#but in a different way to the previous one! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunflowerhae · 3 days ago

Text

Late to love you P. ll.

Haechan x f!reader, hogwarts!au

Warnings: fluff, lots of angst, classic she fell first he fell harder, yearning (like a lotttt), language, jealous haechan (regretful bastard), drinking/partying, spoiler they kiss

Notes: long awaited! Thanks so much for your patience yall, you guys were hounding me for part 2 (thank u for supporting me it means a lot and keeps me accountable🥹) I’ve been really in my yearning era I.E. watching a lot of pride and prejudice/jim and Pam edits on TikTok so…this one is gna be juicy lmfao. also yall were wanting me to really make haechan suffer and honestly tbh..maybe I took it too far bc haechan really crashes out in this my bad. I just crave angst and sadness idk I have issues.

Playlist (ofc cause I’m me) (but fr yall I don’t play about yearning music so give it a try!!)

2/2, Previous, Masterlist

The air in Eldhollow always smelled different after winter break—crisper, like the snow had bleached the scent from the stone paths and old trees. Students filtered back onto campus wrapped in scarves and cloaks, dragging trunks behind them, some still pink-cheeked from travel, others bleary-eyed from a week of last-minute essays and spell revisions.

Haechan sat across from Jeno in the corner of Witch’s Brew & Co., nursing a still-steaming cup of butterbrew and watching the way the snow melted against the enchanted windows. He liked this café—too much, probably. But after nearly two weeks away, something about being back in its soft lighting and clove-sweet air helped quiet the static in his chest.

“Well,” Jeno started, the spoon that occupied his tea swirled around the rim of his cup on its own, creating an ambience that sounded closer to nails on a chalkboard, “you look like someone who got fat off of sweets and neglect.”

Haechan snorted into his cup. “Thanks. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

Jeno leaned back in his chair, accidentally kicking at Haechan’s boot. “How was your break?”

Haechan shrugged, eyes still on the frost that crept along the glass outside. “Fine. Loud. Spent most of it at home trying to stop my little brothers from turning the cat into a footstool.”

Jeno laughed. “Did they succeed?”

“The cat is now… wary.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. There had been chaos, as always—his younger siblings were walking explosions of magic and sugar, and his mum was constantly ten seconds from combusting. But beneath the noise had been something quieter. He didn’t want to admit it aloud, not even to Jeno, but he’d spent too much of the holiday thinking about her.

Y/N.

She’d said she needed space. Had thanked him for the party, then disappeared before he could find the words to make things right. And he had respected that—tried to. Tried to pretend he didn’t see her in class (one might call what he did staring, but that’s beside the point). Tried not to wonder what she was doing, who she was with. Tried not to read into every dream that still started with her voice and ended with him waking up too warm and annoyed with himself.

“So,” Jeno said casually, as if passing comment on the weather and not practically reading Haechan’s mind, “I heard Y/N might be seeing someone.”

Haechan’s heart stopped, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just brought the mug to his lips and took a slow sip, like the words didn’t sink like stones in his stomach.

“Really?” he said, voice flat with practiced indifference. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Mina mentioned it, said she got it from someone in her advanced potions class who was friends with y/n so… rumor, probably. But still.”

Haechan hummed low in his throat, noncommittal. He didn’t say more.

Jeno watched him over the rim of his glass. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Haechan said lightly. “It’s not like I ever dated her.”

“No,” Jeno said, slow and careful, “but you’ve been different since that party, so I wondered.”

“She said she needed space,” Haechan said, finally turning his gaze from the window to his friend. “So I gave it to her. What else am I supposed to do?”

Jeno didn’t answer right away. He just tilted his head a little, studying him the way only someone who’d known him for years could. “Maybe not nothing.”

Haechan didn’t reply. He didn’t think he could even form a sentence if he tried, because it wasn’t just that she might be seeing someone—it was that someone else might be seeing her. Her laugh. Her weird little rants about ghosts and magic theory. The way she curled her hair behind one ear when she was nervous, or how her voice got sharp when she talked about something she loved. The fact that she’d once looked at him like he was her whole world… and now might be looking at someone else the same way.

It burned.

He knew he didn’t have a right to be jealous. She didn’t owe him anything—not after the way he’d treated her at that party. He’d panicked; Fumbled every chance he had with her. Now he was alone, watching the price of that cowardice play out - having to get updates about her from fuckass Jeno of all people.

Still, the idea that someone else could be close to her now—could be the one she reached out to when she was upset or excited or bored—settled in his chest like a curse. In her own words, she’d once wished he saw her; now that he did, he was terrified he was too late.

As Jeno wandered off to place another order, Haechan sat in silence, fingers curled around the warmth of his mug, letting the rumor echo over and over again in his head.

Y/N might be seeing someone; and even worse —it might be true. And if it was, he wasn’t sure how he’d stop himself from crashing out entirely.

—-

The lecture hall buzzed with quiet tension, the kind that came not from the professor’s voice — which was calmly explaining magical jurisdiction clauses — but from the weight of what she’d just announced; the thing that caused y/n’s heart to pound in her chest so loudly she feared others around her might catch on.

“The Department of Experimental Magic is looking to take on four students for a six-month internship,” Aldwych announced, pacing slowly in front of the chalkboard. “They’ll be hand-picked from this course, based on your written thesis proposals and your demonstrated skill. This is not the time to coast. I repeat—four.”

She sat two rows behind Haechan, though she wasn’t thinking about him - not consciously, anyway. She was too busy imagining what it would feel like to be chosen. To finally be seen for more than what she seemed like. To be recognized for what she was — sharp, quietly clever, resilient.

But still, every time he shifted in his seat, every time he tilted his head to whisper something to Mark beside him (who was not enrolled in this class mind you, just came for some emotional support so haechan didn’t stare at y/n), her eyes flickered to him on instinct like a compass drawn north; Stupid compass.

She was supposed to be over it.

After all, she’d spent winter break curled up in a too-small armchair by the fire, pretending she wasn’t haunted by the memory of Haechan’s voice in that kitchen. You’re all I think about. As if it had meant something. As if it hadn’t been followed by days — weeks — of silence.

He hadn’t reached out once. She knew he was trying to respect her request of space, but really when had Haechan not done what he wanted? If that was the case, y/n deduced he simply didn’t want to reach out, so she decided to match his energy and move on.

So why did it still ache?

Professor Aldwych dismissed class with a flick of her hand, the words “Start thinking seriously about your proposals” echoing through the hall as students gathered their things and filed out. Y/N took her time, not really in a rush to face the biting wind outside. She finally managed to leave the lecture hall, starting her walk to find something to curb her hunger, when she felt the presence of someone falling into step beside her. Tall. Warm. Familiar.

“Hoping you don’t apply so I have one less person to compete against,” Haechan said lightly, his voice smooth like sunlight on the edge of a storm.

Y/N stumbled in her reaction, turning to see him standing now just a half-step behind her. He was dressed in a warm caramel jumper and dark slacks, one hand shoved in his coat pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly like he hadn’t expected her to actually stop and subject him to such an intimidating gaze. His hair was swept back haphazardly, a little tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it on his way here.

Her breath caught. “What?”

He offered a crooked smile, his boyish charm still peaking through despite his clear apprehension. “For the internship.”

“Oh.” She forced a casual shrug. “Yeah I’m applying. Obviously.”

“I figured,” he said. “You were always good at this stuff.”

She frowned, but stayed quiet. Instead, she just turned and started walking again, trying not to act like she cared if he followed or not; he did, of course. The two stayed quiet for the moment, listening to the ambiance of the institute around them as they walked together in beat. Y/n couldn’t deny that it was nice to walk with him; to pretend everything was okay, if only for a moment.

They reached the top of the stairs, students pressing around them in both directions. Y/n stopped again, this time further to the side as to not bother her fellow students going about their lives. She turned to face the man that refused to leave her head, and for a moment — a brief, too-quiet moment — the crowd seemed to fade. Y/n hated that even now - even as she was so angry with him and confused by his actions - he still had the ability to make her tune out the rest of the world; to make her so vulnerable with just one glance.

Haechan ran a hand through his hair. “I wanted to say hi earlier. In class. But…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Y/N nodded, staring ahead. “Yeah.”

He looked over at her, his voice quieter. “You’ve been on my mind, you know. Even over break.”

She still didn’t look at him, but she wanted to. It was easier for her not to look at him, though; to pretend he didn’t make her stomach drop everytime he gave her a smidge of attention.

“Like a lot,” he added, and for once, it sounded like the truth. She finally gave in and glanced sideways — and his eyes were already on her, Unflinching and wide as he stared at her side profile like he was trying to memorize it.

“I thought you forgot about me,” she said. She meant it as a joke, but it was cold and quiet - she knew it didn’t land like one.

“Never.”

And then, just as something fragile started to crack open between them; just as y/n fully turned her body and haechan inched forward, maybe a bit unconsciously-

“Y/N!”

Giselle’s voice rang sharp and bright from the foot of the stairs. She was weaving through students with purpose, her long coat billowing behind her and her eyes set on her target with determination.

Y/N blinked, stepping back instinctively. She wrapped her arms around herself to self soothe, her face red with embarrassment at being caught. Haechan didn’t move - it was as if nothing between the two changed. He stayed in his spot, his eyes on y/n, his brow was furrowed and his gaze held something in it that made y/n ache for him - he looked at her like she held his heart in her hands. She tried to ignore the sick feeling it gave her, and turned towards her roommates figure that closed in on the moment.

Giselle arrived with a small grin, hand slipping through Y/N’s bent arm like she belonged there — like she was entirely oblivious to the strange, simmering thing happening between the two of them. Haechan ached at the sight, longing to be so carefree to wrap his arm in hers, even just once.

“There you are,” she said, giving Haechan a quick, unreadable nod before turning back to Y/N. “Did you still want to stop by the archives before they close? We’ll have time if we leave now.”

Y/N hesitated. She didn’t have any plans with Giselle right now, but knowing her roommate she probably saw y/n and haechan and came to “save the day”. It endeared y/n, but also upset her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She didn’t blame her friend, of course, but a large part of her was sad she no longer had a reason to talk to Haechan; to be in his presence and burn under his stare. Her feelings about him came in waves, one after the other. She felt like a child again, and that itself scared her too - he made her feel unlike anything she’s ever experienced. She looked at Giselle - her eyebrows sat raised on her expecting expression as she started tugging y/n the opposite way from the evil, bad - hot - guy who broke her best friends heart before even having claim over it. Y/n submitted, letting herself slowly get dragged away as she caught Haechan’s eyes one more time. He didn’t try to stop her, but he didn’t leave either. His tall frame looked smaller as his shoulders hung heavy with his hands shoved in his pockets. He gave her a look that made her feel like she was breaking something by walking away.

Y/N swallowed, her voice low. “I��ll… see you around?”

“Yeah,” he answered dejectedly, accompanied with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good luck with your proposal.”

She nodded, turned, and let Giselle lead her down the hallway.

Behind her, Lee Haechan stood alone, one hand still tucked in his coat pocket, the other now taken out to drag across his face in silent desperation. He watched her go like he already knew he was losing something he didn’t know how to ask for, a sigh escaping him as he finally turned and went about his day.

—-

Y/N’s flat smelled like incense and burnt sugar — courtesy of the kitchen candle Karina had tried to charm into smelling like caramel and instead singed halfway to the ceiling. A couple of half-melted candles flickered on the windowsill now, doing their best to compete with the warm glow of the fireplace that danced across the room. It was late — the kind of late that only came after laughter had stretched too long into the night, and the world outside had quieted into a hush of winter fog curling along the windows.

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the couch, a wool blanket over her lap and a warm slice of cheesy garlic bread in one hand. Giselle was sprawled upside down across the other armrest, mumbling instructions at Yangyang, who was rapidly failing to defeat one of the bosses of resident evil on their secondhand Muggle gaming console.

“This is a horror game?” he said flatly, eyes wide. “Why does it feel like I’m being hunted by a vengeful bug?”

“It’s the mouth,” Xiaojun chimed in from the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest as he munched on seaweed crisps. “No villain can be taken seriously when bugs fly out of their mouth.”

Giselle groaned. “Would you two shut up and let me focus? Ethan’s basically my boyfriend at this point.”

Karina snorted from the kitchen, where she was levitating another round of butterbeer into mugs. “Giselle, you break up with Ethan every time you reach a cutscene.”

“Commitment issues,” Yangyang mumbled. “Tragic.”

Y/N laughed — a real one, breathless and warm. For the first time in weeks, the ache in her chest had dimmed to something dull and distant. It was nice, she realized, to not be thinking. To not be dissecting every word, every glance, every breath Haechan had taken around her like it was part of a riddle she’d been solving since she was eleven.

But even now, in the haze of pizza and laughter, his name found a way to crawl back into the room.

“So,” Karina said, not-so-innocently, as she passed a mug to Y/N and took the spot beside her. “Speaking of commitment issues…”

“Oh no,” Y/N said immediately, shrinking into the couch.

Giselle rolled onto her stomach and scooted closer to her roommates like a shark smelling blood. “You and Haechan.”

“There is no ‘me and Haechan.’”

Karina raised a brow. “No?”

Y/N took a sip of her drink. “No! We only met a couple of times, honestly. It’s not like we kissed or anything.”

The room went silent.

Yangyang accidentally drove Ethan right into the villain and died instantly - not noticing as his attention was focused directly on y/n.

“You haven’t kissed?” Giselle hissed, whipping her head around. “What the hell have you two been doing this whole time? Playing Wizard Chess with your feelings?!”

“It’s complicated!”

“No it’s pathetic,” Karina corrected. “Beautiful, tragic, deliciously slow-burn — but also pathetic. You like him. He likes you. And you’re both just… stewing.”

Y/N groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “You’re acting like I planned this.”

“You kind of did,” Xiaojun said gently, tossing her a cushion. “You had, like, an eight-year crush. It’s giving… long game.”

Y/N peeked through her fingers. “What am I supposed to do? He had years to notice me. And now that he has, it’s like… it’s too much. I don’t know what’s real.”

Karina’s voice softened. “You’re scared.”

Y/N didn’t deny it.

Because how could she explain the way it made her dizzy to be seen by someone like him? Someone who had always been golden and loud and unreachable. Now that he was looking — really looking — it felt like the floor kept tilting beneath her feet.

“I need to pee,” she mumbled, rising from the couch, blanket still tangled around her ankles as she shuffled toward the loo.

The hallway was quiet, the only light coming from a dimly lit scone on the wall. Y/N closed the bathroom door behind her and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, pulling her knees up.

She breathed;

In.

Out.

The questions started to return — soft and cruel. What does he want from you? Why now? Are you just something new? The truth is maybe y/n was being sensitive and insecure, but she couldn’t trust him. They barely knew each other, after all. Y/n got used to staring at the back of his head for years, usually paired with a girl next to him. Haechan had always been untouchable to her, and it seems no matter how much time has gone by, old habits die hard.

A soft knock broke the spiral that quickly formed. Then, “It’s me.”

She cracked the door open to see Xiaojun leaned against the frame, a little crooked smile on his lips. “You good?”

Y/N nodded, then hesitated. “Yeah. Just overwhelmed.”

He nudged the door further open and stepped in, settling onto the edge of the tub across from her. “Want some unsolicited advice?”

“Always.” She managed with a halfhearted laugh and a scoff thrown in.

He held up two fingers. “One: Don’t let your fear make decisions for you. Two…” He paused. “There’s this guy I know. From home. He’s sweet. Works at a bookstore. Really into magical theory and mushroom soup.”

Y/N blinked. “This is a setup?”

“I’m just saying — if you ever wanted to stop waiting around for Haechan to figure his life out, there are other people who’d be thrilled to take you on a date.”

She tilted her head. “You think I should move on?”

“I think,” Xiaojun said gently, “you’ve been standing in the same doorway for a long time. Maybe it’s time to walk through. Or close the door.”

The silence stretched. Y/n has never tried to move on - she hardly considered it moving on in the first place, for that would imply you once had something to lose. Y/n never had Haechan, not like how she wanted. She wondered internally if she even had the ability to move on from him - which scared her.

Xiaojun smiled. “I’ll tell him you’re thinking about it.”

He stood, ruffled her hair, and let the door click softly shut behind him. Y/n was thankful for her best friend now, because he always knew when to comfort and when to leave. She sat still, staring at the tiles beneath her feet. The house had gone quiet again, like it was holding its breath; waiting for something to sigh about. Y/n wondered when she would give up on this fantasy she had; When she would stop being the mouse that runs around to give the cat some amusement.

—-

The tea house was trying too hard.

It was called The Silver Thistle—a cozy, upscale café in the center of old-town Eldhollow, wedged between a wand boutique and a tailor’s shop for enchanted robes. It had floral wallpaper that changed with the seasons, velvet booths that refilled your tea cup without prompting, and harp music that played softly from nowhere in particular. All very charming. All very exhausting.

Haechan had been here before, but never for this reason.

He sat across from a girl whose name he should’ve remembered—but didn’t. Something with an L? Leah? Liesel? She had a high laugh, glittering earrings, and a voice that had now spent twenty uninterrupted minutes explaining a disagreement she’d had with her roommate about who stole whose gillyweed-infused conditioner.

“I told her,” the girl said, pausing to twirl a curl around her wand, “just because your hair smells like lakewater doesn’t mean it’s yours, babe—obviously.”

Haechan nodded. Or at least, his body did. His mind, on the other hand, had long since checked out.

Y/N would’ve hated this place.

Too frilly, too staged. He could almost hear her voice now, dry and unimpressed: It’s trying to look whimsical, but the whimsy feels bought. She’d roll her eyes at the music, flick her spoon at the ceiling charm in mock rebellion, and call it “tea for people with too much disposable income and too little taste.”

God, he missed her.

He missed how quiet she was at first, how it made you lean in. He missed how she got passionate about odd things—like ghosts and monsters alike. He missed how her lips twitched before she laughed, like she always had a secret that she would never let you in on.

Now she was a secret again.

He’s barely spoken to her since the start of term; the thought makes him sick. That awkward conversation after class had been their only moment, and it had ended with someone else pulling her away and the silence growing larger than ever between them.

And now here he was, sitting in a shop that annoyed him just for existing, across from someone who wasn’t her. He laughed silently while thinking that if she were here with him, he’d probably hate it less - he hoped his date didn’t notice the misplaced chuckle.

“—and then she said I was being toxic, which is so rich, because if anyone’s toxic, it’s—”

Nope. He zoned out again while staring at the table. Honestly, it pissed him off how much she had changed him. The haechan before y/n wouldn’t have hated this place, he probably wouldn’t care because he’d be too focused on the girl in front of him. The haechan before y/n would have made this girl feel special, would have remembered her name and made a point to mention is so that she knew he knew - because he cared about that stuff. Before y/n, Haechan cared about a lot of things; now all that mattered was one thing - something he couldn’t have.

He could sit here and get mad and cry about the fact that he changed, but really it didn’t matter to him. He wanted to change, he wanted to be a better person - for her. Even if they didn’t work out, Haechan wanted to be someone who she’d be proud to say she almost had something with.

A hand landed on his wrist, pulling him out of his daydreams with a startle. The girl had leaned forward, her fingers sliding boldly up his arm like she’d done it a hundred times before. Her smile was syrupy. Practiced. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” she said, batting her lashes. “You thinking about me?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

Because no - he wasn’t thinking about her.

He hadn’t heard a single word she’d said.

His mind had been drifting to Y/N’s eyes—the way they went soft at the edges when she was deep in thought. Her laugh, quieter than most. The way she pulled her sleeves over her hands when she was nervous. The little mole just beneath her ear. Her voice in his head was louder than the girl sitting directly in front of him.

He pulled his hand back, gently but firmly. “Sorry,” he said, voice cracking like an old broomstick. “Was just… distracted.” At least he didn’t lie.

The door to the shop opened behind him with a faint chime. He didn’t pay it any attention at first—not until he saw the girl across from him suddenly glance toward it, then blink and look down quickly, like she’d seen something awkward.

And then he felt it; A shift in the room. A little electric charge beneath his skin. It was as if his body just…knew.

He turned, and there she was.

Her coat was slightly damp from the cold mist outside, curls falling loose from her braid. Her cheeks were flushed pink, probably from the chill—or maybe, he realized with a jolt, from seeing him.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.

Not long enough to say anything. But long enough for everything to rise up inside him—regret, want, a pain that ached like a bruise, and his lunch. Her wide eyes stared at his for less than a second, yet he felt everything in them. He used to roll his eyes and scoff when lovebirds would say that time slowed down when they locked eyes, but he gets it now. It seemed that lately whenever he looked at her, time just didn’t exist. There was her, there was forever. He couldn’t tell if she felt the same way, frankly he hoped she didn’t because it hurt so bad to break that eye contact, he’d hate for her to experience it - he tries to ignore the fact that she has probably felt it tenfold when it comes to him.

She said nothing, of course. Just broke the eye contact as quickly as it came, turned, and walked back out. The bell above the door chimed again as she left, this time much too loud.

“Who was that?” the girl across from him asked, blinking at him, puzzled. “Friend of yours?”

Haechan didn’t answer. He was already standing up.

The velvet booth squeaked beneath him as he pushed out of it too fast, nearly knocking over his tea. The girl gasped, “Wait - what’s going on? Are you leaving?”

He paused. Was he about to - what - chase after her? What good would that do? Haechan realizes that every time he opens his mouth, he makes the situation worse. Besides, he knows he would look stupid. And while he doesn’t really care about looking stupid when it comes to her, it would make him feel like shit later when he ultimately gets rejected and confused even more - when he feels desperate and alone once again. And nevermind all of that, haechan would rather feel all of that and be able to say they at least talked, than sit here dumbly and feel like shit anyway. He would still have chased after her - if it didn’t affect her; If it didn’t clearly upset her even more. The truth is, ever since their tiff in the kitchen, one sentence y/n said had chased haechan, finding him in the darkest corners of his life. “I used to wish you’d just look at me” How much had she suffered because of him? How much had she felt alone? In his heart, haechan knows it’s not his fault, and yet - he can’t stop the guilt from consuming his senses. So, he’ll let her walk away; he’ll let himself stare at her back as she retreats, wishing she’d turn and look at him again.

He slowly sat back down.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, jaw clenched tight. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “Right…”

But he didn’t care what she thought.

Because all he could see now was Y/N’s back as she retreated. All he could hear was the echo of the bell. All he could feel was the fire spreading through his ribs, lighting every nerve in his body with dread and longing.

And, of course, she had seen him with someone else.

Of course it had been too late - again.

—-

The share house sat at the edge of the village, tucked behind a crooked lane of lantern-lit homes and hovering broom racks. It belonged to one of the older students—a Transfiguration major named Minsung who always hosted these gatherings when his roommates were out of town. The house itself was sprawling in that charmed, nonsensical way: walls rearranged themselves to accommodate new guests, rooms stretched or shrank depending on the crowd, and the kitchen door insisted on teleporting you directly to the back garden if you weren’t paying attention. Warm, golden light poured from every window, shadows dancing against the grass as laughter and low music pulsed through the walls.

Y/N knew Haechan would be there. She’d known before she even accepted the invitation, because Xiaojun had warned her - casually, almost in passing - that the mutual friend he wanted her to meet was “in the same circle as Haechan, by the way. But I swear, it’s chill.” And she’d smiled then, playing it off with a joke. But after that chance encounter at the tea shop - Yknow, the one where she watched, heart in her throat, as yet another girl leaned in too close to the boy who consistently stressed her out while making her feel like the only girl in the world (obviously a lie) - Y/N had made a decision.

Tonight, she would not be haunted by someone who had every chance to know her and didn’t. Not again.

The living room was crowded but cozy, with enchanted string lights drifting lazily above everyone’s heads, twinkling in time with the beat of the music. There was a floating tray of pumpkin cocktails gliding through the crowd, and near the fireplace, two students were having a mildly heated argument over a wandless levitation technique—each attempting to prove their theory by lifting increasingly heavier objects off the table, until someone lost control and a couch pillow combusted into glittering smoke. No one seemed to care.

Y/N stood near the bookshelf with Xiaojun, who wore his usual easy grin and held two cups of chilled cider. He handed her one and nodded toward the tall figure across the room.

“That’s him,” he said. “Kai, stormy disposition, but hilarious. You’ll like him.”

She didn’t get the chance to answer before Kai spotted them and made his way over, his eyes kind and curious, his energy warm. The conversation started slow but natural—he complimented her charm necklace, she teased him about his shoes—and soon enough, they were laughing in tandem, their words tumbling over each other like old friends reunited. It felt easy. Not at all like the quiet, suffocating emotion she’d felt standing next to Haechan in the hallways the other day.

But still, she could feel it; That weight. The invisible string stretched taut across the room, pulling at her spine. She didn’t need to look to know he was there. She could feel his stare like a spell grazing the back of her neck. And when she did finally glance, just for a second, over Kai’s shoulder—she saw him.

Haechan stood half-shadowed near the kitchen archway, drink in hand, smile gone quiet. Jeno was saying something to him, gesturing animatedly with his arms, but Haechan wasn’t really listening. His eyes were locked on her.

He’d been fine when he arrived. Better than fine, even. Mark had joked that he was finally over his weird little crush, and Haechan had laughed it off, pretending it didn’t ache to hear it said like that. He’d greeted his friends, complimented the music, tried a sparkling sage cocktail that Renjun swore by. He was doing everything right - Until she walked in.

She wasn’t even doing anything—just standing there, laughing with Xiaojun and Kai, of all people - and it undid him completely. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. It was more like… gravity. A terrible, helpless tilt of the world where she was suddenly the center and everything else blurred at the edges. And she was smiling, glowing, alive. With someone else.

He hated himself for it—hated the way his heart clenched every time Kai leaned a little too close, hated the way he was suddenly counting every second she didn’t look at him. It wasn’t fair. He had his shot and he blew it. And now she was moving on, the way people do.

Still, he couldn’t stop the ache. Couldn’t stop picturing the way she used to look at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention—like she was memorizing him just in case she never got the chance again. And now he was the one doing it. Watching her from across the room and carving every detail into the back of his mind. He didn’t even register Yuna beside him until her fingers brushed his arm. “You look like you’re somewhere else,” she said, voice flirty and light.

Haechan blinked. “Sorry. Just tired.”

She giggled, oblivious, and kept talking—about her potions class, her recent trip to Brighton, how she was thinking of dyeing her hair a new shade of copper. He nodded politely, answered when prompted, tried to be present. But his eyes kept drifting back to Y/N.

And then she laughed again, head thrown back as Kai mimicked someone’s wand technique, and it cracked something open inside him.

He looked away - Shut his eyes to physically stop the tears from falling; Exhaled slowly. He’s never felt romantic jealously before, but it was making him want to rip Kai’s head clean off his body, so he can’t say he loved it.

He couldn’t keep doing this.

And yet—he knew he would.

Because no matter how far she drifted, no matter who stood at her side or how many people she let in before him—he wasn’t going anywhere. He was in it, All the way in.

And he had no idea how to climb out.

—-

The air outside was cold in that sharp, bracing way that only February evenings could be — not bitter, but enough to sting the lungs on the first breath. Haechan leaned against the low stone wall behind the share house, his head tipped back to watch the wisps of his breath curl into the starlit air. The party continued inside, muffled through the thick walls: laughter, bass-heavy music, the occasional sound of a spell cast mid-conversation.

He didn’t know why he came here tonight. He hadn’t had a reason to say no, sure, and maybe part of him — the part still pretending he wasn’t unraveling — thought that if he kept moving forward, going out, meeting people, pretending to flirt, pretending to care, then something inside him might eventually click back into place.

It hadn’t.

He hadn’t even realized how long he’d been outside until the door behind him creaked open again. He didn’t turn, but he heard the soft, familiar intake of breath, the kind of sound that wrapped itself around his ribs before he could stop it. Haechan took a deep inhale, bracing himself.

“I saw you leave,” she said, her voice calm but unreadable.

He turned slowly to face her. She looked warm in her oversized coat, cheeks flushed from the heat of the party or maybe the night air. Her hair had fallen slightly from where she’d pinned it back, and her hands were tucked into her sleeves like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stay.

He nodded once. “Just needed air.”

“I figured.”

Silence stretched between them — thick, familiar, weighted. And then she took a step forward, uncertain but firm enough that he noticed.

“I saw you at the tea shop the other day,” y/n said, and her voice was so steady it made his falter. “You looked busy, or I would have said hi.”

His throat went dry. “It wasn’t anything.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

He didn’t know how to explain that he hadn’t thought of that girl once since that afternoon, hadn’t remembered the color of her dress or what she’d ordered or what her laugh sounded like. All he’d remembered was how, for a few seconds, he locked eyes with y/n. And all he’d felt was panic - hope; Then emptiness.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to move on.”

Y/N’s gaze dropped to the snow-dampened stone at her feet. “From me?”

He looked at her with wide eyes, like he couldn’t believe she even thought that, before letting out an airy and empty laugh, clearly finding nothing funny, “no, I don’t know if that’s possible anymore.”

Y/n rolled her eyes slightly, unbelieving. “Sure, haechan.”

His eyes searched hers, desperate to find something more than contempt. “I mean it. I’m actually starting to get worried. I… I think about you all the time.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m the one who always ends up waiting?” she asked, her voice tight with restraint. “Like I’m the one who’s ready but still not enough?”

The words hit harder than he expected. He stepped closer without thinking, his voice cracking just slightly. “You are enough. It’s me who’s not.”

Y/N shook her head. “I’m tired, Haechan. I’m tired of feeling like I’m chasing after something that might never be real.”

A pause. Then she added, quieter this time, “Xiaojun introduced me to this guy tonight. He’s nice. If he asks me out, I think I’ll say yes.”

Haechan’s breath caught in his chest.

The words were fire in his throat. He wanted to say don’t. He wanted to say wait. He wanted to scream and kiss her and beg her to understand that every girl who smiled at him looked wrong, and every quiet moment was a dull ache unless she was in it. But he didn’t. Instead, what came out was sharp, defensive, cowardly.

“Then say yes.”

Her expression didn’t shift. She didn’t flinch. She just nodded, like she’d been expecting that answer. Like she’d been bracing for it all along. For a long moment, they stood there in the frozen dark, breathing in sync but out of step.

Then, softer this time, she spoke again. “I think…we’re just two people who want something different.”

His eyes dropped to the ground. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“I don’t know if you even want to be,” she whispered.

That hurt more than he could admit. But still, he nodded. Slowly, painfully.

“I want to try,” he said. “I just… I think I need to figure myself out first. Without dragging you through it.”

She looked up at him — and he hated how much kindness and love was still in her eyes, even now, even after everything.

“Then let’s not do this halfway anymore,” she said. “Let’s be friends. Really friends. And if something’s still there when we’re both ready…”

He swallowed, the words thick in his throat. “Yeah. Okay.” He couldn’t say anymore. How can you explain that you hate that idea more than you hate anything else, without sounding crazy? He was sick of the idea of hurting her, so if this would make her happy - so be it. Haechan has let go of any last self respect he once held; y/n could ask him to stab himself, he’d ask her to point to where she wants the knife to go.

She turned to leave, but before she stepped back through the door, she glanced over her shoulder.

“I still care,” she said softly.

He closed his eyes. He felt the tears prickle before they dropped, which was inevitable. He turned his head away from y/n, praying she didn’t see. She did, of course, but said nothing.

“I know,” he replied. “Me too.”

Then she was gone.

And Haechan stood alone, the night pressing in around him as he finally let the tears fall freely. He could care about not being able to get them to stop later, for now he wept silently, the party inside suddenly feeling very far away.

Y/N arrived twenty-five minutes early.

The Ministry of Magic’s central internship wing was much larger than she’d imagined — tall ceilings charmed to look like overcast skies, floating brass lanterns drifting slowly through the corridors, their glow flickering like fireflies. Dozens of young and old witches and wizards moved through the space with practiced ease, parchment portfolios tucked under arms, polished shoes clicking over glossy floor tiles. Some looked wide-eyed and thrilled, others already jaded — yawning, muttering, glancing longingly toward the coffee cart parked near the fountain in the atrium.

Y/N clutched her folder of documentation and tried not to look too starstruck.

She had spent the whole morning preparing. Ironed her blouse thrice. Tried on three different skirt options before settling on the first option; a sleek navy one with a modest slit and paired it with her best cream silk blouse, gold-rimmed specs perched neatly on her nose. Her hair was tucked into a low bun, some pieces in the front pulled out and curled softly, giving her the same imaginary blanket of protection her hair had always given her at times of stress.

This was it. Her first day.

To be honest, y/n knew she’d get into the program. She felt like she was about to burst with the sheer rightness of it all — the hours she’d spent studying, the long nights in the library, the aching uncertainty after Hogwarts. This internship was the start of something, and she wasn’t going to waste a second of it.

“L/N?” a brisk voice called. She turned to find a severe-looking assistant holding a clipboard and a wand that seemed to glow faintly pink at the tip.

“Yes!” she said, almost too eagerly.

The assistant didn’t blink. “Office assignment’s been made. You’re in Department 3A, Magical Records and Registry. Filing, classification, and correspondence management. Two-intern rotation. You’ll meet your partner shortly.”

Y/N nodded quickly, committing every word to memory as she was handed her badge and directed down a long corridor. Magical doors swished open and shut with a mechanical whoosh, some charmed to change color depending on occupancy. She found her section quickly — Department 3A — and a gold-plated plaque on the door read:

MAGICAL RECORDS – OFFICE 47A

She smoothed her skirt, adjusted her blouse, took a deep breath, and turned the handle - freezing the moment she acclimated herself to the picture in front of her. There — standing by the far window with his back to her, sorting through a stack of Ministry-bound parchments — was Lee Haechan. In a suit.

A suit.

And not just any suit. A perfectly tailored, Ministry-standard, dark charcoal three-piece that hugged his frame like it had been custom-fitted. His white shirt was crisp, the sleeves pushed slightly up to reveal his wrists, and his tie — loosened ever so slightly at the collar — was a deep forest green. His hair was swept off his forehead, a rare sight, and it made him look older somehow. Polished. Sharp. Completely and utterly lethal.

Y/N didn’t breathe.

For one unholy second, she completely forgot where she was — the nerves, the job, the entire Ministry of Magic — all wiped clean from her mind as she stood frozen in the doorway, pulse skyrocketing.

He turned.

When he saw her, his mouth parted slightly, his eyebrows lifting in visible surprise. And then he smiled — small, soft, unguarded — the kind of smile that made her knees lock.

“Well,” he said, voice low and slightly amused, “guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Y/N blinked. Her brain refused to reboot.

“You’re—you’re my partner?” she managed, somewhere between confusion and panic.

“Looks like it,” he said, tapping the parchment stack against the desk and crossing the room toward her. “I was ten minutes early and still thought I’d beat whoever it was. Guess you win the punctuality award.”

She was going to pass out.

It wasn’t just that he looked good. He always looked good. But this was a different kind of good — the kind that made you wonder why workplace dress codes didn’t come with warnings. The kind that made her want to disintegrate into mist and hover unnoticed in the corner so she could watch him from a safe, non-humiliating distance.

But no — this was her life now. Eight weeks. One office. One Lee Haechan. And one chair between them.

“Is that okay?” he asked, more gently now, watching her carefully. “Me being here?”

Y/N felt her throat tighten, then quickly relaxed her shoulders. She summoned a practiced smile — the one she used in oral exams and networking events. The truth was, y/n didn’t really know. Obviously things were awkward after that night one month ago, when the two agreed to be “friends”. You could look up the word friends in a dictionary, these two would be no where near it. They hadn’t really spoken in any depth since the party. But I guess you could say they were… okay. Pleasant. Something bordering on friendly had grown between them again — a shared wave here, a murmured “how’s your day going” there, exchanged like delicate truce offerings in the middle of busy campus life. Y/n missed him, honestly. She had only briefly had him in her life - if you could even call it that - but she missed it. She missed that he made her laugh like no other in class, and she missed being able to run into him on campus and get nervous about the “what if”’s and not the “what now”’s. While a secret part of her would do it all again for the time spent with him, for now it was very awkward between the two, but that’s life isn’t it? They would be working in close proximity to each other, so what more can she do?

“Of course,” she said breezily, walking past him toward the desk. “Just surprised, that’s all.”

Haechan hummed behind her. “Surprised in a good way, or bad?”

She paused, then slowly turned to meet his eyes.

His gaze was steady. Playful. And something else — something she couldn’t quite name, but it felt close to longing.

“Ask me again after lunch,” she replied, and for the first time that morning, she felt something warm curl in her chest that had nothing to do with career goals.

He laughed — low and quiet — and pulled out her chair for her, like they were about to have a formal dinner instead of sort and file wand permit applications.

The chair was warm when she sat. Too close to his. The kind of close where if he leaned even slightly, his elbow would brush hers.

Merlin help her, this was going to be a long eight weeks.

—-

The Department of Magical Records prided itself on being ahead of its time — which, of course, meant it had managed to integrate a total of one Muggle invention into its workspace.

The coffee pot.

It sat proudly in the break alcove like a trophy of innovation: a scratched-up, temperamental old machine that sputtered out more steam than actual coffee, and whined like a dying pixie every time someone dared to press brew. Y/N, having grown up with one leg in the muggle world, quickly grew accustomed to its quirks, especially after getting a laugh out of watched Ningning threaten to hex it at least twice in the past week. But this morning, it was Lee Haechan’s turn to suffer.

She hovered near the corner of the room, having just finished organizing her week’s paperwork into color-coded folders (a little excessive, maybe, but it soothed her brain) and giving herself a break. Her eyes flicked up from their place at her hands to watch her surroundings, and what she saw nearly made her laugh out loud.

Haechan stood in front of the machine like he was facing off with a cursed artifact. One hand was gripping the edge of the counter; the other poked at buttons with growing disbelief. “Why,” he muttered, half to himself, “would anyone choose to drink this trash when actual magic exists?”

The machine let out a particularly violent hiss.

Y/N covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders trembling slightly.

Haechan didn’t turn to look at her, but she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he said, still staring down the pot. “You’re just gonna stand there and laugh while I risk my life for caffeine?”

Y/N finally let out a quiet giggle. “It doesn’t like to be insulted.”

“It doesn’t like to work.” He jabbed a button again, only to have the entire machine rattle like it might explode. He recoiled dramatically, flinching back into the counter. “See? Attempted murder.”

She was full-on laughing now, the sound soft but so unguarded it warmed the tiny alcove. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, finally glancing at her with that slow, familiar grin — not flirtatious, not quite. Just warm. “But it got you to laugh.

Y/N’s smile faltered slightly, not because she didn’t want to keep smiling, but because something in her chest flipped over at his words. It felt like the Haechan from before — from before the confusion, before the pain, before everything got too complicated to name.

They stared at each other, and for a beat, neither of them moved.

And maybe it was the scent of roasted beans and burnt sugar lingering in the air, or the way the early sunlight cut through the Ministry windows and danced along the collar of his shirt, but Y/N forgot — just for a moment — why she was trying to stay away from him.

Haechan, to his own surprise, didn’t say anything else. He just looked at her, all of her, with that quiet intensity he’d never shown anyone else but her. The silence wrapped around them like a thread, not pulling tight, but holding steady.

Until—

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” a voice barked from the doorway.

Heechul, the 40-something office clown who truly had no shame. He strolled in, looking like he hadn’t slept since the last full moon, sunglasses pushed up into his hair and a stack of scrolls under one arm. He glanced between them once, then raised a perfectly judgmental brow.

“Seriously?” he said, making a beeline for the fridge. “You two realize I have eyes, right? Functional ones. You’re not subtle.”

Y/N straightened immediately, stepping back toward the door that led to the main office. “I was just—he was struggling with the coffee machine.”

“Struggling is generous,” Heechul muttered, pulling out a container of leftover kimchi stew and tossing it onto the counter before mindlessly muttering a heating spell that made the soup bubble.

Haechan cleared his throat, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. The machine started it.”

Heechul didn’t reply. He just smirked as he leaned back into the fridge, clearly enjoying the squirming energy in the room.

Y/N picked up her coffee mug — practically cold now — and offered Haechan a short, polite nod. “Good luck,” she said softly, motioning toward the still-hissing coffee pot before walking quickly back to her desk.

Haechan didn’t say anything. He just watched her go. He watched the way her hair swayed behind her, the way her fingers curled slightly around her mug. He knew she was still putting distance between them again. And he didn’t blame her; not after how messy things had gotten.

But for just a moment — just one perfect, ridiculous coffee-stained moment — it had felt like something was healing. He sighed as the machine in front of him sparked again, pulling his attention once more.

—

The Monday staff meeting ran long. The conference room was small — too small for six people and a self-writing chalkboard that refused to stop squeaking — and far too warm for a group that had just survived the longest week of the quarter. Everyone sat around the circular table, steaming mugs in hand, eyes tired but attentive. Y/N fiddled with the clasp of her fountain pen beneath the table, her notes already organized into sections and footnoted in crisp, meticulous script.

Across from her, Haechan leaned back in his chair with a sort of forced ease. His hair was neater than usual, his tie askew in the charming way that shouldn’t have worked but did, and his brow held the faintest pinch of exhaustion. He wasn’t fidgeting — not exactly — but Y/N could tell from the subtle twitch in his jaw that something was eating at him.

Yuta stood at the front, hands in his pockets, effortlessly poised. He didn’t raise his voice. He never had to. His presence alone held the room in careful balance.

“I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge good work,” he began, nodding toward the team. “Particularly the interns. Filing errors are down to near zero, communication logs are ahead of schedule, and the transcriptions from last week’s audit were returned with minimal corrections.”

Y/N felt herself sit a little straighter, cheeks warming when Yuta’s eyes landed on her.

“Y/N, exceptional work on that last file review. I passed it along to Records last night — they were impressed.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, a small, grateful smile curving her lips.

He gave a nod, then let his gaze slide — gently, but pointedly — to Haechan.

“Lee Haechan,” he said, still measured, “you’ve also demonstrated promise. Your spell transcriptions are better than most third-years in the department.”

Haechan exhaled, some tension lifting.

“But,” Yuta continued, and the room shifted, ever so slightly. “There’s been a noted… distraction. One I won’t name, because I believe in discretion. But something’s interfering with your consistency — and you’re too capable to waste potential that way.”

A silence fell. No one moved. Not even Winter, who had been doodling runes in the corner of her planner. Heechul sipped his tea a little louder than necessary, and Ningning’s quill stilled.

Y/N didn’t glance over at Haechan; She didn’t have to.

She could feel it — the flicker of heat that rolled off him in quiet waves. Not embarrassment. Not shame. Just… frustration. The kind that brews behind the eyes and settles in the bones.

Yuta moved on, addressing an upcoming audit, but Haechan didn’t move again for the rest of the meeting. When they were finally dismissed, he was the first to stand.

Y/N followed him a few moments later, closing her notebook gently. The rest of the office filtered out into the hallway, talking softly, their voices muffled against the enchanted privacy charm Yuta always set after meetings. But Y/N didn’t follow them right away.

She found Haechan standing near the break alcove, his arms folded tightly across his chest, staring out the window at the drifting clouds. The faint light of morning hit his profile — golden over sharp cheekbones and downturned lashes.

She approached slowly. “Haechan.” He didn’t answer, barely moved except for a small tilt of his head in her direction.

“I just…” She hesitated. “That was unfair. You’ve been working hard.”

“I know I have,” he said, voice quiet but edged, sharp in a way it hadn’t been toward her in a long time. “But I guess it doesn’t matter if I don’t look like I’m working hard, right?”

She blinked. “Yuta’s just trying to keep you—”

“I don’t need you to explain him to me, Y/N.”

The words landed with more bite than he intended, and instantly, regret swept in after them.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t argue. She didn’t retreat. She just looked at him — really looked at him — the way she always had. Quiet, but unblinking. Seeing more than most ever did. Regardless of her feelings for him at the moment. Y/n felt like she understood Haechan’s frustrations. She imagined the pressure he could be put under to do well. After all, his father had been wanting him to find a home at the Ministry for so long now. She wondered if he had been talking to anyone about his work - his struggles - or if he buried his feelings under the desire to be effortlessly good at everything he tried. Y/n hadn’t wanted to hug him more than she did now, but that wasn’t an option. So instead, without a word, she reached out and placed a single hand on his shoulder.

It wasn’t much - Barely a touch. But it grounded him immediately. The pressure in his chest loosened. His shoulders dropped. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye; her face calming him almost instantly

“I didn’t mean to snap,” he said softly. “I just… I’m tired. Of messing up. Of being told I’m messing up. Of trying not to look like I care about things I do.” Her hand didn’t move as he talked, he prayed it never did.

“You’re not messing up,” she murmured. “You just… care too much. And people notice.”

Her words followed with a pause from both parties. Their eyes met, just for a second, before y/n broke it while taking her hand off his shoulder, much to the man’s dismay.

Still, in the soft weight of the moment — in the low hum of the building around them, in the rustle of parchment and the far-off buzz of a misfired spell — everything settled.

They didn’t say anything else; there was nothing left to say. Because sometimes, even in an office of six, surrounded by scrolls and quills and ticking clocks, two people can find a silence that feels like a secret.

—-

The mid-morning lull had settled over the office like a fog. The kind that blurred productivity and made everything — even refiling enchanted document folders — feel sluggish. Y/N’s quill hovered above her parchment for the third time that hour, the sentence in her head dissolving before it ever reached the page.

Across the room, Ningning stood from her desk with a stretch, slipping her wand into the side of her coat and shooting Y/N a sidelong glance. “If I stay in here one more minute, I’m going to start levitating Heechul’s paperweight just to feel something. Coffee run?”

Y/N blinked up at her, grateful. “God, yes.”

A few minutes later, the two stepped out into the corridor, enchanted memo notes fluttering past them like lazy butterflies. The Ministry’s lower-level café was two floors down, nestled beside a sleepy hallway of offices that rarely saw foot traffic. A string of floating glass lanterns guided their path, casting dappled light over their footsteps.

Ningning was already mid-rant.

“I mean, seriously,” she said, brushing her sleek black hair out of her face. “He’s cute — I’ll give him that — but half the time he looks like he doesn’t even realize how loud his brain is being. You could light a fire in the bin and he’d still be staring at your elbow like it’s made of gold.”

Y/N bit back a laugh, “My elbow?”

“Oh please, you’ve seen how he looks at you,” Ningning said, like it was common knowledge. “Like he’s memorizing the weather forecast written in your freckles. Honestly, it’s not even professional. He’s distracted — and he distracts you. I’m surprised Yuta hasn’t put you both on opposite ends of the building.”

Y/N tried to play it off, although she couldn’t stop the red from flooding her cheeks, “He’s not that bad.”

“Really?” Ningning arched a brow. “Because last week, he dropped his entire stack of paperwork because you laughed at something Heechul said, and he was trying to see if you were looking at him before even picking a piece of paper up.”

Y/N opened her mouth — probably to deny it, maybe to change the subject — but Ningning plowed on.

“And don’t get me started on the way he talks to you. He doesn’t talk to anyone else like that. He’s careful. Soft. It’s like watching someone try not to fall off a broomstick they’ve already jumped from.”

Y/N couldn’t help it — she laughed, the sound warm and wide and surprised.

Ningning grinned, smug.

“Anyway, all I’m saying is, you’d be better off not falling for someone who can’t make up his mind. If he really wanted you, Y/N, wouldn’t he have done something by now?”

That stopped Y/N in her tracks. She blinked, heartbeat tripping, and before she could think better of it, the words slipped out.

“That’s not fair.”

Ningning slowed beside her, brows lifting slightly. “Oh?”

Y/N’s voice was softer now, more guarded. “He’s… figuring stuff out. He’s not cruel. He’s never led me on. And it’s not like he doesn’t care—he does, he just doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Ningning tilted her head, amused but not unkind. “That sounds like someone who’s spent a lot of time thinking about a boy she’s not dating.”

Y/N looked down at her hands, fully embarrassed now. “I didn’t mean to say all that.”

“Too late.” Ningning nudged her with a shoulder before starting to walk again, her tone lighter now. “Look, Y/N. You don’t owe anyone anything. Not your attention, not your time, and definitely not your hope. But if he makes you feel like the version of yourself that you like best — even when things are messy — then maybe that’s worth paying attention to.”

Y/N glanced over at her, startled.

Ningning shrugged, casual. “I don’t like him, sure. But I’m not the one who looks at him like you do.” She dropped the subject there, starting a new tangent about how the guy at the coffee stall better give her the right creamer this time. Y/n was barely listening, too busy soaking up the advice that Ningning handed her.

When they stepped back into the office, the light had shifted, a warm stripe of sun filtering through the tall windowpanes. Winter was humming softly behind the reception desk, and Heechul was muttering under his breath at a stack of misbehaving scrolls. Y/N didn’t notice any of that — the moment she stepped over the threshold, Haechan looked up from his desk. His eyes found hers immediately, like there had never been a moment where he wasn’t waiting for her to return.

And he smiled — soft and unguarded, just for her — before turning back to his quill.

Y/N felt her pulse thrum gently in her chest.

She walked slowly back to her seat, Ningning already halfway through reciting the latest gossip of her own love life, although Y/N could barely hear her. That smile was still burned into the backs of her eyes; The one she knew no one else had seen.

And for the first time in days, she wasn’t sure what she wanted more:

To stop thinking about him—

Or to hope he’s truly thinking of her just as much.

—-

The sky above the Ministry of Magic had dipped into a deep, velvety indigo, and the streets buzzed with quiet as the magical city around them prepared for the night. Candles flickered to life inside lamplit sconces. Shopkeepers pulled their curtains shut. Owls dotted the rooftops like soft, feathery shadows.

Y/N sat alone on the edge of a worn stone bench just outside the Ministry’s east entrance, her coat draped around her shoulders and her hands limp in her lap. The world moved without her, slow and golden, but she felt as though she was underwater. Her eyes were rimmed pink. Her lips tugged downward despite her best efforts.

It had been a long day. Too long. Between a pile of paperwork, a missed quiz in her Magical Applications class, and a friend group slowly unraveling because she couldn’t keep up with every group outing… it all stacked up, heavy and clumsy and cruel.

She hated how familiar this ache was — the quiet kind, the lonely kind. She hated how close it came to feeling like high school again, like the version of herself who was forgotten the second the room grew too loud.

She sniffled once. Then again. Pressed her thumb beneath her eye with the sleeve of her coat. She told herself not to cry. Told herself it wasn’t that serious. That she had grown since then. That she was strong.

Then she cried anyway.

From across the courtyard, Haechan stepped through the Ministry’s grand archway, his tie half-loosened and his bag slung low on his shoulder. He paused mid-step when he saw her — alone, backlit by moonlight, looking so small and so still that something caught in his throat.

He debated for a moment - stopped where he stood and looked back and forth around him. He could walk away; leave her the space she clearly wanted. Merlin knows the last thing she probably needed was to see him.

But then she sniffled, just once. It was soft and quiet; left faster than it came. The sound of it, however, caused Haechan’s feet to move before his mind could catch up.

He approached her slowly, his shoes making barely a sound against the flagstones. “Hey,” he said gently.

Y/N startled, her head whipping up in surprise. She wiped under her eyes quickly, but it was no use — her face was blotchy and tearstained, her lip bitten red. She looked up at him like she was embarrassed to be seen.

“Hi,” she managed, voice watery.

Haechan shifted his weight awkwardly. “Can I sit?”

She nodded, so he did — keeping a respectful space between them, the kind he didn’t want but knew she needed. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers tapping nervously. She was quiet, curled into herself. But something about the way she wasn’t pulling away — something about the fact that she let him be here — made him brave.

Suddenly she let out a, “sorry,” Haechan looked at her in surprise at the sound of how soft her voice was, it reminded him of how quiet she was in highschool - an old version of her that he knew for a fact she tried to move on from. He said nothing, so she continued, “just a little stressed.”

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quickly after a beat, she seemed relieved at this, “But… I’ve got a story, if you want a distraction.”

Y/N glanced sideways at him, her lashes still damp. “A story?”

“Mmhm,” he nodded casually, but she could see something in his eyes that felt akin to nerves. “You remember the Yule Ball?”

She said nothing, but her eyes got slightly wider, just enough that only someone truly looking would notice; Haechan, of course, did. She softly nodded once, indicating for him to keep going.

He drew in a long breath, already embarrassed to be admitting this but too far in now to go back.

“I went with Kim Yunjin. You remember her? Tall, smart, kind of intimidating?” Y/N nodded faintly. Her memory of that night and Kim Yunjin was probably a tad different from his. She remembered sitting at the stairs, watching the two of them heavily making out - the reminder made her sick. She prayed he would shut up about Yunjin, not wanting to hear about the love of her life with another girl while at her lowest.

“I thought I was the man,” Haechan said, shaking his head at himself while chucking under his breath. “Got a date with someone everyone liked. Had a new set of dress robes, hair done, whole thing. We danced, drank too much punch. I was halfway through…convincing…her to sneak upstairs with me when I heard a noise - loud, like a bang. I looked up…” His voice slowed. He looked out at the empty street, a faraway look in his eyes.

“…And I saw you.”

Y/N stared, saying nothing but sitting motionless and wide eyed at the man next to her.

“You were sitting alone on the stairs. I think you were trying to hide, I couldn’t figure out why. You were wearing gold and green, and I remember I liked the way your hair was curled. I liked that it looked like a cloud.”

He was fully turned toward her now, elbows on his knees, gaze earnest.

“You looked like you were part of the magic. Like the castle made you. And for some reason, in that moment, everything stopped. I remember Yunjin was looking at me, but I couldn’t even see her anymore. It was like… you’d stepped in from another world.”

Y/N blinked rapidly, finally breaking from her silence, “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” he said, too quietly to be joking. “I’d never seen anyone sit so still and look so much like a force of nature. You looked… sad. But not in a way that made me pity you. Just… distant. Untouchable. I felt stupid even looking.”

She swallowed hard. Her fingers were curled into the edge of her coat.

“I remember helping you with like…a purse or something, and wanting to stay with you; learn your name and just…everything about you.” Haechan admitted, “I thought about it, but I didn’t want to be an asshole to Yunjin. I thought about you for weeks after that, though. Looked for you everywhere. I told myself I’d dreamed it - it was honestly a little embarrassing,” He exhaled, laughed under his breath, “it didn’t click until pretty recently that it was you, if you can believe that.

“And now I’m sitting beside you. And you’re nothing like the girl I imagined. You’re smarter. Stronger. Messier, in the best way. You make stupid jokes when you’re tired and keep a stash of fizzing lemon drops in your drawer even though you say you don’t like sugar.”

Y/N’s lip trembled.

“You’re loved, Y/N. I know it doesn’t always feel like it. I know it gets hard to keep up with everything. But people are proud to know you. They’re lucky to. And any friend worth having will wait for you to come back — no matter how long it takes.”

The tears fell all at once — quiet, wracking sobs that she couldn’t even begin to hide. And without thinking, without caring if it made sense or if it changed anything, she reached for him — grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled herself into his arms like gravity had given up. Haechan caught her without hesitation, prepared immediately like he was waiting his whole life for it.

His hands curled around her back, anchoring her, his head tilted against hers as she cried. She fit against him so perfectly it made his lungs ache. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just held her, fiercely and gently all at once, like she might disappear if he let go.

And in that moment, with her arms around his ribs and her face buried in his chest, all Haechan could think was: please don’t let this be the last time. He didn’t care if it was complicated. He didn’t care that they were still figuring things out. Right now, she was in his arms. And if this was all he got — just this quiet second under the streetlights — he would memorize it forever.

—-

The Ministry atrium had been temporarily transformed.

Soft pink and red streamers floated midair like enchanted ribbons, curling lazily above a collection of cocktail tables dressed in lace. Bewitched roses opened and closed to the beat of a faint jazz spell humming through the walls, and somewhere near the punch table, a pair of second-floor interns were attempting a love charm on a champagne bottle to make it pop on cue. The room smelled like sparkling cider, perfume, and cherry blossoms — and if Y/N squinted, she could almost pretend it wasn’t her workplace.

She hadn’t planned to come. Had told herself it was silly, that she’d rather read. But then Ningning had pulled out her one nice dress robe and demanded she not waste it. Winter had given her a look, too — the one that said you’re young, it’s Valentine’s, stop pretending you don’t care.

And so here she was — in a deep crimson dress that dipped just enough at the collar to make her feel self-conscious, with soft sleeves fluttering at her shoulders like something from a Muggle vintage film. Her hair was pinned back loosely, her lips lightly glossed, her smile gentle. She laughed at something Heechul said, swirling the mocktail in her glass.

Across the room, Haechan couldn’t stop watching her.

She was radiant. Not in a flashy way. Not in a way that stole attention — but in a way that settled beneath the skin, that wrapped itself around his ribs and stayed there, warm and unshakable.

He’d been lingering near the snack table for the better part of twenty minutes now, pretending to be deeply invested in some chocolate-covered strawberries, while in reality his eyes kept finding their way to her. She glowed under candlelight. She glowed always, honestly.

The first notes of a familiar song filtered through the room — echoing from an old record player tucked into the corner.

“Every breath you take… every move you make…”

The lyrics settled over the party like a spell. Something haunting. Something possessive and strange and romantic all at once. Haechan laughed a bit, feeling as though this song perfectly described his life as of late; always watching, always wanting. He couldn’t even deny it was creepy at this point, he’d long since accepted that he’ll never be back to normal, thankfully.

A younger guy — probably from the Spell Drafting department — made his way over to Y/N, all long limbs and too much cologne. Haechan watched him say something. Saw her blink, laugh nervously, then nod before the man took her hand in his and lead her to the dance floor.

It wasn’t anything dramatic — just a slow shuffle, hands politely in place. Her smile was small. The boy said something again, and she tilted her head in response. It looked more awkward than romantic, and still Haechan burned.

He didn’t even want to be this guy. He hated this part of himself — the one that spiraled. The one that imagined what the other guy was saying. The one that couldn’t tear his gaze away from the way her hand rested on someone else’s shoulder.

He clenched his jaw. Looked down into his drink like it might help.

“Planning to light him on fire with your thoughts alone?” came a voice beside him; startling him before he looked at the intrusion.

It was Yuta — standing casually, hands in the pockets of his dark gray slacks, a wine glass balanced perfectly in one hand. He raised a brow.

“I—what? No,” Haechan muttered, taking a sharp sip. “I’m just—watching.”

Yuta hummed. “Exactly. Watching.”

Haechan frowned; He hated that he was that easy to read.

Yuta didn’t look away from the dance floor. “Let me tell you something, kid,” he said, in that mild-mannered voice that always sounded five steps ahead. “I’ve been in this building for seven years. I’ve watched a lot of people fall for each other. It usually goes one of two ways: they say something, or they waste years thinking about saying something.”

Haechan didn’t respond.

“Now,” Yuta continued, “I don’t know what the relationship between the two of you is, and frankly I don’t care. What I do know is that the only times I’ve seen you look truly happy is when she’s looking at you - every other time you still seem content staring at her until she does.”

“We’re just friends,” Haechan started before stopping himself, not wasting his breath when even he doesn’t believe himself.

“Don’t lie to me, I’m your boss. Now, I really like y/n. She’s a hard worker and everyone in the office really likes her too - you, they probably tolerate,” Haechan rolled his eyes, but let his boss continue. “But for some unknown reason, she likes you. She very obviously likes you, and I’m willing to bet she’d much rather be out there dancing with you than Hyunjin from Fines and Sanctions. And yet you’re here, sulking over some other guy touching her waist for ten seconds instead of doing anything about it.”

There was a pause, then Yuta took a sip of his drink and said, “Stop being a pussy.”

Haechan choked. “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me.” Yuta looked smug. “You like her. She likes you. Now go do something about it.”

Haechan was shocked at his bosses reaction. This was the most the two of them had ever even spoken, and it was so scrutinize Haechan’s love life (or lack thereof). He was reeling from the whiplash, but still took the words in - because Yuta was right. How long had the two of them dragged this out? How much longer did Haechan need to get his shit together before he’ll stand up and realize he is genuinely obsessed with this girl, and there’s only one way to get him out of that? Haechan watched her, like usual. He took in her gaze - bored and disinterested. I mean for god sakes, the man had let her yearn after him for 7 years, and now he’s pouting because she danced with someone else? Haechan was tired of this, he wanted to do something about it, finally.

And for once… he didn’t second-guess.

He set down his cup. Straightened his jacket. Ran a hand through his hair - Then he crossed the room.

Y/N didn’t notice him at first — too busy nodding along to whatever her “Hyunjin” was saying, too busy politely pretending to be present. But then she felt it. That shift. That familiar tension in the air — the sense that someone’s gaze was tethered to her.

She glanced over her shoulder.

And there he was — Lee Haechan, hands in his pockets, eyes locked onto hers like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

Her breath caught.

He stopped just a few feet away and nodded to the boy. “Mind if I cut in?”

Hyunjin looked startled and lost, like he didn’t know what to do. Instead, he deferred to Y/n. She blinked — flustered — then nodded before the guy awkwardly stepped aside and melted into the crowd.

It was quiet between them for a beat before Haechan reached one hand towards her figure.

“Dance with me?”

She stared at it, then at him; Her heart thundered. Then she took it.

He pulled her in gently — not too close, but close enough to feel the warmth between them; definitely closer than she was with Hyunjin. His hand settled at her waist. Her fingers curled around his shoulder.

The music pulsed softly as they swayed to the beat, too lost in each other’s presence to care about how well they did.

“You look beautiful,” Haechan said quietly.

Her eyes lifted to his. “You’re late.”

He smiled — soft and sad and knowing.

“I know, angel,” he said. “I’m trying to be on time now.”

She swallowed, lips trembling just slightly. “Why now?”

He met her gaze head-on. “Because I couldn’t stand watching someone else hold you. Because I should’ve said this months ago, and I didn’t. Because I’m scared—really scared—but I’m more scared of never trying.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she rested her head gently against his shoulder. Let herself breathe in the scent of him — cedar and coffee and something warm she couldn’t name for sure, but she thinks it might be honey.

And as they swayed beneath floating roses and flickering candlelight, Haechan closed his eyes. For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like he was chasing something already gone - He felt like she was right here.

They had danced for three songs.

Three whole songs where Haechan’s hands rested on the small of her back like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go, where her arms stayed wrapped gently around his shoulders, thumbs brushing the soft wool of his sweater. They barely spoke. They didn’t have to. The music did it for them. The way they swayed, the way they leaned into each other like gravity had chosen them as twin moons — it was a conversation all its own.

But it couldn’t last forever.

Not when there were things unsaid.

Not when her heart was beating so loud in her chest that she could barely hear the music anymore.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and close and wrecked. “Look at me.”

She did. Slowly.

Their foreheads were nearly touching. Her eyes were wide, glassy. His lips parted like he wanted to say more, but didn’t know how. Everything in her was shaking — every bone, every nerve, every memory of him that had built up like sediment over years of longing.

And then he leaned in - And she turned away.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a simple turn of her head. But it felt like the room spun sideways, like the floor dropped.

Haechan blinked. “What—?”

She stepped back. “I can’t do this.”

His chest tightened. “Why not?”

“Because it’s too much.” Her voice cracked. “Because I’ve wanted this for so long that it hurts. Because I don’t know if you mean it. Because every time I think you do, you pull away.”

“I’m not pulling away,” he said, stepping toward her again, desperate. “I’m here.”

She shook her head. “Then why does it feel like you’re always just out of reach?”

She turned and walked out, her shoes clicking too fast, her shoulders trembling.

He followed her without thinking.

—-

She was standing outside their office floor again, leaning against the wall just past the lifts, arms wrapped around herself like armor. She was crying quietly. Not sobbing — not yet — but she was close.

And Haechan saw it and broke.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, slow and careful, like approaching a wild animal that might run if he moved too fast.

When he finally stood in front of her, he looked like hell. His hands were shaking. His eyes were already red.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, voice raw. “I’ve never done this before.”

Y/N’s lips parted. “Done what?”

“Love someone.” His voice cracked. “Be this… undone by someone. I don’t know how to act around you. I don’t know how to breathe when I’m in a room with you and you’re not mine.”

He laughed bitterly through a tear. “God, you have no idea, do you? How much I think about you? How many nights I’ve stayed up just wishing I could go back — go back to Hogwarts, to the Yule Ball, to every moment I didn’t notice you — and just… fix it. See you.”

She stared at him, silent and stunned — and Haechan stepped closer.

“I’ve tried to forget you,” he admitted, voice shaking. “Tried to pretend you didn’t live in my head every second of every day. That your voice didn’t echo every time I read something clever. That your smile didn’t ruin every other girl’s for me. But it didn’t work. It never worked.”

Y/N covered her mouth with one hand, trying to contain the sob building in her throat.

“I love you,” he said, finally. Fully. Tears slipping down his cheeks now. “I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much that I ruin myself pretending I don’t. And if you don’t feel the same, if you never do, that’s fine — I’ll live. I’ll move on. I’ll— I’ll do anything. But please, please just tell me. Tell me if there’s no chance. Because I can’t keep living like this, like I’m one kiss away from the rest of my life and I’ll never get to have it.” He barely choked the end out, getting caught in his own emotions.

The silence after that was heavy. Crushed and sacred. It lasted for a good beat before it was y/n that decided to break it.

She surged forward and kissed him like she was made of fire. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t soft or quiet. It was chaos and stars and every last dam breaking all at once. Her hands clutched his face, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and they kissed like the world had been holding its breath for years just to watch this happen.

Sparks didn’t just fly — they exploded.

He kissed her like he’d spent years in the dark and just found his way home.

And she kissed him like she’d been waiting a lifetime.

They didn’t break apart for a long time.

When they finally did, their foreheads touched, their breaths uneven, their cheeks damp with tears.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob all at once, pulling her in again and pressing his lips to her forehead like he could anchor himself there.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he murmured.

“Just promise it won’t take that long next time,” she whispered.

He smiled through his tears. “I swear.”

And in the dim light of the empty office, with the whole world asleep around them, two hearts finally found their rhythm — after all the years of missing each other by inches.

—-

The invitation had said “casual get-together,” but the nervous energy buzzing in Haechan’s apartment told a different story.

Y/N sat beside him on the couch, their fingers laced together under the blanket they shared, hearts pulsing with synchronized anticipation. They were surrounded now - the council was open for judgment. Jeno sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, laughing at something Yangyang had just muttered under his breath. Mark and Karina were deep in conversation near the snack spread, somehow already bonding over a mutual love of obscure wizarding documentaries. Renjun was animatedly trying to explain a new spell to Giselle, who kept asking the wrong questions just to mess with him. Xiaojun had taken over DJ duties, his laughter filling the space with something light and easy.

The two friend groups weren’t close - not yet - but they were getting there. That much was clear in the effortless way conversation flowed, the laughter that bounced off the walls, the natural orbit they all seemed to fall into around one another.

Still, Y/N could feel Haechan’s nerves thrumming in his hand. She glanced at him, gave his fingers a squeeze, and he exhaled slowly.

“I think now’s the time,” he murmured, leaning closer.

She nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Haechan cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his soft cream sweater. “Okay, uh—sorry to interrupt the chaos—”

“Oh no, whatever will we do,” mark bit back sarcastically - haechan was too nervous to fight back, but made a mental note to slap him for it later. Everyone chuckled, quieting just enough to hear him out.

“So… Y/N and I have something we want to tell you,” Haechan continued, and though he kept his tone casual, Y/N could feel the way his thumb nervously swept along the back of her hand. “Well uhhh, we uhm….well I know it’s sudden but it kinda just happened and uh…”

Y/N bit her lip, trying not to laugh at her boyfriend’s clear discomfort. She wondered how she could ever think this loser was too cool, but the truth is it didn’t matter. Regardless of who he was, the look of love in her eyes would still be there. She looked around as he spoke, her eyes flicking across the faces in the room before settling on his, “We’re together,” she said softly, her smile blooming. “We’re dating.”

Silence.

For a beat too long, the room went quiet—stunned, but not cold. Just suspended.

Then—

“Oh my god,” Yangyang breathed, clutching at his chest dramatically. “Does this mean we’re all gonna be hanging out more? It’s like the merging of the friend groups.”

And what followed can only be described as absolute chaos.

Giselle gasped, leaping forward. “I KNEW something was happening during that Ministry internship! There’s no way the two of you could have been stuck in an office together and NOT have something!”

Jeno threw a pillow across the room, watching successfully as it hit Haechan square in the chest and dropped to the floor. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve taken bets.”

Karina, stunned, blinked once before grinning wide. “Wait, wait, wait. Haechan finally grew a pair and asked you out? You two were seriously acting like a romance novel.”

Renjun, for once, just leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and a smirk pulling at his lips. “I’m happy for you, man. I am. But if you hurt her…” He tilted his head slowly. “I will make you disappear.”

Xiaojun, from across the room, raised his glass. “And I’ll help.”

Everyone burst out laughing, but Haechan simply grinned, eyes crinkling as he held up a hand in surrender. “Fair enough. I’d deserve it.”

Y/N was glowing. She felt it—warm and golden and real. Watching her friends laugh with his, seeing their worlds blend together like two streams finally merging—it felt like everything was aligning, like she’d stepped into the right chapter at last.

A little while later, after the conversations had splintered off into smaller pockets, Y/N slipped away toward the bathroom, needing a moment to breathe through all the joy pressing at her chest. She barely made it down the hall before Haechan appeared behind her, surprising her by wrapping his arms around her waist and spinning her around.

“You following me?” she teased, spinning on her heel and wrapping her arms around his neck.

He shrugged, eyes soft and full of love. “You looked too pretty not to.”

She rolled her eyes harmlessly, stepping out of his grasp and into the small hallway nook, before tugging him with her by the collar of his sweater. “They’re getting along,” she whispered like it was a secret.

“I know,” Haechan whispered back, enjoying being this close to her and feeling her arms on his chest. “Jeno and Xiaojun just agreed to hang out without us. I don’t know whether to be proud or scared.”

Y/N laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned into him.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t believe this is real.”

He cupped her cheek gently, voice hushed and sincere. “It’s real. All of it. You and me and this—whatever it is. Whatever it becomes.”

She kissed him softly, a kiss full of promise, of magic. The kind that didn’t need fireworks or grand declarations because the sparks were already there, humming between them like a current they had finally stopped running from.

When they pulled apart, forehead to forehead, Y/N smiled. “I think we’re gonna be okay.”

Haechan grinned. “We’re gonna be better than okay.”

And in the warmth of the hallway, surrounded by laughter, music, and the beginnings of something bright, they believed it.

123 notes · View notes

fixtionalpromises · 1 day ago

Text

PENT UP ANGER

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐭: 3.3k𐙚

EAT TS WITH YOUR GRILLS STILL ON

Pairings: Onyankapon x black fem!reader

Notes: I wrote this listening to two songs on repeat😩: Church - Chase Atlantic slowed and Where You belong - The Weekend (Take a listen as you read.ᐟ)

Visuals: { 𐙚 } { 𐙚 }

Storming out of the sleek black car, you slammed the door behind yourself, ignoring the distant sound of another slamming harshly as your feet carried you forward.

You moved swiftly, heels producing a steady beat against the hardwood floor as you sauntered down the long hallway leading toward your shared bedroom.

The steady steps of your husband grew closer as you approached the master bedroom, black stiletto cladded fingers twisting the metal handle, pulse spiking as you stepped into the dimly lit room.

A sudden gasp left your throat, lips parting as a veined hand grasped the back of your neck, spinning you toward the source of your anger.

The cold bite of what you knew as a wedding band pressed against your neck, Umber eyes glaring down at you, fingers gliding from the base of your neck toward the front.

Tattooed fingers using the sides as leverage to tilt your view up toward him.

Onyankapon’s lazy eyes assessed your features, brows furrowed as he spoke.

“Use your words baby, did I upset you?”

You averted your gaze, breath hitching as he leaned his face closer to yours, enunciating his question with a slight tilt of his head, pointer and thumb releasing its grasp along your throat, instead working to tilt your head closer toward his.

You watched, waiting, chest rising rapidly — each breath edged with unfathomable irritation — as his eyes flickered between yours, searching, questioning, what the fuck he’d done to upset you.

“Hm?” He hummed, pink tongue dragging against his bottom lip, granting you a glimpse of the diamond laced grills on the top row of his teeth as he backed you up toward the edge of the bed.

Your knees buckled at the feeling of the soft mattress behind you, body bouncing slightly as you fell.

A tattooed thumb ran across your lip, smearing the butter gloss you’d applied — mere moments before — as his thumb pushed slightly against them, lips parting at the intrusion.

A slight tilt of his head finalized his previous question.

“Open that pretty little mouth, baby, tell me… How can I make you feel better?”

You swiveled your head to the side, rolling your eyes in aggravation as the recollection of his hand on the gorgeous woman’s waist danced through your head once more.

The way he clasped the woman’s slim hand, seeming to forget that those freshly manicured fingers had been deep inside you mere moments before. His middle finger — etched with the mesmerizing swirl of your first name, tattooed in fine, cursive letters — swirling around your hard clit as your pussy clenched desperately, around the baby pink vibrator pulsing inside you.

The way that gorgeous woman batted her perfectly curled lashes at him. Green, doe eyes, much different from your siren-like ones, seeming to encapsulate him; Her long, tan legs, leading up to her ass — perky, tame, just enough — dramatized by the pop of her hips as she spoke meekly to Ony.

“You know what the fuck you did nigga, stop playin’,” You scoffed.

You were fucking steaming, chest rising rapidly as you clenched your jaw in a futile attempt to halt the disrespectful words threatening to spill from your glossed lips.

You knew you’d fucked up by the way his left eye seemed to twitch, a slow smile pulling across his face as he chuckled lightly.

The emerald cut, baguette diamonds sitting pretty atop his teeth glimmered sexily against the darkness, seeming to illuminate his mouth, though no light was present.

As much as you’d reasoned with yourself while you sat stiffly in the black Maybach seats of his car — or at least tried to — you couldn’t think of any other reason as to why he’d been smiling so damn hard, or why you yourself were so fucking mad.

You were far from insecure, and Onyankapon, he was far from disrespectful, never leading you to second guess the way he felt about you, not once since you’d met, but something was itching in the depths of your mind today to fuck a bitch up, and if it wasn’t gonna be her…then it’d be him.

Onyankapon didn’t take to disrespect lightly, he expected what was given, and gave more than expected. He knew you were mad, but every attempt he’d taken in comforting you, or trying to work out‌ what was wrong, you’d shut that shit down as quick as it came, instead leaving clues behind for him to pick up.

He didn’t play that shit.

You were his woman, and everything a man wished for in a woman. You were the woman, and in no way whatsoever would he have his woman wallowing in a pool of restless anxiety for as long as he was your man.

He could give zero fucks about what anybody else thought.

So you watched, eyes low, as he rose up from his position above yours on your shared bed, his broad stature consuming your view as he tilted his head, taking his sweet-ass fucking time to unbutton the cuffs of his black dress shirt.

You huffed, tutting as you lifted from your lying position atop the cotton sheets, attempting to raise up from the bed before being stopped short by the rough reminder of his presence.

“Sit.”

Your eyes flickered up quickly, lips parting to cuss him out — snapping them shut at the harsh glare in his eyes.

Fuck.

“How many times did I ask if you were okay, (y/n) hmm?”

You swallowed.

“How many times did I ask you…if I did something wrong?” His hands reached up toward his collar, fingers working to undo each button, slowly, tauntingly… too fucking calm.

You glanced to your left. The steady flame of irritation spreading inside you seemed to grow larger, hotter, at the fact that he was irritated with you for being mad.

Who the fuck was he feeling like?

Sizzling silence drowned the room as Onyankapon stared down at you, noting the way your titties sat, perky, pretty, in your black dress, the cotton seeming to accentuate the softness of your curves as you peered up at him, gorgeous brown eyes peeking from beneath a wispy set he’d dropped 350 for the day before.

“What happened to allat’ fucking attitude, mama?” He was toying with you, smile growing dark at your silence.

“Lemme know wassup’. Tell me. Say dat shit wit’ ya chest.”

He watched, aggravated, a slight mug resting against his face as he slipped his shirt off his shoulders, displaying the slutty tattoos hidden beneath.

Tension curled from the Greek pillars surrounding their room, slithering down the walls as you both stared unblinking at each other.

Seething.

Each begging for the other to make a move, to slip.

Your lips parted — wrong.

With only the quickness that Ony himself possessed, his hands gripped your cheeks, puckering your lips as he stared down at you, brows furrowed as he spoke.

“Stop allat’ disrespect shit, (y/n). You a’ big girl, right?”

“You not gone tell me ma? Hmm?” A slight tilt of his head.

Your thighs pressed together, core tightening at the low rasp of his voice. He nodded, a firm, self-affirming nod.

“Show me.”

That’s all you needed.

Onyankapon released his grasp upon your face, sniffling, palm planting two firm taps against your cheek before stretching his arms up to grasp the pillar above your shared bed as your hands reached out.

You gave no warning.

Silence.

Tension snaked closer.

Your stiletto nails scratched down his abdomen, creating shallow indentations in its path as you worked the Matte Gucci belt buckled around his waist.

Ony watched, sinking his teeth into the plush of his lips as he glared at the soft flutter of your wispy lashes, entrapped by your siren-like beauty.

His head tipped, mind whirling at the tickle of your nails slithering beneath the border of the only thing separating him from your view.

His eyes fluttered shut, abs caving, Adam’s apple bobbing as he fought to control his mind, his heart, from spiraling with every flick of your slick tongue against his mushroom tip—with every swirl of your grip against his dick, every bob of your head.

His eyes rolled, a firm palm planted against the back of your skull as he nudged you further.

“Come onn baby, show me.” Heavy pants slipped his lips, eyes fluttering in an attempt to stay lucid. To keep hold of his sanity.

“Yeahhh, show me dat shit, baby.” A firm bite to his plump, two toned lips finalized his statement, eyes glossed, brows furrowed as he stared down at your bobbing head.

"So fuckin greedy, mama, fuck!"

You were everything he needed, everything he wanted, why the fuck did you think he was boutta hand that over to just anyone? To anyone but you?

You reached your arms up, forcing Ony’s palms away from your cheek as he attempted to push you away, pleasure coiling from the tips of his ears to the soles of his feet as he moaned.

You were sucking the soul out of him, sinking the points of your stilettos into his mind without any intention of letting up.

You were speaking to him in a way only you could—engraving every word within the depths of his heart — with your mouth fucking full.

You popped your head off, hand swirling along the soft curve of his dick as you stared up, anger swimming throughout the depths of your pretty brown eyes.

He watched, taking note of the way your lip gloss seemed to blend within the liquid of your spit, chest sticky, chin dripping with a mix of both his and your essence.

“Give it to me, baby. Please, I want it…let me have it,” you whined.

Onyankapon’s body shuddered, your words cracking every ounce of stability he seemed to have lingering as he came.

“Fuckk baby, I feel you, I fucking hear you.” The bass of his voice seemed to crack, shifting between breathy, needy whimpers, and deep, soul-ridden grunts as he pumped his hips in your hands, aching, listening.

His head swam as he watched you rise to your knees, finger trailing up your chest, leaving a trail of his cum in its wake as you slipped your index and middle finger into your mouth, eyes closing, a greedy moan vibrating from the depths of you as you savored the essence of him.

Rough palms reached out, grasping onto the chub of your neck as he crashed his head down, lips racing against yours with unspoken passion as he flattened his frame along yours.

Your thighs circled his slim waist, hands following as they smoothed up his chest, one palm laying against his upper back, the other running along the back of his head — flattening along the sea of waves rippling across his scalp as you moaned.

The lavish, soft cotton of your black dress rode up as his coarse palms ran up your thigh, squeezing, grazing, clutching as your lips flowed feverishly, never once breaking its harmonized movements as he moved your bodies toward the head of the bed.

Your head tilted, head slouching to the side as your lover trailed kisses down the creamy silk of your collar, each peck sizzling against your skin, tattooing a phrase in its wake.

I love you.

I need you.

Fuck me.

Your eyes rolled as Onyankapon’s lips sketched its way down your chest, fists moving to push the delicate sleeves down your shoulders.

Brown eyes followed, heart stuttering as he shoved the fabric down, freeing the weight of your breasts, fabric pooling around your waist. You watched, noting the way his throat bobbed as he gawked longingly, breath catching as he used the mere moment of sanity to take in your beauty. You were perfect. His.

Puffy, swollen lips parted, releasing a needy whimper as his hands trailed its way up plump thighs, the vanilla oil you’d used just mere hours before steaming off of you with the pour of heat radiating from your skin.

The scent was intoxicating, your skin impossibly warm.

You choked, eyes fluttering as his middle finger pressed softly against the lace atop your clit, the fabric seeming to sink between the fat of your wet folds as he applied slight pressure.

“Come on mama, this what you wanted?” His tongue ran along his lips. “Open dat’ pretty ass mouth and lemme know, baby.”

You gasped, waist whining against the flesh of his fingers as your head drooped back, unleashing the whirlwind of feelings you’d held confined; each emotion voiced itself in its own unique moan as Onyankapon’s fingers yielded to the slickness of his tongue and mouth.

"Jus' like dat' pretty, talk to me."

“Ughnn shittt.” Your body melted, each thought of doubt, worry, insecurity pooling out along your cheeks as he hollowed his lips, sucking the hard nub of your puffy clit into his mouth.

“Yeah baby, I hear you, im listenin’ baby. You know dis’.” Your eyes crossed, toes curling within the arch of your Giuseppeas, as your palm slapped repeatedly on the plush of the bed beside you.

“Im cumminnn’ baby, f-fuckkk…yesss!” The hoarseness of your pretty, sultry voice seemed to egg him on, low eyes peeking up beneath long, black lashes as he watched endless bliss rip through you, knowing that he was the sole purpose for your ache-filled tears.

He popped his mouth from the depths of you, diamonds glittering as he bit his lips, the tension in the room replaced with the creamy squelching of your pussy, lips seeming to swallow him as he fucked you.

“There we goo, mama, let it go, let it all go,” His voice grew soft, words spilling in the form of a whisper as his breath grew heavy.

“I love you baby, I’m yours, let go for me, baby. Give it to me.” He said breathlessly.

Your body grew tense, mouth opening in a silent sob as your legs closed in on his hand.

“Breatheee for me baby, breathe, just breathe, feel it.” Your throat stung, fingers clutching onto his forearm as he pumped, shattering you from the inside out.

You let loose, moaning, groaning, sobbing, as your body sang, saturating the room with a song so carnal it’d ring throughout the house for seasons to come.

“Feel that shit baby, I love you (y/n), I’m yours baby, yours, you hear me?” Your eyes crossed.

One could only define Ony as selfish, gluttonous for his pussy as his tongue engraved his name within the depths of you, the way he ate you, chin streamed with your raw essence as he ravaged your pussy.

He was smacking, flicking, sucking — ruthlessly forcing you to your limits.

His hands clutched your thighs, body moving as he kissed his way back up to your tear stricken face. His lips trailed along your neck, whispering, sealing his words as he drew you from the whirlwind of pleasure you’d experienced sheer moments before.

You sobbed, mind teetering as he reined you back into his world, back to the moment you were sharing.

Your eyes laid heavy, palms drifting along your body as you grasped the meat of your thighs, pulling them up and back without order.

Your breasts shook as he tugged you further downward, trousers long gone as he pressed his weight along your thighs, nudging them further back to settle beside your head as the heavy weight of his dick laid between them.

His dick was thick — fat with arousal — the weight of it substantial between you.

Smooth Walnut skin fused within Cinnamon as his tip leaked, dripping along the folds of your pussy.

Ony moved his left hand, angling himself as he pressed inside you, slowly. He needed you to feel him, every fucking inch of him.

His eyes closed briefly, throat bobbing in an attempt to ground himself as dove into you.

His hips flowed, whining lazily as he forced himself to the hilt, left hand drifting up to wrap around your throat as his head tipped backwards.

“J-jesus fuck.”

Your brows furrowed, watching, as the lowly trimmed hairs along his pelvis grazed against you. Your pussy clamped around him, feeling every vein, every pulse, as your bodies tied.

His hips snapped up, dropping in steady motion as he pushed your thighs into the plush of the mattress, using you, giving you everything he had to offer. Baptising himself within the depths of you.

“Ohhh my g-g-,” your breath stalled, barring the words in its tracks as your body reigned numb.

Onyankapon’s hips plunged, torso clamping as he whimpered, waist pushing passionately as a bead of sweat raced between the curve of his abs and onto the pudgy flesh of your tummy. He sank himself, forehead pressing into yours as he clasped the back of your neck, folding you, forcing you to watch as he surrendered himself within the extents of you, engulfed himself within the bounds of your mind.

Your arms moved up, grasping onto the back of his skull as you gawked up at him, eyes never drifting, body humming as he drove into you. You peeked down, watching as cream glazed the fat of his dick, building along his pelvis with each breathtaking stroke.

“Ba-byyy, so fuckin',” you cried, deep and gluttonous, “d-eep baby, oohhh.” Your nails scratched along his hips, fingers grasping the fat of his ass as you creamed.

“I love youuu, shitt,” you were hysterical, mouth slacking open, drool staining your chin.

He was driving you fucking mad.

Onyankapon’s brows furrowed, repetitive whimpers painting the air as he chased his orgasm, pounding, ignoring the burn of his thighs as the fat of your ass ricocheted off his hips.

Smack!

The sting from his palms flattening against the swell of your thighs was all you needed as your body convulsed.

“Ughnn, Oh my-fuckkkk”. Your eyes rolled, barely registering your body’s doing as a stream of arousal sprayed across Ony’s chest. Your pussy clamped, sucking, feeding upon the meat of his dick as he drove himself impossibly deeper.

You could feel him, throat clogging as your stomach burned; he was so fucking deep. Too fucking deep.

So deep within the depths of you, you couldn’t identify where you ended, and he began.

You couldn’t stop fucking cumming. What the fuck?

“Give it to me baby, fuck, fuck, fuckkk.” Your gasp planted heavily against his lips.

Onyankapon’s body grew tense as he dragged himself upright, sweat dripping along the curve of his nose as he gripped your hips.

“Mmm, you feel me, baby? This’ my fucking pussy, (y/fn). All. Fucking. Mine.” With a harsh snap of his hips, he punctuated each word.

“Yeahh look at me baby, you so fucking pretty.” His statement faltered, head slipping back as he burrowed himself into you, grinding, babbling, hips sputtering as he came.

“I’m nuttin' all in this pussy baby, fuckkk.” His eyes rolled, hips still rolling as he came with such intensity he thought he’d be sucked up by fucking darkness itself.

Heavy, rampant pants filled the now quiet room as he looked down at his lady, his woman, his love.

His form sank as he helped you move your legs toward the bed, caressing the fat as your lips connected in a slow, sensual kiss.

“I love you ma, this love ain’t come easy, I need you to talk to me, baby.” His fingers nuzzled the sweaty arch of your cheeks as you peered up at him.

“Let me know when I’ve upset you. Talk to me, don’t hold that shit in baby. Next time you feel like I’m oversteppin’, lemme know. I'm never gonna just rule off ya feelings, baby. Let me know.” His voice lagged, gaze flitting between your view as you nodded—Dazed.

“Aight, come on, lemme run ya pretty ass a bath.” His head lowered, a sultry smile tearing from his lips as he pecked your lips once more.

-𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒆౨ৎ

Tags: @ilovefanfictionsm @brownied0ll @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @hxlcster @prettypink-princesss @wettbaby @playgurlxoxo

Note: long awaited!! This was not supposed to take that long but life got me caught allll the way uppppp. I promise I'll be way more consistent now that I'm finally healed of my devious case of writers block.

P.S. My requests are open! I need ideas 💕

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centaurianthropology · 2 days ago

Text

I want to talk about fashion. More specifically, I want to talk about fashion, and culture, and how the two come together. Because theory of dress is one of those weird interests of mine, and I really enjoy deep diving into it. And since my head is stuffed full of ‘Murderbot’ these days, I want to talk about fashion in the Corporation Rim and fashion in Preservation.

This is predominately speculation based on the scripts rather than directly what we see on screen. As I mentioned in a previous post, I really like how much the show has managed to squeeze out of what is clearly a middling budget, and nowhere do I recognize that more than in the costuming. It’s incredibly good for being incredibly economical, but I’ve got no budget to work within. So I can just speculate to my heart’s content about how I think fashion works in both the CR and in Preservation, and how I would costume the show if I had the opportunity (and a gloriously unlimited budget).

THE CORPORATION RIM

I got to thinking about fashion in end-stage capitalism, and that was sort of what kicked off this portion of the essay. I honestly imagine the modes, if not the forms, of fashion would be very similar in the CR as they are in our current-day, at least in some countries.

To build a culture of fashion for the CR, I think it would be smart to draw on a few real-world examples. The first is hyper-consumerism. The CR is all about selling goods and services, and likely has the same non-sustainable perpetual-growth expectations of their companies that American corporations do today. And how do you get infinite growth in fashion? Constant turnover. I think the five-minute trend-cycle currently seen in fashion would be in full effect in the CR, with aggressive and ‘personalized’ advertising selling the latest look as the real way to self-actualization.

I think the CR would say that they were all about self-expression. After all, every single week you can buy a newer, better version of yourself! See how much better you feel in these new clothes! And the fact that you can keep up with trend cycles is a class signifier. You can afford to replace your wardrobe every week. Whether you can truly afford it or you’re going into debt to look rich, everyone is trying to play the game.

But theirs is a homoginized self-expression, everyone wearing the same fashion for a week before a new trend comes along and everyone throws away their old wardrobe and orders another. I imagine there are dozens of space Temus and space Shiens supplying the printer patterns for garment upon garment, all to chase the latest trend. I think what the CR would almost certainly lack, much like current fashion in America, is any substantial fashion subculture or counterculture. I think that, again, much like we see today, people may belong to subcultures on the Feed, but they can only express that part of themselves where no one can see. When they’re out in public, they look like everyone else. And I imagine that homogeneity would be rigidly enforced by a culture of shame and embarrassment.

I also think that cosmetic procedures would be not only widely available and accepted, but if you could afford it you started it an an early age. I’m thinking of the Korean cosmetic procedures industry, and the culture of getting work done starting in Middle School, how crafting an idealized (homogenized) face is considered the height of beauty. And I think about the Korean company that put out a style guide with facial proportions (and I believe cosmetic procedures) that would make a candidate look ‘employable’. And just like the trend cycles in clothing, I would imagine that the procedures would also have cycles, different faces and bodies everyone with money can chase. And that would be even more of a class divider. Indentured or low-level workers wouldn’t be able to afford medical procedures for cosmetic reasons. They likely can barely afford medical procedures for necessities. Your face would tell everyone how wealthy you were, and the more ambitious lower-level employees would go to backstreet doctors to try to do it on the cheap.

It is a fashion dystopia to reflect a societal dystopia. Clothing, people, and faces are all disposable. Nothing is built to last. You just try to make it to the next quarterly review without embarrassing yourself by looking too poor or ‘out of touch’.

PRESERVATION

Preservation, on the other hand, is a culture of hand-made. Clothing, therefore, would not be disposable or plentiful. Most people would own one or two outfits for a given occasion (work, school, leisure, fancy), and they would be owned for decades to be mixed, matched, modified, and patched. Personalization would come far more from DIY modifications like embroidery, painting, dyeing, and add-ons like patches and collars and cuffs and ribbons and lace. The work would sometimes be done by oneself, but just as often by a friend or a loved one. We see that Arada sews and embroiders in the show. She patches Bharadwaj’s uniform, and in the show notes they mention her embroidering everyone’s socks. Ratthi makes his own jewelry.

I would imagine that almost everyone on Preservation has some related skill to personalize clothing, and that they swap those skills around to further personalize what they have. The work of their hands and hands of friends craft items that mean something. Each modification is a memory, a gesture of love, making each piece of clothing a unique combination of dozens of hands and efforts. Something truly personal and unique to that person, to be worn and loved as long as it possibly can.

I imagine that, to outsiders who don’t understand their culture, they could look shabby, wearing dozens of clashing patterns, colors, random pieces of jewelry and patches and bits and bobs. The notion of a popular ‘look’ is likely far less the common culture on Preservation, because your look depends on personal tastes, and what is locally available and able to be done by those around you.

This is not to say that I think that Preservation fashion will be entirely without cohesion. I think various pieces, fabrics, cuts, shapes, etc, will simply be culturally more common. I like to think layering, both practical and interesting, would be common. I think comfort and practicality would be common, but I also think whimsy and color would be equally common. Lots of interesting jewelry, particularly of non-precious but beautiful stones, wood, and other natural materials. Personalized tattoos, like Bharadwaj’s, as well as makeup looks, would also be common and meaningful either to culture or simply to the small group of people with whom a person shares an environment. Preservation is a collectivist culture, so personal style is far more collective, influenced by the works and tastes of everyone around you, as well as yourself. People certainly have preferences—I think Arada loves an oversized hand-knit sweater, and Pin-Lee likes asymmetry and really bold geometric patterns—but those tastes are elaborated by your immediate community.

Natural materials would be preferred over synthetics across the board. Natural and organic forms in clothing, extensive patterning (dyed and painted and woven and embroidered), knits and crochet and other fun handmade construction techniques.

I take a lot of inspiration from Afro futurism and from the Indigenous fashion scene as design inspirations, particularly for shapes and patterns. (I admit I may be working on civilian designs for the entire PresAux crew). The fashion shows in Santa Fe are a major inspiration, but also hippie styles from the late 1960s to earliest 1970s, before it was fashionable, and a lot of the gear was heavily modified or hand-made itself.

I would love to see a show with a crazy budget really go in for hand-made items, with multiple cultural inspirations, creating a very different vision of a sci-fi future from the sterile visions of homogenized Western culture we often see. Something colorful, fun, fashionable, not bleak or boring or earth-tone-poor-laborers-in-a-dystopia or only-the-rich-evil-queers-can-afford-color, but truly embracing fashion as a cultural expression. Having fun with it! Letting it be living and wild and fun in a way that, inevitably, some of our very CR-leaning-cultural audience would find embarrassing.

Just as much as the hellish five-minute-trend-cycle of the CR would be incredibly fun to visualize, so too would sourcing, commissioning, and creating the vibrant culture of Preservation through its fashion.

#murderbot tv #murderbot #fashion and culture #I really love costume design #and the language of clothing #and what it can communicate about culture #this is no shade to the show!#I think they’ve done such a good job with limited resources #I can just dream about what I would do with no restrictions!

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wordsarelife · 10 hours ago

Text

—so it goes

pairing: mattheo riddle x fem!reader

summary: you’ve always thought mattheo riddle was infuriating, until suddenly everything between you changes. between various almost kisses, whispered confessions, and years of tension finally snapping, you realize he’s always wanted you. but falling for him? that was never part of your plan, but now, you’re his to keep and his to lose.

warnings: language, just a little suggestive, height difference mentioned, tension, pining, slow-burn, a little idiots in love ad very mid writing lol

note: this came to me very spontaneously and because i thought to myself that i had yet to write a fic inspired by 'so it goes' so here it is. this fic has basically no storyline so idk what i have been yapping to make it to 5.4k words lmaooo.

"i'm gonna bash his fucking head in" you stormed into the slytherin common room.

pansy, draped across one of the dark leather couches, lazily moved her head to look at you, not a hint of surprise on her face.

no, she knew all too well, who you were talking about.

"what's he done now?" she asked, not out of curiosity, but boredom. like you threatening mattheo riddle’s life was just another tuesday. which it was, really.

mattheo and you had never gotten along, despite being part of the same friend group and basically growing up beside each other.

maybe that was the problem after all.

you threw your bag to the floor so hard it almost bounced back into your hands. “he had the audacity to open his stupid mouth. that’s what he did.”

theo snorted from the armchair by the fire, not looking up from his book. "shocking development. riddle speaks, and you consider murder."

you whirled on him, eyes wild. "he said i was predictable. can you believe that? me. predictable."

"well.." pansy muttered, trailing off.

"you do threaten his life a few times a week" theo added, helpfully.

you glared at both of them. "some friends you are" you muttered, crossing your arms and falling back onto the leather couch. you only missed pansy's leg by half an inch, as she pulled them to the side at the last minute. "whose side are you on?"

"neither" pansy stated without thought.

another glare from you.

"look, bella" theo drawled. you were used to that tone. he was trying to charm you, so you would forget about your anger toward the riddle boy. this time theo's charm would come to a halt. you swore it.

"this has been going on for literal years" he continued. "we've all witnessed it. it was fun for a while, i admit that. but... per l'amor di dio.. just get it over with, won't you?"

you narrowed your eyes at the boy. "get what over with?" you took a second to think, until your expression changed drastically, making theo forget what he was trying to say.

pansy moved her glance over to you, watching you in quiet suspicion.

"i would have never thought, you'd be the one to suggest it" you grinned, a proud smile on your face. "but this is brilliant, theo"

"i... what?" theo asked, but you left no time for answers.

"how do you reckon i should do it?" you asked as you went on. "i suppose magic is way too obvious. so maybe a knife.. or poison? that's the thing most women kill with, isn't it?"

"i didn't suggst that we should kill the insufferable bastard!" theo protested.

"oh" your smile died. "then what did you suggest?"

the moment was luckily interrupted by the arrival of enzo and blaise, who both had no interest in discussing anything related to mattheo (he was responsible for dozens of bruises on both their bodies from the previous quidditch practice), so the conversation quickly died out and the topic changed to the next charms essay all of you had to submit by the end of next week.

you didn't see mattheo for the rest of the day.

none of your friends had seen him for the most part of it, but that did not raise concern, as mattheo was known to disappear for hours on end.

none of you had the fraction of an idea about where he went.

and mattheo, the stupid idiot, enjoyed being a mystery to his friends way too much to lift the curtain and reveal his whereabouts.

it was half an hour past curfew, when you went to sneak into the kitchen. you had been rolling from side to side in bed for the past hour.

it wasn't that you weren't tired. quite the opposite actually. your mind was just too awake. but that was something a simple glass of warm milk could cure in an instant.

the drink was quickly fetched and it took less than five minutes for you to tiptoe back out into the hall, a mug of the warm liquid pressing against your hand and making your stomach flutter in anticipation for the warm and soothing taste.

but not now. you would save it until you were back in your warm bed, not while wandering the dimly lit corridors of hogwarts in what could only be described as a stretch rather than actual pyjamas.

a thin, oversized slytherin jumper hung off one shoulder. it was stolen, years ago, from theo during a drunken game of exploding snap and never returned. underneath, just a pair of dark green sleep shorts, the hem fraying slightly, riding up with every step. no socks, no bra, and a quiet shiver every time the cold stone kissed your bare feet.

merlin knew why you hadn't taken the time to slip into your shoes, or at least pull on some warm socks.

your mind wasn't the best at this time of day. and certainly not when it was as sleep-deprived as you felt.

the halls were dead silent, except for the soft echo of your bare feet on stone, and the occasional creak of the ancient castle shifting in its sleep. you clutched the mug tighter, nerves twitching just slightly.

"evening"

the voice was so sudden, you almost dropped the mug in your hand. milk splashed over the rim, warm against your knuckles as you swerved around, heart leaping up into your throat.

and there he was.

mattheo fucking riddle, casually leaned against the corridor arch like he hadn’t been missing all day. like he hadn’t carved himself into the back of your brain and left you simmering.

still dressed. he hadn't been back in his dorm all day, tie loose around his neck, white shirt stained at the cuff with something that looked like ink or blood, or maybe both. his blazer hung from one finger, slung over his shoulder like he owned the corridor, like he owned the night. like he’d been waiting.

you hated how calm he looked.

“you scared the shit out of me,” you snapped, readjusting your grip on the mug, milk still dripping from the rim.

"yeah, you look really frightened" he rolled his eyes, before his gaze wandered down your body.

you felt uncomfortable under his watch and you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the cold stone biting into your bare soles, but not nearly as sharply as his gaze.

"nice outfit" he noted with a smirk. "meeting someone special?"

"oh fuck off" you snarled, turning away from him and picking up your walk back to the dorm.

mattheo wasn't one to give up easily. he caught up to you quickly.

"you know, if you acted less like a whiny bitch, you could actually be kinda hot"

you halted in your step, turning to look at him.

mattheo's smirk deepened, satisfied that his words had caught your attention.

"and if you were less of a miserable asshole, maybe i could actually tolerate you" you thought for a second, before you added. "no, actually, that seems like too much for your brain to comprehend, so i fear both of us won't get what we so dearly wish for."

"god do you sometimes hear all the words that you're saying?"

you rolled your eyes and continued walking through the corridor. mattheo still followed. there was a distance between you. a distance you were glad he was keeping.

suddenly, mattheo's arm shot out, making you run straight into him.

"ma—" you had already opened your mouth, a loud scolding of his name pressing through, as another big gulp of the milk had slahed over the rim of your mug at your sudden forced stop.

mattheo pressed a hand to your mouth, shutting you up effectively. he pushed you against the wall behind your back, both of you disappearing behind a giant closet.

"what the fuck?" you whispered, just as mattheo had slowly moved his hand away from your mouth.

you were only inches apart. the mug in your hand being the only thing seperating the two of you.

"teacher" mattheo answered, his eyes darting down the hall behind him.

you didn't say anything for a few seconds. his head turned back to you.

he was so close. way too close for your liking. or... maybe he should come closer, move forward until his chest was touching yours, his hands in your—

woah.

you shook your head, quickly getting rid of those weird and unnerving thoughts that had clouded your mind.

you should’ve walked away. you should’ve sipped your stupid milk and gone back to bed.

instead, your gaze wandered back to his face. his curls were falling over his forehead like usually. an untamed mess of dark hair that awakened a deep anger in your gut. how could someone who couldn't even take care of his own hair properly ever dare to be as arrogant as mattheo riddle was?

his brown eyes looked down on you. they almost looked black in the dim light of the corridor. you shivered.

his face was clear, white, soft skin over perfectly sculpted features, a hint of soft freckles on his nose. and his mouth. his mouth was... bleeding?

"you're bleeding" you noted, unable to stop yourself. your eyes jumped to his lips and back to meet his gaze.

mattheo was just as caught off guard as yourself at the words. "yes" he muttered, not sure what else to say.

"why are you always bleeding?" you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

mattheo frowned at your words, a deeper emotion settling onto his face.

his eyes now jumped between yours and your mouth too. you were sure that there wasn't any blood on your lips, so you weren't sure what his thought process was.

suddenly, mattheo stepped impossibly closer.

his hand fell forward, clasping your wrist. the one one connected to the hand that wasn't holding the mug of warm milk, of course.

"what are you—?"

he didn't answer. mattheo just leaned forward, coming closer and closer. the blood on his mouth and the thing itself inching nearer and nearer.

oh god.

was he trying to? ew.

ew, ew, ew.

you couldn't kiss mattheo riddle in the middle of the night.

you couldn't kiss mattheo riddle in the middle of the night, in theo's old sweatshirt and shorts that you wore to sleep.

you couldn't kiss mattheo riddle in the middle of the night, in theo's old sweatshirt and shorts that you wore to sleep and a mug of steaming warm milk still in your right hand.

you couldn't kiss mattheo riddle. period.

you simply wouldn't.

so, in that moment, you did the only thing you could think of. something so unbelievably stupid you wouldn’t even remember it clearly later.

you let go of your beloved warm milk.

the mug shattered on the floor with a loud crack. milk splashed against both your bodies as mattheo jumped back from you.

“wha—” mattheo started, eyes darting between the milk soaking his robes and the broken shards on the floor, but before he could say another word, a sharp voice cut through the silence.

“detention, both of you.”

professor snape stood at the corridor’s end, arms crossed and glare sharper than any curse.

"sir—" you pressed the word out in surprise, looking awfully ashamed about the condition your house teacher had found the both of you in.

"twenty points from both of you and clean that up!" he directed further, until he swirled around, dark robes fluttering behind him as he walked away in the opposite direction.

when snape found students out of their beds, there was no big deal made out of the case, but no one dared to stay any longer after he had found them once. snape didn't have to walk students back to their dorms, as much was clear.

mattheo wordlessly took out his wand, mouthing a quick clean up hex under his breath.

both of your clothes were back to their previous state and the mug of warm milk was intact again too.

mattheo and you didn't look at each other as you silently walked back to the common room side by side. you didn't talk when you both split up in opposite directions to get to your dorms.

that night, a forgotten mug of cold milk sat on your bedside table, while you were in the bathroom, furiously scrubbing the skin of your left wrist. right where his touch had burned itself into your skin.

the next day was a never ending tirade of boring classes, whispers with your friends and the unnerving task of ignoring mattheo, while he tried everything to get under your skin.

"hope the milk was worth the detention from snape" he whispered during history of magic. he had to lean over draco to do so, who angrily swatted at mattheo's arm, trying to push the boy out of his space.

mattheo did not budge.

you stared forward pointedly, acting like you hadn't even heard him.

draco rolled his eyes, pushing against mattheo's arm once more. "do you see that she doesn't want to talk to you?"

mattheo's grin did not falter, his eyes flicking to you before settling back on draco.

"let her pretend all she wants," he said low enough for you to hear. "but merlin knows she’s just pissed because i was right."

you finally turned your head, voice cool and steady. "right about what?"

he shrugged, still smirking. "that you’re all talk and no backbone."

"what are you even talking about?" you snarled angrily beneath your breath, trying to keep quiet as to not make professor binns notice your conversation during his class.

"oh, come on, sweetheart" mattheo's smug smile only widened at your act of cluelessness. his gaze wandered over draco, before it landed back on you, a wink moving with his words. "don't act like i didn't see the fear in your eyes."

"shut up" you muttered, pulling your body back from him, an obvious physical reaction to his words.

mattheo nodded with a satisfied smile.

this was exactly what he had wanted. he leaned back in his own chair, freeing draco from his unwanted presence, before he blew you a quick kiss behind the blonde's head, who had turned to ask you what that weird conversation had been about.

that same evening, mattheo and you were standing in the dimly lit trophy room. both of you equipped with a rag and a bottle of polishing potion.

your wands had been confiscated by filch, before your detention had started and he had left you alone in the small room, that only seemed to shrink with mattheo's presence behind your back.

you wondered if his mind was as busy thinking about you as yours was tangled up in thoughts of him.

the work was rough, unnaturelly slow without the use of magic, and the room was silent while both of you scrubbed at trophies on opposite sides of each other.

then, when mattheo was finished with the trophy he had been working on, he didn't pick up the one standing right next to it, like he was supposed to, but moved across the room to stand beside you.

"could you stay on your side of this very small room?" you muttered, scratching off a particularly dark spot of dirt on the small trophy in your hand. "or is the concept of that too much for you to comprehend?"

"i'm doing just fine" mattheo smiled sarcastically. "thanks for your concern though"

"asshole" you muttered beneath your breath as you went to put the small trophy back in it's original place.

"brat" mattheo retorted almost immediately.

you send him an exasperated glance, before you stepped onto the ladder, that was propped up against the wall, to reach the higher shelves.

mattheo watched that action with a hint of concern, until his facial expression returned back to neutral, acting like he couldn't be bothered.

the silence in the room stretched on, as you reached for a medal hanging against the wall and began cleaning it while still standing on the the ladder.

this was awkward.

it was a mix of not knowing what to say (which was weird, because although you had never gotten along, you and mattheo had always something to say to each other) and a sharp undercurrent of something else. tension, maybe? or irritation?

then, mattheo broke the silence. in the worst way possible.

"ever wondered why we never became friends?"

you huffed, trying to ignore his words, but ultimately burning for his answer. "no, not really"

"well, i did" he muttered, reaching for a silver trophy. one of the less frequent ones in the room. "i mean, i'm glorious company, so it must be your fault"

"please" you shoke your head, moving on to the second medal. "like you're not an insufferable git"

mattheo laughed dryly at your remark. "come on, be honest," he continued. "you had your mind set on not liking me the minute your eyes first glanced my way"

"that is so far from true and you know it" the third medal was now being cleaned. "i was liking you, up until the moment you spilled pumpkin juice all over me."

"that was an honest mistake"

"maybe" you shrugged. "which i would've forgiven, if you hadn't immediately said what you said."

"what did i say?" mattheo wondered, seemingly not able to remember himself.

you glared at him, before you moved your gaze back to the task at hand and finally found the words to answer. "you said that i should better not start crying, because girls like me would have to rely on our smile being pretty enough to—"

"come far in life" mattheo finished. "i did say that, yeah" he muttered softly.

you swirled around, looking down at him in surprise. he actually sounded.. regretful?

you didn't have much time to think about that though. your fast motion on the ladder had caused the thing to start shaking, slipping away from the wall with increasing speed, as you lost your footing.

this was not going to end well.

mattheo reacted quickly. he dashed forward, stopping the ladder with his foot, before opening his arms.

you landed much less graceful than you had wanted, but at least not on the floor, but in mattheo's widespread and kind of muscular arms. he was looking down at you with a soft expression.

"i didn't mean it" he said, his words tying back to your conversation a few seconds ago.

you blinked up at him, chest rising and falling against his from the fall. his arms were still around you,one curling around your waist, while the other was steadying your legs, and he made no effort to let go. his scent, cologne and something darker, something inherently him, wrapped around you like smoke.

still, after a second, he let out a slow breath and carefully lowered you to the ground, his hands steady, lingering longer than necessary. one of them settled at your waist, the other brushing along your arm as if making sure you could stand.

but even once your feet touched the floor, neither of you moved away. you were still impossibly close. too close.

you swallowed. “you meant it when you said it.”

his gaze dropped to your lips for just a second. “maybe i was just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“you did.” your voice came out a little breathier than you’d intended, but you didn’t back down. “congratulations. you always do.”

“hmm.” he stepped closer, barely noticeable, until your bodies were nearly touching again. his hold tightened just slightly around your waist, as if testing the boundary. "do you really hate me so much?"

the question stunned you. you stared up into his brown eyes. they were warm, like hot chocolate after a day spend in the snow outside. they weren't as close to black as you had thought only the night before.

maybe mattheo wasn't as close to the dark as you always thought.

"i don't know," you muttered, your gaze dropping to his lips only involuntarily. there was still a scrap on the side of his mouth, where it had been bleeding the day before.

you wondered who had had the pleasure of meeting mattheo's fist.

"sometimes" you said finally.

"and the other times?" mattheo muttered. he pulled you closer by the waist. maybe not even on purpose. you could feel his breath fan over your cheek.

"the other times.." you whispered, unable to finish the sentence.

mattheo moved his hand on your waist. his thumb slipped under the fabric of your blouse, it had moved out of your skirt during your fall. he brushed his finger over your skin tentatively.

you almost shivered. his touch felt so soft. so deserved, like something you'd been missing your entire life without ever realizing it. without ever knowing how good it was.

a warm feeling settled in your stomach as you drew in a breath.

mattheo didn't look smug about the obvious physical reaction you had to his simple touch. he looked so honest.

“the other times,” he said again, barely a whisper now. his gaze didn’t leave your face, didn’t leave your lips. “what are they, then?”

"i..." you wanted to reply something, anything, but his close proximity was making your mind spiral. never in your life had you been this... attracted, to mattheo riddle of all people.

"y/n," mattheo muttered softly.

"i don't hate you," you said finally, without any further explanation.

he looked relieved. the smile on his face was faint, barely noticeable, but it was there and it didn't look smug or provocative.

"no?" he muttered softly, his question making the hair on your arm stand up, as his thumb shifted beneath your shirt.

"no" you said. surely. finally.

you didn’t realize it, but your hand had lifted, fingertips curling against the edge of his shirt, clinging to the fabric like it grounded you.

he drew you closer. his lips were so close. you closed your eyes. you could almost imagine his taste. the softness of his mouth touching yours. the feeling it would surely awaken in you.

you wanted him. you needed him.

your noses brushed. your lips were a breath apart—

“what in merlin’s name is going on here?”

you gasped, stumbling back from mattheo and almost taking down a few throphies with you.

filch was standing in the doorway of the cramped room and narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously.

before you had the chance to say something, mattheo stepped in front of you, hiding you away from the older man. "we were cleaning," he said simply, a sharp edge in the tone of his words.

filch hesitated.

it was an open secret that he was… uneasy around mattheo. like many people in school. like many people in the wizarding world.

the silence stretched for a beat too long.

"continue then," filch muttered eventually, backing out of the room with a final suspicious glance. “and keep your hands to yourselves.”

mrs. norris padded after him with a flick of her tail, and then they were gone. the door creaked as it shut.

for the rest of detention, neither you nor mattheo spoke. it was as if whatever spark had flickered between you was a fragile flame. one that always burned out the moment either of you got close to changing anything.

you could feel his gaze on you when filch came back and let both of you leave finally.

then, on the way back to the common room, before you had even the chance to worry about things becoming awkward once more, mattheo disappeared into the shadows of the castle, leaving to god knows where again.

that night, you turned from side to side in bed, unable to find sleep.

you stood up, slipping into a pair of slytherin socks, before you left the room, closing the door behind you softly.

the corridor was cold and you wrapped your arms around your frame. theo's sweater was incredibly comfortable, but did not do a great job at keeping you warm.

you walked around the corner and what you saw, made your breath hitch. there was a body on the ground, lazily leaning with his back against the stone wall, his legs stretched out on the floor before him.

mattheo fucking riddle.

of course.

his tie was hanging loosely around his neck, his blazer was a crumpled mess on the floor beside him. he was moving a cigarette over his fingers. a trick you had seen him do a few times before at parties.

mostly to impress girls, mostly because he was bored.

his face looked twisted in the dark light of the corridor, but you could make out the dark stains of the blood easily.

this had to be a joke.

"mattheo" you muttered.

his head jerked up suddenly, but he didn't look as surprised as you. almost as if he had been waiting.

"can't sleep again?" he asked, his voice echoing off the wall across from him.

"got slapped stupid again?" you shot back.

mattheo stood up from the floor slowly. he reached for the blazer beside him. there was a lazy smile on his face, the kind of smug expression that told you exactly how satisfied he was with your words.

"what?" you asked.

"oh, darling" mattheo grinned. "you should really see the other one"

mattheo stepped closer. so close, you imagined to smell the blood on his face.

"i'm only seeing one idiot as it is" you snapped, crossing your arms. "and you do look pretty bad already"

"such compliments," mattheo drawled, pushing the cigarette to rest between his lips and searching the pockets of his trousers for a lighter.

before he had the chance to light the cigarette, you caught it between your fingers, pulling it away from his lips. mattheo followed after your movement, before he realized what you were doing and sighed.

"hey"

"come on" you said, not even sparing another glance at him, as you walked into the direction of the kitchen.

mattheo followed after you wordlessly, accepting his fate without any sort of protest.

"sit down" you directed, pushing him back onto a chair in the kitchen.

mattheo's smile widened. "commanding much?" he laughed at your unimpressed expression. "if you wanted—"

"stop" you interrupted, shaking your head. "i'm just doing this, because i'm a good person, this has nothing to do with you."

"sure it hasn't" matthe leaned back in the chair, while you turned to fetch a rag at the sink, holding it under the water to properly clean the blood off his face.

"you should still go to madam pomfrey tomorrow though" you muttered as you returned and took a seat across from him.

"so you care about my wellbeing?" mattheo asked, furrowing a brow.

"not really" you whispered, as you leaned forward, softly wiping over his left eyebrow, where a few drops of blood had splattered. surely not his own.

mattheo watched you work with narrowed eyes, following every movement of your hand and trying his best to catch your gaze.

"you aren't even looking at me, love."

"of course i am," you protested. "how would i be able to clean this fucking blood off your stupid face if i didn't?"

"stupid face?" mattheo repeated in a mocking tone. "you're not really looking though"

you bit your lip, as you moved on to the right side of his face, right beside his eye. it was a small wound and mattheo barely reacted to the cold touch of the rag on it.

"sweetheart" mattheo called, trying to gain your attention.

you tried not to react.

"look at me, darling"

"i am looking at you, mattheo" you snapped, leaning away from him angrily.

"okay" mattheo nodded, upset that he had angered you, as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

you sighed, before you continued, the rag sweeping at the small wound on the bottom of his mouth that had reopened.

mattheo leaned closer, to make your access to him easier. you narrowed your eyes, but didn't say anything.

he unfolded his hands, that had rested in his lap up until this moment and his right hand settled onto your thigh delibaretly.

he waited.

"mattheo" you said in an effort of protest his action.

his eyes didn’t leave yours. “just tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and steady.

you didn’t.

he leaned forward, away from the rag. his nose brushed against yours, before he finally met your lips with his.

your hand was hanging in the air, the rag still in hand, before you finally moved, letting go of the fabric. you closed your eyes, your hands falling into mattheo's neck like a puzzle pieces falling into place.

there was something quietly desperate in the way his mouth moved with yours, like he’d been waiting far too long to know what you’d taste like.

and you... your thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. you forgot what you’d meant to say. forgot where you were. forgot your own damn name.

you felt the pressure of his hand still on your thigh, the way your body felt pressed up against his. merlin, he tasted better than you could've ever imagined.

his other arm slid around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, your chair scraping over the floor as it followed you forward.

mattheo broke the kiss softly, his lips brushing yours one last time before he leaned back just enough to see your face. you were half in his lap, lips parted, breathing unsteady, looking up at him like you were waiting for gravity to pull you back down.

you felt ridiculous.

but his face... he didn't look like he was trying to mock you. no, he looked as wrecked as you felt. something that could only be achieved by a kiss that would screw you up for anyone else.

"you better shouldn't look at me like that," mattheo muttered, with a soft smile, while he tried to stabilize his breathing. "or i won't be able to stop the next time."

you weren't sure you even wanted him to stop.

you blinked up at him, still utterly dazed and at a loss for words.

his hold on your thigh tightened slightly. "didn't think you'd—" he interrupted himself, shaking his head in disbelief. "fuck"

you swallowed. you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“say something,” he whispered, voice rough now. “please.”

you swallowed again, before you pressed the words out. "you're still an asshole."

mattheo laughed, a hint of relief swinging in his voice. "you're still a brat."

"yeah," you muttered, moving closer until you were whispering the words right at his mouth. "a brat, who wants you to do that again."

mattheo's mouth clashed with yours in a second. this kiss wasn't as slow. it was raw, urgent, demanding.

your hands slid into his hair, as he pulled you closer at the shoulders and you slipped onto his lap, his hands clasping around your waist like he was scared you would suddenly disappear.

you pulled his head back by the hair softly, pulling away for just a second, a breathy moan escaping his mouth, before you reconnected your lips, following after him.

there was nothing innocent about it now. just the feeling of being right were you were supposed to, his hands pressed to your body, his tongue in your mouth.

you were so utterly his, it was almost scaring you.

you pulled away after a few more seconds. his hand wandered to your cheek, his thumb moving over the soft blush on your face.

you stood up slowly and he rose to his feet immediately after, like you had put a curse on him. his gaze stayed locked on you, while you put back the rag and he reached for his blazer that he had draped over the back of his chair.

you stepped next to him silently.

he came closer, draping his blazer over your shoulders, before he took your hand in his, pulling you to the entrance of the kitchen behind him.

you walked through the halls slowly. almost like you were on a midnight stroll rather than out of bed after curfew.

"all eyes on us," mattheo pointed out, when you came across a few, very nosy portraits.

you smiled at his words, your eyes falling onto your intertwined hands. like pieces falling into place, you thought once more.

"i'm yours to keep" you whispered, your voice echoing through the corridor, mattheo tucked on your hand. "and i'm yours to lose"

"you really think i'm ever letting you go after tonight?" he muttered, pulling you closer and wrapping an arm around your form. he pressed a kiss to your neck. "fuck, no."

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4doras · 2 days ago

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BABY, NOT BABY "I KEEP CATCHING THEM STARING AT ME." *ੈ✩‧₊˚

genre. riku x f!reader, fluff, frenemies to lovers, 1.2k

ꕤ. i posted a riku AND sakuya fic before this and now i'm writing for them again for the event 😭 it’s okay though because i love them

ever since you were kids, you and riku were forced to be friends. and to your parents, you and riku were best friends, but on the inside? you hated each other. but at least the hatred was mutual.

the two of you agreed to keep the friendly act on for your parents, but besides that, neither of you interacted with one another. and if you did, it’d only end in an argument. and even after all these years, you and riku just couldn’t find it in you to become true friends. it was easier to pretend to be friends than trying to reconcile from all the damage of previous years.

but lately, something felt different.

more under the cut!

for starters, the way he looked at you now compared to the past was completely different. it wasn’t a glare, it wasn’t a look that said “you’re stupid”, it was just a stare. where’d the riku who’d slightly scrunch his face at you every time you spoke? the new look was scary. why’d he look at you like there was nothing else worth looking at?

and as much as you liked to believe that he just zoned out, you slowly spotted more and more things that made you believe that less.

he slowly started dropping the habits that you always told him that you hated; whispering ill remarks about you when passing by you, ramming the ‘close door’ button on the elevator when he saw you trying to get in – they finally became a thing of the past between you and him.

your weekly “catch up session” with riku came, which weren’t really catch up sessions for you and riku but more for your parents. you were on the sofa, sitting on opposite sides from riku who was once again staring at you.

he was holding his phone up like he was watching something, and it would look like it if you weren’t facing him, but you could see his eyes – and they were entirely concentrated on you.

“what?” you snapped, you were tired of seeing riku stare at you as if he had been in love with you for years.

despite your sharp voice, riku didn’t even flinch. “i didn’t say anything.” he tilted his head. it annoyed you with how he was playing dumb, he knew what he was doing.

“you’re staring.” you breathed out, tired of how he was acting confused.

he cocked his head to the side, slightly squinting his eyes. “i think you’re just delusional, y/n.” the way he used your name was so… personal. it shouldn’t have meant anything, after all it was just your name. but when he said it, it sounded different.

“delusional?” how were you delusional when it was the truth? you’d caught him staring at you, multiple times. and you were delusional? “you were literally staring at me.” you rolled your eyes at him.

“you caught me, hm?” he hummed, a knowing smile playing on his face. “are you getting shy?” he let out a soft chuckle.

“how annoying do you get?” dismissing his question wasn’t your intention, but you were sick of his games: the half-lidded stares, the smug little smirks, the way he always knew how to get under your skin and stay there. “go stare at a wall since staring’s all you wanna do.” you shifted in your seat, starting to realize how much of a flirt riku was.

“they aren’t as pretty as you.” he sighed, promptly turning on his phone so he could look anywhere else but your eyes.

of course now was the time he used his phone. the time where he called you pretty.

was it just a joke? you couldn’t tell. his voice seemed sincere, but if it was wholehearted he wouldn’t have immediately gone onto his phone. seriously, what was he trying to say? you didn’t have a clue.

“you don’t look convinced.” he continued, picking up from where he left off. “just because i think you’re annoying, it doesn’t mean i’m blind.” it was getting harder to tell when he was joking and when he wasn’t, his voice seemed too truthful to be a joke, but there was no way that he liked you after all these years.

“do you…” you hesitated to finish your sentence, “do you like me?”

“maybe.” he thought for a second, “do you want me to?” he needed to stop with those stupid grins that made you overthink everything.

but you didn’t get a chance to answer.

the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence. you and riku’s parents walked in, still mid-conversation. riku’s expression shifted into something perfectly casual, like he hadn’t just asked if you wanted him to like you. you didn’t say anything either.

“you guys okay?” your dad asked.

“yeah,” riku answered, all charming and everything. “y/n was just telling me how much she enjoys spending time with me.”

you shot him a look that he shot right back. you caught the corner of his mouth tugging up, it wasn’t a smirk this time. it was something softer, something that almost looked real.

the sky that was previously glowing with light had gotten dark. your parents had gone upstairs, riku’s were waiting for him in their car, and riku was pulling on his shoes by the door.

you hovered in the hallway, not quite ready to let him leave with the conversation unfinished. once he had his shoes on, he looked up at you, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“what?” he asked, voice low. now it was his turn to be interrogated.

“you didn’t answer me,” you said in a flat voice, not trying to suggest anything.

“i thought i did?”

“you said maybe, that’s not a proper answer, riku.”

he fell silent, looking down at the laces he’d just tied, as if they could offer a way out.

“i didn’t wanna mess things up,” he admitted. “this whole fake friendship thing, it was easier than making up with you. but it’s hard to ignore my feelings now.”

you blinked. “is that supposed to be sweet?”

his eyes were the most honest now, no trace of teasing in them this time. “was it not? i just told you i like you.” you stared at him for a long moment. usually, you would’ve said something mean, teased him. but you had to accept your feelings.

“you’re kinda cute when you like someone.” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.

“do you like me?” he once again pushed the question back to you.

you crossed your arms. “do you?” you stood your ground. you wanted his answer before anything.

and this time, he didn’t hesitate.

“i do.”

your heart thudded in your chest. “took you long enough.”

“i’ve been flirting for weeks, y/n. i think you’re just slow.”

before you could overthink it, you leaned in and kissed him. it was only quick, barely more than a brush of lips, but it shut him up. and for once, that felt like a victory.

when you pulled back, riku looked stunned. but it was only a second before he went back to his usual self. “was that supposed to be sweet?” he echoed, mocking you.

you gave him a look. “don’t push it.” even if you both liked each other, the teasing was relentless.

his smile was real this time. and so was yours.

perm taglist. @jellyouse

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perhapspenelope · 2 days ago

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first off, im sorry if anything that I say makes you that angry and upset. I didn’t call you or anyone pro death, I didn’t know if that was a name any of you guys go by, if you want I can get rid of that. second, I feel like you have very different opinions about a lot of things, like everyone does. However, opinion isn’t fact and maybe the pro life people you’ve met seemed to not care about what happens to the babies afterwards, but that definitely doesn’t mean every pro life person is just like that. I’ve met quite a few pro choice people, and they were all different. The ones that I’ve met in person are pretty kind, just because they agree with something different than me doesn’t mean that either of us have to be rude to the other. The pro choice people online that I’ve met are usually pretty rude, though, but I assume it’s because it’s a lot easier to express your opinions online than face to face with someone. It’s really easy to just think that they’re some random person or maybe even a bot: it’s really easy to think they’re not real because you can’t physically see them. And just because you don’t like what position you’ve been put in on this planet doesn’t mean everyone has to die, you could work to make your (or other peoples’) situation better. From what you’ve described so far, it seems like you’ve had a pretty rough life, and it takes a lot to get through hard things. But you can move on from those things and really work to make things better. From what I gather from your previous statements, you really had been through some pretty horrible things, and it takes a lot of work and effort to be able to persevere through those things, and then be able to pay for technology advanced enough to be on tumblr and probably other stuff that you do on it. If you don’t change your mindset, though, things will never get better. I’m sorry if I was wrong about some things or if you don’t want me to talk about this, or if this just made you even more mad. But I would like to clear up that if you think that you’d rather have your kid be aborted (killed) than to put them up for adoption and give them a chance at a family who’s ready for a kid? It seems that you have very strong opinions which can be a good or bad thing depending on how you talk about them. But I’m not sure if saying you want everyone dead really helped your argument much. I do appreciate that you actually read through everything, even the tags, though. It means that you’re not just speed reading through what I wrote and that you want to understand what I’m saying, and I really appreciate that. I know that everyone on both sides of the pro life/pro choice battle has their own views and opinions and thoughts, no one’s the same, so it is risky to assume that something one person says is true for all of them, or anything like that. Just because one person in a group acts one way doesn’t mean the whole group is like that, I’d like you to know that.

y’all know, most people don’t even know what goes down during an abortion. it’s horror movie level graphic, and it’s to a baby, an itty-bitty child who’s DNA will never be replicated.

#pro life #babies should live #babies #stop killing babies #baby #pro choice #abortion #abortion rights #bodily autonomy #reproductive rights #pro abortion

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velvetvisionsaurora · 4 hours ago

Text

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.

Authors note: I know everyone wanted Y/n to go full on badass mode, I had wrote her joining in like 3 different ways and it didn’t feel right just yet. She’ll get her badass moment I promise!

18+ only- No Minors

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 7: Fight or Flight

The gunfire intensified, each shot a thunderclap in the night. Through the van's tinted windows, you could see muzzle flashes illuminating the compound like violent lightning. The drone feed on the monitor showed chaos—figures darting between buildings, taking cover, returning fire.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage. You recognized the tactical movements of the ATEEZ members even through the grainy night vision feed—Hongjoong's decisive leadership as he directed the others, Seonghwa's precise marksmanship, San's acrobatic maneuvers, Jongho's raw power as he engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a much larger opponent.

But they were outnumbered. Badly.

You could hear their labored breathing through the comms, the terse exchanges becoming more urgent with each passing minute.

"East exit compromised—" Yeosang's usually calm voice edged with tension.

"Two more hostiles on the roof—" San, followed by the sound of more gunfire.

"Mingi's hit!" Jongho's panicked report sent ice through your veins. "Not critical, but we need extraction."

"Working on it—" Hongjoong, his voice strained. "Seonghwa, cover the south approach. Yunho—"

"Almost there," Yunho responded, his voice coming through the comm.

The situation was deteriorating rapidly. You could see it in the frantic movements on the monitor, hear it in their increasingly desperate communications. This wasn't just a mission gone wrong—it was a trap. They had walked into an ambush, and now they were fighting their way out.

Fighting for their lives.

Something snapped inside you. Seven years of anger, of hurt, of carefully maintained distance—all of it fell away in the face of the primal fear that now gripped you. These weren't the men who had abandoned you. In this moment, they were simply the eight boys you had loved your entire life, and they were in danger.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you pressed the comm activation button.

"I swear to god," your voice rang out, steady despite your racing heart, "if any of you die before I can make your lives miserable, I will never forgive you."

A beat of stunned silence followed, then—

"Y/n?" Hongjoong's surprised voice.

"Yes, I'm breaking the 'minimal chatter' rule," you continued, a hint of your usual defiance returning. "Deal with it. Now get your asses back here in one piece."

Through the comm, you could hear what sounded like a soft chuckle from Seonghwa, a grunt of agreement from Jongho. On the monitor, you saw renewed purpose in their movements, a second wind as they pressed forward with more coordination.

"On our way, princess," San replied, his voice tight with exertion but with a hint of his usual playfulness. "Just taking care of a few party crashers first."

"Taking too long," you countered, watching anxiously as Mingi limped behind cover, clutching his side. "Move faster."

"Bossy as ever," Yeosang remarked, but you could hear the ghost of a smile in his voice.

"God, it's so hot when you threaten us," Wooyoung's voice came through with an exaggerated moan that was so ridiculous, so perfectly Wooyoung, that a genuine laugh escaped you despite the gravity of the situation.

Even in the midst of gunfire and danger, he could still make you laugh. Some things never changed.

On the monitor, you could see them making progress, fighting their way toward the extraction point where the vehicles waited. But they were moving too slowly, and more hostile figures were appearing on the perimeter of the compound.

Panic coursed through your veins. Seven years ago, you had lost them to circumstances you didn't understand. Now you might lose them permanently, right before your eyes.

The thought was unbearable.

"First person that makes it back to me gets a kiss," you blurted out, desperation making you reckless.

The effect was immediate and electric. You heard several sharp intakes of breath, followed by what sounded like a renewed burst of energy in their movements.

"Oh, you're ON," San declared, his figure on the monitor suddenly moving with doubled speed.

"That's not fair!" Wooyoung protested. "Some of us are farther away! I'll shoot anyone who gets to the car before me, I swear to god!"

"Shut up and move," Hongjoong ordered, but even his voice had a new edge of determination.

Through the drone feed, you watched in amazement as their retreat transformed from desperate to almost supernaturally efficient. Seonghwa provided perfect cover fire as Hongjoong helped Mingi toward the exit. Jongho single-handedly cleared a path through three armed men. San and Yeosang worked in perfect tandem, one creating distractions while the other neutralized threats.

And Wooyoung—Wooyoung was moving like a man possessed, vaulting over obstacles and dodging bullets with an almost comical determination.

"I have visual on the vehicles," Hongjoong reported. "Yunho, status?"

"Area secure," Yunho responded from somewhere outside your van. "Ready for extraction."

"Incoming in three, two—"

The world outside erupted in a final, furious exchange of gunfire. You held your breath, tears welling in your eyes as you watched the monitor, counting figures, praying that all seven dots would make it to the extraction point.

One by one, they appeared on the edge of the compound—Hongjoong supporting Mingi, Seonghwa providing rear cover, Jongho and Yeosang flanking them protectively. San emerged next, dragging a limping Wooyoung who seemed to be simultaneously cursing his injury and demanding to be let go so he could win the race.

Your hands trembled as you watched them sprint the final distance toward the vehicles. They were going to make it. They had to make it.

A final burst of gunfire, a shout of warning—

The door of your van burst open so suddenly you jumped, reaching instinctively for the knife concealed at your ankle.

Yunho's face appeared, his expression intense as he slid into the driver's seat. "Everyone's accounted for. We're moving. Now."

The engine roared to life as the others piled into the second and third vans. Within seconds, all three vehicles were peeling away from the compound, tires screeching on asphalt as they accelerated into the night.

Through the rear window, you could see muzzle flashes as the Russo men continued firing after you, but the bullets fell short as the distance increased.

"Status report," Hongjoong's voice came through the comm, authoritative despite his heavy breathing.

"Vehicle One clear," Yunho responded beside you. "Y/n’s safe."

"Vehicle Two operational," Seonghwa reported. "Mingi needs medical but it's not critical. Flesh wound to the lower abdomen."

"Vehicle Three functioning," San added. "Wooyoung took a graze to the leg. He's being dramatic about it."

"I am NOT being dramatic!" Wooyoung protested in the background. "I was THIS CLOSE to winning that kiss before I got shot! This is TRAGIC!"

Despite the lingering danger, a wave of relief washed over you so powerful it made you dizzy. They were alive. All eight of them had made it out.

"Everyone maintain evasive driving patterns until we're clear of the hot zone," Hongjoong instructed. "No direct route back to the compound until we're sure we're not followed."

"Copy that," Yunho acknowledged, making a sharp turn down a side street.

For several minutes, the three vans wove through the city in a carefully coordinated dance—separating, rejoining, taking unpredictable routes to shake any potential pursuit. Your eyes remained fixed on the side mirror, watching for signs of followers, but the streets behind you remained clear.

"I think we're good," Yunho said finally, both to you and through the comm.

"Agreed," Hongjoong responded. "Converge on route Alpha and proceed to base."

As the immediate danger passed, an awkward silence filled your vehicle. You were acutely aware of what you'd said in the heat of the moment—the offer of a kiss, the naked concern in your voice. Seven years of carefully maintained anger and distance, undone in an instant by fear.

"Thank you," Yunho said quietly, his eyes on the road ahead. "What you did back there... it made a difference."

You stared out the window, unwilling to meet his gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A small smile touched his lips. "Of course not."

The comm crackled to life again. "So," Wooyoung's voice, deliberately casual. "About that kiss..."

"You didn't win," San interjected immediately. "I definitely reached the extraction point before you."

"You did not! I was ahead until I got SHOT, which is CHEATING—"

"No one's getting a kiss," Hongjoong cut in firmly. "It was said in the heat of the moment. Drop it."

"Actually," came Yeosang's measured voice, "I believe I was technically the first to reach the extraction point. By approximately 2.3 seconds."

"That's a lie!" Wooyoung exclaimed. "Yunho, you were monitoring! Who got there first?"

Yunho glanced at you, amusement dancing in his eyes despite the gravity of the situation you'd just escaped. "No comment."

"This is OUTRAGEOUS!" Wooyoung continued, his theatrical indignation drawing reluctant smiles from everyone. "I demand a rematch! Once my leg heals. Which might be never, by the way. I'm probably dying."

"It's a graze," Seonghwa said dryly. "You'll live."

"You don't know that! I could be bleeding internally! I could be—"

"Going to shut up for the rest of the ride?" Jongho suggested.

"Unlikely," Mingi chimed in, his voice strained but amused. "He's going to milk this for all it's worth."

"You know," San observed, "for someone who almost got killed, Wooyoung seems remarkably energetic."

"It's the promise of a kiss," Yunho said, giving you a quick, teasing glance. "Powerful motivation."

You felt your cheeks warm, but kept your expression neutral. "No one's getting a kiss," you stated firmly, echoing Hongjoong's earlier declaration. "I was just trying to get you all to move faster."

"And it worked," Yeosang pointed out. "Quite effectively."

"Whatever," you muttered, sinking lower in your seat.

The banter continued as the three vehicles made their way back to the compound, the familiar pattern of teasing and comebacks so reminiscent of earlier days that it made your chest ache with a complicated mixture of nostalgia and grief.

For those few minutes during the crisis, you had forgotten to be angry. You had forgotten the abandonment, the cruel words, the seven years of silence. All that had mattered was making sure they survived.

Now, as the adrenaline ebbed, the walls began to rebuild themselves—but slower, less certain than before.

Because the truth was undeniable: when you thought you might lose them, nothing else had mattered. Not your pride, not your hurt, not your carefully cultivated hatred.

"We're home," Yunho announced softly as the compound came into view, the gates opening automatically to admit the three vehicles.

Home. The word echoed in your mind, uncomfortable in its resonance.

This wasn't home. It couldn't be. Home was safe, and nothing about your feelings for these eight men was safe.

But as you stepped out of the van into the compound's courtyard, watching as they emerged from the other vehicles—battered, exhausted, but alive—you couldn't deny the relief that flooded through you.

You couldn't deny that, at least for tonight, you were glad to be here with them.

And that was dangerous territory indeed.

* * *

The compound buzzed with tense energy as everyone dispersed to assess injuries and debrief. Seonghwa had immediately whisked Mingi away to the medical room to tend to his wound, with Jongho following to assist. San was half-carrying, half-dragging a still-complaining Wooyoung, who seemed determined to make his minor injury sound like he was at death's door. Hongjoong and Yeosang had disappeared into the command center to analyze what had gone wrong.

That left you standing in the foyer with Yunho, the adrenaline of the night still coursing through your veins.

"You should get some rest," he said, studying your face with concern. "That was a lot to take in for your first mission."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though the slight tremor in your hands betrayed you. The reality of how close you'd come to losing them—all of them—was still sinking in. "What about the others? Mingi and Wooyoung..."

"They'll be okay," Yunho assured you. "Mingi's wound looks worse than it is—the bullet grazed his side. And Wooyoung..." A small smile touched his lips. "Well, you heard him. He's milking it for all it's worth, but it's barely a scratch."

You nodded, relief washing over you. Then you noticed the dark stain on Yunho's sleeve, partially hidden by the black fabric of his tactical gear.

"You're hurt," you said, reaching for his arm.

He tried to pull away. "It's nothing. Just caught some glass when one of the windows shattered."

But you had already taken hold of his arm, pushing up the sleeve to reveal a nasty gash along his forearm. "This isn't nothing. It needs to be cleaned and bandaged."

"I can take care of it later," he said dismissively. "After we debrief."

Your eyes narrowed. "The debrief can wait ten minutes. Where are the medical supplies?"

Yunho seemed about to argue, then sighed in resignation. "Second floor, third door on the right. There's a fully stocked medical cabinet."

Without waiting for further discussion, you headed for the stairs, knowing he would follow. He did, his footsteps quiet behind you as you made your way to the designated room.

The medical room was smaller than you expected but immaculately organized—more like a professional clinic than a home first aid station. Several cabinets lined the walls, filled with medications, bandages, and various medical instruments. A padded examination table stood in the center, with bright surgical lights overhead.

"Sit," you commanded, pointing to the table.

A ghost of a smile played across Yunho's face at your authoritative tone, but he complied, perching on the edge of the table while you searched the cabinets for what you needed.

"Top cabinet on the left," he guided. "Antiseptic, gauze, suture kits if needed."

You gathered the supplies and returned to his side, setting everything on a small rolling tray. With careful hands, you helped him remove his tactical jacket, revealing a fitted black t-shirt beneath. The wound looked even worse now—a jagged cut that ran from his elbow nearly to his wrist.

"This might need stitches," you said, frowning as you examined it.

"Probably not," he replied. "Pressure and butterfly bandages should do it."

You gave him a skeptical look but began cleaning the wound with gentle, methodical movements. The silence between you was charged but not uncomfortable—a familiar intimacy from years ago when you'd patched up skinned knees and minor injuries for each other.

"You were good out there," Yunho said softly. "On the comms. You probably saved us."

You kept your eyes focused on your task. "I doubt that."

"I don't," he insisted. "We were scattered, losing cohesion. Your voice..." He paused, searching for the right words. "It centered us. Reminded us what we were fighting to get back to."

Your hands stilled momentarily, his words stirring emotions you weren't ready to examine. "I just didn't want to be stuck in a gunfight alone," you deflected.

Yunho chuckled. "Right. And that kiss offer was just strategic motivation?"

Heat crept into your cheeks. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Spectacularly," he agreed, his tone lighter now. "I've never seen Wooyoung move so fast in my life. I think he broke some kind of land speed record before he got hit."

A small laugh escaped you despite your efforts to maintain your composure. "He's ridiculous."

"He's Wooyoung," Yunho said simply, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did.

You finished cleaning the wound and began applying butterfly bandages, closing the edges of the cut with careful precision. Yunho watched you work, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You learned a lot in seven years," he observed quietly.

"I had to," you replied, a hint of the old bitterness creeping into your voice.

"Y/n..." he began, but you shook your head.

"Don't," you said firmly. "Not now."

He respected your wishes, falling silent as you finished bandaging his arm. When you were done, you stepped back to examine your work.

"It should hold," you said. "But keep it clean and change the dressing tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a hint of teasing. "Thank you."

You began packing up the medical supplies, aware of his eyes still on you, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between you. The night's events had shifted something—weakened the walls you'd built so carefully. The fear you'd felt when they were in danger, the relief when they returned safely—it had all been too raw, too real to dismiss.

"Yunho," you said suddenly, turning to face him. "About what I said on the comms..."

He slid off the table, standing to his full height. "It's okay. Hongjoong was right. It was said in the heat of the moment. No one expects you to—"

You didn't let him finish. Acting on impulse, on the lingering adrenaline and the memory of how close you'd come to losing him—to losing all of them—you stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him down to your level.

Your lips met his in a kiss that was nothing like the innocent one you'd shared at fifteen. This was fierce, urgent, a release of tension and fear and something deeper that you weren't ready to name. Your hands moved to his face, holding him to you as the kiss deepened, became more desperate.

Yunho froze for only a heartbeat before responding with equal fervor, his uninjured arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. Time seemed to stop, the world narrowing to just this—his lips on yours, his heartbeat against your palm, the solidity of him, alive and whole.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, you kept your hands on his face, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"You got to me first," you said, your voice husky. "You got the kiss."

His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours. "Y/n—"

The sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway made you step back quickly, putting distance between you just as the door opened.

Hongjoong stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked between you and Yunho. If he noticed the heightened color in your cheeks or Yunho's slightly disheveled appearance, he gave no indication.

"Yunho, we need you in the command center," he said, his tone professionally neutral. "The drone footage picked up something interesting."

"I'll be right there," Yunho replied, his voice remarkably steady.

Hongjoong nodded once, then looked at you. "You should get some rest, little one. It's been a long night."

Without waiting for your response, he turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

An awkward silence fell between you and Yunho, the moment broken, reality rushing back in. What had you been thinking? One kiss wouldn't erase seven years of hurt. One moment of weakness wouldn't change anything.

"I should go," Yunho said quietly. "They're waiting."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

He moved to the door but paused before leaving, turning back to look at you. "For what it's worth," he said, his voice low and sincere, "I've thought about that kiss by the bonfire every day for the past seven years."

Before you could respond, he was gone, leaving you alone with the medical supplies and the lingering warmth of his lips on yours.

You sank onto the examination table, your fingers touching your mouth in a daze. What had you done? More importantly, why had it felt so right, so natural, to kiss him? As if no time had passed at all. As if they hadn't broken your heart and left you to pick up the pieces alone.

One kiss wouldn't change anything, you told yourself firmly. It was just adrenaline, just relief that they had all made it back alive.

But as you made your way back to your room, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. The walls you'd built were cracking, and you weren't sure you had the strength—or even the desire—to repair them.

Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of bonfires and lake days, of eight boys who became men while you weren't looking, and of a kiss that tasted like both the past and the future.

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orlaunderrated · 1 day ago

Text

The Edges of Us: Chapter 19

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.5k+

Note: Hello i gave YN a september birthday bc she gives virgo vibes.

also pls dont hate me for chapter 21 its coming and i fear people are going to be mad at me for it.

xxx

The week went by way too fast.

Maybe it's the fast pace of this city, or the fact that I’ve been distracted. Either way, since seeing Will at the station that day, he's sort of… drifted out of my head. Like smoke caught in the breeze. The ache that used to sit heavy in my chest has softened, faded into the background noise of everyday life. It’s barely noticeable now. I’m almost surprised.

George, though, has come back in like he never left—solid, steady, with that proper mate energy I always fall back on. It’s like he’s been here the entire time, even though it’s been a while.

I mean, just last week he showed up unannounced with a takeaway curry because I’d moaned about being too tired to cook. No big deal. No drama. Just food. And, as usual, his terrible jokes that make me laugh harder than I should. Even when I know they’re coming, I can’t help but laugh at them.

Or that one night last week, when I was stuck on a bug at work and sent him a frantic message at midnight. Without missing a beat, he stayed on the line for a full hour, alternating between half-teasing and half-moral-supporting me through it. It was as if he knew I needed both—someone to help me focus, but also someone to tell me I wasn’t as stupid as I felt in that moment. I think he made about seven different “cracked the code” jokes, all of them terrible. But still, every time, I felt a little lighter. Like I was a genius, even if I didn’t feel like one at all.

I’ve seen more of George this past week than I care to admit.

I won’t lie, a part of me loves it. He was appalled to hear my plans for my first birthday in London was to split a shitty bottle of wine with him and scroll through Netflix to find our favourite Brooklyn Nine-Nine episodes. That’s exactly what we did for my actual birthday, of course. But for the Friday after, George insisted I needed to do something real. Something different.

I ended up having a dinner out, with some of my friends from The Van plus a handful of Ruth’s mates who I could tolerate, you know, just to pad it out. George, Chris, and Arthur all solemnly declined the invite, pretending it was some big “brand event” they had to attend. And, to be fair, they did actually have one, but they spun it in such a way that it felt like they were doing me a favour by not coming. “We don’t want to steal your thunder,” they said, like I wasn’t capable of enjoying a night without their chaos.

It’s just so typical of them. But I’m not going to lie, it did make me feel a little warm inside. They care, in their own ridiculous way.

So, here I am—out on the town, dressed a little too nicely for a bar, surrounded by friends who make me feel like I actually belong. The music’s pounding, lights flashing, the crowd’s energy wrapping around me like a warm, electric current. I take a deep breath and, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about Will. Or the way I saw him that morning on the train platform, or how the ache had softened but still lingered in the background, like some ghost I couldn’t quite shake off.

It’s just me. Just this moment. Just my birthday celebration in this big, loud city. And for the first time in ages, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

The buzz of the night swirls around me—laughter, music, the clink of glasses all blending together into a warm, fuzzy haze. I’m wine-drunk from the dinner, flushed, carefree, and surrounded by friends, all of whom are easy to talk to and full of stories. Their laughter is infectious, the kind that makes you feel like everything is good, even when you’re not quite sure how you got here.

In this moment, I’m just present, no overthinking, no wondering about past conversations or lost opportunities. It’s all just right now.

And of course, Ruth keeps nudging me, grinning mischievously. “Come on, just say hi to Liam. He’s a good bloke. Deep voice, really sweet.” Liam, of course, is the mate she was trying to set me up with when Will first ghosted.

I wave her off with a laugh, spinning a loose strand of hair between my fingers. “Ruth, I’m not here to meet anyone new. I’m having a bloody good time as it is.”

She smirks but lets it go, knowing she’s not winning this one tonight. I settle into the rhythm of the room, feeling light and happy in a way I haven’t for a while.

The bar is buzzing with that familiar, chaotic energy—laughter spilling into the dim lights, the low hum of music wrapping around the crowd like a warm blanket.

I’m caught in the middle of it all when someone’s hand suddenly slips into mine. My first instinct is to pull away, startled, but then I look up, and a grin that could light up the whole place is looking back at me.

It’s George.

He’s grinning wide, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, a little spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. Without saying a word, he yanks me back into the rhythm, spinning me around with a fluid ease that makes me laugh out loud.

For a moment, the chaos of the dancefloor blurs away. There’s no noise, no crowd. Just us—moving, smiling, perfectly in sync like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

“Had to make it,” he says, his grin never faltering as we twirl. “Can’t miss your birthday celebrations, can I?”

I raise an eyebrow, curious. “Skipped the afterparty did we?”

George shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, the event ended early anyway. It was boring.”

He takes a sip of his drink, leans back against the bar. The music shifts, bass-heavy now, just loud enough to blur the edges of the moment.

If George is here, I’m sure Chris isn’t far behind. They went to the event together—Arthur too, obviously. The Three Musketeers of mildly chaotic YouTube fame. Wherever one goes, the others tend to materialise not long after, usually holding pints and half-finished inside jokes.

I should probably find them. Go say hi. Give them shit for missing my birthday dinner.

“I was just about to text you,” George adds, glancing over with a crooked smile, “see where you ended up.”

He pauses, letting the grin settle.

“But then I heard your laugh—” His hand makes a vague gesture toward me, “—and figured it was the universe telling me to just show up and crash the party in person.”

“Just show up, huh?” I laugh, the moment settling between us like a worn-in coat—comfortable, familiar. I’m so glad he made it tonight.

“May I have this dance, birthday girl?” he asks, mock-formal, eyes twinkling with mischief. He sweeps into an overly dramatic bow, one hand extended like we’re at a royal ball instead of a sticky-floored bar.

I shake my head, smiling at his classic George antics. “Sure, why not?”

Before I can rethink it, he grabs my hand and pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor. The lights blur. The music pulses, loud and careless, the kind that gets into your bones whether you like it or not.

Our movements are terrible—chaotic, off-beat, probably embarrassing—but none of it matters. We’re laughing, bumping shoulders, spinning like idiots. It’s not about dancing well. It’s about this: messy, loud, completely unfiltered joy.

And somehow, it feels exactly right.

That’s when I spot him, of course.

Right when I’m feeling good. Music thrumming in my chest, wine warm in my limbs, laughter still clinging to the corners of my mouth.

Will.

He’s across the room, in a booth, half-lit by the lamp on the table and the sickly blue overhead bar light, talking to someone I vaguely recognise. He looks good. A little tired maybe, but still—him. Black tee. Rings catching the light. That same disarming way he holds his drink like it’s just another prop in his performance of not caring.

And without thinking, like muscle memory, I smile.

Big. Wide. Genuine.

It’s instinct, almost. Something automatic. Like how your body remembers the way home in the dark. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t spoken him in weeks, or that the last time I did, he barely looked at me. My stupid, traitorous face still lights up.

He glances over. Meets my eyes for a second too long.

Then smiles back. Polite. Measured. The kind of smile you give someone you used to know.

And just like that, something in my chest contracts—tight and sharp and sudden.

I think I've convinced myself that I miss him more as a friend than a lover. Because what I’m feeling is nostalgia, not longing. I just want the version of us that used to make each other laugh until our ribs ached.

Not the nights. Not the kisses. Not the way he used to touch me like I was something rare.

I sip my drink. Swallow the smile. Try to focus on the music, on the friends I actually showed up with, on George’s voice somewhere behind me yelling about how he “absolutely crushed that spin move.” Because I’m okay. I am.

Mostly.

I spot Chris in the booth, laughing at something, a drink in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. Will’s next to him, naturally. He's leaning against the counter like he owns it, that casual slouch he always falls into when he’s had just enough to drink.

I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I square my shoulders and head over.

“Oi, look who it is!” Chris beams when he sees me. He stands up and pulls me into a proper hug—tight, warm, sincere in that disarming Chris way. “You look unreal, by the way. Seriously.”

I laugh, startled by the compliment, and mutter something like “you need new glasses,” but it still catches me off guard—the ease of it. The kindness.

When he lets go, I glance at Will.

His hand is still around his glass, knuckles gone white. He hasn’t said anything yet. Hasn’t really looked at me, not properly.

“Hi,” I say, soft but even. I’m not going to shrink.

He offers a smile—thin, polite, all surface. Then he gives me another one of those side hugs, the kind that barely counts. His arm brushes my shoulder, brief and stiff. Like we’re colleagues who once had a weird office Christmas party hookup.

I step back. The cold of his skin lingers.

The silence between us says more than either of us ever could.

Chris, oblivious to the tension, launches into a story about some chaotic shoot involving three smoke machines and a minor fire hazard, and I let him pull me in, let myself laugh at the right beats. But I don’t miss the way Will stays quiet. I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes when I smile too easily at someone else.

At some point, the noise of the bar fades into background chatter. Will's looking at his phone, scrolling through something with intent, and I feel a strange compulsion to fill the silence between us.

“So,” I start, forcing my voice to sound casual, “how have you been?”

His eyes flick up at the mention of the place, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something—maybe surprise. Then it’s gone, replaced with that same cool, detached demeanour.

“Oh, uh...” He swigs from his glass, clearly not looking to dive deep. “I launched a coffee brand last month so I've been non-stop.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Right. Cool. I—uh, didn’t know that.” I totally know that. I stalked the shit out of it when it first dropped. Ruth had to stop me from going to a Sainsburys' to buy it. I don’t tell him that I recognised the logo from various papers around his flat.

I can feel the awkwardness hanging between us, thick as smoke. I don't know what I expected, but I would think he could maybe elaborate a bit more. The man can talk until the cows come home.

I glance over at Chris, who's still caught up in his own story, not paying attention to the fact that Will and I are barely engaging.

Will’s eyes flicker, just for a moment—a hint of something softer, like he’s about to say something. “You look—” His gaze shifts suddenly, moving past me, over my shoulder.

He cuts himself off mid-sentence.

I follow his line of sight, curiosity pulling me to see what has caught his attention.

And of course, it’s George.

George, grinning like a cat who’s just knocked something precious off the counter. “Oi!” He calls out, walking toward us with his trademark enthusiasm. “Why are you wasting your birthday time with these guys? Go have some fun with your mates!”

I can practically hear the relief in Will’s exhale as he shifts his attention away, the soft moment gone before it can take root.

George flashes me a grin, throwing a playful look over at Chris and Will. "You two need to stop being so serious, let her have a good night."

Chris throws up his hands, still smiling. “Fair enough, mate. Go on, buy the birthday girl a drink.”

I laugh, though it feels like a little too much, a little too forced. But George is already pulling me away, guiding me toward the my friends with a cheeky wink.

Will doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t even look back.

And for once, I don’t feel sorry for myself.

Not tonight.

I make my way back to our group, and George goes to the bar to get me another drink. I can feel how flushed my cheeks are from dancing and too much wine, and my hair is clinging to the back of my neck. Ruth’s still mid-rant about how her ex once cried because she beat him at Uno, and I let myself dissolve into the comfort of it—of noisy, lovely people who don’t know the Will of it all.

A few minutes later, George wanders over, two fresh drinks in hand and cheeks pink from the heat. One of Ruth’s friends clocks him immediately, eyes trailing over him like she’s assessing inventory. I don’t blame her. His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough, curls a little messy, grin easy. He looks like the kind of guy you flirt with just to feel alive again.

And I feel it. That flutter. The smallest shift in my chest—something I don’t want to name. It passes quickly, but it still passes.

He grins at something Ruth says, then catches my eye. I turn to face him, his brow raising slightly, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It’s like we’re already mid-conversation, even though neither of us has said a word yet. I turn back to Ruth, who is still complaining.

I'm hyper-aware of his presence next to me, and I'm not sure why but it feels… forbidden. Like I've stumbled into a situation is shouldn't be in. Then, he turns toward the bar. I turn to watch him catching up with a few people from the other side of the room, his voice rising above the crowd. His attention shifts, and he's walking and now, he's standing next to some girl in a glittery top, laughing loudly enough that it cuts through the pulse of the music.

He’s leaning in just enough to hear her, grinning that lopsided grin—the one that always makes people feel like they’re in on something. I feel it before I even register it: a flicker, low in my stomach. A little flutter.

Not jealousy, exactly. Just… awareness. Like I’ve noticed something I wasn’t supposed to.

They’re talking.

No—more than talking.

Leaning in. Faces close. That kind of proximity you only allow when the rest of the room disappears. Eyes locked in a way that makes my stomach drop through the sticky floorboards. For a moment, I forget the beat of the song. Forget the warmth of Ruth’s hand around mine. Forget how to stand.

I shouldn’t stare.

But I do.

God, I do.

“Let’s dance!” someone says (probably Naomi) and suddenly I’m being pulled back into the blur of bodies and basslines. I let it happen. I smile. I raise my arms and pretend I’m still in it, like the music hasn’t warped around the crack forming in my chest.

We move. I dance. I laugh at something Arthur says in passing and shout-sing the chorus of a song I don’t really know. But every time the hook rolls around, I glance over.

He’s still talking to her.

They’ve shifted positions slightly. George now angled toward her like he’s shielding their conversation from the world.

His smile is lopsided, eyes crinkled. That laugh, his real one, the one that starts in his chest and ends in his shoulders—

rises up over the bar.

It’s so familiar. I know that laugh like a favourite song.

And yet I have no idea what’s making her laugh like that.

They talk for ages. Longer than I expect. Longer than I can excuse away.

I keep dancing. Keep pretending. But the longer it goes on, the less I can feel my limbs. I become mechanical, going through the motions, too aware of the prickling at the back of my neck. The small, tight burn behind my ribs.

It’s not jealousy.

(Not quite.)

It’s something messier than that.

Ruth and the others break away for a round of drinks, their laughter trailing off as they slip toward the bar, and I pause—one breath, two—still swaying, still looking.

That’s when George finally pulls back.

His hand lingers a second too long on the girl’s arm.

She says something that makes him smile.

He grins, pats her on the shoulder, and slips away without so much as a glance over his shoulder. No number exchanged, no flirty goodbyes. Just the kind of quiet exit that makes me think maybe it wasn’t even about anything at all.

He rejoins us a few minutes later, sliding next to me at the bar as I'm waiting for Ruth to hurry up and pay for my drink. His eyes find mine, so I turn to face him. He's close to me. Like girl at the bar close. He makes a face that suggests that did not go well and I stifle a laugh.

The flutter’s still there. But it softens into something warmer. Something familiar. And I shake it off. Just a little.

It’s George.

“So,” I say, nudging his elbow, “how’s your new soulmate? Planning the wedding yet?”

He groans. “Don’t start.”

“She touched your arm. That’s legally binding in some countries.”

“She also talked at me for twenty minutes about her birth chart,” he mutters. “Apparently my Mercury is in retrograde, which means I need to ‘unblock my throat chakra.’”

I snort. “She’s not wrong. You do talk like someone who’s never processed a single emotion out loud.”

George shoots me a look, then takes a long sip of his drink like he’s trying to drown the sass. “Honestly? I panicked and told her I was gay.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “You didn’t.”

“I panicked!” he defends, eyes wide. “It was that or pretend I was into crystals. I chose the option with less homework.”

I laugh, I laugh so hard my belly hurts. I try to say that she's probably so confused as he approached her, but it gets lost in my giggles

I’m still laughing as he bumps my shoulder with his, alerting me to the fact that Ruth has finally purchased my drink, I wave for him to join our group. He tells me to wait a second,

George tilts his head toward me, mischief dancing in his eyes. “So… who’s your mate?”

I blink. “Huh?”

He nods subtly toward Ruth’s friend—the same one who gave him the full once-over when he walked over. She’s mid-laugh about something Ruth’s just said, holding her cocktail like it’s a prop in a rom-com. Cute. Confident. Exactly George’s type.

“I saw her eyeing me earlier,” he adds, all mock modesty. “What’s her deal?”

I short-circuit for a second. My brain scrambles like it’s looking for an escape hatch, and before I can think it through, I blurt out, “She has a boyfriend.”

George raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

I nod too quickly. “Yep. Long-term. Serious. Big beard.”

It’s not exactly a lie. Ruth did say she had a boyfriend… at one point. Probably. Maybe. Or maybe that was a different friend. Or maybe I just said so I didn’t have to watch George flirt with another girl tonight. Either way, it’s out there now. Floating between us, ridiculous and unnecessary.

I glance at her, then back at George. “Actually… I think they broke up.” I wince. “I think.”

His looks bewildered at my change of pace. “Well which is it?”

“I don’t know!” I hiss. “I’m not a relationship counsellor, I’m just trying to make sure you don't end up making a fool of yourself again.”

George raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fool of myself?” he chuckles, clearly enjoying how flustered I’ve gotten. His eyes flicker, something sharper flashing for a split second beneath the teasing. “I just… don’t want to make a scene, y’know?”

I nod, though I'm not sure if I fully understand his coolness about it. He can for sure tell I just lied through my teeth. I look down at my drink, stirring it mindlessly, then glance up. Somehow, despite everything, I’ve ended up talking to George and pretty much only George tonight. He looks good—when doesn't he?—like he’s barely even trying. His messy hair, the way his jacket fits him just right, the way he always seems comfortable in his own skin.

I feel something stir in me, but before I can think much more on it, a guy sidles up to the bar, leaning a little too close for comfort.

"Hey, wanna dance?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear, lingering a little too long for comfort.

I give him a polite but firm smile, leaning back just enough to create some space. “No, thanks.”

He doesn’t back off, a smirk spreading across his face as he glances at George. "Is this your bird, mate?" he sneers, eyes scanning George like he's just waiting for a response. There's a challenge in his voice, as if he's testing the waters.

Without missing a beat, George shoots him a look that’s half amusement, half something more protective. “Yeah,” he says, like it's a statement rather than a question, the kind of casual confidence that used to make me feel safe, back when we both knew the drill. He puts his arm around me, just enough to make it clear that the guy’s not going to push any further.

The man hesitates for a second, then mutters something like "Alright, mate," and slinks off, disappearing into the crowd.

"Ugh I hate being called bird. Like do you want me to chirp at you?" I look at George, half-exasperated. “You didn’t have to do that.”

George just shrugs, his expression completely unbothered. “It’s nothing. Just old habits.”

I can't help but smile at that. We used to do this all the time back in uni—keeping unwanted attention off each other. It’s one of those little perks of having an opposite-sex best friend. We always had each other’s backs, no questions asked.

I can see the guy, looking between us, clearly trying to figure out if there’s more to it, but George doesn’t give him anything else. Instead, he casually nudges me with his shoulder, as if to say, Let’s get out of here.

Before I can protest, he’s already setting his empty cup down and pulling me toward the dance floor, a grin spreading across his face.

“Come on, Birthday Girl,” he says, practically dragging me through the sea of people, “let’s actually have some fun tonight, yeah?”

I let him pull me along, a little too easily. Despite the chaos around us, the clamour of voices and thudding bass, I find myself laughing, shaking off whatever that thing was I felt earlier.

And for a moment, it’s just us again. Just the two of us, like it used to be.

“George, no—” I protest through a laugh, but it’s already happening. We’re weaving through bodies and basslines, and he’s grinning like a man on a mission.

“It’s a foolproof plan,” he says, dragging me into the beat. “You pretend to be my girlfriend. We dance. Everyone wins.”

“That is not how foolproof plans work,” I say, but I’m already moving with him.

He spins me dramatically. I nearly trip. He catches me by the waist, laughing into my hair.

For a moment, it’s just the two of us again. Dizzy. Stupid. Easy.

I still feel a little bad about lying to him about Ruth's friend, But George isn’t pressing, isn’t thinking about it. And maybe that’s the part I’m clinging to—that he doesn’t need anything from me right now except this.

Just music, and limbs, and the dumb safety of knowing you’re someone’s favourite dance partner, even if only for one song.

After a few more songs—some iconic, some unrecognisable—we slip off the floor, breathless and flushed. George grabs his drink from where he left it and downs the last of it in one go.

“I think the lads are heading to Lucky’s,” he says, nodding toward the door where Chris is already half-waving, half-coaxing the others out. “You coming?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Ruth’s booked us a karaoke room at that grimy place on the corner. I’m morally obligated.”

He grins. “God help you.”

“She’s promised tequila and emotional support,” I say with a shrug.

George smiles, softer this time. “Text me when you’re home, yeah?”

“Always.”

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where we linger in each other’s space like maybe there’s something more to say. But there’s no goodbye hug, no drama. Just an easy pat on my shoulder and a, “Don’t sing Mr. Brightside. Again.”

“I make no promises,” I call after him.

He heads off with Chris and the rest of the boys, swallowed by the dark edge of the bar crowd, and I turn toward Ruth and our chaos-bound karaoke mission.

There’s no ache. No longing. Just… fuck… a flutter. A stupid, persistent flutter that starts low in my chest and rises like it’s got something to prove. I tell it to shut up. To get a grip. It’s just George.

It’s always been just George.

And yet… my stupid heart won’t listen.

xxx

The night’s winding down, and I've just hit an absolutely phenomenal rendition of Everybody Talks. The buzz of laughter and chatter hums through our private room like a fading song. My head is warm, the tequila and the night mixing into a comfortable fuzz. My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump a little.

I fish it out, squinting at the screen. It's George.

Are you still out?

I smile, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I’m still out, technically, but the bar here called last drinks 10 minutes ago, Ruth is half asleep on the couch and I’m tired. So tired that my bed sounds way more appealing than going to another bar. I don’t even question when someone says that the uber is £70.

I type back.

Yeah. We’re about to head home though.

I pause. The Uber price pops back into my mind like a punchline I can’t unhear.

Fuck, Ubers are £70. Who’s pricing London like this?

My phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Crash at mine!

That was part of our deal.

I stare at the screen, breath catching for a moment. It’s simple, casual, but somehow exactly what I needed to hear. Like a lifeline thrown over a sea of overpriced rides and fading energy.

I glance around at my friends, then back at my phone. A slow smile spreads across my face.

Maybe tonight isn’t done yet.

xxx

I step Into George’s flat, the door clicking softly behind me. I expected the usual buzz—Chris and Arthur sprawled on the couch, music thumping, the familiar chaos of a late-night kick-on.

But it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Only George is there, sitting on the worn sofa, looking a little too casual for this time of night. No Arthur teasing him about the playlist, no Chris talking a little too loudly about something I don’t care about. Just George, and that weird flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he sees me,

I drop my bag by the door and lean against the frame, suddenly aware of how still the room feels without the usual noise.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

He shrugs, grinning that lopsided smile. “Figured I’d hold down the fort.”

I smirk, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Ghosted. Probably found a better party.”

I laugh softly, feeling this strange mix of relief and something else I can’t quite name. Just George. Just us.

We settle into the living room like it’s our own private island amid the quiet hum of the city outside. The faint clink of glasses from earlier still lingers in the air, but it’s just the two of us now. No crowds, no distractions—just George and me.

He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, and I’m perched opposite on the other side, both of us locked in that comfortable rhythm of teasing and banter.

“You owe me a rematch on FIFA,” he says, grinning like he’s already won before the game’s even started.

“Oh please,” I fire back, voice light but eyes sharp, “you’re just scared of losing again. You barely even know the controls.”

He throws his head back and laughs, that rich, easy sound that always catches me off guard—like a secret only I’m allowed to hear. “Scared? Never. I’m just letting you think you’ve got a chance. Gotta keep the game interesting, right?”

I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Is that what you call it? I’d say it’s called ‘underestimating your opponent’.”

He leans forward, that mischievous glint in his eye making my heart do that stupid little skip it’s been refusing to quit all night. “Maybe I’m just playing the long game. You know, lull you into a false sense of security before I completely wipe the floor with you.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling too wide. “You keep dreaming, George. One of these days, I’m going to break your winning streak.”

His grin widens. “That day can’t come soon enough. Until then, I’ll be enjoying watching you try and fail.”

I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Better watch out. When I win, I expect you to perform me victory dance, call it a birthday present.”

He raises his hands mock-defensively. “Deal. But be warned—I’m known for my killer dance moves.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, I saw those earlier. Didn’t exactly strike me as ‘killer’.”

“Oh, you wound me.” He points a finger at me, feigning offense. “Maybe I’ll let you be my dance partner. Then you can judge my moves up close.”

I catch that look he throws—like he’s daring me to say yes, like he’s hoping I will.

It’s ridiculous how much I want to.

But I just grin and flick his forehead. “In your dreams, George.”

He catches my hand before I pull away, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “Dreams are where the best things happen, don’t you think?”

I glance down at our hands, then back up at him, breath catching for a second. “Maybe.”

I shift in my seat, my heart pounding louder in my ears. It’s ridiculous—I’m telling myself it’s just friendship. Nothing else. But then, almost without thinking, I lean forward and press a quick, impulsive kiss to his cheek.

Immediately, the world tilts.

George freezes, his eyes wide and unblinking, locked onto me like I’m suddenly some impossible riddle he can’t solve. My heart thuds so loud I’m sure he can hear it, and my breath catches, sharp and ragged in my chest. Panic crashes in like a tidal wave, dragging me under before I even have a chance to catch myself.

What the hell did I just do?

I’ve spent so long tiptoeing around this—around him—pretending like the last few months didn’t come with a price. Like I didn’t know exactly how fragile this all was. And now I’ve gone and thrown a grenade into the middle of it.

Did I not learn my lesson?

Every warning bell I told myself to listen to—every quiet voice in the back of my head screaming don’t do this—I ignored it. Because it felt good. Because it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was something worth risking.

But looking at him now, the way his whole body stiffens, the way his jaw tightens like he’s swallowing a storm—fuck, I’m terrified.

Because I know that look. That’s the look of someone who’s about to build a wall so high it’ll take years to climb back over.

And I’m the one who place the first brick.

I want to reach out, to explain, to tell him it didn’t mean what it always means. That I’m not trying to ruin everything. Again. But my throat tightens, words catching like stones.

I’ve broken us once before. Maybe I’m just stupid enough to do it again.

And the worst part? I don’t know how to fix it.

I swallow hard and try to steady my racing heart, but the damage feels already done—impossible to rewind.

I wanted this to be different. I wanted us to be different.

But maybe some things are just too broken to mend.

And I don’t think I'm strong enough to watch him walk away again.

I pull back even further, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sorry,” I mumble, cheeks burning, “That was— I don’t know what that was.” I instinctually start to think about where my bag is, where my phone is, if I it worth just firming a £70 Uber after all.

My hands are shaking slightly as I lean back, instinctively searching the room for my bag. My phone. Somewhere safe, somewhere away from this mess. I’m already mentally mapping out a quick exit strategy, but grounded to the couch, trying to ignore the way my chest is still tight, still buzzing with that kiss that feels like it’s carved into my skin.

Maybe I can just throw myself into the £70 Uber, call it a night, and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s always the easy out, right? Just pull the drunk card, laugh it off. Oh, I always kiss Ruth’s cheek, sorry, I’m just sooo wasted.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, fingers brushing my arm, cautious. There’s a pause—barely a heartbeat—where his hand hovers, and I it's like he’s weighing every possible outcome behind his eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he takes my hand and gently pulls me off my place on the couch.

I stumble a little as I rise, and he guides me between his knees. One arm slips around my waist, the other steadies my hip, and then he's tugging me down into his lap. Our controllers drop to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

Now I’m straddling him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. My chest is almost flush with his, barely any space between us, and I can feel the rise and fall of his breath—shallow, nervous. His hands settle on my waist, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing circles through the fabric of my shirt.

The heat of him seeps into me. Every point where we touch feels electric, like a current passing through skin and bone. The air around us grows heavy, charged, as if the room itself is holding its breath. I am too.

My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if he can hear it. I’m terrified—but I don’t want to move.

Then his lips find mine.

It’s immediate, a shock of heat. The kiss starts slow, hesitant, like he’s feeling his way through the dark. But then, without warning, it deepens, his mouth pressing harder, demanding more, like he’s been holding back forever and can’t anymore.

There’s a desperation to it, but it’s not just hunger. It’s… something else. His lips move against mine with a kind of urgency that makes my whole body hum. Each touch, each breath, builds into something hotter, more dangerous, until I’m gasping for air, my chest burning with every shallow inhale.

My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel more of him. The world around us blurs, fades into the background—there’s nothing but this, nothing but the fire between us.

And then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he pulls away.

I’m left there, dazed, my heart pounding in my chest, like I’ve been thrown into the ocean and can’t quite find the surface. My pulse is still racing, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

He’s looking at me, his eyes dark, impossibly intense. There’s no confusion in them, no second-guessing. Just something raw, like he knows exactly what this is and what it means. But neither of us is ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

I swallow hard, my voice shaky as I speak, barely above a whisper. “I thought I’d ruined it.”

His eyes flash—something sharp, fleeting, almost imperceptible. “Shut up.”

His voice is low, rough around the edges. Not cruel, but desperate—like he’s trying to strangle the doubt in its cradle, to silence that voice inside me that always wants to dismantle everything good before it can begin.

The space between us feels impossibly small now, strung tight like a wire. One wrong move and it could all snap. The kind of silence that teeters between breaking everything... or changing everything.

We’re frozen, breathless. Neither of us dares to move. Not yet. Not while the air is this thick with unspoken things and nearlys.

And then, before I can even fully exhale, he moves.

One hand slides up my back, firm and certain, and he pulls me in, swift and sure. His lips find mine in a kiss that doesn't ask—it claims. There’s nothing hesitant now, nothing careful. Just months, no years, of tension unravelling in a single heartbeat.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, rushed, mouths colliding more than meeting. But it’s real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

My hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as I kiss him back, everything else falling away. No fear. No doubt. Just this.

Finally.

xxx

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