain was falling in thick sheets when Charles finally stepped outside. A long line of people was waiting for taxis, but by some stroke of luck, he managed to flag one down before anyone else could.

Just as he was about to get in, the taxi driver rolled down the window.

"Sir, with this weather, there are very few taxis. I have to ask you to share if possible."

Charles frowned, about to refuse. But then he noticed a woman standing nearby, hugging herself to keep warm. Her dark coat was drenched from the rain, and though she wasn’t looking in his direction, it was obvious she was trying—unsuccessfully—to get a taxi.

For some reason, without overthinking it, Charles approached her.

"Excuse me, would you mind sharing a taxi? It’s just me—there’s room for both of us."

"Oh! Thank you, really. I was starting to think I'd shrivel up like a raisin in this rain."

Charles was caught off guard by how casually she spoke to him—the way she smiled at him so effortlessly. When she slid into the car, she gave her head a small shake, sending droplets of rain scattering from her hair.

"Thanks," she said again, not looking directly at him as she shut the door.

Charles gave a small nod, sneaking a glance at her as the taxi pulled away.

Minutes passed, and the taxi crawled through the rain-slicked streets of Paris. Droplets trickled down the windows in twisted streams, distorting the city lights outside. The driver, an older man wrapped in a thick coat, muttered in French about the traffic and the terrible weather, though neither passenger paid much attention. Now and then, the windshield lit up with the glow of a red traffic light or the headlights of another car passing too close. But inside the taxi, the quiet remained.

Charles leaned an elbow against the window, tapping his fingers absently against his knee. He stole another glance at his companion. Her profile was softly illuminated by the streetlights, and there was something about her expression—the way she watched the rain outside with a faint smile—that intrigued him. She didn’t seem annoyed by the delay or the storm, but rather… curious.

The taxi stopped at a red light, and for a moment, everything was still except for the relentless drumming of the rain. Charles took a slow breath and turned his head slightly as if about to say something—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to break the fragile bubble that surrounded them.

Finally, she was the first to speak, her voice soft but tinged with amusement.

"Did you expect your night to end like this?"

Charles let out a short laugh, still watching the fogged-up glass.

"Definitely not. But I should probably be used to last-minute changes by now."

She nodded, crossing her legs with an air of calm, as if the delay and uncertainty didn’t bother her in the slightest.

"Airports have a funny way of reminding us that, in the end, we’re not in control of much at all."

Charles turned to look at her more closely. There was something about her tone, the way she said it, that made him wonder how many canceled flights, how many changes of direction she had experienced in her life.

Another silence stretched between them as the taxi moved slowly down the avenue. Through the rain-streaked window, the Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance—a hazy reminder of the city they were stranded in.

"Where are you headed?" Charles finally asked.

She blinked, as if she had almost forgotten her own destination.

"I don’t know," she admitted with a small shrug. "My flight was canceled too, so I was going to find a hotel, but it looks like I’m out of luck."

"Yeah, same here," Charles replied, letting out another quiet laugh. "I didn’t plan on spending the night in the airport, but right now, I don’t have a better plan."

The taxi turned onto a narrower street, where the lamplights cast long shadows over the wet cobblestones. Outside, the city carried on, indifferent to their uncertainty.

She rested her forehead against the window for a few seconds before speaking again.

"Paris is different when it rains. Less perfect. More real."

Charles raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the comment.

"I never thought of it that way."

She turned her head then, meeting his gaze for the first time, her eyes catching the reflected glow of the streetlights.

"Maybe it’s because we always see it in postcards, with clear skies and golden lights. But like this… with the rain and the cold, it feels more honest."

Charles didn’t respond right away. There was something about her words that resonated with him, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. He watched the city through the window, allowing himself to see what she saw.

The taxi slowed again, and after a few moments of silence, she leaned slightly toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.

"What if, instead of looking for a hotel, we take a walk?" she suggested, her tone more contemplative than impulsive.

Charles looked at her in surprise, then glanced at the rain pouring outside.

"Walk?" he repeated, as if needing to process it.

She smiled, a playful glint in her eyes.

"It’s not every day you get to see Paris with empty streets and no rush. Just for a while. No maps, no plans."

Charles exhaled lightly before nodding.

"I suppose there’s nothing better to do."

She chuckled softly, handed the driver a bill, thanking him in carefully practiced French, and without another word, opened the taxi door and stepped out. Charles followed her, letting the door close behind them.

The rain greeted them with a fresh chill, and the city stretched before them, waiting to be explored.

Charles reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny umbrella, opening it swiftly. It wasn’t big enough to fully cover them both, so they had to huddle closer under the dark fabric. At first, they tried to keep a respectful distance, but the wind and the angle of the rain inevitably made their shoulders brush.

“I didn’t think we’d have to share an umbrella,” she remarked with a playful smile.

“Me neither,” Charles admitted, adjusting the umbrella’s position to shield her better. “But I guess it’s better than nothing.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, amused by his attempt to keep them dry as the rain persisted. With each step, the rain-soaked city felt more intimate, more theirs, as Paris continued revealing its secrets beneath the storm.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, they stumbled upon a small bar, its warm lights glowing invitingly, the soft sound of a saxophone drifting through the slightly open door. They exchanged a glance before stepping inside, shaking the moisture from their clothes.

The interior was cozy, with wooden tables and a small stage where a jazz band played live. They settled into a quiet corner, ordering two glasses of red wine. The warmth of the place contrasted with the cold outside, and conversation began to flow more easily as the music wrapped around them.

“I definitely didn’t expect my night to end like this,” Charles mused, staring into his glass before looking at her with a faint smile.

She swirled the wine in her hand, thoughtful.

“Sometimes, the best nights are the ones we don’t plan.”

The wine softened the edges of time. The band kept playing, the saxophone weaving notes through the air, slipping between them effortlessly. Their conversation moved with the same natural ease, as if they had forgotten what time it was.

Charles watched her from across the table, his elbow propped up, fingers idly turning his glass. He was completely captivated. There was something about the way she spoke, how she tilted her head when listening, how she filled silences without fearing them.

“So, you don’t like planning too much,” he observed, a half-smile playing on his lips.

She shrugged.

“Let’s just say I make plans, but I don’t mind changing them if something better comes along.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“And how do you decide what’s ‘something better’?”

“Sorry.” She smiled, feigning an apology. “That’s a secret.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head as he brought his glass to his lips.

“You’re hard to read.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand.

“Does that bother you?”

“It intrigues me,” he admitted, feeling the warmth of the wine mix with something deeper inside him. “I’m used to figuring people out pretty quickly.”

“Why?”

“Because in my world, reactions are everything. If you can predict what someone will do, you have the upper hand.”

She studied him in silence for a moment.

“That must be exhausting.”

Charles tilted his head.

“What?”

“Always analyzing everything.”

He let out a short breath, glancing down at his glass.

“I don’t know if I can turn it off.”

“Maybe tonight, you could try.”

She held his gaze with a subtle challenge, and Charles felt something inside him tighten, like a spring coiling. He let out a low laugh, not looking away.

“And what do you suggest?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she raised her glass and clinked it gently against his.

“To welcomed chaos,” she toasted.

Charles mirrored her, still watching her closely.

“To welcomed chaos.”

They drank together, the warm wine sliding down their throats. The music shifted, deeper, more intimate. Charles set his glass down and leaned back against the seat, studying her in the dim, flickering light.

“If you don’t like planning too much…” he said after a moment, “what’s the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

“Probably this.”

Charles let out a surprised chuckle.

“Going out to explore Paris with me?”

“Mhm.” She held his gaze with a playful glint. “And you?”

Charles tapped his fingers against the table.

“Maybe this too.”

“Wow.” She bit her lip, thoughtful. “I guess that makes us partners in crime.”

Charles rested his elbow on the table, leaning in slightly.

“Partners in crime for what?”

“For the idea that tomorrow, we could go back to our lives as if tonight never happened.”

The words lingered between them. Charles felt the weight of them, and for the first time in a long while, he realized he didn’t want something to simply disappear with the morning.

The alcohol made everything feel more real, more tangible. Or maybe it wasn’t the alcohol. Maybe it was her.

Charles nodded, a vague sense creeping in that whatever was happening between them wasn’t something that could easily be replicated. Paris, the rain, the spontaneity of the night—it all felt like it was stitched together with fragile thread, as if by dawn, the magic would unravel, and the city would return them to their separate realities.

But for now, they still had Paris.

Outside the bar, the rain was still falling, a steady whisper against the rooftops.

Charles opened his small umbrella, instinctively tilting it toward her, making sure she was covered more than him. She hesitated for just a second before stepping closer and, in a subtle motion, hooked her arm through his to stay as close as possible.

Charles felt the warmth of her body against his, the soft brush of her coat against his arm. He didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.

“Better this way,” she murmured.

“No doubt,” he replied, his voice lower than necessary, as if the rain had wrapped them in their own little world.

They walked without rush, the cobblestones glistening under the streetlights. They had no real destination, but Paris had a way of leading people to unexpected places.

“You never asked my name,” she noted after a while.

Charles glanced at her.

“You didn’t ask mine either.”

“No.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but rather charged with something else… something Charles chose not to define.

“Do you prefer it this way?” he asked.

“Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone without knowing who they are.”

He nodded, as if he understood exactly what she meant. And he did. For years, he had been “Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver.” Never just “Charles.”

“And what do you do when you’re not walking around Paris with strangers?” he asked, his tone lighter.

She let out a soft laugh.

“I travel a lot. Too much, I’d say.”

“For work?”

“Mhm.”

Charles didn’t press, but he watched her with curiosity.

“Do you like it?”

She hesitated before answering.

“Yes. Sometimes it’s exhausting, but… I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Charles understood that better than he should.

“Then it must be something you love.”

“It is. And you? Do you love what you do?”

Charles let out a quiet chuckle.

“I can’t imagine my life without it.”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“Then you’re one of the lucky ones.”

Charles wanted to ask her more, but before he could, they reached the edge of the Seine.

Before them, the Eiffel Tower loomed through the misty rain, its lights shimmering over the river.

“I guess it was inevitable we’d end up here,” she murmured, a half-smile playing on her lips.

Charles didn’t look at the tower, or the Seine, or the city. He looked at her.

“I guess so.”

She noticed his gaze and held it, unwavering.

The rain kept falling around them, but Charles barely felt it.

He didn’t know how long they stood there before she finally looked away, her eyes drifting to the water.

“You know, I like playing the piano when it rains.”

The confession slipped out, and Charles latched onto it like a puzzle piece.

“You play?”

“Mhm.”

“Professionally?”

“Too many details.”

“Right.”

She shot him a playful smile.

“And you? Do you have something you can’t stop doing?”

Charles smiled, because the answer was obvious.

But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he looked at the Eiffel Tower, the rain sketching shadows over the city lights, and thought that for the first time in a long while, his world didn’t revolve around a racetrack.

Not tonight.

“I suppose that’ll remain another mystery,” he said, still watching her.

She just laughed, letting the silence say the rest.

The air grew cooler as the night went on. The rain had left a damp sheen on the streets, and Charles’ umbrella remained their shared refuge as they wandered aimlessly.

"If you could play anywhere in the world, where would it be?" Charles asked, watching her with genuine curiosity.

She took her time to answer, as if she had never stopped to think about it before.

"At home," she finally said with a slight smile. "Not in a grand theater, not on a stage in front of thousands. Just at home, on a night like this, with the rain in the background."

Charles nodded slowly, as if he understood exactly what she meant.

"And you?" she asked then, turning toward him. "If you could do what you love anywhere, without anyone watching… where would it be?"

The question caught him off guard. He hadn't expected her to turn it back on him, let alone with such precision.

Charles remained silent for a moment, his gaze drifting past her to the city lights reflecting on the water.

"In Monaco," he said at last, his voice softer now. "In an old car, just for fun. No timers, no pressure, nothing at stake."

A quiet chuckle left her lips, the sound warm against the cool air.

"So, you're a driver."

Charles grinned, turning back to her with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I never said that."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him, amused.

"You didn’t have to."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain had softened to a mist, the city humming around them. Charles wondered if she had pieced together who he was, or if she was simply playing along. Either way, it didn’t matter.

Tonight, he wasn’t Charles Leclerc, the Formula 1 driver.

Tonight, he was just a man walking through Paris in the rain, standing beside someone who made the world feel a little quieter.

They kept walking until they reached a small overlook with a view of the city. The lights shimmered over the water, reflecting in golden and bluish hues.

"This place is beautiful," Charles said quietly.

"Paris always is," she replied.

She leaned against the railing, letting the night breeze tousle her hair. Charles glanced at her from the corner of his eye, noticing how the city suited her, like a stage built just for her. There was something about her that pulled him in, in a way he didn’t quite understand.

"Do you ever get scared?" he asked suddenly.

She turned her head toward him, caught off guard by the question.

"Of course," she said after a moment. "Who doesn’t?"

"You seem like someone who never allows herself to doubt."

She let out a soft laugh.

"Doubt and fear aren’t the same thing."

Charles frowned slightly, intrigued.

"Explain."

She turned, resting her back against the railing, meeting his gaze directly.

"Fear is inevitable. It’s a reflex, something you feel before you even have a choice. Doubt, on the other hand, is a decision."

Charles looked at her in silence, letting her words settle in his mind.

"So, you never doubt?"

"I doubt all the time. But only about things I know I can control."

Charles smiled, finding something unexpectedly familiar in her answer.

"You’re different from what I imagined when I saw you drenched at the airport."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And what did you imagine?"

"Someone more... distant. More unreachable."

She tilted her head, amused.

"Maybe I am."

Charles shook his head, his smile curving with a hint of mischief.

"No, you’re not."

A brief silence settled between them. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather left room for something else. Something unspoken lingering in the air between them.

The rain had stopped completely. Charles closed the umbrella and rested it against the railing, but she didn’t step away. She remained close, arms crossed over her chest, her expression caught between caution and the desire to keep exploring this conversation.

"It’s late," she murmured finally.

"It is," Charles agreed, yet neither of them moved.

The reflection of the city lights in her eyes gave them a special glow, and in that moment, Charles knew he wanted to keep listening to her. He wanted to keep deciphering what lay behind her gaze, behind her calculated words, behind the way she observed the world as if she saw stories in every corner.

"Should we head back?" she asked, still not moving.

Charles held her gaze for a long second.

"Or we could keep walking."

She let out a soft laugh but didn’t answer right away.

And Charles waited, unhurried.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t in a hurry at all.

She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something Charles couldn’t quite decipher. The night breeze carried the distant echo of a street song, the sound of a guitar and a raspy voice singing in French.

"Let’s keep walking," she said at last.

And Charles smiled.

They walked without a clear destination, simply letting the city guide them. Their conversation slowed, becoming more intimate, as if they no longer felt the need to fill every pause with words. They talked about their travels, about the places they had always wanted to visit. Charles mentioned Monaco and his love for the sea. She spoke of Vienna and the magic of visiting the Musikverein, though she didn’t reveal she had once stood on that stage as a performer.

They passed through cobbled streets, by cafés that were closed for the night, through plazas where lamplights cast long shadows. Eventually, they found themselves by the Seine again. Charles stopped and rested his hands on the railing.

"You know what’s the strangest thing about tonight?" he asked.

She leaned beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"Tell me."

"That I know this wouldn’t have happened at any other point in my life."

She turned her head toward him, intrigued.

"Why do you say that?"

Charles looked at the water, considering how to put it into words.

"Because I always have a plan, a schedule, somewhere to be. I don’t miss flights. I don’t allow myself to miss them."

"And yet, here you are."

Charles met her gaze, finding an unspoken challenge in her expression.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Here I am."

The streetlights cast golden reflections in her hair. Charles felt his heart beat a little faster when she held his gaze without looking away, as if measuring the distance between them.

And then, without another word, she stepped closer.

He met her without hesitation.

The kiss was slow at first, almost exploratory, as if neither wanted to break the magic that had led them here. But when their lips parted just slightly, hovering between continuing or stopping, Charles made the decision for both of them and kissed her again.

This time, there was no hesitation.

It felt like the inevitable conclusion to a night that had never been a coincidence. Like a story already written, waiting to be lived.

When they pulled apart, she let out a soft, amused laugh, resting her forehead against his shoulder for a moment.

"You really shouldn’t miss flights," she murmured.

Charles smiled, his fingers intertwining with hers in an almost unconscious gesture.

"Maybe I should miss them more often."

The city kept glowing around them, indifferent to the story that had unfolded between them in a single night. It didn’t matter if, by daylight, they would return to being strangers with separate lives.

Because tonight, Paris belonged to them.

The rain was falling again over Paris when they entered the hotel room. The dim glow of the streetlights filtered through the curtains, painting golden shadows on the walls. They didn’t speak much as they crossed the threshold, but words weren’t necessary. Charles set the umbrella aside, shaking the water from his jacket, while she took a few steps forward, gazing out the window as if trying to etch the image of the rain-soaked city into her memory—still alive in the early morning hours.

The air between them was thick, charged with something that went beyond desire. It wasn’t just the pull of a fleeting night; it was the feeling of having stumbled upon something ephemeral and yet impossible to ignore. Charles approached her slowly, resting a hand on the window frame beside her. He said nothing—just looked at her, as if making sure she was really there, that the rain hadn’t blurred her into a fleeting illusion.

She was the one to close the distance, turning just enough to meet his gaze, lifting a hand to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips, as if committing him to memory through touch. Charles closed his eyes for a brief moment, leaning into her caress, and then, whatever lingering doubt had remained between them dissolved completely.

The first kiss inside the room was different from the one they had shared under the rain. Slower, more deliberate. As if they both knew they were standing at the edge of something irreversible. Charles held her by the waist, guiding her gently, letting the softness of his lips speak for him. She let herself be drawn in, threading her fingers through his damp hair, feeling the way their bodies recognized each other in the dim light.

Their wet clothes fell away naturally, unhurriedly. Their skin met in the warm darkness of the room, exploring with the reverence of two strangers who, for one night, had decided to forget everything that existed outside those four walls. There were no questions, no promises. Only the silent language of fingers tracing invisible paths over bare skin, of breathless sighs, of heartbeats finding rhythm in the intimacy of a Parisian night.

When dawn began to timidly peek through the windows, Charles felt the weight of exhaustion settle over his body—but there was something else, something light and indescribable, lingering between exhilaration and peace. He drifted off with the certainty that she would still be there when he woke up, that when he opened his eyes, he would find her beside him, her head resting on his pillow, her lips still curled in a sleepy smile.

But when the golden sunlight finally filled the room, Charles woke up alone.

There was no trace of her. The space beside him in bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. No note, no lingering perfume to mark her presence. As if she had never been there at all.

For a moment, he lay in silence, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the absence. Then, he exhaled slowly, letting his head sink back into the pillow, closing his eyes.

Paris had been a dream. And she, its most unforgettable mystery.

Life went on.

Charles returned to his routine of constant travel, to circuits repeating in an endless cycle. The adrenaline of Formula 1 filled his days, and on the surface, everything seemed the same.

But when it rained…

When it rained, something in him stopped.

The sound of raindrops against the windows of his hotel in any city in the world immediately transported him back to that night in Paris. To her laughter under the umbrella. To the way her hand had slid into his without thinking too much about it. To the warmth of her lips in the early morning hours.

They didn’t speak. They never exchanged names or numbers.

And yet, she had never stopped being there.

On the other side of Europe, in a different city every week, she lived a similar story. Her days were marked by rehearsals, by packed auditoriums, by the perfection of every note played on her piano. The life of a solo concert pianist allowed no respite.

But when it rained…

When it rained, her hands hovered over the keys a second longer than usual.

Thinking about the only time she had felt that a night needed no music other than the sound of the city and the voice of a stranger.

Zandvoort – Dutch Grand Prix

It was just another night in Zandvoort, after a day of practice sessions. Charles was leaving the paddock, his mind still occupied with strategies and lap times. The hotel wasn’t far, so he decided to walk instead of waiting for the team car.

That’s when he saw her.

Or rather, he saw her image on a poster, in the middle of one of the city’s avenues.

Not her name. Not a grand advertisement.

Just her face, in a black-and-white photograph, with a piano slightly blurred in the background.

The name of the concert hall and the time.

That was all he needed.

By the time Charles arrived at the theater in the center of Amsterdam, the rain had already begun to fall. He shook the water from his hair before entering and bought a ticket at the entrance without even asking how full the venue was. He just needed to see her, to make sure he hadn’t imagined everything.

The concert had already started when he found his seat.

The stage was elegant yet simple. A black grand piano occupied the center, illuminated by a single beam of light. And there she was.

Charles held his breath.

There was no doubt. It was her.

The pianist’s fingers glided over the keys with hypnotic mastery. She played with her eyes closed, completely immersed in the melody, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

And yet, when the piece ended, she opened her eyes and looked at the audience.

And she saw him.

There, among hundreds of strangers, was the guy from Paris. Soaked from the rain, his heart pounding in his chest.

The seconds stretched into eternity.

And then, she smiled.

A small smile, almost imperceptible.

But enough.

Charles remained in his seat even as the rest of the audience began to rise and leave the theater. He rubbed his face, trying to gather his thoughts. What was he supposed to do now?

When he finally stood up, he searched for her. She wasn’t on stage. She wasn’t in the hall. He rushed toward the theater exit, weaving through the lobby in the hope of spotting her in the crowd. But there was no trace of her.

He discreetly asked a staff member, but the response was simple and disappointing: She left right away, she had another engagement tonight.

Charles exhaled, frustrated. He hadn’t thought about what would happen next, but part of him had assumed he would see her, that they would talk. But no, the mysterious pianist was already gone.

He stepped out of the theater and into the rain, light but persistent. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he buried his hands in his pockets and walked back to his hotel in silence. Tomorrow, he had to focus on the race, on the championship.

But for the first time in a long while, Formula 1 wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

She had wanted to go out after the concert, to breathe in the Amsterdam night air and lose herself in the city. But Marie, her assistant, had other plans for her.

"The gala is in twenty minutes. You need to be there, you know that."

"Marie…" she tried to protest.

"No excuses. The sponsors expect to see you. And we can’t afford for you to seem distracted."

She sighed, with no choice but to comply.

An hour later, with a glass of wine in hand and a rehearsed smile on her face, she listened to conversations about contracts, upcoming tours, and collaborations. But her mind was elsewhere. In the concert hall. In the eyes of the stranger who had shared that night in Paris with her.

She hadn’t recognized him at first. But something about him felt familiar.

Now that she had a moment to think, she tried to recall more details—his way of looking at her, the slight tilt of his head as he listened to her play, as if he were deciphering something.

And then, in the middle of a dull conversation about classical music and funding, she heard his name.

"I think I saw Charles Leclerc at the concert tonight."

Her attention sharpened instantly on the two people speaking nearby.

"The driver?" someone else asked.

"Yes, he was in the audience. I saw him when the hall was filling up. Pretty discreet, but it was him."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt so dumb. Of course!

Charles Leclerc, the driver.

Now everything made sense.

She felt the sudden urge to leave, to find him. But it was too late.

She forced herself to stay at the gala long enough that no one would notice her impatience, and as soon as she could, she excused herself and returned to her hotel. There, she looked up the Formula 1 calendar and bought a last-minute ticket.

Charles moved almost on autopilot through the paddock, greeting engineers, signing the occasional cap, adjusting his race suit as he walked to his garage. The constant hum of Formula 1 surrounded him—conversations, tools, roaring engines in the distance—but his mind was still trapped in the night before. In the theater. In the music. In the fleeting image of her on stage.

The fine rain had returned, a mere veil of moisture hanging in the air. He ran a hand over his neck, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had lingered since he left the concert hall.

And then he saw her.

At first, it was just a shadow in the crowd. A movement amidst the chaos of the paddock, a silhouette that didn’t quite belong in this world of fireproof suits and sponsor logos.

Then, the details.

Her hair styled elegantly, just like that night in Paris. The sunglasses that hid her expression, but not the faint curve of her lips, barely noticeable.

Time slowed.

Charles stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. Something warm spread through him, a wave of surprise and recognition that nearly stole his breath.

It was her.

It was really her.

She stopped too.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They didn’t speak. They just looked at each other, caught in that precise moment when coincidence stopped being coincidence.

The air between them crackled with electricity, with all the words left unsaid, with all the unanswered questions.

She lowered her sunglasses slowly, letting her eyes meet his completely.

And Charles felt the ground vanish beneath his feet.

"I couldn’t leave you wondering," she murmured, her voice soft but firm, with that mischievous tone he had heard that night in Paris, under the rain.

Something clicked inside him, like the perfect note at the end of a melody.

He exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"You came to see the race."

"Or maybe I just wanted to check if you were real."

He tilted his head, studying her.

"And?" he asked, his voice lower, more intimate.

She smiled, her gaze full of secrets he had yet to decipher.

"I’m still not entirely convinced."

Charles laughed—a genuine, liberating sound.

The world around them kept moving—mechanics rushing, engines roaring, teammates watching them with evident curiosity—but for Charles, all of it faded into the background.

Because she was there.

Because against all logic, against all odds, fate had brought them back to the same place once again.

And deep down, he knew it.

Their story wasn’t over yet.

Charles still couldn’t believe she was standing there. A part of him feared she was just an illusion, that at any moment she would disappear into the paddock crowd, just like she had that night in Paris.

Yet, she kept smiling with that enigmatic calm, as if this were nothing more than a coincidence and not some invisible force pulling them back together.

Charles wetted his lips, feeling the urgent need to make sure that this time, she wouldn’t slip away before he could reach her.

"Stay," he said, without thinking too much. His voice was lower, more personal. "After the race. Don’t leave without saying goodbye… like in Paris."

She blinked, surprised by his request. Then, she tilted her head slightly, wearing that same mischievous expression he remembered.

"I don’t usually repeat the same trick twice."

Charles let out a brief, almost relieved laugh.

"I’m glad to hear that."

She turned her head a little, letting the humid breeze ruffle a few loose strands of her hair. Looking up, she watched the cloudy sky and the fine drizzle falling over them.

"It’s raining again," she murmured. "Seems like fate has a peculiar sense of humor."

Charles studied her, his smile softening.

"Or maybe the rain is a sign."

She looked at him then, her eyes meeting his with silent intensity.

The sounds of the paddock still buzzed around them, the race loomed on the horizon, but for a moment, it was just the two of them, standing under the drizzle, in a world where coincidences no longer felt like coincidences.

"Then, I’ll see you after the race, pianist." Charles' voice dropped a note, testing the nickname with satisfaction.

She let out a small laugh, stepping back before turning gracefully.

"See you after the race, driver."

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd.

But this time, Charles knew it wasn’t a goodbye.

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 1 year ago

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Michael Ralph, the Good Omens Production Designer, interview for Movieweb :), summer 2023

Question: What is your reaction to your fan's positivity?

Michael Ralph: It's unbelievable. To see your work reflected in the eyes of people that love it is incredibly complimentary and it feels on, you know, you're honoured by having that response .It's rare that you get to experience it. You know, I think that we were involved recently in a fans' view of the set where all the fans who'd been involved in a competition were able to walk around the set. It's extraordinary. And I got hugs and people in tears. And it is an overwhelming experience to stand in that street and be in that bookshop when you didn't think, even though you knew, but you didn't quite know it really existed as a place that you could walk around in is quite phenomenal.

Question: Do you see locations as extensions of characters?

Michael Ralph: My feeling is that we would all, if possible, choose to live where we believe and within an environment that we believe suits us, doesn't suit anyone else. It's a fingerprint thing. It's like, where are you most comfortable? Where are you most comfortable to read or to write or to watch a programme or where do you feel the most secure?That bookshop is an anchor point visually for the show and always has been an anchor point since day one. And it is where you feel most secure. It's where the door closed, you feel safe within it. And what emanates or resonates with that bookshop, not only from the character and the position or who Aziraphale is, is that everybody that walks into that bookshop feels the same thing. Everyone that walks in that bookshop, I've said it before, just want to live upstairs and drink red wine and read books all day and they feel comfortable and they feel nostalgic and it creates a sense of security and protection. And I think that if you can create that sort of sentimentality in something that you're walking around in, it must transcend the lens. And it obviously does because people feel it all the time and they want to go there and sit around in the corner and feel comfortable. So I think that from character point of view, I started really emotionally from Aziraphale. And Neil, whenever I've thought of a great idea that I tell Neil about and he tells me how amazing it might be or how fantastic or inspired it was, I suddenly start to realise it's probably in the book or it's probably in the script between the lines. What stimulates my apophenia, what stimulates my vision and my emotional motivation to design anything is what I can see in the page. So if he has written something so universally empathetic to an audience, then I'm seeing the same thing you are, in my variation, but it really is the same warp or the same sentimentality as I said, or any of those things. So if I can find how to get my fingernails under the edge of that, how I can actually depict it, then I know that it's going to work. And that's obviously... and you can believe in it then, and you can say it with all honesty, rather than impersonate your love for something or say something because your ego tells you you should, or produce something that's a duplicate of something you saw once in Italy. This is something you've got to feel that's specific to the project and specific to the written word, you know.

Question: Do you have the freedom to do what you want?

Michael Ralph: I must admit, reading the book the first time, it was difficult to get my head around how it was going to be depicted. You've got to be very careful that you don't impersonate what you've seen before, you don't copy and then call it original when it's not, because that's sort of like a cop out. You really, honestly have to live with it 24 hours a day, even while you're asleep, and search and search and search and search to find what it is that gets your fingernails under it, to find out what it is you really believe in. And it sounds so ethereal, but it's absolutely true. If you can get that, if you can openly find that, and you've got to feel that, if you can get that, then you're absolutely on something you can invest in and then something you can produce. Because then it's not something that's duplicated. All the furniture, literally all the furniture, all of the dressing on the walls, all of the bookshelves are all built but Bronwyn, a set decorator, will buy me a lot of brown furniture that she finds as really interesting furniture. Furniture that's got spindles and handcarved pieces and reliefs in it. And she gets me stuff that she believes goes with the character of the place. And then I'll break it open. This is what construction. I love working with construction with, because I'll break it open, cut it down, reattach it, and I'll remake wholewalls and bookshelves, like in the magic shop that none of it existed until we put together loads of stuff the set decorator found, that Bronwyn found. And then all that stuff ends up having a profile of the period, or echoes to you, little visual trip hazards of the period, of size and weight. But it isn't really anything you've ever seen before. It's not from a higher shop. It's not from a piece of furniture you bought, just plunk there. Because the camera sees things differently. And we have to lift all that up and make it bigger and larger in scale to punctuate the vision. So all of that is... there's all sorts of theories, I could go on forever, you know. I was saying to Bronwyn today that I think I've been working all my life on trying to raise my intellect, to be able to incorporate a vocabulary to explain what it is I do creatively. I'm not there yet.

Question: Is there something you'd like to explore in the future?

Michael Ralph: And it's funny you should say that, because that process, from what I've explained to you, doesn't originate with me. So you need to get that book or that source material, and someone has to say, you're the guide for this, I'd love to see what you see. And then it's like this massive submerge, you submerge into it. And then it's a journey, a journey that you embrace and it reveals things that I could guess maybe 15-20 things I'd like to do on Season Three, but it's not scripted. So what is that? You know, I've got imaginary things that I will adopt because I know that they've got weight or purpose that will work for Season Three. But I need to see what Neil shows me, you know, what Neil teaches and tells me, and then once I've seen that, I can run with it. He's such a wonderful appreciator of what you achieve. He's never questioned anything I've done, ever. And it's been hundreds of things, hundreds of sets and ideas. And no matter how crazy what it is, I might end up drawing the craziest things first. But he still loves them, you know. And it feels like it probably was there already between the lines. And all I've done is pick up on it. You got to really get into it to mime what it is that affects you and what moves you. What it is you love about something. You can watch a show and read a book and not love it. You don't know why you didn't love it, it's unequatable, but you just didn't connect. But what we're trying to do with everything we do cinematically is to connect, is to somehow get through the equation. So you feel it. And I got a feeling that's why Good Omens works so well. Because of the amount of love and emotion that people put into it and amount of faith people have in what they're doing, because it's only done out of joy and it's only done for the goodness of that wonderful story that is developed and matured, within it, between the characters. And because of that, you can do nothing but sprinkle magic on it all the time.

#good omens #gos2 #season 2 #interview #michael ralph #michael ralph interview #s2 interview #videos #video interview #transcripts #movieweb #bts #bronwyn franklin #aziraphale's bookshop #fun fact #neil gaiman

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wisteria-lodge · 5 months ago

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Always imagined the Weasleys as in debt. Not Arthur’s fault, but his father’s, probably. Poverty can’t be an old thing about them, both Molly and Arthur have very “rich people” habits, and they are in fact still on the sacred 28 list, which I’m sorry, like it should mean something even if JKR retconned it later as some sort of unofficial thing.

So my headcanon is this: the Weasleys were your regular pure blood family, aristocrats essentially. Maybe not as rich as Malfoys or Potters, but still very well-to-do, and then lost it all very recently. That’s why we are presented with the world where there are supposed to be many many weasleys, but in fact there are only Arthur’s branch. His brother Billius was a raging alcoholic, too. The twins said he died from delirium from drinking basically.

So here goes: the sacred 28 form the wizard House of Lords, that’s why Arthur is able to push for some laws (and I think that given that the laws thing and the sacred 28/blood purity are explored in the same book, that’s probably what she intended), because he has the seat in the wizarding House of Lords. He and Lucius knew each other well and were friendly/grew up around each other before the Weasleys went bankrupt and Arthur chose to side with Dumbledore in the war. That’s why Lucius is going around talking to his son about Arthur, while sounding very bitter. Explains the strange money flow and all of the connections and favors, too.

What a fantastic theory. I absolutely love this. You can absolutely make the case that the Weasleys and/or Prewetts were aristocratic families who fell from grace *recently.*

Like we have:

~ Molly's squib second cousin the accountant who they "never talk about." Yeah I BET. It sounds like this cousin just left the wizard world completely. Are you even allowed to do that?

~ Uncle Bilius, Ron's namesake. The alcoholic who officially died after seeing a grim... but it's kinda vauge if grim even exist, so we're going to chalk that one up under "died under mysterious circumstances."

~ Aunt Muriel, who has money... but she's not helping out Molly and Arthur, even though she's "fond of Bill" so does she really? She's the one with the goblin-made moonstone tiara, which kinda sounds like (the last?) family heirloom.

~ Molly's brothers Fabian and Gideon who died unexpectedly young, and without heirs. Does this mean that the Prewett money went to another family/branch of the family? Was Molly out of the running because she technically wasn't a Prewett at the time, and the money follows the name? Also, she'd already had most of her large family before they died, so maybe she was counting on an income that dried up.

(do they have death duties / inheritance tax in the wizarding world? they MIGHT.)

Any one of the above relatives might have absolutely cost the family a LOT of money, and left Arthur and Molly playing catch-up.

#hp #watsonian analysis #the weasleys #hp worldbuilding #arthur weasley #molly weasley

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dreamingunderacloudysky · 6 months ago

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hey! Cool to see another MW writing blogs come up! Especially with our girl Anya <33 speaking of can you do a SFW alphabet with Anya? Tysm!!!

Yes! I sure can hun! ☁️ Before the crash, I'm assuming? Hinted to be F! Partner but anyone can read it.

SFW ALPHABET: ANYA

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

If Anya is with someone, I feel she's more confident than people typically perceive her. She is taking your hand, but don't expect her to push beyond that publicly! Behind closed doors, she craved physical contact in some way, shape, or form, so expect her knee touching yours under the desk while she works or just wrapping her arms from behind as she recharges her social battery from a tough day.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Honesty, it can be pretty easy to befriend Anya! All you have to do is pay attention to what she talks about and acknowledge what she's saying through some interest of her own (given how the cast in-game pretty much ignored all of her problems)

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Oh, absolutely. I think she would like laying in her back and having her partner rest their head in the crook of her neck or spooning (little spoon or big spoon doesn't really matter to her, but if she's got a smaller partner she leans more to big spooning)

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

If she weren't on a damn space cargo vessel, her dream would be to become an accomplished nurse or psychologist and share a cozy flat in suburbia. I don't expect her to be terrible, but she's not a fantastic chef. Great at improvised meals in a crock pot like pot roasts, casseroles, stews, soups, etc. Simple comfort foods.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Via letter, she takes care of the little things, and she wants to put the effort of all the words in her mind on paper, worrying that she'll mess up if she tries saying them out loud.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Being in a confined, stressful environment grows a relationship exponentially in a short amount of time. Eating, sleeping, struggling, and working together really expedite things. Given that you've been on the cargo crew the whole time and nothing goes wrong, give it a month of being back on earth, and you'll turn around and catch her on one knee, velvet box in hand.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Physically? she is Very gentle and terrified of hurting her partner or injuring them. She'll have her bold moments of affection, but never enough to even come close to hurting you. Emotionally? Yes, she is very soft, though she does have a biting, mischievous side, especially with game nights

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Yes, yes, yes, I kind of covered this in my cuddling take, but she's a big hugger. She will find any excuse to do it.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It's not super fast, but not super late either. It's kind of hard to put a timeline on this one

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Not really a jealous woman, but it is very cautious if you're oblivious to someone else's advances. I'm not afraid to subtly show that you're taken, like walking up and taking your hand or kissing your cheek.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

She loves soft, slow, intimate kisses—preferably on the lips. Otherwise, on the forehead, temple, or silly days, she'll take your hand and drag a smiling kiss to the back of your knuckles.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Pretty good! Better than you might think, if she were ever forced to work in pediatrics, she'd have coloring books for all the kids stuck in the waiting room.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

I feel like she works nightshifts, so expect to see the world's messiest mop of jet-black hair smashed into the pillow till at least 9 AM. Most mornings on off days are spent in bed with her, and the only way to get her up is the promise of biscotti and coffee.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

A lot of different ways. She has a passion for board games, so expect some of those. TV nights are open, too, but she also loves to star gaze. If you're both on the ship, expect to chill on the couch and chat about that dead pixel and life back on earth while curled up against her side.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Reveal things slowly. Most likely, starting with her hobbies. Swimming, drawing, her secret bias towards fast food, and she'll start going into deeper topics once you get to know her. Examples are work, schooling, history, and values.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Not quick to anger, but still very much capable of being angry. She's slow to anger, but she is capable of it.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Oh, Anya WILL remember. She is used to people glossing over what she says 90% of the time, so if you take the time to listen to her, she will log into her brain all the little details. She has excellent attention to detail.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

First kiss or her taking you to the lounge room at night and showing you the night sky screen to talk about the pixel.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Extremely protective. It's in her nature as a nurse to see how attentive she is to the rest of the crew about their needs, even pressing Curly to be more honest on his evaluation. She will most likely be the most protective out of the whole crew.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

A good amount. Anya is a dedicated woman (I mean, trying to pass nursing school 8 TIMES? That's dedication); it may not be fancy or extravagant, but you will quickly tell that she puts her whole soul into doing things for you and always remembers the little things.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

I'm not digging deep into this, so we're going to the surface level. She probably doesn't have the best table manners. She probably eats with her elbows on the table. He is not the best at helping herself with issues compared to helping others. She puts others before herself too much at times.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Not very. Busy woman, she'll make sure she's clean and maybe the occasional mascara, but typically, that's it.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes. You quickly become the primary motivator to make it back to Earth alive. Losing you, she would not know what to do with herself.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

She has the craziest bedhead known to man. Hair spiking in every direction. Also, she gives GREAT massages, especially if her partner is stressed.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Disregarding what she says, you must listen for Anya to appreciate you. Also, a partner that's unyielding to their own opinion. Lack of humbleness is another. Purposefully reckless partners, too.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Sleep talker. Anya would be an amusing one at that. She gets into bed cold and leeches all the warmth from her partner. Good luck, sailor!

A/N: This was actually super damn fun to write and gives me a better idea of how I want to write. Anya going forward, so thanks again, Anon! ☁️☁️☁️

#anya x reader #mouthwashing x reader #anya mw #nurse anya #anya #mouthwashing #mouthwashing game

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 1 year ago

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Boys Day Out.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - these new pictures are making me go feral, like his hair grew back so quick and ngl im absolutely loving it 🥰

word count - 2.8k

in which, manchester united are playing luton town fc in the premier league, and so what better thing to do then take your two football obsessed children to watch there favourite team hopefully win.

Friday 16th February, 2024.

Last Friday was a rare moment of tranquility in your household.

You sat nestled in your shared bed, Harry's arm draped around your waist, pulling you close. As you lost yourself in the pages of your book, you couldn't help but steal glances at him, admiring the way his eyes sparkled with every scroll on his phone.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm aura around the room, creating a peaceful atmosphere that enveloped you both. With each shared smile and whispered exchange, the bond between you grew stronger, weaving a tapestry of love and companionship that filled the space between you.

As the subtle silence enveloped the room, Harry gently broke it, his voice filled with excitement. "Y’know, m’love, I was thinking... How about taking the boys to the Manchester United match on Sunday? A mate has a few tickets spare. It would be a fantastic day out for them, and I reckon it'd do you good to have some time for yourself."

You paused, considering his suggestion. " H, I don't mind staying with the boys. Besides, it's a big game, and they might get restless."

Harry shook his head, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Nonsense, they'll love it! And you deserve a break, you do so much for them already. Plus, it'll be a chance for me to bond with the boys, just the three of us."

You couldn't help but smile at his earnestness.

"I suppose it would be nice to have a bit of me-time," you admitted, though still hesitant about leaving the boys for the day.

Seeing your uncertainty, Harry took your hand in his, his gaze softening. "Trust me, m’love, it'll be a day they'll never forget. Besides, it'll give you a chance to relax and unwind, do whatever you fancy without worrying about the boys."

His words warmed your heart, and you found yourself nodding, a sense of relief washing over you.

"Okay, you've convinced me. Let's make it a boys' day out on Sunday," you agreed, a smile spreading across your face at the thought of a few hours of peace and quiet.

Sunday 18th February, 2024.

Harry navigated his Range Rover through the familiar streets, the excitement palpable in the air as they neared Kenilworth town where the football match awaited.

In the backseat, Cameron, his eight-year-old son, gazed out of the window with a mix of wonder and anticipation, his Manchester United kit proudly worn.

Cameron Harry Styles was conceived only five months into yours and Harry’s relationship, it definitely came as a shock seeing as he was only twenty-two, but he absolutely wouldn’t change it for the world.

"Dad, do you think Rashford will score today?" Cameron asked eagerly, his eyes alight with excitement.

Harry glanced at Cameron through the rearview mirror, a smile playing on his lips.

"M’reckon he's got a good chance, Cam. But y’know how football is, anything can happen," he replied, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, in the other car seat Dexter Robin Styles, your youngest child who was conceived on your honeymoon.

Dexter, just turned two, slept soundly in his car seat, blissfully unaware of the excitement surrounding him. Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his youngest son, his heart swelling with love.

"Look at him, out like a light already," he remarked to Cameron.

Cameron grinned back, his excitement bubbling over.

"We can wake him up when we get there, Daddy," he declared confidently, already planning the day ahead in his mind. "I can't wait to see the players up close!"

The journey continued for another half an hour, the excitement building with each passing mile. Cameron peppered Harry with questions about the match, his eagerness infectious as they drew closer to the stadium. Dexter stirred in his sleep occasionally, but Cameron kept a watchful eye on him, eager to share every moment of the adventure with his little brother.

Finally, they pulled up in the stadium's private car park, greeted by the bustling atmosphere of fellow fans and the distant sounds of cheers from inside. Harry turned off the engine, glancing back at his sons with a grin.

As Harry stepped out of the car, he made his way around to Dexter's car seat, his heart full of anticipation for the day ahead. Gently, he opened the door and leaned in to wake his youngest son.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," he murmured softly, giving Dexter a gentle shake. "It's time to wake up, buddy."

Dexter stirred, his eyelids fluttering as he slowly emerged from his deep slumber.

"Daddy?" he mumbled, his voice groggy from sleep. "Carry me, please?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at his son's request, knowing full well that Dexter was a total daddy's boy.

"Of course, little man," he replied, ready to scoop Dexter up into his arms. "You ready for some football?"

Dexter nodded, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists. "Yeah, football!" he exclaimed, his voice still laced with sleepiness.

Harry chuckled softly, planting a kiss on Dexter's forehead.

"That's right, buddy. But first, we need to get you out of this car seat," he said, gently manoeuvring Dexter's sleepy limbs.

Meanwhile, Cameron had already made his way out of the car and stood next to his father, his hand clasped firmly in Harry's.

"I can't wait to see the players, Daddy!" he exclaimed, his excitement palpable.

Harry chuckled, ruffling Cameron's hair affectionately.

"I know, buddy. It's going to be an amazing day," he replied, his heart swelling with love for his two sons.

The stadium wasn’t that busy, but that may be because the match didn’t kick off for another hour.

No one had managed to spot him thus far, so it was all smooth sailing.

Dexter was still in his arms, thumb in his mouth and Cameron was holding his fathers hand, his shoulder length curls tied back in a loose man bun that you had done this morning.

As they made their way through the bustling stadium, Cameron's stomach rumbled loudly, coincidently as they passed a nearby food stand.

Oh how he craved some warm food right now.

"Daddy, m’hungry!" he exclaimed, tugging on Harry's hand.

Harry chuckled. "Hungry, huh? Remember, it's not 'want', it's 'would like'," he gently corrected, trying to instill good manners in his son.

Cameron nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food stand.

"Okay, Daddy. Can I have a slice of pizza, please?" he asked politely, his stomach grumbling impatiently.

Harry smiled, proud of Cameron's manners.

"Of course, buddy. Let's see what they have," he replied, leading the way to the queue.

As they waited in line, Harry turned to Dexter, who was still cradled in his arms.

"And what about you, Dex? Would y’like anything to drink?" he asked, brushing a stray lock of hair from Dexter's forehead.

Dexter nodded enthusiastically, his eyes wide with excitement.

"Fruit shoot, please, Daddy!" he chirped, his little voice filled with anticipation.

He should have guessed.

Harry chuckled, planting a kiss on Dexter's cheek.

"Fruit shoot it is, champ," he replied, making a mental note to grab a couple of bottles for the boys.

Finally reaching the front of the queue, Harry ordered a slice of pizza for Cameron and a couple of fruit shoots for Dexter. As they walked away from the food stand, Cameron eagerly bit into his slice, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. And with Dexter happily sipping on his fruit shoot.

In the stands of the bustling stadium, Harry sat between his two boys, each in their own seat. Dexter, perched proudly in his own seat, had insisted on being a "big boy" for the match, his determination shining through as he sat upright, his legs swinging with excitement.

Though still too young to fully grasp the intricacies of the game, Dexter's eyes sparkled with wonder as he took in the sights and sounds of the stadium, his tiny hands gripping the edge of his seat in anticipation.

Cameron, on the other hand, was completely engrossed in the action on the field. With his Manchester United scarf wrapped around his neck and his eyes fixed on the players, he leaned forward eagerly, his heart racing with each pass and shot. His passion for the game was palpable, his entire being consumed by the thrill of the match unfolding before him.

As the game entered its fifth minute, Manchester United surged ahead with an early goal, igniting a chorus of cheers from the crowd.

Harry couldn't help but smile as he watched the excitement ripple through Cameron, his son's eyes shining with pure joy. And beside him, Dexter's infectious laughter filled the air, a constant reminder of the simple pleasures of being together as a family.

As the game entered its seventh minute, Manchester United's Rasmus Højlund seized an opportunity and scored a magnificent goal, sending the stadium into a frenzy of cheers and applause.

Cameron, unable to contain his excitement, leapt up from his seat, his eyes wide with jubilation as he started jumping up and down.

"Yes! Go, United!" he shouted, his voice filled with exhilaration.

Beside him, Dexter watched with wide-eyed wonder, not quite understanding what had just happened.

Sensing his confusion, Harry leaned down and whispered in Dexter's ear, "Dexter, our team just scored a goal! Isn't that exciting?"

Dexter's face lit up with understanding, and he clambered down from his seat, his tiny legs carrying him over to stand in front of Harry.

With a beaming smile, he reached out for Cameron's hand, eager to join in the celebration.

"Goal! Goal!" he exclaimed, mimicking his older brother's excited jumps.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his two boys jumping up and down in unison, their laughter echoing through the stadium. Quickly pulling out his phone, he aimed the camera at them, capturing the precious moment for posterity.

As the final whistle blew, signaling the end of the match with Manchester United emerging victorious with a score of 2-1, Cameron was buzzing with excitement. He bounced around, his energy infectious as he reveled in his team's triumph.

Meanwhile, Dexter, nestled contentedly in Harry's arms, gazed up at his father with sleepy eyes, still basking in the excitement of the game.

Unbeknownst to the boys, Harry had a surprise in store for them. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he decided to keep it a secret until the perfect moment. As they made their way out of the stadium, Cameron and Dexter assumed they were heading home, completely unaware of the surprise awaiting them.

A kind-hearted stadium staff member, noticing the boys' enthusiasm for the game, discreetly approached Harry and whispered about a special opportunity to visit the dressing room of Manchester United. Sensing the boys' excitement, Harry nodded gratefully, knowing that this unexpected treat would be the perfect end to an already unforgettable day.

They soon arrived at the changing rooms.

"Daddy, where are we going?" Cameron asked, his voice tinged with excitement and curiosity. Before Harry could respond, the door swung open, revealing a sight that left Cameron speechless.

His eyes widened in awe as he took in the scene before him—the dressing room of Manchester United, filled with his favorite players. For a moment, Cameron was rendered silent, his mouth hanging open in disbelief as he stood in the presence of his idols.

Meanwhile, Dexter, wide awake and brimming with enthusiasm, squirmed in Harry's arms, eager to explore. Spotting one of the players nearby, he wiggled free and dashed over without hesitation, his extroverted nature shining through as he greeted the player with a wide grin and a burst of chatter.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at Dexter's boldness, his heart swelling with pride at his son's fearlessness. As Dexter chatted animatedly with the player, Harry followed after him, a fond smile on his face as he watched his youngest son soak up the moment with unbridled joy.

Beside him, Cameron held onto Harry's trouser leg tightly, his shyness evident as he observed the scene with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Harry knelt down beside him, offering reassurance and encouragement.

"S’okay, Cam. They're just regular people, like you and me," he whispered, gently squeezing Cameron's hand in support.

Harry noticed Cameron's apprehension and knelt down beside him, offering a reassuring smile and a comforting squeeze of his hand.

"S’okay, buddy. Y’don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to," he whispered gently, understanding his son's discomfort.

As the bustling activity in the dressing room continued, a familiar figure approached the trio.

It was Marcus Rashford, Cameron's favorite footballer.

The moment Cameron caught sight of him, his eyes widened in awe, and he instinctively tightened his grip on Harry's hand.

Harry smiled warmly as Marcus crouched down to Cameron's level.

"Hey there, buddy! Did you enjoy the game?" Marcus asked, his voice gentle and friendly.

Cameron nodded eagerly, his heart pounding with excitement.

"Y-yes! It wa-was amazing! Y-you're my favorite player," he stammered, his cheeks flushing with nervousness.

Marcus grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Thank you, mate! That means a lot to me. What's your name?" he asked, reaching out to ruffle Cameron's hair.

"C-Cameron," he replied, his voice trembling with excitement. "I-I've always wanted to be like you when I play football with my team."

Marcus's smile widened at Cameron's words.

"That's fantastic, Cameron! Keep working hard, and who knows, maybe one day you'll be playing for Manchester United too," he encouraged, his words filled with genuine warmth and encouragement.

Encouraged by Marcus's friendly demeanor, Cameron slowly began to relax. With Harry's reassuring presence beside him, he found the courage to step out from behind his father's leg and engage in conversation with his idol.

Harry, holding onto Dexter with his other hand to prevent him from wandering off again, watched proudly as Cameron and Marcus chatted animatedly. Despite Cameron's initial nervousness, his admiration for Marcus shone through, and Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at his son's bravery.

And as they continued to talk, Cameron's stutter gradually faded away, replaced by an excited chatter as he eagerly shared his love for football with his idol. In that moment, surrounded by his father's support and the friendly encouragement of Marcus Rashford, Cameron felt like anything was possible.

As their conversation with Marcus continued, he noticed the excitement radiating from both Cameron and Dexter.

With a warm smile, Marcus gently interrupted their chatter.

"Hey guys, would you like to take a photo together?" he offered, extending his arms towards them.

Cameron's eyes lit up with excitement, while Dexter's face broke into a wide grin.

"Yes, please!" Cameron exclaimed, eager to capture the moment with their idol.

Marcus chuckled warmly as he scooped Dexter into one arm and Cameron into the other.

"Alright, let's get a picture," he said, positioning them carefully for the shot.

As Marcus held onto the boys, he glanced over at Harry, who stood nearby, watching with a proud smile.

"Would you like to join us in the photo?" Marcus asked, extending an invitation to Cameron and Dexter's father.

Harry's heart swelled with gratitude at the gesture.

"Absolutely," he replied, stepping forward to join the group.

With Harry now in the frame, another player from the team stepped forward to take the photo.

"Say cheese!" he called out, readying the camera.

Cameron, Dexter, and Harry beamed with excitement as the photo was taken, capturing the moment they shared with Marcus Rashford. As the shutter clicked, Harry felt a sense of overwhelming gratitude, knowing that this experience would be a cherished memory for years to come.

After the photo was taken, Cameron ran straight over to Harry, his eyes shining with tears of joy.

"Daddy, I love you so much! This has been the best day ever!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around Harry in a tight hug.

Touched by Cameron's heartfelt words, Harry wrapped his arms around his son, holding him close.

"I love you too, Cam. M’so glad we could share this special moment together," he replied, his voice filled with emotion.

Feeling left out of the hug, Dexter toddled over, his arms outstretched.

"Me too! Hug, Daddy!" he chimed in, joining the embrace with a giggle.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at Dexter's enthusiasm, his heart overflowing with love for his two sons. Pulling them both close, he held them tightly, savoring the moment of pure happiness and love.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, laughter mingled with tears of joy. In that moment, surrounded by the love of his family, Harry felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the beautiful memories they had created together. And as they headed home, hand in hand, he knew that this day would be etched in their hearts forever.

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