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the-thing-withfeathers · 6 months ago

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the archer’s arrow part 2 (w.a.)

are you hiding something?

part one | next part

a/n: teehee i am so sorry for the wait but i hope y’all enjoy this one <3

pairing: wednesday addams x female reader

warnings: mentions of blood & death

➶ ➶ ➶

thwip!

it was your arrow, definitely your arrow.

“go! wednesday! go!”

and your voice, definitely your voice.

wednesday gasped awake, sitting up instantaneously. she gripped her chest, bunching the fabric of her shirt up into a fist. her head turned to look at her alarm clock.

she was awake ahead of schedule but she was grateful she woke up when she did. she immediately got dressed, the stomping of her boots lining the walls of ophelia hall.

she reached your room, knocking thrice before stepping back.

you were already dressed, today was an early practice day.

“wednesday, you’re early.” you tilted your head, stepping aside to let her in anyways.

“i value punctuality.” she lied. she was getting better at coming up with them in her efforts to try and hide her true intentions from you.

a bit of her looked disheveled, like she had rushed to get there. you noticed her braid a little out of place and her socks mismatched— both black but definitely not from the same pair.

“right. well, let me finish this and i’ll be ready to go.” you took to your chair at your desk, settling back down.

wednesday noticed that there were a couple of envelopes littered across your desk. you were in the process of writing letters.

“you’re writing.” she pointed out.

“yes, wednesday. thats something i can do too.” you joked back, she remained stoic.

“what are the letters for?” she inquired.

“mainly family but also for some of my friends at the academy.”

“i understand your family lives remote but surely your friends have phones?” she furrowed her brows.

“they do, but we think letters hold more sentiment.” you clarified, scribbling more words onto the piece of parchment paper you had aquired. “and it’s always nice to receive things in the mail.” you shrugged.

“i suppose you might be right.” she agreed. you were surprised to hear her validation.

her eyes followed the ink that your pen left behind. it caught her attention particularly when you drew a heart next to someone’s name on the envelope.

you sealed the letter and then proceeded to stand, grabbing your gear from your closet. you opened the door for wednesday, allowing her to exit first.

you two walked side-by-side down to the practice range.

“did you have many friends at the academy?” she asked as you exited ophelia hall.

“many? not many. but a good handful. they were all very kind. i would love to know them forever.” you smiled, reminiscing at the memories you shared with them.

“any more than friends?” she asked, not looking at you. you looked at her with your lip curled. at the back of your mind, you questioned her curiosity about your romantic life.

“who’s asking?” you retaliated, a smirk plastered on your face. you glanced at her only to be met with a glare. you knew you would certainly meet your end if you left the question unanswered.

“yes, wednesday. i had a girlfriend.” you sighed, rubbing your eyes. it was a bit of a sore spot, this topic.

but wednesday cared not for sore spots.

“what happened?” she pryed further. why was she pushing those buttons so much?

the memories of her rejection flooded through your brain. she had no right to ask these things. you remember how the look on your face was probably the single most heartbreaking thing most of your fellow students have ever seen.

“why are you asking about this, wednesday?” you practically hissed at her.

“i’m not going to take advantage of your practice times and not get to know you.” she spat back.

“you… hm.” you paused. “i never thought i’d be answering questions from wednesday addams. you’ve changed too.”

“so answer them if my question intrigue you so much.” she continued walking at your pace.

“fine. we split up because i wanted to come back and we couldn’t do the long distance.” you answered openly. “but we’re still friends. she and i were very close, she helped me through a lot.”

you continued to stride towards the forest as wednesday simply watched you. you had someone, but were fine giving it all up to come back. the feeling opened a pit in her stomach, if only you had known what she was hiding.

—

she had taken a liking to your routines in the wilderness.

“i purposefully try to miss.”

you had told her that was the closest thing you could get to immersing yourself into your environment. murder of fauna in the nevermore woods was frowned upon, so you had to learn control.

“isn’t that counter productive?”

she asked back, but you proved her wrong. your control was incredible. nicking a squirrel by the hair of its tail, she watched the focus on your face as you tried to ensure it’s life.

“it’s harder to hunt down animals and make sure they live rather than die.”

today, she sat with a notebook. she said she just wanted to focus on writing up ideas for her novel while you practiced.

it was like she was your body double, just a shadow that lingered around while you did your thing. somehow, it worked. you felt more productive and so did she…

if she was working on her novel.

her pen glazed across the yellowed paper on her notebook. the ink morphed into the image of your bow. on paper, your body was facing the trees, arm reaching for an arrow from your quiver. wednesday captured your physique, how your body flexed with every move you made.

thwip!

wednesday did not flinch.

but she nearly did.

an arrow lodged into the tree trunk, directly above her head.

“i can literally feel your stare, wednesday. you’re making me nervous.” you teased. her eyes grew dark at you.

“try that again and you won’t have fingers to shoot an arrow with.”

you couldn’t help but smile at her empty threat. you knew wednesday more than either of you thought. you knew that she wouldn’t take your fingers, they would stay with you.

you drew your bow again, pointing an arrow straight at her jokingly.

“try me, addams!”

the statement made wednesday’s head shoot backwards, her eyes clouding over.

“try me addams!” you yelled at her. you were younger. your cheeks were fuller, you hadn’t quite grown into your face yet.

but there you were, back then, the object of wednesday addams’ affection. but she could never admit that then.

you were on your back, pinned against the ground with wednesday on top of you. she remembers this fondly, she was trying to steal back her hairties that you had stolen as a joke.

you were laughing. it was the most joyous she’d ever seen you. she didn’t know how she was getting that reaction from you.

she was reaching as you held the ties above your head, swinging your arm around to make sure she didn’t get it. she was growing frustrated.

she groaned and drove two of her fists down into your chest, robbing your body of air. you coughed as a response and caved in, handing her the hairties.

“okay addams!” you choked out, sitting up to be closer to the girl. you laughed softly, coming face to face with her. “i just wanted to play a prank on you.”

“pranks are a waste of your time. you have better things to do.” she said, standing up. “you’re going to be late for practice.” she looked down at you. you remained seated.

“they’re not a waste of my time if it means i get to spend time with you.” you said, honestly. sure, you were mildly flirting but you were geniune. wednesday didn’t know how to process the admitted desire for companionship. she returned the sentiment, but it wouldn’t come out of her.

“i’ll come to your practice then.” wednesday said, putting the hairties in her bag. “i’ll sit there and wait for you.” she held her hand out for you to take so she could help you up.

you grinned up at her from where you were.

that grin, she would have killed for it.

“deal!” you jumped up excitedly, a proud smile on your face. you took her hand to stabilise yourself.

and it was then she got her first vision of you.

you were older now. definitely older.

you were still in the forest, holding wednesday’s hand just like how you were in the real world.

your bow was in your left hand, like you had just come from battle. blood was dripping down from your ears.

you had blood staining your shirt. and it looked bad. something most people wouldn’t be able to recover from.

and it flickered between the image of your eyes crickling from how huge your smile was and the sight of you donning crimson in front of wednesday.

“wednesday!” you cried out to her, catching her in your arms.

and then she was back to reality.

“wednesday!”

a vision of a future in a vision of the past? that was new for her. her powers might have been trying to tell her something— something more urgent.

she remembers leaving you alone at practice that day, taking back her deal to you. she had to sit alone and process.

three days later, she broke your heart.

“you still get those often?” you asked, sitting her down against the tree trunk.

“of course i do.” she snapped, her conscience pounding from the double vision she just had.

“sorry, stupid question.” you said, regretfully. you sat in front of her, still holding her back to steady her. “do you want to talk about it?”

she hated how you cared.

“no.” she shook her head. “it was just… nothing. nothing important.”

“you and i both know your visions have saved countless lives, wednesday.” the way you said her name had her head reeling. “is there something we should be worrying about?”

“no… no.” she waved you off, pushing you away. you sat there nonetheless.

“okay well… are you feeling okay?” you worriedly questioned her.

“i would feel better if you stopped asking questions.”

you recoiled, knowing it was best not to provoke her like this. her heart twisted at your concern, they made her feel almost guilty for pushing you so far away.

she had broken you down slowly, she knew that now. you poured your heart into your affectionate manner, it was something that scared her.

you sat in silence, taking in your surroundings and letting her recover from the vision. you were around when she first started getting them, you knew how badly they affected her.

she almost wanted to apologise, tell you that she was sorry for snapping. but she couldn’t let you get close again.

“we should go soon, lunch is in 30 minutes.” you spoke up first, breaking the peace. she simply nodded at you, helping herself up. you followed suit, yanking the arrow you had previously stabbed into the tree out and putting it back into your quiver.

➶ ➶ ➶

you sat across from wednesday. she recalled a time you would fight for the seat beside her, but instead, you filled the space next to yoko.

“you’re already thinking about the rave’n?” you asked enid, munching away at your food in between sentences.

“of course i am!” enid jumped up. “it’s our last year here! we need to think about these things!” she turned to you and grabbed your hands.

“and it’ll be your first & last rave’n back! we have to make it good!” she squeezed your hands. you rolled your eyes but couldn’t hold back a smile.

“okay well, you’ll help me shop then.” you held your pinky up, which the blonde gladly took in her own.

“good! and you, wednesday?” enid turned to the shorter girl, tilting her head.

“my rave’n experiences haven’t exactly been pleasant, enid.” wednesday brushed her off. “maybe this is the year i skip out.”

“you shouldn’t. i would like you there if it’s my first one back and last one i’ll ever have.” you said, forgetting that such desires were usually turned down by wednesday.

but that was somehow enough to convince her.

“fine.” she grumbled, a contrast to the smile that was now stuck to your face.

“never thought that would be so easy. you must be the sentimental type, addams.” yoko commented. the mental image in wednesday’s head was her brutally bashing the vampire for saying that.

“do you know the theme?” you asked enid. the werewolf was finally asked to head the planning of the rave’n, she was perfect for the job.

“yup! since it’s halloween— we’re doing guts & gore!”

you swear you saw wednesday nearly crack a smile, this was right up her alley.

“and glitter!” enid added in, you were unsure if she was joking.

the joy on wednesday’s face faded slowly, you softly laughed at the change of expression.

“don’t worry, addams. i’m sure you’ll look fine bedazzled.” you joked, snickering. yoko laughed beside you.

she glowered at you, your smile persisted. did she no longer have an affect on you in these situations?

you really had grown.

“i would rather choke and die before covering myself in sparkles.” she took an angry bite of her food.

“don’t worry, wends, i’ll forgive you this once.” enid giggled. “gore is still your element, i’m sure it will be reminiscent of your first rave’n.“

“i heard about that.” you chimed in. “pig’s blood, right? maybe you can work with real blood this time, nobody seems to know the difference. and you’d probably enjoy that better.” you had said that almost too casually, it bothered her.

she was like an old book you hadn’t picked up yet still knew the insides and outs of.

“yes. maybe i will.” she answered briefly. you returned to your meal, finishing up and picking your bookbag up.

“gotta go, i have some botany homework to catch up on.” you said, turning to wednesday quickly. “did you want to join me for archery club later?” you asked.

she paused for a second, debating her answer.

“no, i can’t. i have homework i need to do in my room.” christ! why did she say that? she meant to say yes!

perhaps it was her defense mechanism, she wanted to keep you at arm’s length after what happened in the forest today. she needed some time to process.

“no worries. i’ll see you guys later!” you jogged off and waved as you left.

“is it weird hanging around her again?” yoko asked, she realised she hadn’t talked to wednesday about your return much.

“i suppose.” wednesday nodded. she had grown closer to yoko overtime, finding herself being honest towards her. “she’s changed a lot.”

“i mean, yeah. her entire environment changed in a whim. that makes you grow up.” yoko agreed. “you two seem to be getting along just fine.”

“indeed. but we can never go back to how we used to be.” wednesday tried to put up a front. “i’m sure she wouldn’t want that either.”

“given how you tore her heart in half last time you saw her? i wouldn’t put it past her.” yoko sighed, “but you can’t hold it against her forever.”

“i can and i will.” wednesday scoffed. yoko squinted at her.

“are you hiding something?” the vampire asked. yoko had an excellent talent for reading people, it infuriated the addams girl.

“no.” wednesday responded firmly, standing up abruptly and gathering her things. “i have to go. i’ll talk to you both later.”

enid and yoko shot each other worried looks.

wednesday stomped off to her room, a scowl evident on her face.

she hated this. all of it.

she hated that her visions were getting stronger, they were so loud that they were making her entire body hurt.

she hated that she would once again become responsible for saving someone, she was always thrust into the world of the weird. was it such a crime that she wanted some normalcy?

she hated you. she hated that she was forced to reject you in order to prevent your impending doom.

she hated you. she hated you for returning and making her feel things again.

she hated you. she hated that she was terrified of your death.

she hated you. she hated you. she hated you.

but she had to save you.

➶ ➶ ➶

author’s journal

okay i’m soooo sorry this took ages! and that this is relatively short! but i was in the middle of quitting my job and planning my christmas trip to see my family!

i’ll let y’all in on the reader’s powers more in the upcoming chapters but she is definitely a psychic!

i also am sooo excited for halloween!!! i’m going as wednesday this year and i also bought from the doc martens x wednesday collaboration so i’m so so keen on getting it in.

i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter & hopefully chapter 3 will be out before you all know it!

kisses xx

#the archer’s arrow #wednesday addams #wednesday #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x f!reader #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday addams fic #wednesday addams one shot #wednesday addams fluff #wednesday addams angst #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x female reader #jenna ortega x f!reader #jenna ortega angst

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studioeisa · 6 months ago

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haven't we met? ♾️ minghao x reader.

“wherever you are in the world, i swear i'll find you again.”

★ kimi no nawa minghao x reader. ★ word count: 9k ★ day one of (the8) days of minghao. ★ genre/warnings: romance, light angst, friendship, hurt/comfort. mentions of death/calamities. soulmates, body swapping, time travel, delayed ripple effect, references to chinese mythology. inspired by & heavily references makoto shinkai's kimi no nawa/your name, but it's not required to have seen the film to understand the plot. annotations.

It’s a Wednesday when Minghao wakes up in a room that isn’t his.

He doesn’t immediately register it. His senses come to him slowly; the sun is warm on his face, supposedly streaking through the windows.

But then an alarm blares, and it’s an alarm that’s decisively not his. It’s loud and oppressive. The complete opposite of the gentle tinkling of bells that he sets for his mornings. Minghao peels his eyes open before blinking blearily up at a ceiling that’s in a shade of dark green.

Odd. His ceiling is supposed to be beige.

Minghao finally manages to sit up, to glance around. The room he’s in is not his. It’s much more disorganized and the furniture’s a bit more old-fashioned. He lets out a slight exhale.

A dream, he thinks wearily. I’m dreaming.

Minghao can’t help but think that it’s a particularly realistic dream as he unsteadily gets to feet. As he pulls aside the sheets that had covered him, he notices snatches of a body that isn’t his, either. Lithe legs, painted toenails.

I’m dreaming I’m someone else, he thinks. It happened, didn’t it? One might sometimes dream from the perspective of a stranger, a friend.

Minghao’s attention is drawn to a half-full water carafe on the bedside table. Without much thought, he reaches for it— before smashing it onto the floor. Free will, baby.

Except—

He feels it. The wetness lapping up at his feet. The shards of broken glass flying in all directions. Something closes up in his throat. Did he usually feel things in his dreams? Had he eaten something weird, drank something the night before, to have him dreaming like this?

The door to the room swings open.

A silver-haired woman stands in front of him, now, her face pinched with worry. She says a name— a name that isn’t Minghao’s— and asks, panicked, “What happened?”

Minghao doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just stares and stares as this wrinkled woman chides him in a motherly way until he realizes, ah. This must be his mother. Not his mother, but his dream self’s mother.

He can work with that. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. His voice is different. Not his, not his. He tries again— softer, this time— like it might change things. Like he might be able to coax his old voice to break through whatever sleepy haze he’s in. “I’m sorry. I knocked it over by accident.”

“You’re so clumsy,” his ‘mother’ chides, but she’s already getting to her knees to wipe at the puddle of water with her apron. That snaps Minghao into action; he stumbles across the room in search of a towel.

What a crazy dream, he thinks as he delicately gathers up the shards, as he wipes up the spilled water. I’ve never had a dream like this.

As his ‘mother’ heads back downstairs, Minghao figures he might as well play the part.

He follows her down for breakfast. He’s struck by how visceral, how tactile everything feels. The creeks of the old staircase. The smell of seaweed egg drop soup. The crick in Minghao’s neck.

Am I going insane? Minghao briefly wonders as he settles into the dining table, where there’s already a spread of food waiting for him. He notes that it’s a rather small table, made for only two people. It’s a stark contrast to the long tables he usually shares with twelve other boys, to the family tables he reserves with his own family.

“Why are you being so quiet?” his ‘mother’ asks as she sits across from him. “We’ll just get you a new carafe, kiddo.”

Right. That’s definitely why he was being quiet. Minghao picks up the chopsticks in front of him and goes to try some of the braised potatoes.

He can even taste it. This was probably the most detailed dream he’s ever had.

“Aren’t I always quiet, though?” Minghao manages to ask in the voice-that-is-not-his. It’s a higher pitched voice, one that has a distinct Seoul accent.

His ‘mother’ lets out a snort of laughter. “Yah, in what universe are you quiet?” she says with a snicker, reaching over to flick Minghao’s forehead.

He lets out a small sound of protest.

“That’s more like it,” his ‘mother’ notes. “Now, eat up. You’ll be late for work.”

Work. Something like unease begins to pool at the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. Not because he hates his job, no. Minghao loved being a dancer, an idol, an artist. But— he had a feeling that wasn’t the job he should be expecting this time around.

“I— I’m not really feeling well,” he mumbles, pushing around some seaweed at the bottom of his soup. When his ‘mother’ shoots him a scrutinizing glare, he forces out a cough to sell the act. “I’m not sure if I can go in today.”

His ‘mother’ goes from looking skeptical to concerned. She sets her own utensils down. “Do you need me to take care of you? I can take off, too—”

“It’s okay,” Minghao says hastily. “I think I just need to stay in bed.”

The woman across from him doesn’t look convinced, and so he presses on, “How is work, anyway?”

It’s a polite question, one meant to wheedle out more information. His ‘mother’ takes the bait, though, and goes on to rant about bad co-workers, about impatient patrons. She’s a grocery store bagger, Minghao gleams. And when she complains about other small things— the weather making it difficult to hang laundry, the lack of delivery shifts— Minghao realizes that his ‘mother’ has an array of other side hustles.

He listens intently. He nods in all the right places. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, but his ‘mother’ falters mid-sentence to fix him a worried look.

“You really are so quiet today,” she repeats, reaching over to put the back of her hand against Minghao’s forehead. He feels the touch, feels the warmth of concern wash over his skin, and it makes him shiver. “You really must not be feeling well, huh?”

Minghao thinks he’s only about to feel so much worse.

He heads back to ‘his’ bedroom, and it’s only then that he catches a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror. It’s… the face of someone he’s never met before.

Minghao once heard that the people you see in your dreams are never strangers. They’re all faces you’ve seen at least once or twice, and in Minghao’s line of work— well, he’s seen a lot of faces. He raises a hand to pinch at his cheek, to pat at his hair.

It all feels so real. He doesn’t dwell on that.

Instead, he starts to explore. Walking around the cramped bedroom feels both like a museum visit and an intrusion. There’s posters peeling off the wall, shelves groaning under the weight of books, clothes that look a little worse for wear. It’s honestly such a mess that Minghao ends up killing a couple of hours just cleaning.

He lets out a snort of laughter as he does. Even in his dreams, he’s picking up over someone.

He doesn’t know how long he spends gathering hangers and sweeping the floor, but, at one point, the silence is broken by a high-pitched ringtone. He fumbles for the shabby cellphone on the bedside table.

It had been password-protected, which is why he couldn’t open it. Now, though, there’s an option to answer the incoming call.

BOSS MAN 👿, it says, and Minghao nearly cracks a smile. Yeah, he can relate to that, at least.

When he answers the call, though, any and all humor dissipates at the yelling that assaults Minghao’s ear. “WHERE ARE YOU?” ‘Boss Man’ screams on the other end. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO CALL YOU ALL DAY! YOU’VE GOT SOME NERVE, PUNK—”

Minghao definitely sees now why the devil emoji was warranted. He has the urge to cut into the other man’s tirade, partly because it’s a dream where there’ll surely be little to no consequences. Something holds him back, though, as he puts some distance between his ear and the phone.

Once the other man pauses to breathe, Minghao manages to get a word in. “I… wasn’t feeling well,” he says lamely. “Could I maybe work from home or something?”

“WORK FROM HOME? ARE YOU CRAZY?! WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT—”

At that point, Minghao just hangs up. When ‘Boss Man’ tries to call again, Minghao turns off the cellphone’s ringer and goes back to cleaning.

He cleans until there’s not a speck of dust in the bedroom. And when that’s done, he goes to work on the grout in the bathroom, the oil stains in the kitchen. He’s not really sure what he’s doing. Occasionally, he’ll stop in the middle of a chore, wondering if it’s finally time for him to be shaken out of this mundane, long-winded dream.

Night falls. His ‘mother’ texts about taking on an extra shift. She says something about food in the refrigerator, but Minghao can’t be bothered; he’s so exhausted that he blacks out the moment his head hits his pillow.

He doesn’t even have the energy to contemplate the mechanics of falling asleep in what’s supposed to be a dream.

On Thursday, Minghao wakes up back in his dorm.

When he hears the familiar chime of his morning alarm, when he opens his eyes and sees beige, he feels a wave of relief. It really had all been a dream. A very realistic one, sure. But a dream all the same. He was awake now, and he was ready to go about his Wednesday schedule—

Except, when he checks his phone, it says that it’s already Thursday.

Minghao blinks. How long was he out? Surely one of the boys would’ve dragged him out of bed if he’d been out of commission for twenty-four hours.

He unlocks his phone to a dozen unread messages. Eyebrows furrowed, he decides to first go with Seungcheol’s texts.

🍒: myungho 🍒: are you feeling better? 🐸: Hyung, hi. I think I just overslept a bit but I’m feeling ok.

Despite the early morning, the three dots indicating that Seungcheol is typing pop up.

🍒: are you sure??? 🍒: you had us worried 🐸: Did I really sleep that long? 🍒: i mean, i don’t know how long you slept 🍒: was that the problem? were you hysterical yesterday because of lack of sleep? ㅋㅋㅋ

Suddenly, Minghao’s room feels a lot colder than earlier. Hysterical. That was the word Seungcheol had used. And yesterday— Tuesday? Nothing out of the ordinary had happened to Minghao. It was all the usual; he had practiced, eaten dinner out with Soonyoung, then went home.

The dream had been the only unusual thing about the day prior. Minghao is jolted when Seungcheol sends another slew of texts.

🍒: seriously 🍒: i was worried i might have to bring you to the hospital or something 🍒: but you say you’re ok now?

Minghao can’t help it anymore. He dials Seungcheol’s number and puts the phone to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest all the while.

Seungcheol answers on the first ring. In lieu of a greeting, Minghao jumps straight into “Was I really— hysterical, yesterday?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Seungcheol speaks, he still sounds a touch gruff, like he’s only half-awake. “I mean, kind of. What, are you worried about it? Do you need help apologizing to Mingyu?”

Apologizing to Mingyu? “What— is Mingyu mad at me?”

“Uh.” There’s some sounds of shuffling on the other end, as if Seungcheol is sitting up. It’s a pretty clear giveaway of his growing concern. “You might have to ask him that. But, Hao— you sure you’re better?”

Minghao swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know where to start without sounding insane.

“I think I’m still feeling a bit off,” Minghao says weakly. “Must be the flu or something.”

“I can come over.”

“No, no. I think I just need some rest.”

Seungcheol lets out a contemplative hum. “Alright,” he says, though he doesn’t sound all too convinced. “I’ll keep the boys off your back for the day. Text me if you need anything, and maybe text Mingyu when you can.”

“Text Mingyu,” Minghao repeats absentmindedly. “Yeah, got it.”

The call ends without anything more. Minghao stays seated in his bed for a long moment, just staring at the call log.

Seungcheol had called him hysterical. Mingyu was upset with him.

Something was definitely not right.

Minghao’s suspicion is only confirmed when he goes to check the texts he’d gotten from other members.

🐯: need to call u about choreo but preferably u dont yell at me this time 😒 let me know when’s a good time 🐱: Are u ok? Or did u actually ditch me for our dinner (bec if then, wtf) 🦖: i’ve been in the practice room for an hour now!!!!!! Where are you!!!

If Minghao wasn’t already sitting down, he might’ve collapsed.

He yelled at Soonyoung. He ditched Jun and Chan.

He had no memory of any of that.

But he remembers the shattered carafe, the seaweed soup, the shrill shrieks of ‘Boss Man’ in his ear.

For a moment, he’s convinced he’s just in another version of the same dream— except, this time, it looks a lot more like a nightmare. As Minghao finally musters up the energy to get to his feet, he notices something at the foot of his bed.

He unfurls the folded piece of paper. The handwriting isn’t anything he’s seen before. His eyes inadvertently skip to the very bottom, and his heart nearly stops in his damn chest. Minghao drops the paper like it had physically burnt him.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself as he scrambles to his feet, as he puts distance between himself and the now-discarded paper. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.”

At the very end of the handwritten letter had been a name.

The name that had been uttered by his dreamself’s mother. The name that ‘Boss Man’ had shrieked. A name he hadn’t heard before yesterday, before his dream—

Minghao is finding it increasingly hard to believe that it had been a dream in the first place. Hell, he doesn’t even know what ‘yesterday’ is anymore.

He paces his room. He does breathing exercises. He brews half a pot of tea.

None of it helps. Hours later— with all his texts still unanswered and his tea depleted— Minghao stumbles back to the letter.

I don’t know who you are, it starts. But I can tell you who I am.

I’m from Umyeon-deong in Seocho. I live with my mother; my father hasn’t been in the picture for a long time. I work as an editorial assistant for a local newspaper. (It’s not exactly what I want to be doing, although that’s a story for another day.)

For a big part of today, I thought I was dreaming. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up back in my bedroom, but the hours have ticked by and I’m still here. Your friends keep contacting you. It’s driving me insane. I accidentally yelled at two of them because they wouldn’t stop calling. The Mingyu one got really upset about it, I think. Sorry.

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. If this is nothing but a dream, then this shouldn’t matter. But in the 0.000000001% chance that something truly insane has happened to me and you? Well, at least now you know.

I’m going to try and go to sleep now, although I must admit: You have some pretty nice stuff. I ate some of your tea and snacks (sorry, again). This is crazy. None of this makes sense.

The letter unceremoniously ends there. Minghao’s eyes flick again to the signoff, to the name at the very bottom.

Your name.

His head is reeling. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

This is no coincidence, no practical joke. It’s— as you’ve said— truly something insane happening.

Minghao is struck with the realization that it just might happen again, and this time, he actually does get sick. He ends up hurling into a trash can.

After brushing his teeth, chugging some water, and running through one too many of the chips in his pantry, Minghao gets back to the letter.

It’s still there, in his hands. The stationary that was locked away in his drawer, bearing handwriting that is not his.

None of the boys would pull off a prank as elaborate as this. Minghao is fairly certain he would’ve noticed if any of them snuck in, too. So, now, the only logical explanation was the one that was left.

And Minghao really didn’t like that explanation.

For what feels like forever, he contemplates what to do. He considers calling up Seungcheol again. He debates the merits of apologizing to Mingyu and Soonyoung; he decides against it when he realizes he wouldn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. He knows what to say to Jun and Chan at least, but that doesn’t make it any easier. How would Minghao even begin to justify himself? Hey, sorry for ditching you; I think I body swapped with a complete stranger. Let’s grab dinner tonight instead?

There’s a headache blossoming behind Minghao’s eyes at the mere thought of putting the words out into existence.

In the end, he does what he deems to be the easiest thing to do. He picks up a pen and writes on the other side of your letter.

Hello, he begins. I’m The8 Myungho Minghao.

I’m an idol who’s part of a group called SEVENTEEN. They’re the friends who keep contacting me. Mingyu is a fellow member and good friend of mine. I’ll talk to him.

My family is in a different country.

As Minghao goes on to write the next parts, he feels a bit foolish. He doesn’t really know what to say, though he feels like he should say something. You had given him something to work with, after all. Slivers of context. He should be able to do the same for you.

I met your mother. She’s nice.

I talked to your boss. He wasn’t happy. He yelled at you (me?), and I may or may not have put down the phone. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what your work was so I ended up not going at all.

I hope you liked the tea. Feel free to have all the snacks you want.

And you’re right. This is crazy.

If I’m lucky, you’ll never need this letter.

Minghao wakes up on Friday to the realization that he is decidedly unlucky.

The loud alarm is back, and the ceiling is dark green again, and Minghao once again leans over to throw up. Luckily, there’s a bedside garbage bin that comes to the rescue.

There’s no sun this time. It’s fairly gloomy outside, the overcast skies peeking through the windows.

Minghao immediately notices that there’s a folded piece of paper on the pillow next to him. He unfurls it so fast that he almost tears it in half.

This is a precaution, you start. Maybe, come tomorrow, I can just chuck this out and chalk it all up to a one-off freak incident.

The thought of this phenomenon not being a one-off nearly has bile rising up in Minghao’s throat all over again, but he forces himself to read the rest of your words.

First off, I guess I should thank you. My room has never been this clean in my life! And you should have seen the look on my mother’s face when she saw that ‘I’ cleaned the entire apartment. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was possessed, for the lack of better term, by someone who is a much better person than me.

That almost makes Minghao smile. Almost, because the next part sends a pang of guilt through him.

Secondly, though, you almost cost me my job. I can’t believe you hung up on my boss, Donghyuk. I had to do some serious damage control. I managed to get today off, just in case.

Minghao is struck by your foresight and, adversely, his absolute lack of it. The most he had to do was appease a sulky Mingyu and message back the rest of the boys. His brain races to figure out if he has any schedules for— Friday, was it? A practice, maybe. Or a recording.

Either way, he’s screwed. You’re screwed.

Minghao his face in one hand and quietly prays that you know how to dance.

He skims over the rest of your letter.

I don’t know why this is a thing. I don’t know if it is meant to be a thing. I’m going to try and look for some answers, whether or not I wake up as you/myself.

Wish me luck.

A small part of Minghao feels a tug at the thought of both of you ending your letters with the concept of luck. That feeling is quickly replaced by something akin to dread, because he’s fairly convinced that this is no longer a dream.

Minghao has woken up in a body that isn’t his. Minghao has woken up in your body— the body of a person he’s sure he’s never met.

He has to live a day in your life with nothing to go by but the notes you’ve left and a handful of context clues.

For a moment, Minghao contemplates just going back to sleep. Maybe if the both of you just slept right now, the switch would trigger. Maybe he could just spend the whole day in bed until you have to swap again.

The latter seems like the best idea until knuckles rap against the bedroom door.

Your mother pops her head through the crack in the door. “I’m going to leave early today. The rain isn’t looking so good,” she says with a slight grimace.

Minghao glances out the window. It’s all he can do, really, to keep himself from not going insane then and there.

“Take care,” he says.

He’s suddenly acutely aware of your voice— the cadence and timbre of it. He knows what you sound like, how you write, and he wonders how the two might combine. What might be the right thing to say in this situation.

Because your mother has that look again, that openly dubious expression.

“Are you alright?” she asks cautiously, not quite stepping into the bedroom just yet.

A flash of panic rises up in Minghao. What would you say? What would you do?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His tone’s just a little haughty now. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Minghao nearly winces, but he persists. “Go on, don’t get caught in the rain.”

Your mother lets out a huff of a laugh, mumbling something like ‘ungrateful kid’ as she retreats. Despite that, it seems to work; she takes her leave without another protest. Minghao lets out a shaky breath.

His— your stomach, really— lets out a low grumble. A part of him wonders if you’ve been just on edge as he’s been. Unable to eat properly, losing sleep over this whole thing.

Regardless, the least he can do is take care of you. He pads over to the kitchen and rummages through the refrigerator for some leftovers. All the while, he’s thinking of what he has in his own kitchen.

Will you be hungry? You did say you liked his snacks. Would that be enough?

The questions rattling in his head turn into considerably more stressful ones.

Is this going to happen forever? Will he have to spend the rest of his life swapping bodies with you on a day-to-day basis?

He thinks of the group, thinks of your mother. Thinks of his demanding job and your terrible boss.

Minghao nearly panics again. He manages to keep it together enough to make a sandwich and sip some coffee.

He tries to meditate, even, but it’s like your body knows that it’s not a practice that you frequent. Your hands twitch in the stillness; your heart only slams harder instead of calming. You need to catch a goddamn break, Minghao thinks as he grits his teeth and tries to relax.

Something good comes out of his attempt, at least. It comes as an epiphany of some sorts— how he suddenly remembers a portion of your letter.

I’m going to try and look for some answers, you had written.

He might as well do the same.

Once he’s changed into outerwear that’s slightly more acceptable for the rainy weather, he spends a good amount of time searching for your wallet. When he goes to check it, he inadvertently lets out a grumbled “damn.”

Your wallet has nothing but a couple of loose bills.

Minghao can’t blame you, not really, but you’re certainly giving him very little to work with. A part of him even feels kind of bad for you. Not only did you have a demon for a boss; you were also severely underpaid. He makes a mental note to bring that up in his next letter to you.

He can’t go far with the lack of funds, though that’s not the only thing hindering his quest for answers. It’s pouring outside, the rain coming in heavy droplets.

Minghao braves it with a raincoat and an umbrella, hoping against hope to find something. Anything.

As luck would have it, your neighborhood has a local library.

When he steps in, the librarian doesn’t pay him much heed. Minghao is momentarily amused by the thought. Did you not come here often?

It’s a quaint place with a scarce collection. A lot of the novels are on the older end— published nearly a decade ago— but they remain in pristine condition. Minghao skips over the best-sellers and the manga serieses, instead opting to sift through the psychology textbooks.

He’s not surprised when he doesn’t find anything of use there, when he spends nearly four hours reading and reading to no avail. The lack of non-fiction about a body swapping phenomenon is to be expected. This wasn’t something that just happened, after all.

And yet it’s happening to me, Minghao thinks with frustration as he grabs at his sixth book of the afternoon. The unexpected force knocks some of the surrounding books onto the floor.

The librarian gives him a vicious side eye.

“Sorry, sorry,” Minghao mumbles as he immediately gets to his knees.

His hands close around one of the books he knocked over. It’s a heavy hardbound with a gorgeous deep red cover and metallic gold lettering. There’s a dragon featured on the front and the familiar iconography of it nearly bowls Minghao over.

While still crouched down on the floor, Minghao flips through the pages. The images that go flashing by are not strangers to him, but there’s one in particular that he’s looking for.

He finds it on the thirtieth page. Almost out of instinct, his fingers trace over the characters.

月老. Yue Lao.

Suddenly, Minghao is a child again, listening to his mother’s stories. He had been young and wide-eyed, sprawled on her lap as she talked soothingly about the god who presented himself as an old man under the moon.

The god of marriage and love. He’s the reason why your bàba and I met, his mother would say amusedly. Yue Lao made it possible.

How? His younger self had demanded. How did he make sure?

His mother had laughed, then. Had stroked Minghao’s hair out of his face as she told him about the myth. The magical cord may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.

And, oh, how Minghao had prayed back then. He prayed to Yue Lao the hardest— his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clasped to his chest.

I hope I find love.

It doesn’t matter when, or where, or how.

Qǐng, Yue Lao. Please, please, please.

“Are you going to check that out or what?”

Minghao is dragged out of his memories at the sound of the librarian’s sharp tone. “I—”

The words stick in his throat. Eventually, he manages a meek, “I’ll put it back.”

It’s still pouring as he leaves the library and makes the short walk back to your apartment. The rainwater pooling in the gutters has muck and grime sticking to the bottom of his— technically your— rain boots. Another thing to apologize for, Minghao thinks wryly.

He seeks temporary shelter underneath the corner store near your apartment block. The vendor looks up expectantly.

“The usual?” the woman croaks, and it takes a moment for Minghao to register that he’s being addressed.

“Not today,” he responds with a tight smile.

The vendor lets out a bark of laughter. “When have you ever said ‘no’ to me?” she says with a tut of disapproval. Before Minghao can protest, the stranger is already shuffling over to her cooking station.

Minghao watches in silence when he realizes what’s being made. Some fruit is speared onto a bamboo skewer, then dipped into a simmering syrup. It emerges coated like a clear gemstone before it’s shoved into a bowl of ice.

Tanghulu, Minghao thinks dazedly as he accepts the snack. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The vendor smiles. She’s already missing a couple of teeth.

Minghao takes a tentative bite. Tanghulu was a familiar enough delicacy, but the fruit he'd been given— your ‘usual’— is something he hasn't seen in quite some time.

The date-plum persimmon is soft and glutinous, wrapped in a thin layer of crisp sweetness. Minghao can't remember the last time he had black jujube this way.

“You’re still the only one who likes that stuff.” There’s an edge of fondness to the vendor’s tone. A clear indicator that you have some sort of camaraderie with her, something that Minghao isn’t entirely privy to. “Do you know how hard it is to find stock of that darn fruit?”

It seems like a rhetorical question, like something that you’d probably take in stride. But Minghao can’t bring himself to joke. His free hand is already fishing for your wallet, where he’s prepared to blow the last of your money on this dessert.

The vendor shakes her head. “Not today,” she chirps, echoing Minghao’s words from earlier. Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, where the downpour is relentless.

Minghao is not quite sure what the norm is supposed to be. Do the two of you talk? Do you leave right after you’ve made your purchase?

He doesn’t want to be rude, so he mumbles his gratitude and decides to stick around for a moment. The vendor thankfully chooses not to make conversation.

Minghao spends a long time just standing there, making slow work of the sticky date-plum. He watches the rain that never lets up. He watches the lights of your apartment building flicker on as night falls. He watches, and he tries to commit it to memory as he finishes off his tanghulu.

For what it’s worth, he’s glad to ‘share’ this with you— something sweet to get the both of you by.

Come Saturday, Minghao wakes up with more questions than answers.

Your letter is within reach, resting atop his bedside table. He goes to read it despite the fact that he’s barely lucid.

It’s shorter this time. If he strained, he could almost hear the words in your voice. A distant echo.

I can’t believe you’re actually an idol. Have you met BIGBANG?

That draws a surprised laugh out of him. It’s been years since he last heard of his industry seniors. The thought of you being a second gen fan is a little endearing to him.

Anyway, I told everyone who contacted you that you were really sick. Like, throwing up levels of sick. ‘Coups-hyung’ said he would send a manager, but I assured him that you already had one on the way. You might want to corroborate that lie.

I know I said I would look for answers, but I couldn’t really go far. I was scared of getting lost. And, man, your neighborhood is overwhelming. I’ve lived in Seoul my whole life and I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of the city.

I ended up spending most of my day just reading your books. Good taste.

The compliment puts the smallest grin on his face.

I promise to do better research when I’m back in my own body. ‘Till then.

As curt as your letter is, it gives him an idea he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise. Better research. Back in his own body.

He fishes for your first letter, which he had kept tucked in his drawer. It’s still there, which means the past couple of days have not been a bout of psychosis. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or horrified.

Minghao focuses instead on scanning your introduction, where you had mentioned your neighborhood. Umyeon-deong.

While he’s in the back of the cab, Minghao texts back his members. He’s vague, still, but it’s not anything particularly new. Feeling a little better. Getting a check-up, just in case. Stop worrying. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The heat is oppressive for July, almost beating down on Minghao’s back as he finally makes it to the district. It’s a full 180 from yesterday’s rain. He regrets the baseball cap and the hoodie, but both are necessary evils.

He��s not entirely sure where to drop off, so he settles for one of the corners at the mouth of the neighborhood. Once he’s there, he just— begins to walk in a general direction.

Later, he realizes he probably could have pulled up Google Maps. He would have benefited from asking around, would have cut his time in half if he deigned to admit that he was lost. But, at the moment, he’s just taking it all in.

The apartment complexes. The children’s park. The liquor store.

Briefly, he wonders if he’ll run into you. Would you recognize him?

Would he even want you to?

Minghao is so busy mulling it over that he almost misses it. The streetside food stand advertising fresh tanghulu. It feels like yesterday— well, it was yesterday. His mouth is already watering at the thought of the candied date-plums as he wanders over to the stand.

A rasping voice addresses him. He looks up from scanning the selection, realizing with a jolt that it’s the same vendor.

But it’s also— not.

Something is off.

Something he can’t quite place.

It almost steals the breath out of Minghao. He probably looks dumbstruck, looks stupid with his mouth hanging slightly agape, but the vendor asks again, “What do you want?”

Minghao forces an answer out of his chest. “Do you have— black jujube?”

A myriad of micro expressions flash across the seller’s face. It starts with recognition, but ends with something closer to tightness. She gives a labored grunt in response before going to make the snack.

When she hands it over to Minghao, there’s a slight quiver in her fingers. She nearly drops it, even, but Minghao catches it just in time.

“Sorry,” she grouses. “It’s an order that a regular of mine used to have.”

There’s a low ringing in Minghao’s ears as he says “ah,” as he hands over his payment. The vendor busies herself with cleaning her workstation, and Minghao tries to enjoy the date-plums, but it’s not as good as he remembers it.

Was it perhaps a difference in taste buds?

No, he thinks. It’s the lump in his throat. It’s the seller’s words nagging at the back of his mind.

An order that a regular of mine used to have. Used to.

He saw her yesterday. You were supposed to have seen her yesterday.

As he munches on the fruit, he asks almost too casually, “Is it your first time selling in this area?”

The vendor shoots him a suspicious glare. Minghao knows he’s being a little odd with the line of his small talk so he fields his question, tries to make it come out more naturally. “I remember you used to have a spot somewhere else,” he offers. “In front of an apartment building.”

This time, it’s the seller’s turn to mumble “ah.”

“That’s why you had that order,” she says with a humorless laugh. “You knew them, huh?”

“Them?”

The vendor says your name. The ringing in Minghao’s ear gets louder; his fingers, tightening around the skewer of his tanghulu. It’s the first time he’s hearing your name in his own body and it sends a shiver down his spine.

The question is even harder to answer. Does he know you? Was he allowed to say that?—

No. No, wait. The vendor had said knew.

The ringing reaches an almost feverish pitch. It’s a miracle that Minghao hears anything else, that he picks up the murmured words that the seller says next.

“It’s a real shame,” she says with a voice so soft, so solemn, so small. “It’s been nine years, hasn’t it?”

Nine years.

Since what? Since you?

A lot of things haven’t made sense to Minghao in the past couple of days, but this— this is the one that baffles him the most. He saw you— he was you— yesterday.

When Minghao finally finds his voice, it’s to ask for a favor.

The vendor complies, albeit skeptically. She hangs a ‘be right back’ sign over her stall. It’s a short walk, not more than seven minutes.

If Minghao’s ears had been ringing earlier, now, it’s just dead silence. A dreadful sort of quiet as he stares at the ruins of the apartment building he was staring at just the day before.

The seller is watching his face carefully. “You didn’t know?” she prompts gently.

Minghao realizes he has to come up with something. “We were friends. Me and—” He chokes around your name. When he finally says it out loud for the first time, he feels guilty. It feels so wrong to be saying it in this context. To have it be part of a lie. “But then—”

He trails off. The vendor supplies, “You lost touch?”

Sure. Minghao gives a jerky nod in response. That’s one way to put it.

He’s not even looking for an explanation, but the seller gives him one. “The typhoon was so bad that it triggered landslides,” she says gruffly. She nods towards the direction of the mountain towering over the neighborhood. “I think the death toll was around eighteen people.”

Minghao resists the urge to scream. If he were a lesser man, he might have fainted. Instead, he quietly says, “Nine years ago.”

“Nine years ago,” the vendor confirms. She pauses before adding, her voice just a little sadder, “A tragedy.”

“Tragedy,” Minghao repeats. That doesn’t even begin to cover it, he thinks.

Neither of them say anything for a long time. He can feel the pity rolling off the seller in waves; still, he can’t bring himself to turn away. He stares, and he stares, and he stares at the rubble, at the derelict building. At the mere echo of what had been so loud and alive to him just yesterday.

After what feels like forever, he asks another question. “Is— is the library still around?”

The vendor leads the way. At the door of the library, she attempts to give Minghao a reassuring smile. It’s all just gums, now. No teeth. There’s an endless refrain of nine years, nine years, nine years screeching through Minghao’s head as the seller bids him goodbye with “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he responds with a solemnity that doesn’t need to be feigned.

The librarian isn’t the same one.

This one has a calmer demeanor, a more restrained smile. Somehow, that only makes Minghao feel much worse. He knows what he’s looking for this time; he goes straight to the neighborhood records and scrolls all the way back to nine years ago. 2015.

It’s a lot of information to digest all at once. There’s the newspaper clippings about the heavy rainfall. The flash floods, the landslides. Class action lawsuits. Landmine threats. Government incompetence.

Minghao feels like he’s drowning in news, but it’s still not what he’s looking for.

He finds it in a directory. There’s two people with the same last name and Minghao nearly loses it then and there, at the thought of your mother, too—

He focuses on you for now. His quivering finger traces the cell that contains your name, your date of birth. 1997. The same year as him. A couple of months younger, though.

Nine years ago, Minghao had been 18. Just about to debut.

Nine years ago, you had been an editorial assistant. Not exactly what I want to be doing, you had written in your first letter to him. There was no way for you to know that you would never have the chance to be anything more.

Minghao’s eyes fall on the date of death.

Except—

It’s not nine years ago yesterday, not nine years ago today. It’s tomorrow.

In that very moment, he understands what he’s meant to do.

When Minghao wakes up in your body on Sunday, he knows he has only one chance.

He had read up all about it the ‘day’ prior but the details were vague. None of the news reports mentioned when exactly the landslide would happen. The most he gleamed was that it would be due to an unstable slope from the nearby Mount Umyeon.

A wall of mud three storeys high hit the building, one article had said. It’s the only information that Minghao has to go by as he drags himself out of bed, ignoring the blare of your obnoxious alarm.

He goes straight for your mother’s room. She’s already awake, standing by the window.

Outside, the storm rages on. Your mother turns to face Minghao. “It’s not looking good out there,” she says disapprovingly. “The news said it’s the heaviest rainfall in nearly a century.”

Back in his body, Minghao had contemplated how he would go about this. He thought he might try to coax your mother, might be logical and rational in urging her to evacuate.

In that very moment, though, he instead finds himself blurting out, “We’re going to die.”

A beat. Your mother looks unfazed.

“You’re always so dramatic.”

The panic simmers in the pit of Minghao’s stomach. “We’re going to die,” he repeats, his tone on the shriller end now.

It wasn’t like him to give in to hysteria; he was you, though, and your mother seemed nonchalant enough about it. He’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. “It’s just a little bit of rain,” your mother says dismissively as she squeezes past Minghao and heads towards the kitchen.

Minghao is on her heels, his hands wringing together. “We can’t stay here,” he pleads. “We have to leave.”

Your mother shoots Minghao— you— an exasperated look. “Where are we going to go in this weather?”

“No. No, no. We have to go somewhere safe.”

“We’re safe here—”

“We’re not—”

It’s almost like a crack of thunder, the way your mother says your name. The sound shuts Minghao up immediately. It’s a familiar warning, an intonation that all mothers seem to wield over their children.

“What’s going on with you, really?” your mother questions, her hands at her hips. She’s eyeing Minghao with mild annoyance but he sees it for what it is. Concern. “You’ve been so odd these past few days. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

And how is Minghao supposed to answer that?

I’m not actually your child. I’ve swapped bodies with a man who lives nine years in the future. Our survival hinges on whether or not you’ll hear me out.

When Minghao stays silent for a little too long, your mother shakes her head. “Get it together,” she says sternly.

Maybe it’s that. Maybe that’s what finally gets Minghao to say—

“Please.”

Your mother pauses in the middle of rifling through the refrigerator. For a long, terrible moment, the only sound is the rain.

Minghao’s hands are shaking at his side. “Please,” he repeats. He knows he sounds more like himself than you. He knows he’s being out of character, being obvious.

But he needs your mother to understand. She’s looking at him now like he’s a stranger.

Like you’re a stranger. And you are— at least in that moment.

The words tumble out of Minghao before he can contain them. “I want to live.”

He doesn’t know where it’s all coming from, this rush of emotion. Your voice wavers; he pushes on. “I want to live,” he gasps out. “I want to move us to an apartment that’s not next to a damn mountain. I want to not work in this damn job. I want to live until I’m your age, until I’m even older than that, dammit—”

Your mother crosses the room, the refrigerator long forgotten. When she raises a hand to Minghao’s face, he doesn’t even realize that some tears had escaped.

These are all things he wants for you, he realizes.

He wants you to have a good job. He wants you and your mother to be out of harm’s way. He wants you to live a long, full life.

“Please,” Minghao says a third time, his voice cracking around the word.

There’s a softness to your mother’s gaze; this time, her worry is undeniable. She holds Minghao’s face— no, he thinks. She’s holding your face. Her child’s face. Her child, who’s crying, who’s begging.

That’s likely the reason why she acquiesces. “Alright,” she exhales, using her thumb to wipe away some of Minghao’s tears. “We’ll leave. We’ll go.”

That’s only half the battle, though.

Minghao mutters something below his breath. Your mother raises her eyebrows in a silent question, and so he clears his throat before speaking louder.

“We have to evacuate the entire building,” he mumbles.

It takes time to convince your mother, which stresses Minghao out beyond belief. Time isn’t a luxury that he has. Not when he has no idea when the landslide will hit. Not when the rain is only worsening, making it less likely to persuade people to leave the comfort of their homes.

By some grace, he manages to get your mother on board. Sure, he had to spew odd specifics and statistics about the dangers of landslides, but it works. The two go door to door.

They’re met with initial resistance. Minghao doesn’t care.

He badgers the elderly. He negotiates with the children. He almost gets to his knees when a family with a baby refuses to budge.

The entire apartment complex is bewildered.

But when somebody is batting so hard for safety, when somebody is so desperate in what seems to be just a little more than paranoia— you listen.

The landslide hits just as Minghao is helping the last resident out of the building.

He’s never felt anything quite like it. He’s experienced earthquakes and their aftershocks. He’s been in stadiums that have shook with the sheer amount of people, the pulse of their music.

This one starts with a rumble. Low and deep, like it’s coming from the very ground. He hears the trees crack, the boulders knock together. And then—

Your mother is grabbing him by the arm. She’s screaming, screaming, screaming, the sound drowned out by the storm, by the shrieks of all the other evacuated residents, by the mud that suddenly crashes down on the complex in one fell swoop. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once.

Minghao is soaked from head to toe. Some of the mud flies and sticks to his hair, his clothes. He can almost taste it, too. The earth. The rain. He feels the chill to his very bones.

Despite that, he laughs. Your mother is dragging him, you, away from the calamity, the tragedy, and all that Minghao can do is laugh.

Because he made sure that no one was left in the building.

Because he’s alive.

You’re alive.

Later, when everyone is gathered in an evacuation center— shivering underneath blankets, talking about how it was all such a close call— Minghao falls asleep at your mother’s side. He feels like a kid again, with his hair being stroked, with soft words being uttered to him.

He drifts off and dreams.

Minghao is sure that this is a dream because his surroundings take on the hazy quality of one.

It’s just a little too bright to be real, the setting bathed in a light that feels almost like a bulb had exploded. Minghao has to put one hand over his eyes—

It’s his hand, he realizes. He’s dreaming as himself.

His sight adjusts. He’s at a dining table. It’s a two-person dining table. Much smaller than he’s used to.

“It’s you.”

He drops his hand and braces it against the edge of the table, because your voice— he should be used to it, shouldn’t he? He had used it for a bit, formed words like sorry and thank you with a lilting tone.

When he responds, his own words are imperceptibly soft.

“It’s me,” he confirms.

You’re seated across from him. He had caught glimpses of your features in reflections, in photographs, but it’s something entirely new. To be taking you in from an outsider’s perspective. He sees how you would control your body, how you were inclined to react. It makes him dizzy, just how much he had gotten wrong about your mannerisms.

The first proper words you speak are, “You have some good friends, you know?”

A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward. The thought of the boys constantly checking in on him seems about right.

“And you have a good mother.” Minghao pauses. He did say he would mention the next part. “Terrible job, though. You should quit.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Idol,” you shoot right back.

He winces; you laugh. The sound has the edges of his vision growing fuzzy. A sepia of the past, the present, and whatever this moment is, all blurring into one. Minghao doesn’t want to wake up.

“What happens now?” you ask, your own fingers tap, tap, tapping on the table between you two.

“I’m not sure.”

“Why—?”

“— Did this happen in the first place?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve wondered the same thing.”

The edges are closing in a little more now. Minghao can feel it— the familiar warmth of his bed at home, the tug of his own time. He’s already asked so much from his mother’s old gods but he lets his eyes flutter close so he can make a final plea.

Just one more minute. Give me one more minute, please.

“I think…” he starts slowly. His voice already sounds so distant. “It’s my fault.”

“Your fault.” Skepticism undercuts your tone, enough to prompt Minghao to open his eyes again.

He looks down at his hands, the ones that had folded atop the table. “I prayed for you,” he admits quietly. “Every day, back when I was a kid.”

Confusion drips from your every word. “For me specifically?”

He laughs. “Okay, maybe not you specifically,” he amends. “But—”

It’s getting unbearably bright now, so much that he can only really make out the silhouette of your form. He itches to reach, to touch, just to see if you’re real. He doesn’t want to push it, though.

Minghao settles with holding up his hand. If you squinted, if you really, really tried, you might see it, too.

The faint glimmer of a red cord— looped around his thumb, tied to your pinky.

Every day, back when I was a kid.

“I prayed for this,” he repeats.

And so, in some way, he supposes you’re right.

He had prayed for you.

The chime of bells.

The beige ceiling.

Minghao is fairly sure he had dreamt, but it’s the kind of dream you forget the moment you wake up.

He blinks once, then twice. Odd. It felt like a good dream, too.

There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming in his chest, though it fades just as quickly as it blooms.

Minghao never wakes up as you again.

The universe takes, and takes, and takes. It takes away Minghao’s memory. He’s not entirely sure what happened to him those couple of days. Seungcheol says he went to the hospital. Mingyu laments that they fought.

Minghao borrows one of Soonyoung’s favorite words. Funk. He had been in a funk, probably. An off couple of days.

He’s back to regular programming so seamlessly that the others are forced to believe him.

Still—

Minghao goes about the next couple of weeks feeling like something is missing.

It annoys him to no end. It’s not any of his valuables, he’s sure. He double, triple checked everything. He turns his entire apartment upside down and puts it back together again. He goes for meals with all of his members, hoping to find the answers there.

Nothing.

He falls into dreamless sleep every night, and wakes up every morning with that empty feeling in his chest.

It’s an unassuming Wednesday evening— one that he spends driving around with Vernon and Wonwoo— when it hits him.

“Hey,” he says, throwing them a glance through the rearview mirror. “I could go for some dessert.”

Vernon perks up at that. “Should we head to Myeongdeong?”

“Sounds good.”

Vernon throws out directions. Wonwoo queues the music.

Minghao keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

The night market is an assault on the senses but it’s also a good cover for the three idols. They set out with their matching hoodies and half-face masks, in search of something to fulfill their cravings.

Vernon goes to get some dragon’s beard candy.

Wonwoo wanders off to purchase some hotteok.

Minghao… He isn’t sure, really, which is a bit ironic. He had been the one to make the call, after all. He weaves through the crowds, his hands in his jacket pockets, as he scrutinizes the stalls.

Kkwabaegi. Bungeoppang. Tanghulu. Dalgona. Bing—

He backs up a bit.

“Hi,” he greets the seller. “This is a bit weird, but do you have black jujube?”

The tanghulu vendor lets out a grunt of approval. “I think I’ve got one more stick,” she notes as he ducks to check her stock.

What a weird craving, Minghao thinks to himself. But it’s the first thing that came to mind.

A voice at his side addresses the seller by name.

“Got my date-plum persimmon, ajumma?”

It’s not a voice that Minghao has heard before, and yet—

Frantically, he tries to sort through the hundreds of fansigns and fan meetings he’s had in the past decade. Could it be that? Could that be the reason why the lilt was so damn familiar?

As he turns to look at the source, he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s not the case.

You’re already turning away, though, grumbling about the lack of the tanghulu that you want. Minghao hadn’t even heard the vendor respond.

There’s a ringing in his ears.

“Excuse me,” he manages.

You falter in your steps. When you look up at him, he sees the same flash of confusion. One that’s borne out of recognition.

The ringing has gotten louder. Despite that, he pushes out three words.

He thinks he’s yelling them; in reality, they’re barely audible over the din of the night market.

“Haven’t we met?” he breathes.

For one dreadful, dragging moment, he’s convinced he’ll die if you say no, even though his mind is being terribly uncooperative. He can’t place when, or where, or how he met you. He can’t say if you’re familiar because he knows you or someone like you.

All he knows is that he can’t, won’t let you walk away.

Your response makes everything in Minghao’s head go quiet.

“I thought so, too,” you say, and something in his chest thrums.

It feels a lot like an answered prayer.

#minghao x reader #xu minghao x reader #the8 x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #minghao fic #the8 fic #minghao imagines #the8 imagines #ylangelegy the8 days of minghao #minghao fanfiction #the8 fanfiction #minghao x you #the8 x you #( publishing this at 4am on my end of the world. good lord please just take this off my hands )#( i have Some gripes for what it's worth <3 haaapppy start of the series )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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achromatophoric · 4 months ago

Text

At the climax of a series of misunderstandings of epic proportions, a furious Wednesday faces off with an equally enraged Enid. Their eyes meet and, in unison, they begin to shout.

Wednesday: I am an utter fool for deluding myself into even thinking you could ever return my wretched feelings!

Enid: *simultaneously* WHY?! Why can’t you just LOVE me, like I love YOU?! After everything we’ve been through!

Enid/Wednesday: *stunned silence*

Enid/Wednesday: What? / Pardon?

Enid/Wednesday:

Enid/Wednesday: Return your feelings? / You love me?

Enid/Wednesday:

Enid/Wednesday: You go first.

Wednesday: *scowls and gestures for Enid to speak*

Enid: You have feelings for me?

Wednesday: *briefly glances away*

Wednesday: I… do. My chest is naught but a wound agape and empty, rent asunder by your vulgar charms…

Wednesday: *bows head* … for you have long since stolen my besotted heart.

Enid: *obvious confusion*

Enid: Wait, I don’t get— But she told me you two were—

Bloodied nails rake through pink and blue hair as Enid chokes out a tight scream of frustration.

Enid: *points at Wednesday* The bitch who’s been all over you. Amanda. What about HER?

Wednesday: Buckman? An annoyance from childhood, prone to boasting and exaggeration. Nothing more.

Enid: *wets lips* Uh… oh. Really? Um. Okay.

Enid/Wednesday: *awkward pause*

Wednesday: *hesitantly* So you… love me?

Enid: *reddens* Y-Yes. Totes. Like so crazy much that I can’t even.

Wednesday: And what of that contemptible wolf? Your— *spits in disgust* —betrothed.

Enid: How did you— *groans* Moon above, I told that dumbass to keep his mouth shut!

Wednesday: *expression darkens* So you intended to keep it a secret.

Enid: What? NO! No, it’s not— It wasn’t a secret!

Wednesday: *expression darkens further*

Enid: Shit. I mean that it’s NOT true!

Wednesday: Go on.

Enid: *anxiously* Look, it was all an act. He was supposed to just help get my mom off my back, but then he got freaking weird about it.

Wednesday: *pensive expression* I… see.

Enid: I’m really sorry, Willa. I should have told you. It was such a dumb idea, but he offered to help and I just— My mom was being so—

Wednesday: *holds up a blood-stained hand* Enid, you need not explain yourself further. I understand. You were under duress—

Wednesday: *grits teeth* —and that miserable wretch took advantage of your state. An unforgivable act that he can no longer repeat.

Enid: *covers her face and whines* Oh my moon, this was such a mess.

Wednesday: *crosses the distance to Enid* That may be undeniable, but so are my feelings for you.

Lowering her hands, Enid finds herself gazing into a face alight with adoration. She can’t help but gasp when cool arms encircle her.

Enid: Oh gosh. Oh gosh oh gosh! You like me. You LIKE me.

Wednesday: Enid, you do me a disservice. I do not merely like you. I would worship you… should you allow it.

Enid: *wraps Wednesday in a crushing hug* Of course I do! Like O M G. You don’t even know how much I love you!

The two share in a much-desired embrace, mirroring their hug from that fateful night. The scene would be innocuously romantic, were it not for the hints of gore.

Enid:

Enid: Hey, um… Willa?

Wednesday: Mm?

Enid: Are you wearing a necklace of teeth?

Wednesday:

Wednesday: There are claws a well.

Enid: Oh. Okay.

Enid:

Enid: *worriedly* Are uh… are those maybe like… werewolf teeth and claws?

Wednesday: 😒

Wednesday: Is that a blonde scalp peeking out of your pocket—

Enid: 😬

Wednesday: —woven through with what appears to be fashionably manicured human fingernails and toe-mmph!

Enid: *silences Wednesday with an impassioned kiss*

Wednesday: *kissed senseless*

Enid/Wednesday: 🩷🖤

#misunderstandings #unhinged enid sinclair #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #wednesday netflix #wenclair #incorrect wenclair #incorrect wednesday addams #incorrect wednesday quotes #incorrect quotes #ficlet

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pullupinarari · 3 months ago

Text

The Secret of Us [LH]

I. Mistaken for Strangers

summary: a 5 chapter miniseries in which Lewis chooses you to coordinate one of his new projects, but the instant spark flicking between the two of you makes the professional lines grow a little blurry. do the both of you feel the same?

author's note: first chapter of this plot that has literally been living in my mind rent free for MONTHS. I am so excited to finally work on it and I had so much fun writing it! hope you girls enjoy it 🩷

• masterlist

wc: 9228 - English is not my first language! Feedback is always appreciated

Wednesday, 9:42 am. The sound of your heels clicking on the floor fills the space as you walk through the large corridors of the building, rushing to enter the meeting that was supposed to have started 12 minutes ago.

Losing yourself in time, you got carried away in pressing ‘snooze’ on your phone, and the crazy traffic that seemed to swallow you in between the never-ending lines of cars didn’t help your case either.

Your brain questions what this encounter is about - you just got a call from your boss yesterday, telling about how “a very important client” has demanded a meeting with you - refusing to give you any more details about it. Great, the only thing you know is that it’s a very important client, and you are starting off amazingly by showing up late.

Slowly swallowing the coffee that you’re holding in your hands, you take a deep breath as if to calm down your thoughts, before your fingers push the door open.

Your eyes scan the room briefly, already apologizing for being late as you start shaking hands with everyone at the office. There’s a familiar face in the middle of the group, one that stays behind everyone else, as if he is trying to adapt to the environment surrounding him.

You know who he is, it would be hard not to. Even if you don’t pay much attention to sports, he is so much more than just a sportsman - Lewis Hamilton, the seven time formula 1 champion, is right in front of you.

Your gazes meet for a moment, while your hands connect in a professional hand shake. As soon as you get closer to him, feeling his touch in yours, it’s almost impossible for you to not grow a bit nervous - still trying to process the person that’s right in front of you.

Lewis knew what to expect when the door swung open. With a new project in hand, his team searched for the best of the best in the field, trying to find the most suitable person to be in charge to coordinate this investment.

And that’s how you came along: in a stack of four resumes sitting on his desk, Lewis opened your file, carefully analyzing your entire career path, the types of projects you are used to working on, and the topics that excite you the most.

Looking for someone who has similar values as him, he quickly realized that you were the one: you are determined, have a successful professional path, and you seem to share the same vision as him. That, and the fact that the picture on your resume has enticed him from the first second, not even reading the rest of the files on his desk - after all, he had found the person he was looking forward to working with the most.

It feels like time has stopped when you stand in front of each other. Suddenly, the room went silent, like no one else was around you, leaving it to be just the two of you. But maybe, you stared at each other a second too long, maybe your hands felt the other’s warmth for longer than it was supposed to, until someone is clearing their throat, making you distance yourself from the man, occupying your seat at the table.

Keeping your posture while you take a deep breath to regain your senses, you focus on your boss, who's now rushing so the meeting can finally start, not wanting to keep the client and his team waiting any further.

Lewis’ team is quick to explain more about the reason why they wanted to meet you. This is a special project for the man: a new clothing line, whose profits will be donated to charities that Lewis cares for - a project that reflects most of Lewis’ personality, with his taste and passion for fashion, and his will to help others.

It’s easy for you to identify all the common points that you have with the main idea for this job, so you slowly start growing excited to get your hands on this project. But, at the same time, you can’t stop feeling that something is startling you, making you lose your focus from time to time.

Maybe it’s the way Lewis’ gaze lands on you from across the table, how his eyes seem to burn the insides of your soul, making you shift your attention between him and the presentation of the project.

When it’s finally time for him to speak, he gets up from his seat, ready to explain his motivation behind this idea and his expectations for it. But while he does so, his eyes never leave you, his words being directed only at you, forgetting about your boss or anyone else that’s also in the room with the two of you.

You feel your cheeks growing warmer by the minute, your hands slightly sweaty, your heartbeat accelerated, almost hypnotized by his intensity, his gaze being strong enough to set you ablaze.

He’s wearing a long, bright, orange blazer, his braids tied in a bun, enhancing his chocolate eyes that are totally focused on you, trying to record every single detail of your face in his mind, so he won’t forget about it.

You’re pretty sure that everyone else can notice the way you keep looking at each other, even if they act oblivious to it, and that’s enough to almost make you die out of embarrassment, even if you’re giving your best to pretend like you are not bothered by his presence right in front of you.

Finally, the meeting comes to an end, having sorted out the main ideas you are going to start working on already, and you can’t help but notice the heavy weight that seems to lift from your shoulders once you shake his hand for the final time today.

It’s almost as if you can breathe correctly again, without feeling so self-conscious from being shamelessly stared at by someone like Lewis Hamilton. Still, the way he said ‘goodbye’ to you, with a slight wink and a smirk plastered on his face, left your insides rumbling, this weird feeling growing inside of you.

You knew you were done from the first second you walked inside that meeting. The seven time Formula 1 world champion is obviously a very important client for your company, and your boss is making sure that he has everything he wants and needs. That’s why he was quick to inform you: Sir Hamilton will have a weekly meeting with you. Every Wednesday, at 9:30 am. Don’t be late.

Great, a weekly reason to make you wish you would be buried seven feet under. Your boss even made sure to tell you to clear your schedule every Wednesday morning, so the meetings for Lewis’ project wouldn’t have to be rushed.

This is a very important opportunity for you inside your company, but you’re not that pleased about this, due to the way you had felt this morning, feeling as if the driver was analyzing every inch of your face, reading every bit of your facial expressions.

The only thing you can do now is focus on your job, and not think about seeing him again until next week - and maybe even pray that these intense reactions from him could be just a 'first impression' type of thing, hoping he will show you a more calm side of his personality in the following meetings.

“Lewis Hamilton is a problem for next week, Y/N” - at least, that was what you thought. The next day, you were peacefully enjoying your dinner at home, when your phone started ringing a crazy amount of times, the ringing sounding muffled in between the sofa pillows, but still annoying you, praying it would stop.

A loud sigh escapes your lips when you look at the screen, your eyebrows furrowing when you check the countless messages from the man himself - Lewis, texting you a bunch of different pictures of ideas and inspirations he has for the project, wanting your opinion on them.

You immediately groan, hating the fact that your boss asked you to give him your personal number instead of just the professional one, so he could ‘reach out directly to you whenever he needs’ since he’s ‘such an important client’.

Opening the conversation, you notice his messages don’t stop coming, asking you questions and sending you different pictures of what he’s envisioning for this assignment. Tired of hearing your texts’ ring, you decide to dial his number, calling him in hopes he would just tell you everything that’s going through his mind while you are having dinner, interrupting the little time you have away from the office.

After the second ring, the man picks up your call.

- What can I do for you on this fine evening, Y/N? Can I get you sparkling water as cold as this typical rainy London night? Maybe a medium rare steak? - his voice sounds deep, yet light and you just can’t not notice the cheeky tone of his words, like he’s having so much fun while terrorizing your time away from work.

Silently rolling your eyes at his attitude, you’re ready to answer him back with the same wit.

- Well, office hours are over, and I hope you will keep that in mind the next time you think about clogging my phone with endless messages, Sir Hamilton. - using your most sultry tone, you smirk to yourself as you hear him humming on the other side of the line. If he wants to mess with you, he better beware that two can play this game. - Noted, Miss Y/N. I’m sorry for taking your time outside of your office to bother you with work related topics. But maybe our interactions after your office hours can be rearranged, no? Maybe we can change the subject of our conversations? - pushing your buttons, he’s clearly smiling at his phone, enjoying the way you joined his banter, just as much as he enjoyed hearing the words Sir Hamilton leaving your lips, leaving him to dream about it all night.

Fucker. His provocative words leave you speechless, struggling to have a reaction, your brain running to say something, so he will stop feeding his ego off the embarrassed silence that he got you in, now.

Clearing your throat, you decide to change the topic of the conversation.

- So, enlighten me a bit more about the ideas you sent me for the design? That’s why you contacted me in the first place, right? - you try to keep your composure. He’s a client like every other, Y/N. Breathe, in and out, and forget about what he said. Be. Professional.

On the other side of the line, a chuckle leaves the man’s throat.

- Office hours are over, Y/N. We will have plenty of time to discuss our ideas and different… positions on this project. Have a nice night. - The cheeky attitude makes your face feel hot again. He’s clearly smiling on the other side of the phone call, oblivious to the way your insides are trembling with his innuendo, in the same way that you have no idea how he can’t stop thinking about you, the way your baby blue suit would hug your figure perfectly, how your soft voice seems to enter his ears and travel through his veins, making him feel something that he has never felt before - but something that he definitely wants to chase.

Tonight feels particularly hard for you to fall asleep. Your brain is trying to process everything that happened for the past two days, and every time you replay his words, your insides grow nervous.

It’s like you’re already fighting an internal battle with yourself, conflicted between the way you feel and how wrong it is for you to feel this way, how you should remain professional.

Either way, no man is worth losing your job over. So, with a final deep breath, you try to forget about him and his antics, reminding yourself that you have other projects, other things to focus and to work on.

And, surprisingly, during the following days, the man grows silent. Doesn’t call, doesn't text, almost as if he was giving you a break from all the things he could say or do, letting you focus on your work and your inner peace.

Still, his damn words would continuously hover in the back of your mind, even making you suppress a smile sometimes, thinking that you will end up going insane just by the amount of times that your head brings this back.

Soon enough, a new week arrives, and before you can notice, it’s Wednesday again. It’s 9:20 am when you walk inside your company's building, reaching for the door handle of your office, when your eyes scan Lewis’ figure sitting on the couch at the waiting area.

Sharing a soft smile with you, he gets up once you open the door, noticing how the man just allows himself to walk inside your workplace without your permission, getting comfortable in one of the chairs in front of your desk, while you’re left dumbfounded at the door, analyzing his attitude.

After a second, you sit on your chair, only to be met with Hamilton’s sharp tongue again.

- It's amazing to see that you can actually show up on time for once - he ironizes, suppressing his own laugh when he notices your eyebrows lifting, looking straight at him.

You can’t believe his smart mouth, how he feels so comfortable to push your buttons even before knowing anything about you. Still, you push your hair out of your face and straighten your posture before replying:

- Is acting like a prick your favourite hobby or something? - your snap back with an ironic smile on your face, hearing Lewis laughing loud at your question, lightening the mood between the two of you.

Almost as a peace offer, he finally puts a cup of coffee that he was holding in his hand, on your desk, moving it closer to you. You raise an eyebrow at him, looking at the cup in front of you that has your name written on the lid.

- A hot blonde vanilla latte with oat milk. Did I get it right? - the man asks with a nervous smile on his face, showing you his fingers crossed in hopes that he didn’t ruin the order that he made sure to get you.

A surprised chuckle leaves your lips, sincerely smiling at him, now.

- Yup. That’s correct. How the hell did you find out what my usual coffee order is? - your furrowed eyebrows dominate your facial expression, trying to figure out how he discovered something so small yet so specific about you. - I noticed the coffee cup you were holding on our first meeting. If you don’t want people to know what you’re drinking, maybe you shouldn’t walk around with the sticker of your entire order glued to the cup - Lewis giggles at you, seeing the way your lips suppress a laugh that soon you let free as well. - Damn you, Starbucks! A girl can’t have her mysterious latte without some prick finding out about it - his eyes look small on his face when he hears your words, smiling widely at the light banter that revolves around you two now.

Still, you take the cup in your hands, sipping on the latte, realizing that it really tastes just like every other you usually order - he didn’t miss a detail about it.

- Thank you, Sir Hamilton. This is a very nice gesture from you - you say, giving him an honest smile while your eyes dance with his in an intense, yet brief, stare, before turning your attention to your computer.

There’s a moment of silence, the typing on your keyboard being the only sound filling the room, while Lewis’ mind is loud inside his skull. As if he keeps fighting himself to continue the banter, to tease you about the whole ‘Sir Hamilton’ thing, or to make another snarky remark just to push your buttons again. But instead, he just takes a breath, trying to ease some of the tension on his shoulders, due to all the pressure that he keeps putting himself under whenever he sees you.

- Please, you can call me Lewis. - is all he says. With a soft tone, with shiny eyes, looking up at you as you turn your face in the same direction as his voice, your gazes meeting again.

You gulp. Okay, Lewis. Not Sir, not Mr. Hamilton. Just Lewis. Nodding your head, you find the courage to speak through the intensity surrounding your bodies right now, as if your figures are speaking for yourselves, leaving little room for actual words to leave your mouth.

While the air grows thicker around you, Lewis’ deadly stare is still on you, almost defying you to reciprocate it, noticing the way he props his elbows on the table, moving his body closer to you, even if there’s an entire desk distancing you two - something that you aren’t sure if you should be thankful for or not, your mind wondering as your eyes travel through the man’s shape.

Taking his jacket off, his body gives you a show of what’s underneath the fabric covering his skin. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt today, one that hugs his toned body perfectly, showing his biceps on full display for you right now, making you feel flustered, making it impossible for you to deny how good he looks.

He notices it. He feels it. Your eyes travelling through his frame, admiring his toned arms, the tattoos strategically positioned to adorn his skin, your cheeks turning a slight shade of pink that makes a sly smile play on his lips, loving the way your gaze seems to not be able to leave him, addicted to having your attention.

Once you realize that you have been staring for too long, you pull yourself back from the trance he got you in, clearing your throat as you sip on your coffee again - doubting that filling your system with caffeine is a wise decision, right now.

- Well, thank you for the coffee, Lewis - you enhance the way his name sounds on your lips, getting a simple, yet knowing, smile from the man.

Shifting in your seat, you try to regain your focus, hoping the drink might at least help you with that.

- So, about the project… - you change the topic, looking back at your computer, as you try to start discussing some ideas with the driver, who is ready to listen to them, and to everything that you want to tell him, really.

Time passes by faster while you’re in each other’s presence, even if, deep in your bones, it feels like every second burns on your skin, passing by excruciatingly slowly, feeling every breath in your body, every stare, every word sinking in your soul.

And while both of you are trying your absolute best to remain focused, it’s hard. Lewis can’t stop noticing every detail of your presence, the way your hair gets in front of your face when you’re writing down the topics you need to work on next, forcing you to always keep the strands behind your ear, how you bounce your leg almost absently whenever he talks, biting down the skin of your lips as a way to distract you from the anxiety travelling through your blood - silently letting him know that he’s not indifferent to you, that he causes your body to react on its own.

Showing him your ideas, you turn your computer screen to the side, so the man can see everything you had planned already, how you picture the final result. But instead of staying in his place, he gets up, walking over to you, his frame leaning over yours as you two look at the screen in front of you.

- It’s just easier this way, no? So we can both look at things from the same perspective - his hoarse voice tells you, suddenly speaking lower, his lips closer to your ear as he directs his eyes to the projects in front of him.

As soon as his figure got closer, you could immediately notice the scent of his perfume, the delicate yet strong aroma hitting your nostrils, feeling so pleasant yet so present, just like him.

Looking up at him, you just give him a smile - one that’s not completely innocent, one that could make Lewis lose everything right here and now, only if he had a bit more confidence with you to take you in his arms, so he could lay your body on this desk, showing you how crazy the hours by your side are making him.

And looking down at you, he smirks. Moving to touch the mouse, his hand lands on yours softly, dominating your movements.

- What if we change this part of the event? Would it make sense to launch it this way? I want something different - you can barely make any sense of his words, sounding sultry as his hand continues to hold yours, and you can only thank yourself for not taking off your jacket this morning, covering the visible goosebumps that have found their home in your skin, now.

There it is. The sparks showing up again, the heat radiating from both of your bodies, making it hard for each other to breathe. Lewis’ face gets dangerously close to yours, taking in your features, his lips so close for you to take in yours, his arm almost embracing your side as he continues leaning on your chair.

You never felt so close to giving in to something capable of igniting your insides in a matter of seconds. And God, how badly you wish you could. But you can’t shush the little voice in the back of your head, telling you how he is a work client, after all. How you are just here to coordinate his project, and especially how your boss won’t be happy if he finds out about the slightest thing happening between you and one of the most important clients of this company.

Unfortunately, you let that voice win. Clearing your throat once again, you take your hand from under Lewis’, getting up from your seat to go grab a glass of water, desperately needing to put out the fire that continuously threatens to consume your mind and body.

- So, you were saying you want something different for the launch? What’s on your mind? Maybe if you explain it to me, I can make it come true - you ask from the middle of the room now, leaving the man to hold himself up on an empty chair, trying to regain his breath and mentality as well, now.

He doesn’t have a single doubt that you could make all his dreams come true, even the most breathtaking ones that he keeps having every night, dreaming of the way his name leaves your lips, how your touch feels soft against his own, ever since the first time he got to shake your hand.

But maybe this is pointless. Maybe you two just really need to calm down, and Lewis needs to rethink his next steps at your meetings. So, looking down at his watch, he sighs.

- I have to go, I’m sorry Y/N. I’ll just email you my ideas, okay? Not out of your office hours, of course. - he shows you a small smile, trying to pretend like he isn’t just chickening out because you keep driving him wild, eating away all his sanity.

- It’s always a pleasure, Miss. I’ll see you next week - shaking your hand, he shoots a wink in your direction, making you smile gently, watching him leave your office, and almost leaving behind this emptiness that now surrounds the space around you.

Sitting down on your chair again, you sigh. Feeling helpless, and almost a bit sad to see him go, you look at the clock on your computer, realizing that you have only spent an hour together, thinking of the way you cleared your entire morning, planning on having a longer meeting with him. But maybe this is for the better, so neither of you ends up doing something crazy that you might regret later.

Dumb ass, Lewis mutters under his breath, entering his car, only to stay still in his seat, sighing frustratedly as he stares at the horizon. I have to go? Where the fuck do you have to go, dumb ass? You two had the entire morning only to yourselves and you just left? Lewis, get your fucking shit together - the man says out loud, calling himself out at the ridiculous decision he just made, leaving you alone at your office, only because he decided that he wasn’t capable of dealing with the powerful feelings emanating between your bodies.

To tell the truth, he just doesn’t want to ruin it. He doesn't want to make you feel like he is rushing something, even if he can feel that you share the exact same feelings and sensations as him.

Disappointed and angry at himself, he decides to drive home. Going back to knock on your office door would just make him look even more stupid. What would you even say to her? Oh, turns out I don’t have to leave? That would just make you look even more ridiculous - he continues to argue with himself, sighing exasperatedly as he distances himself from your company building, from the place he could find you in, spending the entire morning alone with you, just as he has been dreaming for the past days.

And yet again, Lewis goes home thinking about you. About your eyes, that seem capable of sending bullets straight to his heart, your slender legs that looked so perfectly hugged by the skirt you were wearing today. His mind wanders through every new detail that he keeps learning about you, wishing he could become the pen that slowly touches your plump lips while you put your brain to work, organizing your train of thought before writing down your ideas.

Behind the door to your office, you still have your entire morning free, and you could use it to go have a nice breakfast at your favorite bakery, you could work on all projects you have on your hands right now. But no. Instead, you continuously refresh your email, waiting for the ideas that Lewis said he would send you.

You lock and unlock your phone a bunch of times, hoping he would say something, even if he would just clog your entire phone with pictures of what he wants to do for this investment. You just want to hear from him, to get something more from him, craving his presence since you almost got a taste of him this morning.

This isn’t right. You shouldn’t feel like this, you shouldn’t act like this at your workplace. You shouldn’t feel like a void has taken care of you just because he left. He’s just a client, you are just going to coordinate this project for him, and that’s it. Once all of this is done, you probably won’t even see him again. And now, you need to wait an entire week for him to show up once more.

Or maybe not. Tossing and turning in his bed that night, Lewis is feeling the desperation hitting his body, wishing you were lying by his side, so he could touch your smooth skin, smell your perfume, recording the scent on his pillow so he could feel you close to him whenever he would miss you.

He doesn’t want to explore your perspective on this project only, he wants to explore your perspective in life, maybe while you’re wrapped in between the sheets with him. The fact that he has never felt this way before, makes his knees buckle every time he thinks about you, about the way you make him burn with desire, with curiosity to discover you, so your bodies can finally meet.

But he can’t deny how powerless you make him feel, even if he tries to play it cool and use his strong mask, acting all tough around you, you could make him crumble in seconds just with your eyes, let alone with your touch on his body.

He needs to see you again, he wants to see you again. It’s like his brain can’t even process other information that’s not related to you, not even thinking twice before sending you a quick text at 4:39 am. 'Can we please have an emergency meeting tomorrow morning? We are having some issues with the plans for the line.' And with a heavy breath leaving his body, he presses send, hoping you will reply back with a ‘yes’.

Startled by your phone ringing in the middle of your slumber, you try to read the message you received, even if your eyes are almost fully closed. Seeing Lewis’ name on the screen is enough to make you rub your face, trying to wake up faster so you can find out the reason as to why he is texting you in the middle of the night.

Furrowing your eyebrows, a groan escapes your lips. Great, more work problems, as if your week isn’t chaotic enough already. Looking at it from the bright side, you will see Lewis again, even if it’s in the middle of solving problems, of getting some work done, maybe without that much time to banter as you usually do, but just seeing him again will be enough for you.

I can make some time after my first meeting of the day. 10:45 am in my office? - you reply back, lying on your pillow again, trying to go back to sleep when your phone rings one last time with a simple 'Perfect. Thank you, Y/N.'

You would be lying if you said that the thought of having him inside your office again tomorrow morning isn’t making some butterflies appear in your stomach, making it hard for you to fall asleep. But above all, you need to keep your focus, even if he is a very pleasant sight to look at, that’s all he is. Nothing more.

There’s a smile plastered on Lewis’ face once he reads your answer to his prayer. You said yes. You will make time to see him, to allow him to look at your gorgeous features again, to hear your voice shushing away all his intrusive thoughts.

He knows there’s not a problem with anything yet for you to fix, but he will make sure to figure something out, just looking for an excuse to see you again as soon as possible, without having to wait an entire week - wanting to redeem himself for his stupid attitude that he gave you this morning, when he walked away from your meeting.

Thursday, 10:35 am. Lewis is already waiting for you to be freed from your current meeting so he can see you. Wearing a navy blue jacket, his hands hold two coffees, and a small bag that has some scones inside of it, in the hopes of making your stressful morning a little more sweet with his presence, and the small cakes.

Your meeting runs a little late, and it’s already 10:57 am when you’re able to call his name, asking him to please follow you to your office. Opening the door, you encourage him to walk inside, noticing how he doesn’t seem as confident to erupt through your space again as he did yesterday.

Still, he sits down, putting the coffees and the small bag of pastries on your desk as he waits for you to join him. He has a soft smile on his features, almost as if he is feeling nervous, and he is. This morning, you have some music playing at a low volume in your office, and the man is quick to search for it while you are still at the door, talking to your secretary.

Thanking God for the power of technology, he finds out that you are listening to Daniel Caesar's ‘best part’ before you notice that he is actually shazamming the song.

He sips on his own coffee slowly, listening to the melody and the lyrics of the track, realizing how fitting it feels for this moment. Seeing you this morning is definitely the best part of his entire day.

You sit down in front of him, smiling at the cup of coffee waiting for you.

- I already had coffee this morning, Lewis. But thank you - you politely say, putting the cup to the side, saving some sips for later. - Oh no. A bit more caffeine won’t hurt, will it? - he jokes, making you shake your head at his antics. - I also brought some scones, maybe they’ll make your morning a bit more sweet. - Do you want me to go crazy with the amount of caffeine you want me to put in my body, Mr. Prick?! - you joke, laughing in unison with him. - I’ll take the scones though, I am really in need of something that will lighten up my day. - you explain, taking a bite out of one pastry.

Something to lighten up your day? That’s me, Y/N. - Lewis thinks to himself, feeling his heart racing in his chest at the sight of you, looking so beautiful, so bright and bubbly as ever.

Even if the carnal desires erupting from your bodies are evident, the man is starting to realize that it’s so, so much more than just that. Yes, he wants to hold your body close to his, bringing you to the edge of pleasure, seeing you roll your eyes to the back of your brain as you moan his name, but he also wants to hug you, to kiss your cheeks softly, to taste your lips that he’s positive that are sweeter than a scone, he wants you to caress his scalp, he wants to share a coffee and pastries with you more and more, hearing your ideas, your life perspectives, studying the way your amazing brain works.

He’s been thinking about it for some days now. Realizing that, whenever he thinks of you, he just doesn’t think of sex only, he thinks of nice encounters at your favourite bakery, he thinks of getting you flowers in the morning, just to see your adorable smile in your sleepy face, to the sight of your favourite flowers in his hand. And maybe that’s why he’s feeling softer, today. The tough guy façade will soon fade away, the more you grow on him, the more he dreams about you, wishing he could spend more days and moments by your side.

- Daniel Caesar is already a nice vibe for a stressful day - he tells you, his head slowly moving to the tune playing in the background, making you realize that you still have music playing on your computer, feeling way too overwhelmed to remember it. - Oh! Sorry. I like to listen to music when I’m alone, especially if I’m stressed. But I forgot it was playing - you quickly reply, turning it down immediately. - Why did you turn it down? I thought it was fitting for our meeting. Seeing you might be the best part of my stressful day as well - there. You said it, Lewis. You shouldn’t have said it, but you did, and now she’s not replying. She’s blushing, but she’s not replying. She’s definitely smiling at your words, but she’s not saying anything back. But God, she looks so cute when she gets shy.

It’s an internal battle with himself, hating the fact that he couldn’t hold his words inside, but loving the effect they had on you, making your cheeks turn into his favourite shade of pink, the cutest smile on your lips as you share a scone with him, silently agreeing with him. And that’s enough to make his heart flutter.

- So, what’s wrong? - you break the mood once again, focusing on the reason why he woke you up at 4 am. - Huh? - the man says while biting down his scone, lost in his thoughts. - What’s wrong? What happened for you to text me at 4 am and schedule an emergency meeting today? - you ask again, noticing the man’s lost face expression.

Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to see you. No, you can’t say that, you idiot. She’s at work, she’ll think you don’t take her job seriously enough to schedule pointless meetings while she has her hands full of projects she should be focusing on, instead of wasting her time having scones with you.

- Oh, yeah. About that… There’s a problem with the fabric suppliers, apparently they won’t be able to deliver all the materials necessary in time for the date we want to launch the clothing line. - his brain is fast to make up an excuse, finding something that can count as an issue that sounds bad enough for him to come to your office outside your weekly meetings.

However, now you’re the one feeling lost in the subject. Your eyebrows are furrowed, trying to decipher what’s going on.

- That sucks Lewis, but I am not the one that can solve that problem. I am coordinating the project, meaning I only get to intervene once the clothes are done, so we can prepare the launching, the charity side of the line and all that. You’re the one who can do something about it, you need to speak to the suppliers directly, or send someone else to do it for you - you are quick to explain, seeing the way his face falls, as if that wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

Shit. Does this mean that this meeting is over? We have nothing more to talk about? Not a problem in sight to solve? I have to go? Now that the coffee and the scones were tasting so delicious at the sight of the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on? She’s looking at her watch, she must be in a hurry, she must have more important things to do. You shouldn’t be selfish to the point of wanting her all to yourself while she’s buried in work, but unfortunately you are. Think, Lewis. Use your brain for once and fucking come up with something.

- Oh, can’t you be the one talking to them instead? - that’s all you can come up with? No wonder she thinks you’re a prick. You’re asking this woman to talk to a supplier who hasn’t done anything wrong, are you fucking stupid? Don’t answer that, brain - I’m good.

The way your eyebrows are quick to fly up your face, tells him how weird that idea was.

- Me? I don’t think that’s a good idea - you chuckle, sipping on the coffee the man brought you. - Well, why not? Maybe if you call them pricks like you do to me, they’ll get the job done. You’re the boss of this project, after all. I’m just dropping my ideas from time to time - he shows you a cheeky smile, one that makes you shake your head at his words, with a laugh escaping your lips. You’re the boss of my mind, at least.

You get up from your seat, a silent way of telling him that it’s time for him to go - even if you don’t want him to go, even if you would rather hear his jokes all day, making you forget all the problems at work.

- Maybe you can try and solve it yourself, and then give me some feedback, alright? - you tell him with a smile. - I guess Mr. Prick will see what he can do - Lewis replied, taking his coffee cup with him as he leaves your office. - See you on Wednesday, Y/N.

23 minutes. That’s all you got from an emergency meeting that you didn’t even plan correctly so you could have some more time with her. In between the scones and the music, you got 23 minutes of what your insides hoped to be the rest of the day, the entire night, tomorrow, all your hours dedicated to her.

At least, you got to look into her eyes once again, Lewis. You made her laugh, helped release some tension from her shoulders with the scones. Gotta give you that, it could be worse.

But it also could be a lot better. That’s why Lewis goes back home with this feeling itching in his chest. He just wants to spend more and more time by your side, so why can’t he?

He already has the weekly meeting with you, every Wednesday morning. And as the weeks pass by, the driver stops chickening out, spending all morning in between the four walls of your office, sharing his ideas, mixing them with your own for the project, sometimes focusing on work, other times paying more attention to the way your hands softly touch when you’re passing on papers to the other, how your figures meet when you’re side by side, organizing design visuals at your desk, how you lose yourselves in the other’s eyes.

But a weekly meeting doesn’t seem enough, doesn’t feel enough. So the man starts ruining small things here and there, causing inoffensive problems that are good enough to justify another emergency meeting with you - to which he would always show up with your favourite coffee and scones, almost creating this chaotic yet pleasant tradition, finding peace when he’s with you, even while dealing with the chaos of the little problems he created.

You can’t deny that you find it weird that every week, emergency meetings with Lewis seem to have become something mandatory on your schedule - sometimes over the smallest things that definitely didn’t require a meeting to be solved.

But as the banter, the laughs, the soft conversations and touches kept growing, the air around you two got more comfortable as well - or maybe, you’re the one who got used to breathing in between the flames he causes to erupt on your body.

Every night feels lonely while you dream of him, your head lying on the pillow where you’ve whispered his name already - without even having touched him yet, addicted to his perfume that seems to get attached to your clothes once you started hugging each other, instead of just shaking hands. Every time you get to feel just a small ounce of his touch, you swear you could get lost in it, in him, and never wanting to come back to reality.

However, as much as you might feel this way towards him, you’re not sure if Lewis feels the same way, or if this is just a fun game to him. And even if he might, in a parallel reality, share the same emotions as you, you’re pretty sure that he will never make a move, and you definitely can’t even equationate doing it, because your job is on the line. And that’s why the desire for him is the only thing lulling you to sleep every night.

Lewis has been getting lost in his own thoughts and fantasies as well, picturing every single thing he would do to you, imagining how different his days would be if you were by his side, completely hooked on you - dying a little more every week, as the will to hold you, to touch you, grows at an insane pace, only for him to have to fight it, using all the power in himself to restrain his movements around you, so he won’t lose it.

He has never been so sure of his feelings, and that’s why it kills him to see your dynamic when you’re together, the girl of his dreams right in front of him, falling in love with you the more he gets to know you, the more time he spends with you.

When he got to hug you for the first time, sensing your hand on his shoulder softly as you got ready to say goodbye after another meeting, your bodies got closer than usual, and he invited you for a first hug, to which you happily complied.

God, he could lose it right then and there. Chanting victory in his head just because he got to hug you once, celebrating the small wins you give him from time to time, the man was ready to confess his love for you in that second, when your noses almost touched once you broke the hug.

He wants to see you outside of work - that’s the thing he wants the most right now, and he would give up on anything for it to become true. But, as he continuously messes up with your work schedule, requiring more and more meetings outside of his weekly hour, the more you roll your eyes at his antics, the more you call him a ‘prick’.

It was fun seeing your reaction at first, laughing every time you would call him that, while the banter was light and meaningless. But now, Lewis can’t sleep, wondering if you are growing tired of him, feeling annoyed every time the man shows up at your office with another problem, making you work extra hours on those days, due to the amount of times you have to change your schedule to fit his ‘emergencies’.

Would you possibly say no, if he would gain the courage to ask you out? That thought haunts him every night, every week, at every meeting, every time he looks you in the eyes, every time you smile at him - so sweet, so innocent, but with the power of breaking his entire heart in half.

Besides that, he knows how you’re focused on your job, and he doesn’t want you to lose your position at the company because of him. He knows how this is important for you and your career, how you always remain professional, even when he might say something a bit more cheeky, trying to get you to loosen up a bit more. So maybe that’s another valid reason that would make you say no.

But once again, he needs to be selfish. He can’t wait so many months until the project is finally done, waiting for the time when you two are no longer business partners, when all the professional meetings will come to an end, to finally ask you out.

After all, he doesn’t want to lose contact with you. He doesn’t want you to stop working with him either. But he can’t continue to feel like this, every meeting feeling like absolute torture that he needs to endure on his body, restraining from touching the goddess in front of him, never allowing his dreams to become reality.

It’s been five weeks since the first time you saw each other, and it’s been around ten times that he has been inside your office, ten times you two had to keep from giving in to temptation, resisting to what your bodies so desperately beg the two of you.

And to tell the truth, you’re both growing tired of it. Lewis reads between the lines every time you give in just a little, always focusing on how professional you must remain at all times. So he knows that this one must be on him.

After weeks of debating with himself whether he should do it or not, he weighs the pros and cons of gaining the courage to finally asking you out: you can say yes, and that would be the most perfect scenario he can picture in his head, finally allowing him to see you outside of work, exploring you further away from the suits and the office you’re safely kept in; or you could say no, leaving him to deal with a broken heart, crushing all his expectations and dreams that you’re in.

With a deep breath, he makes a decision: he will ask you out, and if you say yes: perfect. If you say no, he feels like he has no choice rather than to choose someone else to work on this project with, not feeling like he would be able to deal with seeing you every week after being rejected by the only person that he has ever desired this much.

Wednesday, 9:24 am. As always, Lewis is already waiting for you at the small sofa near your office door, admiring your figure as you arrive to open the door for the man.

You stopped buying your own coffees every Wednesday, knowing that Lewis will already be waiting for you with two cups of coffee and scones in his hand, like the little tradition you started in your office.

Walking inside, both of you quickly make yourselves comfortable, getting used to your meetings, to each other’s presence. This morning, you feel all the stress of this week on your shoulders - having to deal with extremely tight deadlines, getting little to no sleep for the last couple of nights.

Lewis can feel your heavy energy, trying to lighten up the mood with a joke here and there, only to notice how you crack very little this time. You’re not joking back, your smile is smaller than it has been in the other weeks. He’s not a quitter, but for now, he just decides to tone down his snarky replies, listening attentively to your professional speech, stepping up to talk about the project with you.

When you ask him to check some visuals with you on the computer screen, he does what he has been doing since the first meeting - gets up, meeting you on your side of the desk, to lean his body over yours, feeding the both of you with some soft yet intense touch of the moment your bodies meet for some minutes.

You are too overwhelmed with work and information to even pay that much attention to his body reaching so close to you today, so you continue to complain about how neither of the designs seem to fit the ideas that you two came up with, how you need to ask the designers to work on something new and different, how this will delay the launching of the clothing line even more, how this is all a tragedy.

He’s looking down at you with a soft smile on his features, finding you adorable while stressing over something so trivial like colors and lines of a design, as if it’s the end of the world. You’re speaking fast, barely catching any air in your lungs as you are now venting about how stressed you feel today - your eyes focused on the computer screen in front of you, not even daring to look at the man’s face right now.

If he could, he would cup your face in his hands, reaching slowly so your lips could meet in a loving kiss, shushing away all your worries, grounding you again so you could breathe through his lungs, bringing all the oxygen back to your body, to your mind. But, in the situation you’re currently in, he can’t. And that kills him so much that he decides to leave all his fears behind as well, gaining the courage to interrupt your train of complaints.

- Wouldn’t you rather rant over a nice dinner? I think you once mentioned you like Italian food? - he says cheeky, even if his insides are trembling with anxiety, afraid of your reaction. Please say yes, please say yes. Please.

You stop talking, finally turning your head to him, your features meeting his soft ones - the smile that you love seeing on his face so much, so close to you once again, almost making it impossible for you to keep your impulses to yourself.

- What? - a nervous chuckle leaves your throat, as if you’re not quite understanding what he’s telling you. You heard me. - For dinner, Y/N. Italian? Indian? Mexican? I don’t know, what do you prefer? - he insists, his arms still resting on your chair and your desk as before, but somehow making you feel as if you are trapped now.

Soon enough, realization washes over you - he’s really making a move, one that you never thought he would be capable of making. In a matter of seconds, a knowing smile paints your lips as well.

- You want to take me out for dinner? What if I say no? - it’s your turn to defy him now, expectant to hear his reply. I don’t think you want to say no. - That’s not an option - the man is quick to say, his confidence growing inside of him as he reads your facial expressions, learning how to decipher you throughout the time. - Oh? - you say surprised, with an eyebrow raised. - That’s not an option? Then I guess I have no options - you inform him, shrugging before you leave your seat on the chair, walking over to the opposite side of the desk, trying to physically escape the hold he has on you. Don’t run away from me when you feel the same way as I do. - Your only option is to say yes and to let me take you on a date. It’s been time, now - he confesses, sincerity splattered all over his eyes, even when the typical smirk threatens to steal all the attention. - You’re ambitious - that’s all you say, feeling all the weight coming back to lay on your shoulders, your heart racing in a way that it hasn’t in a long time, now. - You should’ve known that by now. I never stop fighting until I get what I want. - he states confidently. And I want you. So insanely bad. You’re everything I can think about on a daily basis. You’re driving me mad.

A moment of silence fills the space between you two - and it’s not the comfortable type. It’s the heavy, dark, uncomfortable type of silence, the one that nobody enjoys.

Please, say something. Don’t grow silent on me, not after everything I just said, after the touches we shared, the glances, the coffees, the jokes, the silly conversations. Please.

Lewis grows nervous to the point of being scared that you might leave the room, not knowing what to expect from you right now. But even if you do, he’s positive that he will beg you on his knees for you to stay, to not turn your back to him.

Your mind starts spiralling, questioning if this should really happen or not, feeling divided between your heart and your mind, each one having a different opinion, almost like the angel and the devil that are fighting a battle on your shoulders.

You never thought Lewis would have the courage to really make this move, startling your senses a bit at his audacity. If you’re being honest with yourself, there’s nothing you want more than to finally go out with him, to discover all the other sides of the driver besides what you get to see inside your office.

But unfortunately, when weighing the pros and cons, there are more important things on the line here, things that you can’t allow yourself to lose. So, maybe, you truly are left without an option, having only one possible answer to give him - preparing yourself to deal with the consequences that this might bring you.

#the secret of us series #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton oneshot #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic

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starkspondwater · 1 month ago

Note

WHAT ABT SOME STUFF FOR OUR CRAIG MAN DUDE BRO IDK

( have you written about him idk )

like imagine craig being head over heels so much so that he cant have his nonchalant wheres my hug at attitude. him being flustered and shiii 😭 especially if the reader is the opposite of him... like dates at the mall w like a girly girl and he's all carrying victorias secret bags tryna be all stoic 😔 ( imagine he almost pulled a stan when reader was like looking at like cute lacy sets )

feel free to ingnore js tryna fulfill your wishes for more requests!

CRAIG! While I adore all the different pairings I've seen craig in, I do appreciate some craig x reader too! I love opposites being paired together, I think it makes for some fun interactions!

i will ignore nothing this was great

Summary: Craig meets a girl that has him doing things far from his norm, but he couldn't care one bit. (smut)

a/n: I know some people hate when others write him as very neutral, but I personally like it so that's what I'm doing!

Out of Character- Craig Tucker x Reader

Craig wasn’t sure how everything happened exactly. All he knew was one moment he had been dealing with bullshit in the groupchat he had with his childhood friends, his head hung low as he walked from one building on campus to another, and the next he was sprawled on the slightly damp ground. When he realized the person that ran into him full speed wasn’t just some douchebag, but a frantic looking girl in pretty tights, the anger dissipated and he found himself at a loss for words.

Apologies spilled from your pretty lips as you gathered up the books you had dropped, embarrassment pouring out of you in a large wave. You barely even glanced at the tall boy you rudely ran into when you shouted a quick goodbye and ran off to your next class. Craig watched as you hurried off, his eyes trailing you all the way until you had disappeared around a corner. Just when he was about to get up himself, he noticed that you had missed a book in your haste.

It didn’t take much probing to know where you’d be. The book you left behind was a very specific textbook he had seen a few classmates tote around, and with his blunt way of questioning he was actually able to figure out exactly where and when this class was so he could return your book…and possibly get a closer look at you.

Wednesday at 9:50 am found him in one of the west side buildings waiting next to a classroom he had no business being by. He had been sitting idly by as students strolled through, his eyes scanning for any sight of you. To be honest, he was a little apprehensive. For one, he had only seen you once and it was unlikely you’d be wearing the exact same thing you had just the other day, and two, what was he supposed to say to you?

Craig had never been the most…social. He had made friends, really good friends, but that didn’t equate to having incredibly good social skills. He knew he often came off brash and blunt, two things that sometimes gave others cause to go on the defensive. Not a good first impression. He had been trying to think of the sort of greeting he might say when you came bounding into view.

With a pep in your step you had made it up the stairwell. Seeing you from this angle and not from down on the ground he could see you were very pretty. You definitely had a sort of sweet, simple style going on, something like he’d see Marj wear back home. Comfortable but still gave off the vibe that you made an effort.

He was so lost in his analysis of you that he didn’t register how quickly you made it up the hallway. It was no wonder you had bulldozed him before with how intently you walked, making him stumble as he rushed to grab your attention.

“Hey.” You spun around at the sound of his voice.

“Hi?” For a second you looked at the boy in front of you in confusion. It took only a second when recognition dawned on you. “Oh! You’re the guy I knocked over Monday! I am so, so sorry about that again!”

“It’s alright…you left this,” he drawled, holding out your textbook. Your eyes grew a bit at the sight before you gave Craig a blinding smile. He was definitely cute, you decided.

“Thank you! You’re really a lifesaver!” gently taking the book from his hand, you hesitated going into your classroom. It was past 10 and though the professor wouldn’t actually begin things for another few minutes you didn’t have the time you wanted to talk with the boy.

Quickly pulling out a pen, you gestured for his hand. Curiously, he obliged, eyeing you warily. With small strokes you printed out a neat 10 digits before pulling away.

“Text me later and I’ll buy you a coffee!” Shooting him a wink and whipping back around, you were gone before Craig could respond.

He honestly wasn’t too sure what to make of you, but he did know that this small exchange left him wanting more. So, he texted and you both went for coffee, the rest was history.

_____

Craig was sure if his friends could see him now they would think some body snatcher had taken over him. Currently, you were a small step ahead of him while he carried your purse and a few shopping bags, and he was doing it without complaint.

Craig did a lot of things that would’ve had his friends concerned for his mental faculties. Years of his laid back neutrality were testament to what he was about in life. So why in the hell was he following some girl around like a lovesick dog? You.

From the first coffee date he was drawn in, and apparently so were you because you kept inviting him to everything you did. He ended up doing a lot of things he normally would not have been caught dead doing, like participating in corny campus events and the dreaded paint nights your friends kept putting on.

He was surprised at first as he wasn’t talkative or particularly warm, but it didn’t seem to bother you. Even his occasional blunt commentary didn’t upset you, even if it was a little rude at times. You simply laughed and went with the flow, like you knew he didn’t mean anything by it. You understood him.

So whenever you looked at him with that pretty little face, he folded instantly.

Hell, you even had the poor boy buying you things. He worked part time at the campus bookstore and while he didn’t make much it wasn’t like he had rent to pay, so he was more than happy spending some of it on trinkets he knew you’d love. It was a little addictive seeing how excited you got over the smallest things, jumping up to make up for his tall frame, arms around his neck and dragging him into a sweet smooch. So of course he wondered what would happen with a little shopping spree.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Watching you spin around and show off different things was more fun than Craig would ever admit. He enjoyed as you spun, twirling a small skirt around you as you asked for his opinion. Oh, he liked that. He liked knowing that you wanted to know what he liked. He liked everything you wore, but the fact that you even cared was extremely nice.

His favorite part of this trip, however, was one particular store. Victoria’s Secret.

The name of it brings back memories of him and his friends, too young to really understand the true purpose of the place, daring the others to venture in and jack around. He had never actually been in one before and took the opportunity to look around as you flagged down an associate.

Craig could see the appeal of all the lace and fabric now that he was older. He marveled that there were so many options, different colors and styles adorning walls and displays all around him. It wasn’t long before you had gotten his attention once more, apologizing because he needed to wait while you tried on a few things. He simply shrugged and let you get to it as he walked around the small store.

He was about halfway to the registers when something caught his eye. Lingerie was not exactly something he felt strongly about, I mean why would someone want to deal with all of that just to get to the sex? The item in front of him had Craig realizing he was a stupid, stupid man.

The label said it was a “babydoll,” whatever the fuck that was, but he didn’t care about that. What got his attention was the silky, deep blue fabric of it, black lace along the top of the cups. It was simple, much simpler than most of the stuff he had walked past, but the color is what dragged his gaze over. It was the same blue as his hat, which was slightly more ratty but nonetheless the same one he’s worn since he was a kid.

It’d almost be like you were wearing part of him.

Color you surprised to see him already holding a bag by the time you finally got to the register. A quick peek inside had you giggling, knowing just what he had planned.

The entire way back to your place Craig could not think straight, thoughts of what you would look like wrapped up in what he bought especially for you plaguing his mind. On the outside he looked cool, calm, and a little bored, but on the inside he was a blushing, impatient mess. The only things telling you he was looking forward to what was going to happen just as much as you were was the way his hands gripped the steering wheel and his slightly more aggressive driving.

_____

Walking into your ensuite to change, you tried to calm your nerves. It wasn’t as if the two of you had not done anything before, but something about this time felt different. Craig was not one to openly show his emotions very well, unless he was especially pissed off. You weren’t sure if he’d have any reaction to you at all even.

It was a simple set, a silk top and matching panties, both in that dark blue. You weren’t entirely sure what had attracted him to it but it was pretty regardless. You were pleased to note that Craig had a good eye as it fit just as it was supposed to. Taking a deep breath, you stepped out.

The reaction was immediate, small in nature, but enough for you to notice. His eyes widened at the sight of you standing there and from even this distance you could see he had stopped breathing. A flush crawled up his neck and onto his face, something you had rarely ever seen on him. You watched as he gulped before standing, walking closer to you.

“Do you like it?” a teasing smile played on your lips.

Craig said nothing, his eyes drinking you in. Bringing a hand up he grasped the edge of the top between his pointer finger and thumb, rubbing the material between them. His breathing had started back up, but you could tell it wasn’t even and this close you could see the way his pupils dilated.

“...Pretty…You look really pretty.” Craig mentally cursed himself for how shaky his voice came out. He knew you’d look good, he had pictured it enough during the day, but actually seeing it was something else. You were a complete vision to him and by god he was going to savor it.

He savored the way you led him back to bed. He savored the way you undressed him with care, kissing him throughout the process. He savored the way you got on top of him where you could feel just how bad he needed you.

You had gotten the panties off but when you attempted to do the same with the top he stopped you.

“Keep it on,” he pleaded, eyes so full of want that it stopped you in your tracks.

You rode him slowly at first, but Craig couldn’t help himself. Grabbing your ass he pistoned into you harder and harder, his eyes never straying from your face. Once again, the idea of you wearing a piece of him came to mind.

“You’re mine,” he felt you clench around him, ripping a groan from him. “Say it. Say that you’re mine.”

You did just that, over and over again, keening as he kept his hold on you.

Craig never lost control like this, but tonight he felt feral. He was not a talker in bed, his noise level never above a huff in your ears as he fucked you, but tonight it was as if he was someone else. Seeing you dressed up for him, hearing you say how you were all his, it all drove him insane.

He waited until you came to pull you down onto his chest, one hand cradling your head to his neck and the other firmly on the small of your back. He hammered into you, grunting noisily as the sound of skin on skin filled the air.

He wasn’t sure how long he had you like that before he felt the tell tale sign of his own ruin. He couldn’t stop himself, pumping into you more and more until he knew he was about to burst. At the last second he pulled out and with a groan, warm spurts coated your center and inner thighs.

Breathing hard, you rolled over and settled beside him. Silence followed the two of you for a time, and when you turned your head to look at him, you saw that Craig had once again put on his normal, neutral face.

“So…you wanna order pizza and watch red racer reruns?” you giggled a bit at the way he nodded vigorously despite the look on his face. That was something you really loved, how it was the little things that told you what he felt. It was really cute the more you thought about it.

Getting up you grabbed the discarded panties, wondering if you’d have time for a shower before the pizza got there when another idea popped into your head. If this made him act like that once, could it happen again?

“Hey Craig? Would you be alright if I just wore this the rest of the night?” You put on your most innocent look, fluttering eyelashes and all. You knew your answer as you saw the faint creeping of a blush once more.

Craig was more than okay seeing you in that thing, in fact, he showed you that much two more times that evening.

#south park x reader #south park x y/n #south park x you #craig tucker x you #craig tucker x y/n #craig tucker x reader #south park fanfiction #i think #i think i have a thing with possessiveness #cause this is like the second time i've written it #request

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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 1 month ago

Text

Ordinary Chapter 1, Outside the lines

Masterlist Word count: 3k Zayne x Fem!Reader

Summary: After seeing his best friend getting married to the love of her life, Zayne can't help but be a little jealous. He never had this feeling before. It's almost like he's longing for someone to love. At the wedding, she introduces him to a colleague who instantly forces him out of his comfort zone. Could this be love?

"I can't, sorry. I've got work."

Zayne had hoped you would've given up with that text. After he got home, the alien feeling he felt during the wedding disappeared only to be replaced by his usual loneliness. Only, it felt worse. So much worse. As if the warmth he had felt in your presence had become his new normal, only to feel cold when he got home.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't want it. All he wants is to continue in life as he had before. No weird feelings, no strange moments, no chaos. Just normalcy and structure. That's all he needs. All he wants.

But you didn't give up.

"When are you available? Or maybe we could get some lunch during your break?"

He wants to be optimistic, he really does, but this is how it always starts. At first, his partners take what they can get - coffee date, a late dinner together, a lazy morning before he gets called in again - but eventually they all tire of his hectic work schedule.

However, he'll never hear the end of it if he doesn’t go out with you at least once.

"We can do lunch on Wednesday. I usually have a break at 12:30 until 13:00 if nothing happens."

"Would you prefer to stay in the hospital for your break or go out?"

That throws him off a little bit. Usually, the women he dates assume he'll take them out even if he has little time and can't even be sure if he has a break. When he doesn't respond for a few minutes, another message comes in from you.

"How about I make us something delicious and we can decide if we want to go out when you're ready?"

"Agreed."

"Akso hospital, right? Should I tell someone when I'm there, or just text you and sit in the waiting room?"

"Text me."

"Alrighty, any allergies I should know about?"

Zayne suddenly notices his cheeks hurt a little. He's smiling. He's been smiling a while from the strain he feels in his cheeks. It almost makes him angry. How dare you make him smile like this after barely having one conversation? How dare you shake his normalcy up for the chaos you bring? How dare you make his heart stir? This isn't what he signed up for.

"I am not the greatest fan of carrots. Everything else is fine."

"I'll keep that in mind! See you Wednesday!"

His words, all his texts, were quite cold and calculated. Only communicating what was needed and yet your words almost jumped out of his screen. He could see you say those things with that sunny smile of yours. This whole thing seems unfair somehow.

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘

Wednesday. It must be around lunchtime as Zayne feels hunger building. His eyes flick to the clock on the operating room wall. 1:15. He's been in surgery for hours, and the procedure is taking longer than expected. The patient, a young man with a complex abdominal injury, is stable, but the delicate nature of the procedure has been a pain. Zayne wasn't even supposed to scrub in, but one of his colleagues got stuck in traffic and this couldn't wait.

When the surgery finally concludes, Zayne steps back and takes a deep breath, his body heavy with exhaustion but his mind still laser-focused. It's as if there's a glass box around him and everything that's happening around him is slightly muted. He glances at the clock again. 1:30. His stomach drops. He was supposed to meet you at 12:30.

He pulls out his phone, expecting a strong of annoyed texts or, worse, radio silence. Instead, there's just one message from you, sent at 12:19.

"I'm here!"

He stares at the message, a strange warmth spreading through his chest. It's just a few words but he can feel the excitement behind them and the fact that there are no other messages means you're still there. You're waiting for him. Right?

After taking off his scrubs and putting his white coat on again, he takes a moment to collect himself on the bench of the staff dressing room. The intensity of the surgery is still on his mind and he's having a harder time than usual getting himself out of it. Deep breathing doesn't work, splashing water in his face didn't work, affirmations didn't work. Finally, when he feels a little more grounded, he decides that he's made you wait long enough.

Besides, his stomach is rumbling like crazy.

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘

It's been a while since you sat down, more than an hour you figure, but you don't really mind. As you always do, you brought your sketchpad. When you started doodling, a little girl, no older than seven, sat down next to you asking how you were doing that. No more than five minutes later, the two of you were sharing the pad to draw flowers together. Her mother seemed thankful for the break, having a newborn on her arm.

'Why are you here? You don't seem sick,' the little girl asks curiously as you hand her the pink pencil she asked for. Your tote is loaded with art supplies wherever you go. You never know when inspiration strikes.

'I'm not sick,' you tell her, 'But I am going to have lunch with a friend. He's a doctor.' You raise your voice excitedly in the second part of your sentence. She giggles.

'Why are you friends with a doctor? They're boring,' she states through her giggles. You see her mother roll her eyes behind her. She wants to say something, you can tell, but you nod to her to make sure she knows it's alright.

'Are you good at keeping secrets?' The girl nods vigorously with a proud look on her face but her mother shakes her head behind her. A chuckle escapes you. 'Okay, listen up. The doctor I'm going to have lunch with, I like him a lot but he doesn't know yet. This is our first date.'

The girl gasps, her mouth wide open, big eyes staring at you excitedly, 'oh you have to tell him!' You pretend to be thinking very deeply about it, putting your finger on your chin to act it out even more.

'Hmmm, I'm not sure yet. I don't know if he likes me.'

'I like you,' the girl squeals, 'so he must like you too!'

'Maybe I tell him next time. This is the first time we're going on a date.'

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘

Zayne's breath catches when he spots you in the waiting room. There you are, sitting cross-legged on one of the uncomfortable chairs, a sketchpad balanced on your thigh, pencil in hand while you talk to the little girl sitting next to you. You're wearing simple linen pants and a black cropped t-shirt, your hair pulled up. You look like a ray of sunshine in the sterile, clinical environment.

The way you're interreacting with the girl next to you is so patient, so gentle. You seem to have told her something outrageous with the way the girl is giggling. Your voice is warm and gentle as you encourage the girl to continue drawing. She copies with careful concentration.

He can't help but watch for a moment as something tightens in his chest. He's not quite sure what it is – admiration perhaps, or something else he can't quite name yet. However, he can't stay stuck on it too long. He is already over an hour late and he's sure you've got other places to be as well.

'Hey,' he says softly as he comes closer. You look up, your face lighting up with a smile as your eyes meet his.

'Hey, you made it!' You turn to the girl sitting next to you. 'This is my friend, Zayne. What do you think? Should we show him our masterpiece?' Friend, ouch. But the little girl is giggling at your words, almost as if she knows more than he does. Did you tell her something?

The girl holds up the sketchpad to show Zayne. It's a page with wobbly but enthusiastic flowers between carefully drawn masterpieces. Clear to see who drew what, but he can tell that you've been teaching her certain ways to make the flowers look better.

'These are amazing,' Zayne says with the faintest smile, crouching down to her level. 'You're quite the artist.'

The girl beams with pride. You tear off the page she worked on and give it to her. She scampers off to show her mother who gives you a thankful smile. You nod at her and stand up, brushing off your pants. Zayne grabs the woven basket from the floor while you quickly load your supplies back into your tote.

'Sorry about that,' you grin, 'she looked bored.'

'No need to apologize. I'm the one who's late,' Zayne says, his voice softer than intended. You shrug it off.

'Doesn't matter. You're here now,' you say casually, 'so, did you want to stay in or go outside? Because I saw this pond in the garden...'

Zayne hesitates. The garden is a beautiful peaceful spot, but with the rush of the day it might be better to stay inside. However, the thought of sitting there with you, surrounded by lush greenery and the gentle sound of the pond... it feels right.

'Let's go to the garden,' he says, surprising himself. He quickly tries to rationalize it, 'I've been inside too long. It's good to go outside every once in a while'

'Whatever you say doctor.'

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘

The hospital garden is a hidden gem, a small oasis of calm tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the building. The pond glistens in the sunlight and the grass is soft and lush. To Zayne's surprise, you prepared for this. You spread out the ugliest, yet charming, blanket he's ever seen and start unpacking the basket with the efficiency of someone who has done this many, many times before.

'Okay, so I made a pasta salad because I figured you could use some carbs to keep you going,' you start explaining, 'It's got olives, anchovies, some olive oil as dressing. Then there's also some normal salad to get your greens in. And for dessert...' You hold up another container with a proud smile. 'Lemon cake.'

Zayne's eyes almost seem heart shaped as he looks at the container. You notice right away and put the container down with a chuckle. 'Does the doctor have a sweet tooth,' you ask with a teasing tone.

Zayne clears his throat, trying to collect his composure again. 'Maybe.'

You grin, delighted at this new knowledge. 'Good. I'll keep that in mind for next time.' Zayne almost feels his cheeks flush at the thought that there could be a next time. He had his guard up so high and you've broken it down minutes into a first date. This is not good. He should calm down a little. You hand him a plate, pulling him out of his head. 'Dig in.'

Zayne takes a cautious bite of the pasta salad, but is pleasantly surprised by how good it is. The flavors are bright and balanced, a welcome change from the tasteless hospital food he's used to. 'This is amazing,' he says, his voice sincere.

'Glad you like it.' Zayne nods, taking another bite. He wants to talk to you, wants to ask about you, keep the conversation going, but his mind feels sluggish, still caught in the aftermath of the surgery. It seems the comforting bubble you created around the two of you made his exterior crack. Now he feels even more tired, because he doesn't feel like he has to hide it. He can just be tired.

You watch him for a moment, seeming deep in thought. Something tells you he's tired, even though he hasn't said anything. His whole body seems to be slowing down. 'How has your day been so far,' you ask gently.

Zayne hesitates, stuck between wanting to talk and not wanting to waste too much energy while still having half a shift left, then he shrugs. 'Busy. I had to scrub in for a surgery that ran longer than expected. It was a lot.'

You nod, your expression softening as you watch him eat. 'I can imagine. You look like you've been through the wringer.'

He glances up at you, surprised that you could tell. He thought he was hiding it pretty well. 'Is it that obvious?'

You smile, but he sees no judgment in your face. Nothing that would tell him you despise him for not giving you his full attention. Instead, you look the tiniest bit worried. 'A little, but it's okay. We don't have to talk if you're not up for it. I'm happy to spend time with you either way.'

Zayne feels a flicker of guilt. 'I'm sorry. I can imagine this isn't exactly... fun for you.'

You shake your head, smile widening. 'Don't apologize. It's fine. I'm just glad I'm forcing you to have lunch, but I've got an even better idea if you're done.'

Zayne studies you for a second, trying to figure out if you're just being polite, if you're never going to text him again, if you're going to leave and move to a different city. Instead, you seem completely at ease, chomping on your food happily. 'What's your idea?'

'A nap.' You check your watch. 'If you have a half hour lunch break, we've only used a little over ten minutes. Could do you good to have a little sleep. Or just rest your eyes.' It sounds very appealing. Zayne's mind still feels slightly scattered from being in that sterile room for so long. Normally, he's fine after that but it seems the thought of meeting you cost him more energy than he bargained for. Resting his eyes sounds nice.

'And how would we go about that?' His tone is a bit timid, scared to be so vulnerable so early on. But is it truly vulnerability? You're offering a nap to him. It's just a yes or no question.

'You lay your head on my lap and I make sure you wake up on time.' Zayne feels his cheeks flush at your casual answer, but his body moves without his mind. You guide his head into your lap as he lays down on his back. 'I brought a book, would you like me to read to you?'

'That'd be nice.'

'Alright,' you smile and rummage through your tote bag, pulling out a little book, 'it's The Owl Service by Alan Garner.'

Zayne listens with his eyes closed. One of your hands is in his hair, leaving every once in a while to turn a page. Your voice is melodic and expressive as you tell a story you seem to know very well. The bubble of comfort that was created when you sat down is suddenly very small. Seems the whole world is gone. The birds in the garden are but a background score for your story. Zayne's mind flickers in and out of consciousness, his mind wandering with the story. The story seems to be a children's story, but there's much more behind it. Either way, he doesn't have to stay fully awake to follow.

A gentle tap to his forehead pulls him out of his dream world. His eyes flutter open and meets your eyes, shining like melting snow in the sun. You smile. 'Your break is almost over.' He nods and starts to stretch a little. Suddenly, he realizes he is holding something to his chest. Looking down, he sees a familiar hand with paint stains. He is holding your hand.

'I'm sorry,' he stammers as he lets go and quickly gets up, regretting it right away. It's not good to sit up so fast after laying down for a while. If only he would follow his own advice.

'It's fine. You were sleeping,' you smile kindly, 'however, if you do want to make it up to me, you can come over to my studio?'

Zayne blinks, caught off guard. 'Your studio?'

'Yeah,' you respond with sparkling eyes. 'I've seen your place of work, I'd love to show you around my place of work.'

Zayne hesitates, a whirlwind of unfamiliar feelings rushing through his chest, but then nods. 'I'd like that.'

Your smile lights up your whole face. 'Great! Text me when you're available.'

As you start packing up, you expected him to go back inside, back to his job, but he helps you. He gathers the empty containers and closes them neatly so nothing left in them will spill in your basket, he takes the paper cups you brought and walks over to the trashcan near the footpath returning right after. You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He even helps you fold the blanket. It all goes so naturally, it makes your heart swell.

As he leans down to grab the basket, an idea blooms in your head. 'Thank you,' you smile and press a kiss to his cheek. His face goes bright red as he stands up. Rushed, he hands you the basket.

'No problem.' Then he disappears back into the building. The idea that bloomed in your head, the warmth that spread from your lips, the tingling feeling in your stomach. It's a wonderful experience. Nothing quite compares to falling in love. A giggle escapes you as you leisurely stroll through the garden, heading back home to put this feeling on canvas.

Zayne, on his end, closes the door of his office behind him and tries to catch his breath. His mind feels fragmented, lost in wanting to fall in love again and not wanting his trust broken again. One thing is for sure, he doesn't want this to end. Terrifying as it may be, for the first time in a long time, he's willing to allow himself to feel.

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thedemoninme141 · 4 months ago

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Not a bad Christmas (set in the "Not a bad day" universe)

Summary: Wednesday ended up as your "Secret Santa".

Theme: FLUFF!

Parings: Wednesday Addams & Female Reader Wordcount: 5.8k. Set in the "before dating" period

Warnings: JealousWednesday!!! Cringe Fluff?

(A/n: I know the next chapter was supposed to be in "after dating" period but I felt like it would be better in "before dating" period.)

“I am SO excited!” Enid declared, her voice loud enough to draw glances from neighboring tables. She didn’t care. "You guys, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment."

"For breakfast?" Yoko asked dryly, sipping her coffee.

"No, for this!"Enid gestured dramatically, nearly knocking over her juice. "The Christmas party! You all know Principal Weems put me in charge this year, right?"

"You’ve mentioned it," Bianca said with sarcasm. "Maybe only a hundred times."

Eugene adjusted his glasses, looking genuinely intrigued. "What’s the big deal about this year's Christmas party?"

"Eugene, it’s not just a big deal. It’s the biggest deal!" Enid leaned in, her voice dropping as she whispered "I pitched an idea to Principal Weems that is going to make this the most amazing, unforgettable Christmas party ever!"

"What’s the idea?" Eugene asked,

"I’m not telling!" Enid sing-songed. "It’s a surprise! Weems might even announce it today."

“If it’s not as groundbreaking as you’re hyping it up to be, we’re going to riot.” Bianca said dryly.

“I can handle the pressure!” Enid declared, “I was born for this. And besides, Christmas is my favorite holiday. It’s sparkly and cheerful, and everyone gets to come together! It’s the one time of year people have no excuse to be grumpy.”

Wednesday’s dark gaze flicked to Enid, a sarcastic remark brewing on her tongue. However, she bit it back, opting instead for a slow sip of coffee. Grumpy? She could name a dozen reasons why grumpiness was not only justified but necessary—especially during a holiday that encouraged excessive sentimentality. She glanced sideways at you, seated just beside Enid, you looked intrigued. Great.

She didn’t need her visions to predict that whatever Enid had in store would be an exercise in torture for her, and likely for everyone else. She hoped she would be able to ignore it, maybe stay locked in her room during Christmas but then, there was you... who just glanced back at her, giving a warm smile.

Wednesday quickly looked away, back at her food... oh wait she was done eating.

Why did you smile at her like that? Why did her heart just skip a beat? Why did her stomach twist into knots at your smile?

“Wednesday!” Enid’s voice cutting through her reverie.

“What?”

“I said, aren’t you so excited for the announcement?” Enid beamed at her, completely oblivious to Wednesday’s growing annoyance.

“Thrilled,” Wednesday deadpanned, “Nothing brings me more joy than waiting for yet another banal attempt at forced merriment.”

Enid pouted. “Come on, don’t be such a Grinch. This is going to be so fun! Right?” She nudged you with her elbow, seeking validation.

You chuckled softly, nodding. “It’ll be fun, Enid. I’m sure whatever you’ve planned is going to blow everyone away.”

“See? At least someone believes in- Oh, Weems is here!"

The din of student conversation gradually quieted as Weems stepped into the center of the quad, her presence commanding attention.

"Good morning, everyone," Weems began, her voice clear and authoritative. "As you all know, the holiday season is upon us. This year, we aim to celebrate with a bit more… normalcy, after last year’s unfortunate events." Her eyes flicked briefly toward Wednesday, who met her gaze with a defiant smirk. Unfortunate? Maybe. Enjoyable? Yes.

Weems cleared her throat. "To that end, I’m pleased to announce a new tradition for our Nevermore Christmas celebration: a Secret Santa gift exchange!"

The announcement was met with a collective groan from the students.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Yoko muttered. "Ugh, I hate shopping for other people," Bianca complained

"What if we just… don’t do it?" someone called out from another table.

Weems’ smile tightened, her patience visibly waning. "Participation is mandatory. Each student will draw a name at random later today and will be expected to provide a thoughtful, appropriate gift."

"This is absurd," Wednesday declared, her tone icy. "Forcing us to partake in such a vacuous activity only reinforces the notion that conformity is more valued than individuality."

"Oh, come on, Wednesday," Enid said, her excitement undiminished. "It’ll be fun! You might get something you like."

"Doubtful," Wednesday retorted. "Unless my Secret Santa has access to poison or medieval torture devices or a collection of preserved organs or..."

Your giggle interrupted her, earning a sharp glance from Wednesday. "You know, it’s not that bad," you said, leaning slightly toward her. "Maybe you’ll get something one of those things."

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. "Hightly unlikely"

Enid, meanwhile, was practically bouncing in her seat. "I can’t wait to see who I get! This is going to be amazing!"

"Amazing for you," Bianca said dryly. "For the rest of us? Not so much."

Weems raised her hand for silence. "That will be all for now. The details of the exchange will be posted later today. I trust you all will approach this with the spirit of the season in mind." Wednesday wants to summon a sprit to haunt that excuse of a principal.

With that, Weems turned and strode away, leaving the quad to devolve once more into hushed complaints and reluctant acceptance. Enid turned to you, her eyes sparkling.

"This is going to be SO GREAT!" she said, grabbing your arm. "I already have, like, a million gift ideas. What about you? Are you excited?"

You smiled, glancing briefly at Wednesday, whose scowl had deepened even more as if that was even possible. "I think it’ll be… interesting."

"Interesting?" Enid repeated. "It’ll be fantastic! Secret Santa could be a good bonding activity.” Enid said, her chipper tone grating against Wednesday’s mood.

“I’d rather bond with a guillotine,” Wednesday muttered as the group started gathering their things for class. Enid, still beaming with unrelenting excitement about the Secret Santa announcement, latched onto Wednesday’s arm, chattering nonstop about potential gift ideas and how this year’s Christmas party would outshine any before it. Wednesday, for her part, thought about finding whoever this Santa Claus is and putting an end to him.

Entering the classroom, Wednesday took her usual seat and Enid plopped into the chair beside her. You were just a few seats ahead, settling into your spot. The seat next to you, tantalizingly empty…

Nate? Nick? or whatever his forgettable name was appeared in the doorway. His eyes scanned the room, landing on the empty seat beside you. He brightened instantly, taking a step forward as though he were about to claim it.

Then his gaze shifted to Wednesday.

Wednesday’s expression remained perfectly neutral, except for the sharp, unmistakable intensity in her dark eyes. She didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. She simply stared at him.

The boy froze mid-step, his face paling. His eyes flicked to the faint burns on his hand, still healing from the “accidental” cocoa incident at the ugly sweater party.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered under his breath, spinning on his heel and fast-walking to a corner seat as far away from Wednesday as possible.

The scene would’ve pleased Wednesday had it not been for the way you glanced back at her, curious and faintly confused. She quickly diverted her gaze, feigning interest in the carved graffiti on her desk.

Moments later, Bianca came in. Her eyes immediately landed on the empty seat beside you. She started walking toward it, only to pause midway. Instead of sitting there, she veered toward Enid and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Enid,” Bianca said smoothly “mind switching seats with me?”

Enid’s face lit up. “Of course! You can sit here! I can sit next to Y/N!” She began gathering her things without hesitation, practically skipping to the seat beside you.

Bianca slid into Enid’s vacated spot,

“You are not wanted here,” Wednesday said icily, her tone as sharp as a blade.

Bianca rolled her eyes. “Relax, Addams. I’m not here for your sparkling personality. I just figured sitting here was safer.”

“Safer? Why would sitting beside "me" would be safer?” Wednesday’s tone turned even colder.

Bianca smirked. “Please, as if we haven’t noticed how you practically plot murders in your head for anyone who gets too close to Y/N.”

Wednesday’s spine straightened, her glare intensifying. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, spare me the denial,” Bianca said dismissively. “Enid is safe from your wrath because, well… she’s Enid. But me? Let’s just say I care too much about my life to be a victim of your jealousy.”

“I am not jealous,” Wednesday hissed, her voice low but venomous.

“Uh-huh.” Bianca gave her a knowing look before turning her attention to the front of the room, clearly enjoying herself.

Wednesday’s hands clenched into fists beneath the desk, her dark eyes flitting back to you. You were laughing softly at something Enid had said, your smile so warm it could melt snow. Wednesday felt a strange mix of frustration and longing twist in her chest. How could someone like you affect her so profoundly without even trying?

“Alright, class,” the teacher finally announced, setting down her book with a flourish, “we’re ending a little early today because it’s time to find out who your Secret Santa recipient will be!”

“Yes! Finally!” Enid exclaimed, bouncing in her seat like a hyperactive puppy.

Wednesday’s gaze shifted to the front of the room, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. A new wave of dread crept into her mind. This was it, the moment she’d been dreading since Weems’s announcement.

“Each of you will receive a small box. Inside that box is the name of the person you’ll be playing Secret Santa for." The teacher said, "Miss Sinclair, I believe you have the materials?”

“Oh! Yes, one sec!” Enid practically bolted from her chair, nearly toppling it in her haste. She sped out of the room in a blur of rainbows🌈🌈🌈, leaving everyone staring after her.

Wednesday felt like it hadn't even been 5 secs before Enid burst back into the classroom with a large, overly festive box clutched in her arms.

“Ta-da!” she declared, dropping the box onto the teacher’s desk with an audible thud.

Several students groaned at the display.

“Why is it so… glittery?” The teacher asked.

“It’s Christmas!” Enid replied, as if that explained everything. She opened the larger box to reveal an assortment of tiny boxes, each neatly wrapped and tied with red ribbons. “Pretty, right?”

Wednesday arched an eyebrow. “If you mean ‘pretty excessive,’ then yes.”

Enid ignored her, already grabbing a smaller box. “Okay, so I’ll start handing these out! Bianca, wanna help?”

Bianca sighed but stood anyway, muttering, “Might as well get this over with.”

The two of them began pulling out the tiny boxes, reading the names written on them, and distributing them around the room. Students grumbled their thanks, some reluctantly and others with mild curiosity as they turned the boxes over in their hands.

When Enid finally reached Wednesday, her excitement was still at an all-time high. “Here you go, Wends!” She thrust the small box toward her.

Though Enid had wrapped the box with black paper, Wednesday stared at the box as though it might explode. She took it with her usual reluctance, her fingers brushing against the ribbon’s texture.

With deliberate slowness, Wednesday pulled the ribbon loose, lifted the lid, and peered inside.

Hopefully, it would be someone she loathed. The possibilities were endless: a smug siren, an irritating vampire, or perhaps even that one werewolf who insisted on howling every full moon at midnight since she wolfed out. Yes, she could relish the challenge of giving them the worst, most spiteful gift imaginable.

But luck had a way of avoiding her at the worst times.

The name on the slip of paper felt like a slap in the face.

Curse you, Enid Sinclair.

Y/N L/N.

Her stomach dropped. Of all the names. Of all the cursed possibilities.

Wednesday’s chest tightened. This was a disaster.

Being your Secret Santa meant she’d have to think about you even more than she already did. She’d have to choose a gift, something meaningful, something that wouldn’t betray the tangled mess of emotions she felt whenever you were near. She couldn’t risk exposing herself, couldn’t let you know how much you affected her.

And yet, a small, treacherous part of her was… excited. The thought of giving you something, of seeing your reaction, was almost enough to outweigh her dread. Almost.

Her jaw clenched. No. She couldn’t let this ridiculous tradition get to her. She’d find the most generic, impersonal gift possible and be done with it. That was the only way to survive this.

But as she watched you lean back in your chair, your gaze flickering toward her with a curious smile, Wednesday felt her resolve waver.

This was going to be the longest Christmas of her life.

Enid practically hop-skipped down the hall as she clutched a small notebook filled with ideas for Eugene’s Secret Santa gift to her chest. She was going to be the best Secret Santa ever.

"Maybe I can knit him a bee-themed scarf! Or get him a limited edition honey collection—do they even make those? I’ll make it happen!"

She pushed the door open to their shared dorm room, fully expecting to see Wednesday brooding on her typewriter or reading some obscure book about medieval torture methods. Instead, she froze mid-step.

"Wednesday… what the hell is this?"

Wednesday had her cursed investigation board back out, its surface covered in a chaotic mess of photos, red strings, and notes. At first glance, it looked like Wednesday was solving another gruesome murder in the woods.

Enid’s pulse quickened. "Oh no, no, no. What happened now? Did some monster claw its way out of the woods again?"

Wednesday didn’t immediately respond. She was too engrossed in pinning another photo to the board, her expression dark with concentration. Enid’s eyes scanned the board, her heart pounding as she prepared for the worst. But then her gaze landed on the pictures.

Your pictures...

Not once, not twice, but in multiple photos. Some candid shots of you laughing in the quad, others from a class project presentation, even one blurry photo of you reading in the library. There were sticky notes around them, though the handwriting was too small for Enid to make out. She blinked, her mouth falling open.

“Wednesday,” she began cautiously “what is this? What did Y/N do?”

Finally, Wednesday turned her head to look at Enid, her expression unreadable, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Y/N did nothing.”

“Then why... why is she all over your investigation board?! Are you trying to prove she’s some kind of secret villain or something? Because I’m telling you, Wednesday, Y/N is, like, the nicest person I know.”

Without a word, Wednesday plucked a folded slip of paper from her desk and shoved it into Enid’s hands. Enid unfolded it and read the name written in sharp, neat letters.

Y/N L/N.

The realization dawned on Enid almost instantly. Her lips parted, forming an "O" of understanding. "Ohhhhh," she said, drawing the sound out like a squeaky balloon. "You’re her Secret Santa!"

"Astute observation," Wednesday deadpanned, crossing her arms.

Enid’s eyes darted back to the board, her previous panic replaced with intrigue. "So, is this—?"

"Yes," Wednesday interrupted with a sigh, "This is… research."

"Research?" Enid echoed, "Wednesday, this is borderline stalking. You don’t need an entire murder board to pick out a gift!"

Wednesday’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. Her gaze flicked back to the board.

Enid’s eyes scanned the chaotic collage again, only to land on a picture of another student, a girl... Darcy? Enid remembers. Unlike the others, this photo had a bright red circle drawn around it.

"Uh, Wednesday?" Enid said cautiously, pointing at the circled picture. "Why is Darcy on here?"

Wednesday’s response was immediate and emotionless. "That girl is Y/N’s nemesis. I thought perhaps eliminating her would be an appropriate gift."

Enid gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Nemesis? What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Darcy spilled coffee on Y/n." Wednesday said flatly.

“Spilled Coffee??!!” Enid repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. “Darcy spilled coffee on Y/N six months ago. By accident! And she apologized, like, a hundred times.”

“Same thing,” Wednesday said, her tone indifferent.

"Alright alright. Lets take it down a bit. Have you tried thinking about something normal? Maybe a book." Enid asked shrugging.

Wednesday glared at Enid. “A book? How unimaginative. I refuse to insult her intelligence with something so pedestrian.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to help,” Enid shot back. "How about you tell me the list of what you have considered."

“A taxidermy specimen,” Wednesday offered.

“Dial it back.”

“An antique dagger that captures the souls of its victim.”

“No, that's... wait... does that actually exist?”

“A preserved tarantula.”

“Wednesday!” Enid groaned, throwing her head back. “You can’t give her something creepy! You’ll scare her off!”

Wednesday’s expression darkened, and she muttered under her breath, “It’s better than being dull.”

“Look,” Enid said, stepping closer and placing a hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. “I get it, okay? You like her. Like, really like her. And that’s scary and new to you, I get it. But you’re making this way harder than it needs to be. Just think about what would make her smile. That’s all that matters.”

Wednesday’s gaze softened, her usual sharp retort dying on her lips. She glanced at the board one more time, her mind swirling with uncertainty. “What if… I choose wrong?”

Enid smiled gently. “You won’t. You know her better than you think.”

Wednesday didn’t argue. But as she looked back at the pictures of you... and that smile. Maybe the answer really was simple.

And so, she found herself standing at the edge of the quad. her dark eyes surveying the chaos.

She held the small box in her hand, its contents weighing far more heavily on her mind than its actual physical mass. The box was simple plain black, tied with a thin crimson ribbon.

This was idiotic. Completely, utterly idiotic.

Ridiculous, she thought, glancing down at the gift. Why should this be any different from any other calculated gesture?

But it was different. You made it different.

She inhaled deeply, the cold air filling her lungs before she began her measured descent into the quad. Her steps were deliberate, slow.

Around her, students chatted and mingled and she felt their eyes occasionally drift toward her, as they always did, but tonight, she barely noticed. Her focus was elsewhere.

You.

Wednesday spotted you almost instantly. You were seated at one of the circular tables near the center of the quad, surrounded by her circle of idiots. Each of them had their gifts piled near their chairs, wrapped in colorful paper that made Wednesday inwardly puke. There was something almost unsettling about seeing you like this.

Enid whispered something to you and you smiled but, that smile didn't quite reach your eyes. Your usual brightness was dimmed tonight, replaced with an air of... nervousness? Contemplation? Whatever it was, it made her chest tighten in a way she didn’t entirely understand.

As she neared the table, Enid was the first to notice her. The werewolf’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Wednesday! You made it!” Enid’s voice rang out, drawing the attention of the entire table.

Your eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, the noise around her faded. The nervousness in your expression softened slightly, replaced by something gentler. You offered a small, shy smile that sent an unfamiliar warmth spreading through Wednesday’s chest. She quickly averted her gaze, clearing her throat as she reached the table.

"Of course, she made it," Bianca drawled, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. "Our personal Christmas Grinch wouldn’t miss the chance to haunt us while we are trying to have some fun."

Wednesday’s gaze snapped to Bianca, her dark eyes narrowing. "If I wanted to haunt you, Bianca, I’d do it with far more creativity than attending this… overdecorated spectacle."

"Overdecorated spectacle? Some of us put effort into this, you know." Enid pouted "Well at least you came, so come on, have a seat!" Enid said brightening up again as she patted the empty seat beside her.

Reluctantly, Wednesday slid into the offered seat, her posture as stiff as ever. She placed the box on her lap, keeping it hidden from view, her fingers resting on the ribbon as if to reassure herself it was still there.

"Hot cocoa?" Eugene offered, holding out a steaming mug.

"No," Wednesday replied flatly, her eyes darting briefly to you. She doesn't need to burn anyone. For now.

You glanced up then, your gaze meeting hers for a fleeting moment before you quickly looked away, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. Wednesday’s stomach twisted at the sight, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.

You reached for your drink and for a moment, you seemed lost in thought again. Your brow furrowed ever so slightly, and your gaze drifted to the flickering lights above. Wednesday's eyes narrowed as she observed you, her mind racing to decode the emotions playing across your face.

Were you nervous? Sad? Or perhaps simply tired of the holiday cheer? Was it the Secret Santa event? Did you draw someone you weren’t fond of?

Who had you drawn? And what had you chosen for them? The thought unsettled her more than it should have. A fleeting image of you selecting a thoughtful gift for someone else sent a sharp pang of irritation through her. You, holding a gift, your face bright with anticipation as you presented it to some undeserving fool.

Perhaps that girl you’d partnered with in herbology last week or the one who lingered too long near your station, or the one who asked you on a dance in the ugly sweater party... maybe she would need to burn someone after all.

Before she could spiral further into her thoughts she felt the chatter quiet almost instantly and Wednesday didn't bother looking at the stage.

“Good evening, everyone,” Weems began, her voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd. “I’m delighted to see so many of you here tonight, embracing the spirit of the season”

Wednesday suppressed a groan, straightening in her chair but not bothering to feign interest.

Weems continued, her smile widening as she surveyed the gathering. “This year has been relatively… uneventful.” She hesitated just a fraction of a second, her gaze lingering momentarily on Wednesday before moving on. “For which I am profoundly grateful.”

That earned a few chuckles from the crowd, and Wednesday’s lips twitched in faint irritation. Uneventful? That was certainly one way to describe it. From monsters lurking in the woods and unraveling a centuries-old conspiracy to.... brooding. Yeah.. that's what Wednesday found herself doing last year... Was Bianca right about her brooding all the time?

She should’ve hated this year, every day of it. It was, by all accounts, actually uneventful. The monotony alone should’ve driven her mad.

But it hadn’t.

And she knew exactly why.

Her gaze flicked back to you, almost involuntarily. You were still seated, your hands now wrapped around your cup as you leaned closer to Enid, nodding along to whatever trivial nonsense she was whispering in your ear. You didn’t look extraordinary, not in the conventional sense. Your sweater was unassuming. And yet, to Wednesday, you radiated something inexplicably magnetic.

It was because of you.

Wednesday’s fingers tightened around the ribbon of the box in her lap, her thoughts momentarily scattered. She should have hated this year, loathed it for its lack of intellectual stimulation and excitement. But no matter how much she tried, that hatred never came.

Because of you.

She sighed, a sound barely audible even to herself, and returned her attention to Weems, who was still mid-speech. “This year has proved what Nevermore can be,” Weems declared, her tone resolute. “A place of growth and of potential. As we stand on the brink of a new year, let us carry forward the bonds we’ve strengthened here tonight.” Weems’ gaze swept over the gathered students, lingering briefly on Wednesday, as if daring her to contradict the sentiment. Wednesday met her gaze with a neutral expression, unwilling to give the principal the satisfaction of any visible reaction.

“And so,” Weems concluded, her voice warm yet authoritative, “let us feast, celebrate, and look forward to the possibilities that lie ahead. Happy holidays, my dear students.” A polite smattering of applause followed, and Weems stepped back, gesturing toward the long tables laden with food at the edge of the quad. The students began to stir, rising from their seats and drifting toward the table.

From her seat, Wednesday found herself observing Enid tearing into her food, a sight both grotesque and vaguely amusing.

“Enid, you’re one drumstick away from wolfing out right here.” Bianca quipped from across the table.

Enid shot Bianca a pointed look, her cheeks already puffed out like a chipmunk’s from the food she was furiously chewing. Swallowing with a dramatic gulp, she said, “Hey! It’s not my fault everything tastes so good! And for your information, I was busy all day! You think this whole event planned itself?”

Wednesday barely registered the conversation, her dark eyes fixed on her untouched plate. The food, no matter how well-prepared or fragrant, was irrelevant to her. Her mind churned with far more pressing matters.

The gift.

The prospect of giving you the gift in front of everyone at the table was a particular source of dread. She was not one for public displays, especially when it came to something as vulnerable as this. What if they mocked her choice? Worse, what if you did?

Wednesday’s fingers tightened around the box, her knuckles whitening. She refused to entertain that thought any longer. No. You wouldn’t mock her. You weren’t like the others.

You were kind... loving and you weren't... at the table?

Her heart skipped a beat as she scanned the immediate area. You were nowhere in sight. The seat you had occupied moments ago was empty, your plate still half-full. Wednesday’s brow furrowed, a sliver of unease creeping in.

Where had you gone? She hadn’t seen you leave. Had she been so lost in her own head that she missed it?

And then she saw it—a small piece of paper resting just beside her plate. Her brows furrowed as she reached for it, unfolding it with deliberate care. The handwriting was unmistakable.

Meet me near the fountain.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Wednesday’s lips, unbidden but not unwelcome. Of course, it was you. Who else would have the audacity to summon her like this?

She folded the note carefully and tucked it into her pocket before rising to her feet.

Enid paused mid-bite “Where are you going? You barely touched your food!”

Wednesday didn't bother answering as she made her way through the crowd. Each step felt deliberate, measured. Her grip tightened around the small box in her hand as she approached the pathway leading to the fountain, her mind already racing.

What would she say when she saw you? Would she hand over the gift without a word, letting the gesture speak for itself? Or would she attempt something more... personal? Words weren’t her forte, especially not when it came to feelings. And yet, with you, words seemed both inadequate and entirely necessary.

And there you were.

Sitting on the bench, your back straight but your posture relaxed, you stared ahead at the frozen fountain.

For the briefest moment, Wednesday froze. Her mind, usually a whirl of calculated plans and sharp observations, was disturbingly blank. You looked so...you.

Finally, she took a breath, steady and controlled, and stepped forward.

You must have heard her approach because you turned your head just as she reached the bench.

Your eyes found hers.

That smile, the same smile. that had marked its place in... her unnecessary blood-pumping machine they called "heart". There was something different about it this time, though. It wasn’t the shy or nervous smile from earlier. It was warm, inviting, and... knowing. As if you had been waiting for her all along.

You patted the empty space beside you. “Sit.”

Wednesday hesitated for only a second before lowering herself onto the bench. She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, noting the way you rested your hands in your lap, your fingers brushing against one another absentmindedly. You were close, closer than she realized, and the proximity was enough to make her hyperaware of her every movement.

How does one start something like this? She had rehearsed no fewer than twenty scenarios in her mind, yet now, sitting here beside you, they all felt insufficient.

“Do you believe in fate, Wednesday?”

The question caught her off guard. She turned her head to look at you fully, her brow furrowing as she considered your words.

“Fate?” she repeated, her tone skeptical. “The idea that our lives are predetermined by some cosmic force?”

You nodded, your gaze unwavering.

“Fate,” she repeated, her tone contemplative. “A concept often romanticized but rarely substantiated. It implies predestination, a lack of autonomy, which I find… unsatisfactory.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light and modest, yet it sent a ripple through her. “That’s a very Wednesday answer,”.

“And what would your answer be?” she countered, her gaze steady on you.

“I think,” you began, your eyes returning to the fountain, “that fate isn’t about things being preordained. It’s about moments, little choices that lead us to places we never expected to be. Like… sitting here, tonight, with you.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of your words pressing against her usual walls of detachment. You had a way of saying things that left no room for deflection, no safe harbor for her to retreat to.

“Perhaps,” she said after a pause, her voice quieter, “fate is less about inevitability and more about… alignment. An intersection of paths.”

You tilted your head, considering her words, and then smiled. “I like that.”

The silence returned, but this time, it felt warmer, less daunting. You shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing against hers, a small, fleeting touch that sent a spark of something unfamiliar coursing through her.

“There’s something I need to give you,” she said finally, her voice steady but softer than usual.

You turned to her, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Oh?”

She held the box out toward you, her movements precise but tinged with an underlying hesitation.

"You are my secret santa?" Your lips quirked into a teasing smile as you accepted the box. “I hope it’s not a tarantula,” you joked.

“It’s not,” she replied flatly.

You untied the ribbon carefully, your fingers deliberate as you removed the lid. Inside was a glass globe, delicate and intricately crafted. In the center stood two shadowy figures, featureless yet unmistakably human, lost in their own world, but at peace.

Your fingers hovered over the small button at the base of the globe. With a curious glance at Wednesday, you pressed it.

The soft melody of the piano that played was instantly recognizable. Your eyes widened, and you turned to her.

Your breath hitched as you glanced at her. “Wednesday, is this...?”

“The ugly sweater party night,” she finished for you, her eyes flicked back to the globe, unable to meet yours. “A memory. One I thought you should have, too.”

Your smile was radiant, and for the first time, she felt as though she had done something right, truly right.

And then you snapped your fingers.

A small, glowing purple portal materialized in the air, swirling and pulsating with quiet energy. You reached into it, your movements unhurried, and pulled out a rectangular box wrapped in deep blood-red paper. The portal vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving no trace behind.

So, you could conjure portals. That explained how you’d managed to place the note near her earlier without her noticing, a feat she had, until this moment, deemed improbable. You possessed a skill that defied logic and simplicity, and though she hated to admit it, she was impressed.

You held the box out toward her, “I am your Secret Santa too, Wednesday,” you said, your voice light, a trace of mischief dancing on your lips. “Talk about fate, huh?”

Wednesday tilted her head ever so slightly, her dark eyes flicking between you and the box now resting in your lap. "I am skeptical of calling it fate. A calculated scheme seems more acceptable.” ENID.

Slowly, she reached out and took the box, its weight heavier than she anticipated. You watched her with quiet anticipation, she tore away the paper, revealing a wooden case beneath. Her brow furrowed slightly as she opened the case, her breath catching the moment her eyes fell upon the contents.

Inside was a dagger, encased in glass, its blade gleaming even in the dim light of the fountain. But this wasn’t just any dagger.

The hilt was ornate, at its base, a ruby-red gemstone sat nestled within the design, pulsing faintly as though alive. The blade itself was thin, wickedly sharp, and etched with complicated patterns A faint inscription ran along its length in a language she recognized as Hungarian.

Her eyes widened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, a genuine, real smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. She recognized this blade instantly.

“Elizabeth Báthory’s dagger,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The infamous serial killer of the 1600s, known for her brutal methods and rumored vampiric tendencies, had wielded this blade. Legends spoke of its dark history, of how it was used to drain the blood of her victims.

“How did you get this?” she asked, her voice low, almost adoring.

You shrugged lightly. “I have my ways.”

Wednesday’s gaze returned to the dagger, her fingers brushing against the glass casing as if to confirm its reality. Her mind raced with the implications of the gift, not just its historical significance, but what it meant coming from you.

You had given her something she cherished, not for its material value, but for what it represented.

You saw her. Not the façade she presented to the world, but the depths of her being, the parts most people recoiled from or misunderstood.

You didn’t shy away from the darkness that fascinated her; instead, you embraced it, honored it even, cared for it... cared for her...

The weight of that realization settled over her, mingling with an unfamiliar warmth that she didn’t know how to name.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice you leaning closer until your head rested gently on her shoulder.

She froze.

Her gaze flicked to you briefly. You were gazing down at the globe in your lap, the soft melody still playing. Her eyes returned to the dagger. She allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible sigh, her gaze fixed on the ruby gemstone embedded in the dagger’s hilt.

Not a bad Christmas. Not bad at all.

Wanted to post this in Christmas night... but finished early. Comment how you guys liked it!

Also comment what you would've given Wednesday as her secret santa.

->WORKLIST<-

118 notes · View notes

llxferim · 5 months ago

Text

Choose Part 2

a/n: FINALLY a part 2 for yall anddd sorry I wasn't in the mood for smuttt. Also, Should I write a Natasha endgame version?

edit: Hello, Aziz really needs help reuniting with Family, if you can help by either donating or sharing this link, please do!

https://gofund.me/fc144e48

here's part 1 if you haven't read it!

Pairings: Wanda x Fem!Reader

Summary: After that night, all you could think about was Wanda and Natasha. You took a few days off and holed up in your room to think but then, you got a call.

Warnings: Bad language, fem!reader, no y/n used, fluff, drunk reader, alcohol (tell me if i missed anything)

Word count: 2k

After last night, you stayed holed up in your room, the weight of everything pressing heavily on your chest. You had taken a few days off, hoping the time would help you sort through your tangled thoughts. Going on a date with both Wanda and Natasha was supposed to help you choose between them, Instead, it had only deepened the confusion, leaving you trapped,

You didn’t want to hurt either of them—But avoiding the situation wasn’t helping. Silence would only make things worse, and you knew it.

Lying on your bed, the soft hum of a TV show filled the background, though you weren’t paying attention. Your phone buzzed, the vibrations traveling through the mattress before finally reaching you. You picked it up, heart pounding, hoping—no, expecting—it to be Wanda or Natasha. But the screen read, Kate.

Disappointment flickered for a moment, but you answered anyway.

“We’re going out,” Kate declared, her voice brisk and unapologetic. “Get dressed. I can’t stand you moping around like this anymore.”

You blinked, startled by her abruptness. Before you could get a word in, she added, “You have an hour. Bye,” and hung up without waiting for a response.

For a moment, you just stared at your phone, the call already disconnected. Kate’s words rang in your ears, and you couldn’t ignore the sting of truth in them. Had this whole Wanda-Natasha situation really gotten to you that much?

You sighed, letting the phone drop onto the bed beside you. Maybe Kate was right. Maybe you did need to get out, even if just to clear your head.

***

You were in a bar, one of the more popular spots in town, but on a Wednesday night, it was surprisingly quiet. Most of the regulars seemed to be staying in, leaving you to wallow in your own chaos. You were on your fourth shot of whiskey, the fiery liquid blurring the edges of your thoughts. You were pretty sure the entire bar now knew about your messy situation, thanks to your drunken rambling.

Kate wasn’t much help—she’d long since ditched you to dance with some girl she’d just met. You were left at the counter, propping your head on your hand as you unloaded your woes on the bartender—who seemed so uninterested in anything you had to say, but you were too drunk to care.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you slurred, the whiskey loosening your tongue, “Natasha, she’s… she’s amazing. So strong, so beautiful—” You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “But Wanda, god…” You trailed off, covering your face entirely with your palms and sighing deeply. “Ugh. Never mind.”

A familiar voice cut through the fog of your thoughts. "No, please, continue," Wanda’s voice was soft, but it had that unmistakable edge that made your pulse spike.

Your heart stuttered as you turned to face her, blinking in disbelief. Wanda. Sitting right next to you, a smirk playing on her lips.

"What—" hic "What are you doing here?" You stammered, your breath catching in your chest.

Her eyes softened, though there was still a playfulness in her gaze. "How much have you had to drink, darling?" she asked, her voice low and teasing as she casually slid your glass from your hand and set it aside, taking money out of her pocket.

“You don’t have to- i have money” You protest, not wanting her to waste hers, but of-course she refuses.

She raised an eyebrow, studying you for a moment. "You good to stand up?"

You blinked, disoriented. "Yeah, sure. Where are we going?"

You tried to stand, but the room swayed beneath you. Just as your knees threatened to buckle, Wanda’s arms slid around your waist, steadying you, her touch firm and warm.

You look up at her as a red blush creeps onto your face. you clear your throat, “thank you”

“You’re really cute when you’re shy, did you know that?” She helps you to your feet, before using her arms around your waist to guide you outside.

“wait- Kate-“ You start to turn around right at the door but Wanda stops you, “i already Called Yelena, she’ll be here any minute, it’s okay” she reassures you.

“oh- okay” You mumble as you follow her lead, outside the door. The cold reaches you immediately, your first instinct being to lean into her warmth, resting your head on her shoulder.

You finally reach Wanda’s car, your head still spinning, but a but better than before.

She helped you into the passenger seat, her hands brushing yours as she fastened your seatbelt. For a moment, the world felt like it was slowing down—the soft scent of her perfume, the way she seemed to be in perfect control, her gaze flicking over you with something unreadable. The closeness of her body, the soft brush of her fingers against your skin...

As she straightened, your eyes locked for just a second, and in that moment, the rest of the world fell away. You couldn't help it. You leaned in, your lips almost brushing hers.

But then she pulled away, her breath warm against your cheek. You blinked, frustrated, and mumbled something incoherent.

"You’re not sober, love," Wanda’s voice was gentle.

She sits down next to you. “C’mon, drink up” she says, giving you a cold bottle of water, which you down in seconds. You lean back into the seat as she starts driving.

You leaned your head back against the seat, trying to will the drunken fog away, but your thoughts kept circling back to her—her touch, the look in her eyes, the way she made you feel like you were the only person in the room. you let your eyes rest for a second, savoring the feeling of being with her.

Next thing you knew, Wanda was helping you out of the car, “Do you feel better, Love?” She asks softly. “Yeah, thank you” You mumble out, embarrassed, The embarrassment of your earlier behavior clawed at you. “I’m sorry i ruined your night,” You apologized, opening the door, and called the Elevator. “What do you mean?” She asks with a confused tone, leaning against the elevator Frame.

“You probably went there to unwind or- have fun-” you start rumbling, the drunken feeling still slightly there. before you could continue you were interrupted with a chuckle coming from Wanda, “What- What’s so funny!” You ask with a pout, frustrated. “You don’t remember texting me?” She asks as your face warms up, “i- what?” you felt dumbfounded, did you text her something weird? Something embarrassi— “You texted me to come and get you because you missed me” She snaps you out of your thoughts with a soft giggle, before heading into the Elevator, dragging you with her, her hand still protectively around your waist, just in case.

“Fuck” You sigh, covering your face with your hands, leaning back on the elevator door. you feel her footsteps getting closer to you, her rough hands grabbing on to yours, pulling them away, revealing your flushed face.

“I’m sorry” You apologize, finally looking her in the eyes. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Darling.”

After a moment of silence, the elevator dinged, announcing your arrival at your floor. Wanda's hand slid down to intertwine with yours, her touch both grounding and electrifying. "Come on," she murmured, leading you toward your apartment.

You followed her, the world around you fading into the background. All that mattered was the warmth of her hand in yours and the way her presence seemed to anchor you in ways you didn’t fully understand yet.

Once inside, you kicked off your shoes, swaying slightly. Wanda’s hands were immediately on your shoulders, steadying you again. "Alright, sit," she instructed, guiding you to the couch. Her tone left no room for argument, but there was a tenderness in her voice that made you comply without hesitation.

She comes back with a cup of water and aspirin “Take these” she said softly, crouching in front of you and placing the items on the coffee table. Her green eyes met yours. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

“Of course i do” she says.

You hadn't even realized how much you craved this—her attention, her care, the way she made everything feel right. You could feel the tension in your chest loosening with each breath.

Wanda sat beside you, her eyes focused on you as you slowly took the water and aspirin she had handed you. The cool liquid slid down your throat, soothing the remnants of the whiskey’s burn. You felt her gaze on you, not judgmental, but understanding. She wasn't in a rush. She wasn't going anywhere.

You shifted on the couch, your hands feeling oddly restless, unsure whether you wanted to speak or just keep your thoughts to yourself. But the silence hung between you like an unspoken question, a question you knew you couldn't avoid forever.

“Wanda...” You started, your voice quieter than you intended. “I’ve been… I’ve been thinking a lot. About all of this.

Her eyes softened, and she shifted closer, the warmth of her body radiating against yours. She didn’t interrupt you, didn’t push you to speak faster.

“I—” You stopped, unsure how to voice the storm of emotions swirling in your chest. You knew what you were about to say, what you needed to say, but the words didn’t come easily. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “You make me feel... alive, Wanda. In a way that I never expected. And I—I don’t know how to say it, but…”

You trailed off, letting the silence hang between you as you gathered your courage. The weight of the decision was pressing down on you, and at that moment, it felt like your heart was demanding you make a choice.

Her hand found yours again, her thumb gently brushing across your knuckles, grounding you. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now, love,” she murmured, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “But I’m here, no matter what.”

The words felt like a lifeline, and it was like the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. You didn’t need to explain everything, to find the perfect words. What mattered now was the quiet truth that had been sitting in your heart all along.

Wanda was the one you wanted. She was the one who made you feel safe, and seen, in ways that Natasha couldn’t. It wasn’t that Natasha wasn’t incredible—she was—but it was Wanda’s presence that soothed you, that made everything else feel right.

You squeezed her hand, your heart racing now, the decision clearer than it had been before. “I think... I think I’ve known for a while now,” you said softly, looking directly into her eyes. “I just needed to admit it.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly, studying you with those knowing green eyes. You could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but she said nothing, waiting.

“I choose you, Wanda. I’ve been scared to admit it,” you whispered, your voice trembling a little. “But I choose you.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything, just watched you with an intensity that felt like she could see every thought and feeling you were hiding. Then, her lips parted in a soft smile, the kind of smile that felt like home.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, her voice full of warmth. And just like that, the tension that had been gnawing at you for days melted away. Wanda leaned in then, her forehead gently resting against yours, her breath warm and comforting. “You don’t need to be afraid with me,” she murmured.

You closed your eyes for a moment, basking in the simplicity of the moment—the clarity, the relief, the way it felt like everything was finally falling into place.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips before her hands were cupping your face, drawing you closer, her lips brushing against your forehead.

“Don’t thank me,” she whispered back. “Just... trust me, love.”

And in that moment, you realized you didn’t need to say anything else. You trusted her. You trusted her with everything.

And that was enough.

#fanfic #no y/n #fanfiction #x reader #ao3 #mcu x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff fluff #marvel x reader #marvel #fluff

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rachelsfav-queer · 7 months ago

Text

Missing Scene

Enid: Oh my gosh, she is just SO INFURIATING! Like does she seriously just not realize that her actions affect other people? Or does she just not care? I mean seriously! How could someone be so… soo… RAGH SO OBLIVIOUS?!

Yoko: *flipping through her alchemy textbook* Yeah, seriously. Some people.

Enid: And why does she have to be so… fricking heartless about it?! I mean, my feelings matter too! Surely more than some stupid “investigation” or whatever the flip! Right?

Yoko: *yawning* Totally, girl. You deserve respect too.

Enid: Why doesn’t she realize that I’m just trying to help her? I’m on her side! I want her to be able to figure this all out, cause she’s like, really really smart even though she’s so stupid sometimes but in like, a sorta endearing way where she’s trying to help but doesn’t realize the full consequences of her actions or that she’s hurting people. I mean, maybe if she thought some of these things through a little more, she’d try to find better ways cause she doesn’t actually like hurting people, at least people she cares about, cause again, she’s kinda sweet like that.

Yoko: *looks up from her textbook, raises eyebrow* Wait, huh? Are we still talking about the same thing?

Enid: *ignores Yoko* And like, she does have a soft side underneath all the spiky death traps she puts around herself. She totally felt guilty about Eugene, even though it wasn’t her fault. And she really does try to make sure I’m comfortable, even if it’s a little inconvenient for her. And she absolutely does have a protective side to her, like when she put herself in front of me whenever the monster tried to attack us. It was really kinda cute and nice when she made sure I got out safe first.

Yoko: *squints her eyes suspiciously* Huh… yeah…

Enid: Ugh, but she doesn’t really take good care of herself. Hmph, knowing her, she totally forgot to eat a proper meal today. Mmm and I bet you like ten bucks she hasn’t drank enough water today either. Oh jeez, if I’m not there to make sure she eats something, then she’s just gonna work herself into the ground on this investigation and is probably gonna pass out. Oh no, and what if she passes out and hits her head on something?! WHAT IF THING ISN’T THERE TO GET HELP? HOW WOULD HE EVEN CARRY HER? HE’S JUST A HAND!

Yoko: Am I missing something, or aren’t you supposed to still be upset with her about the whole emotional manipulation thing?

Enid: I am mad at her, Yoko! But she still needs sustenance! After all, she’s all alone up there now! Oh, she’s probably just curled up all sad and lonely and oh my gosh that’s so sad. *tearing up*

Yoko: Girl, we’re literally in the room right below her. I’m sure she’ll be fine. You? I’m starting to question that. *under her breath* Talk about whipped, holy shit.

Enid: I need to find some way to check up on her. Maybe I can ask Thing? No no, that’s mean to use her own family against her. Oh, I got it! I’ll just say I forgot my nail polish! That way I can check to see if she’s eaten! And I technically won’t be going back on my word, right? Cause I’m technically only going back to get something! Aha, it’s a perfect plan!

Yoko: *under her breath, turning back to her textbook* So fucking whipped.

(Day 10, Prompt 10 of Wenclair-Tober! Sorry this was so long lol. Also yeah, everyone talks about how affected Wednesday was by the argument, but nobody talks about how Enid was affected lol. Girlie was in the same building and still couldn’t stay away from her hot goth “roomie” and came back THREE times lmaoooo. Even though she was supposedly so upset with Wends lol. Gomez behavior.)

#wenclairtober #wenclair #wednesday x enid #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #enid x wednesday #wenclair prompts #writing prompts #october writing challenge #wednesday netflix #wednesday series #my writing

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hannahssimblr · 3 months ago

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Astrid,

Hope you got my postcard from Phuket, and that the Bangkok one shows up, eventually. Maybe it is actually lost, like maybe I’m doing something wrong at the post office. It’s fine if they all go into the abyss. I am writing just to write, because it feels romantic or whatever. You probably hate the idea of this. I could just text you. I texted you forty-five minutes ago. Still miss you.

We’re in Phi Phi now. Islands, very beautiful. I bet you already know about them, but I’d never heard about this place before I came here. The landscape is kind of mental, like giants made it. Weird to look at. We went out on a little boat yesterday to see the sights. Jonas jumped off and swam, and I did not. My tattoo is still healing. Stupid fucking thing. I waved over a boat of girls and told them Jonas was saying he fancied them, and then he got annoyed with me, because he wasn’t saying that, and he was embarrassed. I think he should learn to talk to women without wanting to die, and he says I think about women too much, that I’m too invested and I should think about something else. History, philosophy, whatever. Why would I when there are women like you on the earth?

At night, instead of going out and drinking, we go to bed early, in our bunks, him on the top, me below like always, and he tells me all this shit about the Suez canal, or what the Falklands war was all about, since I was stupid enough to ask a follow up question once. Then I fall asleep to escape the boredom. We get up at six and do activities, then. Lots of walking. My body hurts.

Jonas finally tried those scorpions he was banging on about, and now he’s sick, btw. Food poisoning. I don’t really know how to take care of him, except coming back to the hostel every few hours, making sure he has water. Until he’s better, I guess I’m just wandering around on my own. Luckily, it’s nice to look at. Maybe today I’ll swim with my arm out of the water. Running out of space. Love and miss you can't wait to see you.

xxx Jude.

I snap open the lid of a bottle of water and carry it into the hostel room. It smells bad there, but I’ve stopped saying it, because it makes Jonas look like he’s about to cry. He’s curled up on his bunk, a complexion like curdled yoghurt, as a chink of morning light spills through the blinds and over his shivering body. Mostly naked. Too hot, then too cold, then sipping water, then throwing it up. I hover in the doorway.

“I’ve water,” I say, and he just stares. Resigned, half-dead, maybe. “Should you go to hospital or something, do you think?”

“No, I feel slightly better.”

“Oh, okay. Do you want the water, or?”

“Yes. Bring it to me.”

I approach him like a leper, not sure why, as I’m fully aware he’s not contagious, but it’s been ten days since I’ve thrown up, and I’d like to maintain my healthy aura. He regards me with bleary eyes as I back away. “It is good you are an artist and not a nurse.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m not so good with illness.”

“Even though you are always ill.” A tentative sip from the bottle. “You went out this morning?”

“To the post office.”

“Another postcard to Astrid.”

“Yes.”

I can tell he wants to laugh but lacks strength, managing only a feeble wheeze. “Is she missing you as much as you are missing her?”

“No, I don’t think so. She’s much better at distance.”

“She’s an independent person.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what she is doing today.”

“It’s Wednesday, so probably going to reformer pilates. Then she’s supposed to meet a friend from university for lunch. After that, I don’t know. Something spontaneous and thrilling, probably.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

He manages a watery smile. “You’ll be doing nothing again today? Missing her?”

“I was thinking I might wade into the sea, actually. Keep walking out until I disappear, wailing after Astrid like the pathetic little freak I am.”

“It’s Wednesday?”

“Yes, Wednesday.”

“I signed up for something today.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll be going, by the cut of you.”

“No,” giving up on the water for now, he rolls onto his back, watching insects congregate around the plastic light fixture. “You could go in my place. It’s a… meditation thing.”

I pull a face. “Meditation? That thing where you sit cross-legged and go like ‘om’?” I demonstrate, but feel bad for making him laugh. Apparently a bit painful for him.

“Yes,” he says. “Kind of. You might find value in it.”

“Is that the kind of guy you think I am? With like, dirty feet and harem pants?”

“Since I am the one who signed up, is it the kind of person you think I am?”

“Not far off.”

“Well, meditation has many benefits. It’s not just for the dirty-feet-squad. It’s good for people who suffer with various mental health concerns, and people who have racing thoughts they cannot stop and such things. Maybe it will inspire you to stop thinking about women’s breasts.”

I scoff. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

“So you can think of more productive things that will inform you, and grow your mind rather than rotting it away.”

“Like the Falklands war, for instance.”

“Yes, like the Falklands war,” he says, suddenly animated. “Thank you for saying that. Or the targeting of Libyan migrant workers on suspicion of being mercenaries by—”

I take a brisk and decisive step out of the room. “Well! Glad you’re feeling better, Jonas. See you later. Keep drinking that water, et cetera.” I swing the door shut and amble away, down the hostel hallway and back to the beach, rearing for another day of nothing, bored senseless by the edge of a lonely ocean.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2011 #his COLOUR #i feel a bit sick looking at him actually #feel better soon king

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lividstar · 6 months ago

Text

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Eleven: You Wonder why I’m Bitter

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 8.2k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ Alone and aching for the connection that once felt so natural, you reluctantly turn to an unlikely companion: Pompidou, who listens to you pour out all the longing you’ve fought so hard to bury. While you grapple with the emptiness left by Hongjoong’s sudden withdrawal, he, too, finds himself lost, wrestling with the very feelings he’s tried to deny. Haunted by memories and choices he can’t quite reconcile, Hongjoong is caught between the familiarity of the past and the confusing reality of the present.

a/n: was supposed to upload this on the 27th cause that’s my birthday but i just can’t wait any longer 😅 keep an eye out for the littlest of details because nothing is as it seems in this chapter :P lmk what you guys think!

tags: @beabatiny @babymbbatinygirl

First of all, I hate myself. Second of all, I hate myself. Oh, and did I already mention that I hate myself? I just don’t know what to do anymore! It feels like it’s been a whole decade ever since I last picked up a pen to scribble on this godforsaken journal… I wish I could just go back to the time I was writing the page behind the one I’m writing on right now and just cancel my flight to Paris. This is all so frustrating, you know? Fashion Week is nearing, and I am not prepared at all—no, not even a little. I’m supposed to be spending my hours inside the studio practicing runway walks and testing out facial expressions, but no! I’m way too afraid of crossing paths with Hongjoong to even think about the consequences of not taking my preparations seriously! And speaking of Hongjoong…

He’s driving me to the edge of my sanity. I don’t know what’s going on with him—okay, scratch that, I definitely do. I just don’t get why he’s acting so avoidant all of a sudden… I mean, like, okay, I would understand his unprovoked need for distance between us if we actually kissed that night, but we didn’t. The farthest step we were able to take was just him holding onto the sides of my face and me looking at his lips like I’m a starved dog looking at its first meal of the day before Wooyoung fortunately interrupted us—so why is he acting up?

He’s like one of those girls you’d befriend in highschool who’d show up on the hallways suddenly judging your entire soul on a random Wednesday, and I don’t like it. Seriously, what’s his problem? He made me accustomed to his usual sweet and caring persona, and all of a sudden, he wants to act like this? What have I done wrong? Wasn’t it literally him who initiated the… whatever I’m supposed to call what happened that night?

I’m just concerned, you know. It’s been two weeks, and yet he’s still avoiding me like I’m the plague. I haven’t been receiving any messages from him at all lately, either. Even Madame Dupont is asking me why she no longer sees the “small young handsome boy” waiting for me outside the apartment building while leaning against his car. Wooyoung’s been trying to persuade me into confirming his theory that Hongjoong and I are going through a lovers’ quarrel for three days now, too. And guess who’s the most troubled of them all? Seonghwa. He’s been doing his best to put us back into speaking terms for a while now, and I don’t know why—I swear I didn’t ask him to do that.

Everyone is worried. Everyone but him.

You know, this brings me back to that unrecognizable faceless guy I see in some of my blurry flashbacks. I remember him asking me how long I’ve been bottling up my emotions, and when I told him I’ve been doing so for pretty much my entire life, he told me to consider writing in a journal.

What does the unrecognizable dude have to do with Hongjoong and his unreadable behavior? Nothing.

I just noticed that it’s been a while since I last wrote a journal entry, and… it’s been a while since I last let my emotions unravel. I remember the words that came out of his mouth that day.

“When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You know what, in a way, I think he and Hongjoong actually have something in common. I know I can’t say much because I only have one memory of this guy, but he spoke with as much wisdom as Hongjoong does. Also… “let yourself get lost in your own world.” That’s honestly the most Hongjoong-ish advice someone could ever give, given how he himself gets lost in his own world of artistry, too.

I just wish he’d stop ignoring me. I can’t help but feel like this is all somehow my fault… Am I just hurting myself by expecting things to suddenly go back to the way they used to be?

As you closed your journal with a weary sigh, your eyes drifted to the dim glow of your bedside clock reading 2:37 a.m. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of distant traffic, yet you felt far from at peace. It was a night for sleep, yet your mind wouldn’t quiet; thoughts of Hongjoong twisted and turned within you, refusing to settle.

“Why does it feel like this?” you murmured, pressing your palms into your face, as if that could somehow soothe the ache in your chest. You longed for comfort, for answers, even for a brief respite from the confusion that had become your constant companion. “If only that faceless guy could telepathically whisper some words of wisdom to me right now…”

Two weeks had passed since you last shared any words with Hongjoong—two weeks where every glance, every passing moment, felt laced with an unspoken tension that only deepened the rift between you. It was all becoming painfully real, the shift so clear to everyone around you. But no one knew the truth—the moment you almost kissed, the silent proximity that had left you dizzy and wondering. Even Seonghwa, in his genuine concern, couldn’t know the pang of vulnerability that had filled that night, the fear and excitement mingling as you’d come closer than ever before.

Your mind flashed back to the other day when the ache of his absence had been sharpest. You passed by him in a hallway, hoping for a flicker of his usual warmth, his soft gaze that once reassured you of your place in his world. But he’d brushed past with such indifference—not even nodding to acknowledge your presence, a chill in his demeanor that left you hollow. And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you alone with a rising sense of loss.

Without thinking, you picked up your phone and opened your gallery. Photos of Hongjoong filled your screen, and your eyes drift over candid snapshots—some of you and Hongjoong working late in the studio, others of him laughing or looking thoughtful, moments caught by your camera that now feel like glimpses into another lifetime. There’s a picture of him outside your apartment building, waving you goodbye one evening. Another shot of him hunched over his desk in concentration, unaware that you’d snapped the photo from across the room. Then, there’s a particularly precious one of the two of you, taken in his office—which was likely Wooyoung’s doing.

As you scroll, an ache blossoms within you, spreading in slow, insistent waves that make your chest feel tight. You can feel the sting of tears welling up in your eyes, and it catches you off guard. Why now? Why does he, of all people, have this power over you? You swipe at the tears, frustrated by the sudden swell of emotion. It’s not supposed to be like this, you tell yourself. Hongjoong is supposed to be your friend, your mentor, the one person in Paris who helped you find your footing when everything felt foreign. But as the images blur beneath the glisten of unshed tears, you can’t help but wonder if that’s all he’ll ever be—someone whose warmth once felt like home, and whose absence now feels like a loss you’re not ready to face.

The soft scratching at your window pulls you abruptly from your thoughts. For a moment, you freeze, glancing back at the phone you’d just placed on your desk. Carefully, you grab your journal—a flimsy defense, maybe, but it’s better than nothing. Heart pounding just slightly, you step forward, inching closer to the window.

When you peek over, you’re met with a familiar sight: Pompidou, the resident stray cat who had made the apartment building his kingdom, sits with one paw pressed to the glass, his usual unamused expression aimed your way.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, feeling the tension drain from your shoulders as you let out a soft laugh. Setting your journal on the bed, you reach over to open the window, letting him slip inside with practiced ease. He slinks past you with the air of someone who owns the place and makes himself right at home, hopping onto your bed and circling until he’s claimed his spot in the center.

You sit beside him, running a gentle hand over his soft fur. It’s strange how much you missed him. For the past few weeks, your room felt emptier without his occasional visits—without that extra little creature who just… understood you, in a way. And now, with Hongjoong’s absence haunting you, Pompidou couldn’t have come at a better time.

The thought hits you harder than you expect: here you are, at your lowest, relying on a cat for comfort simply because the one person you’re used to confiding in has become distant, almost like a stranger. The ache in your chest intensifies, and before you know it, you’re lying down next to him, resting your head on the bed and gazing at his calm, indifferent eyes. It feels silly, pathetic even, to be speaking your heart to a cat, but in this silence, with no one else to turn to, you let yourself unravel.

“Pompidou,” you whisper, voice barely holding steady, “I… I don’t know what I did wrong. Everything was fine, wasn’t it?” Your fingers tremble as they thread through his fur, a warmth grounding you in the midst of your unraveling. “I don’t know how we ended up here. He’s always been there for me, and now… it’s like he’s vanished. And I’m trying, I really am, but every time I reach out, it’s like he’s miles away.”

A sharp breath catches in your throat, and you look up at the ceiling, fighting against the tears stinging your eyes. “It’s probably all my fault,” you confess in a whisper that breaks. “Maybe I was too much, or maybe I should have… I don’t know, said something differently, done something better. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited him to eat dinner that night so that…” A bitter chuckle slips out as you squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s funny, you know. All my life, I’ve been terrified of being alone, of people walking out… and now here I am, trying to be okay with him pulling away like it’s nothing.”

Pompidou shifts slightly, his warm body pressing into your side, a small reminder that he’s there, and he’s not leaving. You let your hand drop to your chest, feeling the dull ache that’s settled there. “I just miss him, Pompidou. I miss the way he used to look at me like I mattered. Now, he can’t even look me in the eyes. And I don’t know why I’m clinging to that, why I’m hoping he’ll suddenly turn around and go back to being who he was.”

The silence swallows you for a moment. “Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still the same pathetic teenager from Arcadia Bay who’s scared that she doesn’t deserve anything better. That she’s always going to be left behind, and this… this is just proof.” Your voice falters, words thick with pain you can no longer hold back. “And if he leaves, then maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“Maybe I was the one who left him in an alternate reality, and this is the price I have to pay for it,” you joke, but it only feels like a pathetic attempt to make yourself feel better.

The pain is so sharp it almost feels physical, a hollow ache that makes every breath feel heavier than the last. You close your eyes, fighting against the helplessness clawing at your insides, but the words keep pouring out, jagged and raw, as though voicing them might lessen the weight—even if it’s only to a cat who can’t respond.

“Do you know what’s worse?” you whisper, fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt over your chest as if you could hold yourself together by sheer will. “It’s that I can’t even be mad at him. I want to be—believe me, I’ve tried. I tell myself he’s the one pulling away, that he’s the one who’s changed, but then I start wondering… what if I pushed him to this? What if I’m the reason he’s slipping through my fingers?”

A soft tremor runs through your hands, and you curl them into fists, teeth gritted as you force the tears back. “I keep thinking… maybe he’s right to distance himself. Maybe there’s something broken in me, something that just drives people away. And the worst part is, I keep wishing he’d come back, like I’d somehow be enough if I could just—”

Your voice catches, breaking into a whisper as you bury your face in your hands, barely holding in the sob that threatens to spill out. “I just don’t understand. He was my safe place, Pompidou. For the first time in so long, I actually felt like I mattered. He made me feel seen. And now… now I feel invisible all over again, like everything we shared was just temporary, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Pompidou shifts closer, his soft purr rumbling beneath your fingertips as you stroke his fur, a small solace in the middle of this storm.

“I try to convince myself that I’m fine, that I can go on without him,” you continue, voice cracking as the words spill out unchecked. “But the truth is, I’m terrified. I’m scared that if he leaves… if he’s really gone, I’ll be alone again, just like before. And I hate myself for feeling this way, for being so… so weak.”

The tears finally break free, slipping down your cheeks in a silent flood. “What does that say about me? That I’m so dependent on him, that I can’t even imagine my life without him? I thought I was stronger than this, that I’d learned how to stand on my own. But now… now it’s like I’m right back to that scared, lonely kid I used to be, clinging to anyone who shows me a hint of kindness.”

You pull your knees to your chest, holding yourself as tightly as you can, as if you could somehow shield yourself from the emptiness swallowing you whole. “I can’t stop thinking that maybe this is all I deserve. That maybe I’m meant to be alone. Maybe he’s finally seeing me for who I am, and he’s realizing I’m not worth it.”

Your shoulders shake as the sobs escape, quiet and raw, each one cutting through you like glass. Pompidou curls closer, his little face pressing against your arm, as though he understands in his own way. But his silent comfort only deepens the ache, a reminder that the person you need more than anything isn’t here, and you’re left holding yourself together with nothing but frayed threads of hope.

With a shuddering breath, you finally admit the fear you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. “What if he doesn’t come back, Pompidou? What if this is it? I don’t think… I don’t think I can handle losing him. Not like this.”

Your voice drops to a whisper, the words coming slow and soft as you gaze out the window, eyes unfocused. “I just… I miss him, Pompidou,” you murmur, fingers absently tracing patterns against the sheets.

“I miss all the little things that made it feel like he was a part of me, like he was woven into my days without me even realizing it. I miss the way he’d send me random sketches, the ones that made no sense but made me laugh anyway, like he was letting me in on his little worlds. I miss… I miss how he’d always have this ridiculous drink order for me every time we’d meet up at the café where we switched up our notebooks with one another before we met for the first time. It’s like he knew exactly what I’d need, even if I didn’t.”

The memories wash over you, and you can’t stop the warmth from pooling in your chest as you picture those moments. “I wish we could go back to that time when things were… simple. When I could sit beside him without feeling like the whole world was shifting under my feet. When he’d laugh and look at me like I was… like I was something special, you know?”

Your voice trembles, and you tighten your grip on the sheets. “And the thing is… it was just easy with him. He’d be there, always making me feel like nothing could go wrong as long as we were together. He’d be there with his quiet, comforting presence, and I could just… be. I didn’t have to pretend or put on some mask. It was like he could see right through me, and somehow, he didn’t care about all the mess he found.”

You take a deep breath, the words spilling out like a plea. “I just want to go back, Pompidou. Back to before everything felt so fragile, before that almost-kiss, before this… this distance. I wish I could reach out and take it all back. I’d give anything just to have things feel normal again.”

Pompidou tilts his head, eyes blinking up at you, and you can’t help but laugh, a soft, broken sound that catches in your throat. “I know it sounds silly, doesn’t it? I mean, how could I expect anything to be the same after that? But I can’t help it, Pompidou. I want to go back to when he’d smile at me like that, when I didn’t have to wonder if I was the one pushing him away.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of each memory anchor you down. “I miss his laugh. I miss his stupid jokes. I miss the way he’d lean closer when he talked about his dreams, his voice getting all serious like he could see every detail in his mind. And I miss… I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere, like I belonged with him. I miss how he’d look at me with this warmth, like I was enough, just as I was.”

The words come out like a broken whisper, a confession you’ve been holding inside for far too long. “I can’t stop missing him. I wish… I wish I could go back to that last night before everything shifted. Before the night we nearly kissed, before I even realized what I felt. I wish I could’ve just stayed there, in that moment, without letting any of it change.”

You hug your knees, curling up as the ache settles deeper, heavier. “But I can’t. And now it’s as if I’m left with pieces of him in everything around me, and I don’t know how to put myself back together without him.”

You pull yourself up, exhaling slowly, and walk over to your desk. The room feels quiet, still heavy with everything you’ve let out, yet somehow emptier too, as if releasing the words has left you hollow. With a shaky hand, you pick up your phone and make your way back to bed, curling up beside Pompidou, who has already claimed his spot against your pillow. Settling into the blankets, you scroll through your contacts, your thumb hovering over Hongjoong’s icon.

It’s just his initials next to a simple photo he once sent—a candid moment he probably forgot about, something so ordinary that it’s precious now. The way he looked when he didn’t realize anyone was watching: a slight smile, eyes softened by something he found funny, maybe even a bit endearing. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you let yourself scroll up, reading through old conversations like leafing through the pages of a treasured book.

Each message brings back flashes of shared laughter and late-night ramblings, little moments where time seemed to pause, and it was just the two of you—untouchable, safe. You linger on a message he sent on a rainy afternoon, a random joke he thought would cheer you up. Your lips curl into a faint smile, but it’s bittersweet. There was a time when it was so easy, so effortless, like breathing. He had a way of knowing exactly when you needed a reminder that he was there. But now, that comfort feels distant, unreachable.

A tear slips down your cheek again before you realize it, and you hastily swipe it away, but the sorrow wells up again, slipping past your guard. As if sensing your pain, Pompidou extends a soft paw, resting it gently below your eyes, and you feel his fur against your cheek, grounding you in a way that words can’t. His small gesture tugs a quiet, breathy laugh from you, despite the ache in your chest. It’s as if he’s trying to catch your sadness, pulling it away piece by piece, his wide eyes fixed on yours with an empathy you can almost feel.

You let your head fall, hugging Pompidou close, allowing yourself to finally surrender to the pain and let it wash over you without restraint. The loneliness, the longing, the hollow spaces Hongjoong’s absence has left in you—all of it spills out as you clutch the feline tightly, letting his warmth and steady breathing lull you into a fragile sense of comfort. The room seems to blur, softening around you as the weight of everything you’ve been holding back presses into you.

The tears come faster now, unstoppable, and your quiet sobs fill the silence, raw and unfiltered. It’s just you and Pompidou, and for a moment, it feels like you’re not truly alone. There, in the quiet solace of your room, you cling to that small comfort, letting yourself feel every ounce of longing, letting yourself miss him—fully, desperately, hopelessly.

—

Meanwhile, Hongjoong stood in his office, the warm, nostalgic tones of “La Vie en Rose” playing softly from the record player behind him. His gaze fixed on the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, and he fought to keep his emotions in check. Each note lingered in the air, pulling him deeper into the web of memories he was desperately trying to forget. This song, of all songs—he could still remember how it had been playing when the two of you had stood together in the flower shop, laughing over bouquets and trading light-hearted jokes as if the world beyond didn’t exist.

Part of him knew he could walk over and turn it off. The music was his to control, after all. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The melody was the last fragile thread that kept him tethered to you, a reminder of the warmth he felt in your presence, the comfort of knowing someone understood him.

The dim light from the city outside cast a soft glow over his office, illuminating the expanse of papers scattered across his desk, the outlines of unfinished sketches and hastily scrawled notes, all reminders of the whirlwind he’d buried himself in since he started pushing you away. Each corner of the room felt saturated with memories of you—and it was strange how a space that had once felt so alive now seemed hollow, absent of the warmth you’d brought into it.

He tried to focus on the skyline again, his eyes tracing the glittering lights of the city. It was an attempt to ground himself, to pull himself back from the turmoil inside him. But tonight, every bit of stillness he attempted felt false, every piece of composure barely hanging by a thread. All he could think about was you—the absence of your presence filling every empty space in his mind, as if refusing to be silenced.

He turned slowly from the window, allowing his gaze to wander over his desk. It was almost impossible to remember the last time he’d felt fully at ease in this room. The stacks of designs that had once held so much promise now felt like hollow accomplishments, each one only reminding him of the fire you’d helped him ignite. His eyes landed on a small pendant lying amidst the clutter. The flower encased inside had faded slightly, its once-vibrant petals softened by time. He picked it up, cradling it carefully in his hand, feeling a strange tenderness rise within him.

You’d given him that flower, pressing it into his hand with a shy smile as you murmured something about it bringing him luck. He could still recall the way your fingers had lingered against his, the brief but electric touch that had left him wondering if you felt it too. “For good luck,” you’d said, your eyes sparkling in that way they always did when you felt especially close to him.

Hongjoong swallowed, feeling a tightness in his chest as he held the pendant closer. How was it that something so small could carry the weight of so many memories? He closed his eyes, and the warmth of your smile flashed in his mind, as vivid as if you were standing beside him. But now, as he held the pendant, it felt heavier, like a tiny piece of the past he was terrified of losing forever.

In his mind, he slipped back to that night—the one that had started as an ordinary work session, yet had unraveled into something far more vulnerable. He could still feel the closeness of the room, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows as you both worked side by side, immersed in the quiet moment you shared.

You’d shared things that night that were never meant to leave the room. He could still hear your voice, low and hesitant, as you revealed the fears you held closest to your heart. “Being left alone,” you’d admitted, your words raw and unguarded. The truth of it had lingered between you, a quiet vulnerability that had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

When you turned the question back on him, he’d hesitated, feeling the weight of his own guarded secrets pressing against his chest. But in that quiet space, under the gentle glow of the lamp, he’d found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years. “Losing myself,” he’d whispered, his voice barely audible, but enough for you to hear. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Now, standing alone in his empty office, Hongjoong felt the irony of it all washing over him. He’d tried so hard to protect himself, to build walls so high that even you couldn’t reach them. But now, it felt as if he had developed a new fear bigger than losing himself—losing you.

A quiet knock on the door broke his reverie, and he tensed, slipping the pendant into his pocket as he turned. Wooyoung’s face appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of Hongjoong standing alone, the haunting strains of La Vie en Rose still spinning softly from the record player across the room.

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered to the player, where the melody had been looping for what must have been the better part of an hour. “Still here?” he asked quietly, a hint of concern threading his tone.

Hongjoong forced a slight smile, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wooyoung stepped further into the room, his gaze sharp as it settled on Hongjoong. “You know…” Wooyoung began, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall, “the world can see how miserable you are. Including her—especially her.”

Hongjoong stiffened, the forced nonchalance slipping from his face as he turned away, staring intently at the record player as if it held all the answers he was struggling to find. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears.

“Hongjoong,” Wooyoung’s tone softened, a hint of exasperation breaking through. “I know you. I know how much you care about her. And I know you’re running from something you can’t outrun. But you’re not fooling anyone by pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, his mind racing with all the reasons he’d built to keep you at a distance. Each one felt logical, safe, a way to protect himself from something he couldn’t quite name. But here, with Wooyoung standing there, watching him with that steady gaze, he felt every layer he’d built start to unravel.

“I’m not pretending,” he said quietly, barely audible above the music.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning softer, almost pleading. “Then what are you doing, Hongjoong? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is someone too scared to reach for what he really wants.”

Hongjoong’s heart twisted painfully, Wooyoung’s words hitting far too close to home. He felt the weight of everything he’d tried to suppress rising within him, a tidal wave of emotions he’d buried so deeply he’d convinced himself they were gone. But Wooyoung’s words had brought them to the surface, and now, there was no escaping them.

A silence stretched between them, and Hongjoong’s gaze fell to the floor. In that moment, he felt utterly vulnerable, as though Wooyoung could see right through him, could see the aching desire he’d tried so hard to deny. He didn’t have to say it—Wooyoung already knew.

Hongjoong’s fingers were still curled around the pendant in his pocket when Wooyoung let out a quiet sigh, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “So,” Wooyoung began, breaking the silence, “are you really going to stand here, pretending everything’s fine?”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing. He wanted to brush off Wooyoung’s words, to deflect with some casual response that would keep the carefully built walls intact. But his mind was a battlefield, each memory of you cutting through his defenses like a blade.

“Everything is fine,” he replied tersely. He didn’t meet Wooyoung’s eyes, focusing instead on a spot just beyond his shoulder.

Wooyoung’s brows knitted together, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’ve been playing her favorite song on loop for the last hour. That’s why you’ve been holed up in here, avoiding anything that reminds you of her.” He shook his head, his tone equal parts exasperation and worry. “Hongjoong, you’re not fooling me. I know you, and I know you’re running from something—from someone.”

Hongjoong let out a low, frustrated sigh, finally looking up at Wooyoung. “Wooyoung, just drop it, alright?” He forced a tense smile, attempting to sound dismissive. “This… whatever you think is going on, it’s all in your head. We were just friends.”

But Wooyoung didn’t budge. “Friends?” He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it, just the weight of disbelief. “You really want to go with that? Because the way you’re acting… it doesn’t look like you’re just missing a friend. You’re avoiding her like she’s a stranger, but then you’re here, playing her favorite song over and over, clutching onto that pendant like it’s the last piece of her you have.”

Hongjoong’s fingers instinctively tightened around the pendant, and he felt a pang of frustration rise within him. He didn’t want to admit that Wooyoung’s words struck too close to home. “I told you, it’s nothing like that,” he bit back, his tone sharper than intended. “You’re turning this into something it isn’t.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his gaze not faltering. “Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re acting like a guy who’s desperately trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t even believe.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Hongjoong, you can’t keep lying to yourself.” Wooyoung’s tone softened, his voice carrying a gentleness that seemed to cut deeper than the words themselves. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know that you care about her. You’re not fooling anyone by pretending this distance is ‘better’ for either of you.”

Hongjoong’s patience began to fray, his frustration morphing into anger. He shot Wooyoung a glare, his voice rising. “It is better, Wooyoung. She… she deserves better. She doesn’t need to be pulled into whatever mess I am.” He paused, catching his breath, his anger mingling with something closer to desperation. “I’m not what’s best for her. And it’s better for the both of us if I keep my distance.”

Wooyoung’s expression shifted, his gaze hardening as he stepped closer, unwilling to let Hongjoong brush him off. “So, what? You think pushing her away, acting like she means nothing, is somehow good for her? You really think she’s better off without you?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong replied, his tone final, but the conviction in his voice was starting to waver.

Wooyoung gave him a long, scrutinizing look, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with unspoken truths. Then, Wooyoung shook his head slowly. “You’re lying to yourself. And honestly? It’s pathetic, Hongjoong. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

The words hit Hongjoong like a slap, and a flash of anger surged within him, simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “I’m doing this for her, so just… stop.”

But Wooyoung wouldn’t relent. “You’re not doing this for her. You’re doing this because you’re afraid. Afraid to admit how much she means to you. Afraid of what might happen if you actually let her in. Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever you think is keeping you from being with her… maybe it’s worth rethinking. Because if you keep running like this, you’re going to lose her. And then what?”

Hongjoong felt his control slipping, the carefully constructed barriers he’d built starting to crack under the weight of Wooyoung’s words. He clenched his fists, his gaze dropping to the floor as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “This isn’t about fear.”

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice softened, a hint of understanding breaking through the frustration. “Hongjoong… I get it. You’re scared of losing yourself. Of losing control. But she’s not the one who’s going to make that happen. You are, by doing this. By trying so hard to keep her out.”

Hongjoong stayed silent, his chest tightening as Wooyoung’s words began to sink in. He wanted to deny it, to push back with the same conviction he’d clung to for weeks, but he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew there was truth in Wooyoung’s words.

Finally, Wooyoung let out a sigh, his tone softening even further. “Listen, man. I don’t know what almost happened, or why you’re so determined to stay away from her, but you have to ask yourself… is this really what you want?”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to that night in your apartment—the feeling of your hand brushing his, the way your gaze had lingered on him, the unspoken tension that had nearly pulled him into something he couldn’t name. He’d wanted so badly to close that distance, to feel your lips against his, to let go of the fear and doubt that had held him back. But just as he’d leaned closer, Wooyoung’s call had snapped him out of the moment, bringing him crashing back to reality.

“Do you even understand how much she’s hurting, Hongjoong?” And there it was again—the harshness in Wooyoung’s tone. “Seonghwa told me she’s tearing herself apart over this. She doesn’t eat right anymore, and she barely even sleeps. She spends her nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where things went wrong, wondering if she’s the problem.”

The words landed like a punch to Hongjoong’s gut, leaving him breathless. Images of you flashed through his mind—moments when he’d caught glimpses of your smile faltering, your laughter quieting, the spark in your eyes dimming little by little. He’d told himself it was just his imagination, that you were fine. But Wooyoung’s words shattered that illusion entirely.

“She thinks she did something wrong, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung continued, his voice filled with barely contained anger. “She actually believes she’s the reason you’re running. Every time you disappear, every time you pull away, she thinks it’s because of something she did. And the worst part? She doesn’t even blame you. She blames herself.”

Hongjoong’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as guilt clawed at him.

“Seonghwa told me she asked him if she was too much. Can you believe that?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. “She actually thinks she’s too much for you. That she’s somehow burdening you, dragging you down. She’s convinced herself that if she were just… less, maybe you wouldn’t be running.”

Hongjoong’s breath hitched, a wave of nausea rolling over him as he realized the full extent of the pain he’d caused. You—who had always been so vibrant, so unapologetically yourself—were now questioning every part of who you were, trying to shrink yourself down to avoid scaring him away.

“She’s not even angry at you, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice barely above a whisper now, each word a dagger aimed straight at Hongjoong’s heart. “She doesn’t hate you for this. She just… she thinks she’s not enough. Or that she’s too much. Either way, she’s convinced that she’s the problem.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind reeling. He could feel the anchor of your pain weighing down on him; He’d done this to you—turned you into a shadow of yourself, left you grappling with doubts and insecurities that weren’t yours to bear.

“You’ve been so busy hiding behind your own fears,” Wooyoung continued, “that you haven’t even stopped to consider what this is doing to her. You’re so terrified of being hurt again that you’re hurting her—over and over, every day, with every step you take away from her.”

Hongjoong opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but the words caught in his throat. What could he possibly say to justify this? How could he explain that he’d been running not to hurt you, but to protect himself? It sounded so selfish, so small in the face of everything you were going through.

“And you know what’s really twisted?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “She’d take you back in a heartbeat. Despite everything, she’d still look at you the same way she did before you started pushing her away. She’d still forgive you, still try to see the good in you, because that’s who she is. That’s how much she cares.”

Hongjoong felt something break inside him, a quiet, shattering realization that left him reeling. You would forgive him. He knew that. He could see it in his mind—the way you’d smile softly, the way your eyes would fill with understanding, even now. Even after everything, you’d welcome him back, arms open, heart exposed, waiting.

“She deserves better, Joong.” Wooyoung’s words were softer now, the anger replaced by a raw, unfiltered honesty. “She deserves someone who doesn’t make her question her worth. Someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s somehow wrong just for being herself. And if you can’t be that for her… if you’re too wrapped up in your own fears to let her in… then you need to let her go.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened, a hollow ache spreading through him as he struggled to process it all. He didn’t want to let you go. He couldn’t. But the thought of holding onto you only to keep hurting you, to keep dragging you through his own tangled web of insecurities and fears—it was unbearable.

“She’s barely holding up. She hides it well, but Seonghwa can see it. He told me how she sits alone for hours, just staring off into space, like she’s lost something she can’t find. She keeps her phone close, hoping maybe, just maybe, you’ll reach out. But every time you don’t... it breaks her a little more.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened painfully, each word slicing through him like a blade. He could see it so clearly now, every painful moment he’d forced you through. How you must’ve waited for messages that never came, must’ve spent countless nights wondering where things had gone wrong. The thought of you sitting there, lost in your own pain, while he’d been so focused on his own fears, was more than he could bear.

“And don’t think she hasn’t tried to talk to you.” Wooyoung’s voice turned sharp, accusatory. “Seonghwa told me how many times she’s wanted to reach out, just to make sure you’re okay, just to see if you’d give her even a scrap of reassurance. But every time, she stops herself. She doesn’t want to bother you, doesn’t want to seem needy. She’s holding back everything she feels because she’s afraid it’ll push you further away.”

Wooyoung’s eyes softened slightly, but the fire of his conviction remained. “You need to understand, Hongjoong. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about her too. You’re hurting her, and if you don’t start realizing that, it’ll be too late. She’s going to break, and I don’t think she’ll come back from it.”

Hongjoong felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. The thought of you shattering into pieces because of his cowardice was unbearable. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to say that he was doing this for you, for the both of you. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He was only trying to shield himself from the fear of loss, the same fear that had haunted him since that girl from his past had walked away.

“I can’t… I can’t lose anyone again, Woo,” Hongjoong finally admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. “What if she sees me for who I really am? What if she realizes I’m not worth it?”

Wooyoung shook his head, frustration flashing across his features. “That’s where you’re wrong. She already sees you, and she loves you for all the parts you’re trying to hide. You think you’re protecting her by staying away, but you’re only pushing her further into despair.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions colliding within him. “How do you know? How do you know she feels that way?”

“Because I’ve talked to Seonghwa, and he cares about her, Joong! He’s seen her cry over you. He told me she broke down one night, just sitting on the floor of her room, wondering why you were so distant. She kept saying she must’ve done something wrong. Do you want that for her? Do you want to be the reason she loses herself?”

The image of you curled up alone, tears streaming down your face while grappling with your worth, sliced through Hongjoong. The sheer guilt of it settled heavily in his chest, suffocating him. He had wanted to protect you, but in doing so, he had only hurt you more.

Hongjoong lingered in silence, the weight of his unspoken fears casting a shadow over the room. He could feel Wooyoung’s gaze on him, a

persistent pressure urging him to confront the thoughts he’d been too afraid to voice.

“What if…” The words caught in his throat, his voice strained with the vulnerability he couldn’t hide. “What if I take the next step, and she leaves? What if she ends up leaving just like—”

Wooyoung interrupted him by reaching forward, pressing his fingers gently but firmly to Hongjoong’s lips, shushing him with an authority that surprised them both. “I know what comes next, Hongjoong,” he murmured. “You don’t need to say it.”

Hongjoong stiffened, pulling back ever so slightly, a touch of annoyance flickering across his face. “You think it’s that simple?” he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You think it’s easy to just… forget?”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, though he held firm. “I think you’re holding onto something that’s long gone, Joong. And you’re letting it get in the way of something real.” He paused, leaning forward. “So what if the girl you loved back in middle school left you? You’re still letting her be the one who decides what happens now?”

Hongjoong’s mouth opened, then closed, his defenses crumbling under Wooyoung’s scrutiny. He could feel the words bubbling up, the excuses he’d used to justify his fears over and over, but this time, they didn’t come. The silence between them grew heavier, and he felt himself shrinking under Wooyoung’s eyes.

“It’s not about her,” Hongjoong finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. “It’s just… this was exactly how it started back then. The same moments, the same feelings, and then…” His voice broke, a haunted look creeping into his eyes as the memories clawed their way to the surface. “And then it all just fell apart the moment she left without a word.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, his gaze filled with something close to sympathy, but there was no pity there, only an understanding forged through years of friendship. “Joong,” he said softly, leaning even closer as if he could bridge the distance that Hongjoong had placed between himself and everyone around him. “So what if some things feel familiar? They’re not the same person, are they? You’re not the same person, either.”

Hongjoong clenched his jaw, a flicker of anger sparking in his chest as he searched for a way to deflect, to deny the truth in Wooyoung’s words. “It’s… it’s not like that, Woo. You don’t get it.” His voice grew sharper, frustration edging his tone as he tried to hold onto the walls he’d built.

Wooyoung shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because it doesn’t look that way to me.”

Hongjoong looked away, his gaze hardening as he stared at the floor. “It’s not that simple, okay? You don’t know what it’s like to… to risk everything and then lose it.”

Wooyoung sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hongjoong, I may not know exactly what you went through, but I do know one thing: you’re letting something from the past dictate your future. And that’s not fair. Not to you, and definitely not to her.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he felt the weight of Wooyoung’s words settle over him. Part of him wanted to argue, to cling to the fears that had kept him guarded for so long, but another part—a part he’d buried deep—knew that Wooyoung was right.

“What if I let myself try?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his words laden with the weight of years of doubt and self-preservation. “What if… what if I take that risk, and she ends up leaving?”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened, and he leaned forward, resting a reassuring hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Joong, if she’s really the person you believe she is… then maybe it’s a risk worth taking. Because people leave, yeah. They walk away. But the ones who matter, the ones who are meant to stay—they won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re saying I should just… trust that?” His voice wavered, the question more for himself than for Wooyoung, as if he needed to convince himself that he could still believe in something other than his own fears.

Wooyoung’s mouth curved into a gentle, understanding smile. “Yeah. Trust it. Don’t let something that’s already gone keep you from what could be right here, right now.”

“What if I let her in? What if I let her see the real me? What if it’s not enough?”

“Then you fight for her,” Wooyoung replied. “You show her every day that she’s enough. You fight for her instead of running away. You have to be brave enough to take the risk, Joong. And if she does leave, at least you’ll know you tried. You can’t live in the shadow of your past forever.”

“But what if she sees me as weak?” Hongjoong countered, bitterness lacing his tone. “What if she thinks I’m broken?”

“Then you show her that even broken pieces can fit together to make something beautiful,” Wooyoung shot back. “You’ve built this wall around yourself, but you’re just hurting the one person who’s tried to break through. You need to trust her. You need to let her help you. She wants to be there for you, but you have to meet her halfway.”

The truth of those words echoed painfully in Hongjoong’s mind. He had been running, terrified of the vulnerability that came with love, terrified of the chance that he could be left once more. But he could feel the edges of that fear beginning to fray under the weight of his guilt, unraveling with every word Wooyoung spoke.

“You can’t let the past dictate your present, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer now, a mixture of empathy and frustration. “You can’t keep running away from what you feel. If you do, you’ll end up losing her, and it’ll be your fault.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced as he thought of you—how you had lit up his life in ways he never thought possible. How your laughter had become a soothing balm to his weary soul. He couldn’t keep ignoring the truth that was staring him in the face. The realization washed over him like a cold wave. “What am I supposed to do?” Hongjoong whispered.

“Fight for her, Joong. Show her that you’re not afraid. Be honest with her, and don’t let fear win this time.” Wooyoung leaned closer. “She deserves that much, at the very least. Fight for her—before it’s too late.”

“But what if it already is?”

🪞 — lividstar.

#౨ৎ﹒ノ﹒lividstar．#ateez fluff #ateez x reader #hongjoong #hongjoong fluff #hongjoong x reader #ateez angst #kim hongjoong #kim hongjoong x reader #hongjoong angst #hongjoong ateez #jung wooyoung #park seonghwa

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