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sincerelyneo · 2 days ago

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so high school | l.hc

“no one’s ever had me. not like you…”

📀now playing: so high school by taylor swift

❯ summary: Hyuck doesn’t care that high school was years ago; after learning his girlfriend’s experience was shitty, he’s determined to rewrite it for you. After all, he’s nothing if not smitten.

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, fluff, eventual smut

❯ words: 6.4k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, swearing, fingering, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, exhibitionism, reader uses she/her pronouns, lots of gendered female terms, slight begging, brief possessiveness and jealousy bc it’s me, a brief cheating accusation but it’s stupid, hyuck being a cute boyfriend for 6k words.

an: did someone say haechan lover boy smut for valentine’s day? (they didn’t, lol. i wrote this for me, i love men in love)

“I fucking loved high school,” Hyuck says, placing down his yearbook on the coffee table.

It had to be a few years old by now, stuffed at the back of one of your bookshelves. You’d found it while doing an annual declutter and handed it to him on a whim. Knowing your boyfriend, you figured he’d find it nostalgic, or funny, or both.

You glance at him from your spot on the couch, eyebrow arched. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shifts, sitting up straighter.

“You were on the football team, babe. Voted prom king, had good grades, and probably never had to eat lunch alone,” you list off, counting on your fingers for dramatic effect. “I’d be shocked if you did hate high school.”

He laughs with a shake of his head, sinking back further into the sofa. “Okay, fine, maybe I was a little... popular.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips out before you can help it. “A little? I bet you walked through the hallways like you were the lead in a drama or something stupid like that.”

He nods. “Damn right. I was the shit.”

You scoff, tossing a pillow in his direction. He’s such a cocky bastard—but you love that about him.

“Jealous?” he shoots back, smirking.

You try to playfully roll your eyes, but instead, a small frown pulls at your lips. You know he’s just teasing, messing around, but memories of junior and senior year creep into your mind uninvited. You’d never been outright bullied, but high school wasn’t exactly a highlight reel for you.

It was a blur of sitting in the back row, trying to make yourself small enough to avoid attention. Lunches alone in the library. No group of friends. No teenage dream. Dances you skipped, pretending you didn’t care when your chest ached from watching your classmates gush over photos the Monday after.

So yeah, you were a little jealous.

“Yes, actually,” you say finally, voice quieter. “High school sucked for me.”

His grin falters, posture straightening. “What?”

“I mean, it wasn’t all bad,” you rush to explain, suddenly self-conscious. “I got through it, you know? I just wasn’t... you.”

Hyuck leans back, studying you with a look you don’t see often on him—concern, worry. “What do you mean you weren’t me?”

“I wasn’t popular or cool or good at sports. I didn’t have a big friend group, and I definitely didn’t win prom queen…not that I even went.”

Hyuck doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally glance up, you find him staring at you with an expression you can’t quite place. There’s no teasing glint in his eyes, no cocky smile playing at his lips. He just looks... sad.

“Wait,” he says, his voice softer now. “You didn’t go to prom?”

You shrug. “Didn’t really have anyone to go with.”

He blinks at you like you just told him you spent your teenage years stranded on a deserted island, which for the likes of Hyuck, not attending prom was the justified equivalent.

“Are you serious?”

“Hyuck, it’s not a big deal,” you say quickly, waving him off. “High school just wasn’t my thing.”

“Not a big deal?” he repeats. “Babe, prom is like... the peak of high school. It’s the one night everyone remembers forever. How did no one ask you? I can’t wrap my head around that.”

You can’t help but laugh, despite the tightness in your chest. “Not everyone peaked in high school, Hyuck. Some of us just... took it for what it was: school.”

His expression softens even more, guilt creeping into his features as he scoots closer, his thigh brushing yours. “You know you deserved better than that, right?”

“Hyuck—”

“I mean it,” he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “If I’d been there, you would’ve been my prom queen. Hell, I’d have skipped the whole damn thing just to hang out with you if you didn’t wanna go.”

The honeyed warmth in his voice makes your throat tighten, and you hate how easily he can do this—take the ache of old memories and replace it with something softer, lighter. Something you almost want to believe.

“Too bad we didn’t meet until after high school,” you say, forcing a smile.

Hyuck falters—but only for a moment. His gaze lingers on you as if a thought is forming behind his dark eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your forehead. “Too bad.”

You don’t think anything of it when he pulls you into his chest, resting his chin on your head as the conversation drifts elsewhere. But later, when he’s holding you close and you’re half-asleep, Hyuck is still thinking. Planning.

Because Lee Donghyuck might not be able to rewrite your past, but he’s damn sure going to be the best part of your future—trust.

Hyuck just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The coolest person he’d ever met—his girlfriend, his soulmate—hadn’t gotten to live the high school teenage dream. No prom, no stupid corsages, no dancing barefoot at the end of the night because the heels were too much. Nothing.

It didn’t make sense. You were too fucking beautiful to be treated as background noise by those losers. Hyuck remembers the day he met you—a fully grown man—and you made him a stuttering mess. He’s never asked Mark for flirting advice ever in his life, but fuck, he wasn’t about to miss his chance with you.

How could they just disregard you?

He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. How did no one ask you out? Were they blind? Or just stupid? What kind of idiot couldn’t see what he saw every day?

The thought of you sitting at home on prom night, like it didn’t matter, made his chest ache. He couldn’t picture it—because you were you, the type of person every cheesy teen movie was written about: beautiful, funny, and so damn perfect. And yet... those assholes in high school had somehow missed it.

And even though the sick, selfish, possessive side of him is so fucking grateful that he’s the only one that’s ever had you, and those assholes missed out, he still can’t help but obsess over it. He couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he wanted to, and that realization burned.

Hyuck groans, tipping his head back. “I’m losing it,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

But he couldn’t let it go. And because he was Lee fucking Donghyuck, when something got under his skin, he acted on it. Which is why, two days later, he finds himself standing in the middle of a small-town gymnasium, arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the scene in front of him.

“Is this the best you can do?” he asks, unimpressed.

Mark, balancing precariously on a ladder while stringing up fairy lights, glares down at him. “Dude, shut the fuck up,” he snaps. “You gave us two days to put this together. Do you even know how hard it was to convince the principal? I had to name-drop you!”

Hyuck ignores him, his eyes sweeping over the room again. Mark wasn’t wrong—he had given his friends next to no time to work with. But that didn’t stop him from wanting it to be perfect. You deserved perfect.

A cheap speaker sits on the ground, currently blasting some old prom playlist Mark had found online. The string lights slowly started taking shape, casting a soft glow across the gym. There is a table in the corner with a bowl of something pink and suspicious-looking, and a few chairs scattered around. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.

Mark climbs down from the ladder, dusting his hands on his jeans. “I think it looks fine.”

“Fine?” Hyuck repeats, scoffing. “Mark, this is a high school prom. It’s supposed to be magical or whatever. This just looks like... a school event.”

“Because it is a school event,” Mark shoots back, rolling his eyes. “Look, man, if you wanted a five-star gala, maybe you shouldn’t have sprung this on me last minute.”

Hyuck sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t trying to be an ass, but he wanted, needed, to do this for you. You’d brushed off your high school experience like it was no big deal, but he could tell it meant something to you. Maybe not in a way you wanted to admit, but it was there.

And now it was his job—no, his mission—to fix it.

“Just... add more lights,” Hyuck says finally. “And maybe some balloons? Chenle, do we have balloons?”

Chenle, who was sweeping the floors, looked back with a shake of his head, scurrying off before he got caught in the crossfire.

Mark groans. “Hyuck, if we add any more lights, the entire gym’s gonna blow a fuse. And no, we don’t have balloons. You’re lucky I even managed to get lights.”

Hyuck sighs again, running a hand through his hair. He had money, sure—that was the only reason he’d managed to rent out the gym on such short notice—but even he couldn’t buy time.

Still, as he looked around the gym, he felt a flicker of pride. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. He’d move mountains for you if he had to. And if this half-assed prom was the closest he could get, then so be it.

Mark claps a hand on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “She’s gonna love it, dude. Stop stressing out.”

Hyuck nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Your boyfriend’s acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.

Hyuck’s always been a little odd—but that’s one of the things you love about him. The endless hobbies he picks up and abandons in a week like juggling, the random facts he collects from late-night YouTube rabbit holes, and his never-ending need to one-up his friends in bets and challenges. But this? This feels different. Like it’s more than some dumb dare or fleeting obsession.

For the past two days, he’s been unusually secretive. You’ve caught him whispering with Mark on the phone more than once, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush whenever you’d walk into the room. And then there was yesterday—when you brought coffee to his rehearsal. You barely stepped inside before the entire group went awkwardly silent, and Hyuck practically herded you back out the door. Hyuck, who usually couldn’t keep his hands off you in public and loved showing you off, suddenly turning shy…suspicious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And let’s not forget the disappearing act last night. He came home late, shrugging off your questions with a grin and the vague excuse of “guy stuff.” Guy stuff. That was the moment you knew something was up.

And so, you’ve been sitting on the couch, stewing, waiting for him to get home from rehearsal. The seconds drag, and with each passing minute, your frustration builds. By the time you hear the jingle of his keys in the door, you’re ready to burst.

Hyuck stumbles in, his hair slightly mussed, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exhausted but excited, strange. He barely gets a foot inside before you’re on him.

“Are you cheating on me?”

His jaw drops, the grin on his face disappearing instantly, eyes blinking at you like you’ve just accused him of arson. You’d honestly prefer it if he had. “What?! No! Why would you even—what the fuck?”

“You’ve been acting so weird!” you snap, crossing your arms. “The sneaky phone calls, the late nights, the whispering, the weird excuses—guy stuff? Do you think I was born yesterday?”

That makes him laugh and you swear you see red. He thinks this is funny? You’ll show him funny.

“If you wanted to break up with me, Hyuck, don’t insult me by sneaking around! Just—just tell me to my face!” Your voice wavers, hurt bubbling in your throat as you glare at him.

Hyuck’s expression softens instantly, his eyebrows furrowing. “Hey, hey, wait—babe, no. That’s not what’s happening here, I swear.”

You narrow your eyes, pointing at the garment bag. “Oh yeah? What’s that, then? Some outfit for your other girlfriend?”

His mouth drops open, and then he barks out a laugh, though he quickly smothers it when he sees your glare. “No! Oh my God, no. Look, just… this isn’t how I wanted to do this,” he pinches his temples “Could you just go upstairs and put this on, okay?” He holds the bag out to you, practically shoving it into your hands.

“Excuse me?” you quirk an eyebrow.

“Just—trust me, babe. Please. Go upstairs, put this on, and come back down when you’re ready.”

You stand there, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. Because he must have. “Hyuck, I am not—”

“Please,” he interrupts, his voice softer now. “Just this once. Do this for me. It’ll all make sense.”

His eyes meet yours, and for all the frustration boiling under your skin, you can’t ignore the quiet sincerity in his voice. Because even though his recent actions have been enough to make your paranoia spike, he’s still your Hyuck—and you trust your Hyuck.

With a sharp huff, you snatch the garment bag from his hands and stomp upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind you before he can say another word. Your pulse is racing, irritation curling hot in your chest as you yank the zipper down and pull the dress out with more force than necessary.

It’s beautiful. And that pisses you off even more.

Who does he think he is? Sneaking around all week, ignoring you for days, then showing up with a pretty dress and expecting you to put it on without question?

Annoying. He’s so annoying.

Still scowling, you step into the dress, the silky fabric gliding over your skin like it was made for you, and knowing Hyuck he’d probably ask someone to do that for him. It fits perfectly, hugging every curve, and when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your anger stutters—just for a second. It’s beautiful. You look beautiful.

Damn it.

You swipe at your eyes before anything ridiculous like tears can form and square your shoulders. Fine. You’ll wear the dress. But you’re not going to let him off the hook so easily. Throwing the door open, you march downstairs, irritation simmering beneath the surface of your foundation. “Lee Donghyuck, you better—”

But you freeze.

Because he’s standing at the bottom of the steps in an equally beautiful suit, rocking on his heels, with a small, nervous smile playing on his lips. He’s holding a corsage in his hands—delicate flowers wrapped in silk, matching your dress perfectly.

And then, all at once, it clicks.

That fucking yearbook you found. The conversation that came after it. The sneaking around. The secrecy.

Your breath catches in your throat, warmth creeping up your neck as a blush dusts his skin. He chews his lip, eyes flickering up to meet yours, and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d swear he was nervous.

Hyuck never gets nervous.

“Do you wanna rewrite prom with me?”

And just like that, you break.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them, and Hyuck’s smile falters just slightly as he steps forward, hand reaching out to you, as if he’s ready to catch you, to hold you close, if you were to fall. But you don’t fall. You just nod, because it feels impossible to do anything else.

How could you say no to him? How could you possibly deny the one person in the world who would do something like this for you—not because he had to, but because he wanted to, because he loves you to a point you never thought possible because he needs you to be happy.

“I love you,” you choke out through your happy tears, the words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them.

Hyuck’s worry shifts into something warmer, something softer. He steps closer, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek to wipe away the tear.

“Does that mean we’re not breaking up, then?” His voice is teasing, but there’s a tenderness underneath, a soft hope in his eyes that mirrors the love you just confessed.

Your heart skips a beat, and you nod through blurry eyes, a small smile breaking through. “Not even close.”

His face splits into the brightest grin you’ve ever seen, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into his arms, rocking you side to side like he’s never going to let go. It’s overwhelming—the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. And for once, you let yourself lean into it, let yourself feel just how much he loves you, because God, does he know how to show it.

“I love you too, you know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, meant just for you. “Like, stupidly. Like, I’m gonna remind you every day until you’re sick of me, because I never want you to think I’m cheating on you ever again.”

You huff a laugh, sniffling. “I don’t think I could ever be sick of you.”

“Mm, we’ll see about that.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, taking in the glassiness in your eyes, the heat in your cheeks. Then, with a smirk, he presses the corsage into your hands. “Your favourite colour.”

“Now,” he says, stepping back and offering his arm, “if we don’t leave soon, Mark might actually rip my balls off.”

It takes you a second to register what he means, and when you glance past him, you see Mark leaning against his car, arms crossed, exuding pure suffering. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but you know your Hyuck can be very convincing.

“Are you two done?” Mark calls, exasperated. “Because I have better things to do than play chauffeur for your little rom-com tonight.”

“Liar!” Hyuck yells, dragging you toward the car. “If you weren’t here, you’d be playing video games with Chenle or something. Your life is boring and bitchless!”

Mark groans but doesn’t deny it.

“Wait! One more thing,” Hyuck gasps, stopping you just as you’re about to step into the car. Before you can question it, he’s already sprinting back inside. A few seconds later, he bursts through the door, holding up a letterman jacket that doesn’t match your old school’s colours, but his.

And when he drapes it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary, his gaze catches on his surname stitched across your back. His cheeks flush that familiar shade of pink, and for once, he’s the one left speechless.

You clutch your hands to the jacket, making sure it doesn’t fall off and you can’t stop smiling. Because even though he was just being a fouled-mouthed menace to his friend. He’s clearly only ever sweet and soft with you. Hyuck opens the car door for you and he slides in beside you, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s second nature, like they belong. You look down at your joined hands, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin, and warmth blooms in your chest.

The corsage, the letterman, the chauffeur to prom. It’s silly. It’s cheesy. It’s the kind of thing you used to roll your eyes at in movies as a teenager. But right now, with him, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Because he’s rewriting how you feel about the cheesy stuff, giving you the giddy, reckless kind of love you never got to have.

Letting his hand rest on your thigh, making you stifle your sighs as it slowly crept up your flesh. His touch is heedless and uncaring as if Mark wasn’t inches away in the front seat. It’s compulsive, carless, and so ridiculously juvenile—it’s so high school.

Which feels very on-brand as you pull up to an old brick building. Mark cuts the engine, allowing Hyuck to round the car and open your car door before holding your hand tight and walking you towards the football field.

So many memories flooded back to you as soon as he opened the gate that led to the field. Heels on the grass, on the sacred sanctuary you never had the chance to belong on. Suddenly you’re sixteen again and Hyuck leds you over to the bleachers, climbing up several rows before taking a seat and pulling you down next to him.

"Are we trespassing right now?" you ask, slipping your arms into his letterman to ward off the winter chill. "I know you love me, but you don’t have to commit a crime for me."

Hyuck scoffs, a playful smirk on his lips. "Please, you know I wouldn’t think twice about committing a crime for you if you asked me to." He pauses, then adds, "But no, we’re not trespassing. This is my old high school, and since I'm such an outstanding alumni, I had some strings pulled. They left me the key for tonight."

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "So they did all this just for you, huh?"

“Don’t look at me like that, this is for us.”

"Uh-huh," you tease. "I must say, knowing how to ball in high school seems to have its perks. I was in the wrong clubs clearly. You’re basically the only person I know who managed to continue peaking after high school."

Hyuck’s smile falters, a flicker of something sad crossing his face. His eyes drift downward, and you catch that same troubled look he had when you found his yearbook—when he learned how different your high school experiences were. You don’t want him to feel like that, not when he’s trying so hard to fix it. But you don’t want him to fix it either, because as messed up as your teenage years were, they led you to him. No one’s ever had you. Not like him anyway.

You slide your hand over his, squeezing gently as you move closer. “You didn’t have to do all this for me, you know?”

Hyuck chuckles, that flicker of sadness vanishing as quickly as it came. “Don’t say that. You haven’t even seen what I’ve got planned inside yet. I had all the boys stressed over fairy lights and balloons all week.”

Knowing how much effort he’s put in makes you smile, your fingers drifting up to trace the curve of his cheek. He’s so beautiful. So in love. So undeniably yours.

“I’m excited to see it,” you say. “But right now, I just want to be here. Is that okay? I never really got to hang out on the bleachers.”

“Will you yell at me if I say that a sick part of me loves that you never cheered for other guys playing football?”

You shake your head with a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, undeterred. “Yeah, I wanna kill those assholes for never inviting you to a game, for not taking you to prom. But I also love that I get to be the one to do it with you. Even if we’re adults.”

You bite your lip, feigning hesitation. “Well, I have some information I think you might like.”

Hyuck raises a brow. “Oh?”

“I always wanted to make out under the bleachers,” you admit, heat creeping up your neck. “Call me cliché, but when I was a freshman, I imagined having my first kiss with Lee Felix under there.”

His nose crinkles instantly. “I don’t know who that is, but I hate him.” Hyuck scoffs, but his hands are already sliding around your waist, pulling you closer. “Still… this night is about me making your fantasies come true. So fuck that guy and let me kiss you, baby.”

And you do—let his lips capture yours, kissing you until they’re swollen and puffy, until they mould perfectly to his, like they were always meant to. Until there’s no doubt that they, and you, belong to him.

Hyuck wastes no time, scooping you into his arms with ease, carrying you into the shadows beneath the rickety metal frame. And then his lips are on yours again—hungry, unrelenting. It’s everything you ever imagined. No—better. Because it’s him and you.

His hand trails up your body as he presses you against one of the cold metal pillars, calloused fingers graze your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Years of football have roughened his touch, but it’s the way he holds you—like he can’t get enough, like he never will—that really makes your breath hitch. And you almost want to laugh, because you’re pretty sure most people fuck after prom, not before it. But this is you and Hyuck. You’ve never played by the rules, never followed the scripted path. You never wanted to.

And that’s exactly why a soft, desperate “Please,” slips from your lips as his fingers venture higher, until they’re brushing against the hem of your panties.

“Cute,” he smiles and murmurs against your lips, grinning as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, his cool touch grazing your clit. You shiver, and it only makes him that more pleased—more proud. His other hand glides up your stomach, sneaking beneath your dress until he’s palming your breast, his thumb teasing over your nipple.

“You know…” he muses, voice dripping with amusement, “I paid good money for this dress. It’d be a shame to ruin it.”

“Please. You’d never buy me a dress you didn’t plan on ruining.”

Hyuck giggles, shaking his head, but before you can run that smart mouth of yours again, his finger slips so easily into your pussy, and you gasp, clinging to his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your ear, voice thick with need. “I love that you know me so well.”

His fingers keep working you, desperate and wild—because if you know Hyuck so well, he knows you even better. Knows your body like it’s his to worship. And when he adds a second finger, stretching you open, pleasure floods through you so intensely your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping back as a moan catches in your throat.

But that won’t do.

Hyuck likes to watch you. Likes to see the way your lips part, the way your brows knit together, the way your pupils blow wide with nothing but him. He wants you to know—no, needs you to know—that he’s the one making you feel this good. That it’s his touch unravelling you, his name you should be thinking about, whimpering, crying out.

So the second your lashes flicker, his fingers slow, teasing, withholding. You whimper, forced to open your eyes again, hazy and weak—just the way he likes them—just the way he needs them to be before he picks up his pace.

He’s meticulous, careful—determined to make you cum right here, right now. If your fantasy was just to make out under the bleachers, Hyuck is going to take it further, push it past anything you ever imagined. He’s going to make you cum here, again and again, until this moment is burned into your memory. Until you can never think about high school, about this field, about these bleachers, without thinking about him. About the way he touched you. About the way he made it perfect. He always makes everything perfect.

“Need you to cum all over my fingers, pretty girl. Come on,” he murmurs, pinching your clit as he tries to coax an orgasm out of you. And it doesn’t take long. The honeyed rasp of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his fingers, the way his eyes stay locked on yours—it’s all too much. You shatter around him with a high-pitched moan.

“Atta girl,” he breathes, watching you with nothing but admiration. “So fucking pretty when you cum for me.”

Your mind is fuzzy, his words melting into white noise as you come down from your high on shaky legs. If it weren’t for the pillar at your back, you’re certain you’d be a puddle on the floor. Hyuck holds you close, his hand stroking your hair as he murmurs soft praises against your ear—something about being so pretty, so good, so his. But all you can focus on is the growing bulge in his pants, the evidence of just how much he wants you. A bulge you put there. One you’re aching to take care of.

You start to drop to your knees, and he sucks in a breath, his eyes locked on yours.

“Stop,” he commands harshly, stepping back as if something’s shifted. It forces you to stand up straight again, confusion crossing your face.

“Don’t you want me to—”

“Oh, I fucking want you to, and you’re going to,” he growls. Then, he peels off his suit jacket and drapes it on the concrete floor between you two. “Now, you can get on your knees for me, Y/N,” he orders, his voice rough and commanding, but then it cracks, desperately. “Please.”

You lower yourself onto his suit jacket, kneeling before him, palms pressing firmly against his thighs. His erection is hard, straining through his suit pants, but he’s waited—waited until he knew you’d be most comfortable because that’s just who he is.

“Look at you,” he says, running his thumb over your mouth. “Puffy lips parted and ready for me. Big fucking eyes, so innocent, so needy.”

“Only for you, Hyuck,” you breathe softly as you start undoing his belt and his jaw visibly ticks.

You’ve sucked his cock before—of course you have, and you love it. And still, he looks at you like it’s the first time, nostrils flaring, pupils dilated, as he drinks in every detail of your eagerness. He’s so hungry to feel you, to get lost in you—so feral.

Using his forefinger, he lifts your chin, forcing your chin and attention on him. “I know, baby. Only me. Always me.”

You run your tongue over your lower lip, and he tracks the entire thing, looking like some kind of predator.

“Take it out.”

You comply, dropping his pants to his ankles and tugging his boxer briefs down with them. His cock springs free, angry veins visible and the tip glistening. The sight of his straining cock right in front of you pulls this desperate sound from deep in his throat. He traces every inch of your face as if he plans to paint it soon, and you’d let him.

His palm glides over your head again, fingers weaving through your hair, cupping the back of your skull to keep you anchored in place. Rough and dominant—just how he likes it, and just how you crave it.

“I need to fuck your mouth, baby. Seeing you cum in my letterman has got me so damn hard. I need this pretty mouth,” he whimpers as his palm rests on your scalp. “You’re gonna let me do that aren’t you? Because you’re such a good fucking girl.”

You nod and squirm in anticipation, using the tip of your tongue to lick a path over his slit, savouring the salty taste from the bead of precum. His eyes instantly roll back and you grip his shaft with one hand and lick a path from root to tip.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Just like that,” he hisses between his teeth as his entire body vibrates.

You look up at him, fluttering your lashes over heavy eyes. Because the only thing Hyuck craves more than his own pleasure is the sight of yours. You round your lips, sucking him in slowly. Your head bobs as you work your tongue in sync with your lips, but he’s so big, a fact you’ll never get used to. He hits the back of your throat and you hold him there, swallowing around his tip, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your throat tightens with a gentle choke.

"Fuck—" He lurches forward, one hand gripping the pillar for support while the other tugs at your hair, pulling you off him just long enough to catch your breath—because he's nothing if not considerate.

Hyuck runs his thumb by the corner of your eye, gathering the moisture that pooled there.

“I’m ruining your makeup,” he muses, lips curling into a smirk. “I had prom pictures planned.”

A blush creeps on your cheeks, “We don’t have to take them.”

“We’re taking them.” There’s no question in his tone. It’s simply a statement. A demand. “Then I’m keeping a copy in my wallet, so next time I’m on tour, fisting my cock, I can think about you. About this."

You nod, breath hitching. "O-okay."

"Okay." His thumb drags over your lip again, teasing until you part for him, wrapping around it. He presses down, tugging lightly. "So agreeable. So obedient. Aren’t you?"

"Yes," you breathe.

His smirk deepens. "Good. So you'll keep sucking my cock, won't you?"

You don’t even bother with words—too eager to please, too determined to finish what you started. Your fingers wrap around him, stroking once before you take him back into your mouth, sucking deep before pulling off with a lewd pop. Then you do it again, following his cues, giving him exactly what you know he loves. A slow flick of your tongue along the underside of his head, a firm squeeze as you cup his balls, and then you’re taking him to the back of your throat. His entire abdomen tenses. His breathing turns ragged.

"Fuck." His curse is sharp as he pulls back, just enough to look at you. "I’m gonna cum. You gonna let me cum in your mouth, baby?"

You nod eagerly, mascara streaking your cheeks, spit glistening at the corner of your lips. "Please, Hyuck."

His smirk is wicked. "Are you gonna be a good little girlfriend and swallow it all for me?"

You nod—far too enthusiastically.

"Good. Now, take a deep breath, baby—'cause it’s the last one you’re getting for a while."

He runs a gentle thumb over your cheekbone before guiding your head forward. Your lips part instinctively, wrapping around him as he sets the pace, fucking your mouth with a steady rhythm. His palms cover your ears, his hips roll with precision—nothing but pure pleasure as he chases his high. And you let him. You take it, let him use you because he’s done all of this for you tonight. Because he deserves his reward.

Truthfully, watching Hyuck unravel beneath you—knowing you’re the one making him this needy, this desperate to cum—is your own reward. Because seeing him lost in pure bliss is the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Your fingernails dig into his skin, leaving faint crescents as he keeps his pace—steady, deliberate—but always mindful, always making sure you can breathe. He checks in with his eyes, just like you said—considerate.

You moan around his length, hips shifting instinctively, searching for friction. And of course, Hyuck notices. He always notices.

"Are you getting turned on from sucking me off, Y/N?" he taunts, through a tight restraint breath. "So wet, even after I already made you cum." He pulls out of your mouth, gaze dark. "Show me. Show me how wet sucking my cock has made you.”

Heat prickles your skin as you reach under your dress, the one he bought, and gather your arousal on two fingers. You bring them up, letting him see the proof, the evidence of just how much you want him.

“Fuck,” he growls, as deep brown eyes turn black as they lock on your fingers. “So fucking obedient.”

Hyuck leans in, grasping your wrist before guiding your fingers into his mouth. His tongue flicks over the tips, slow and careful, savouring the taste—the proof of how badly he’s wrecked you. Of how much you like him, love him.

He nods toward his cock, covered in your saliva, hard and twitching, ready to cum. "Make me cum, baby. Please."

You hold his eye contact, grip his cock, and bring your mouth back to cover him. He moans, head falling back, and you work his length with your mouth and hand, doing your best to take what you can’t handle. It doesn’t take long until his hips jerk in short, sloppy movements. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, moans soft but pitched, the sound of him unravelling.

“Y/N,” he cries out your name in a whimper of desperation. One hand finds yours, holding it tenderly, while the other braces on the pillar behind you. Then, he cums—hard.

He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, because that’s his favourite part, but the sensation overwhelms him, and he has to shut them. Every muscle in his body tightens as hot, forceful pulses hit the back of your throat.

“So pretty like this,” he pants breathlessly. “Mouth full of my cum.” The pad of his thumb traces down the line of your throat. “You’re gonna swallow it, aren’t you?”

It’s not a question, and you don’t hesitate. You swallow all of him, but it’s not enough. You need more—need him inside of you.

“Fuck me, please, Hyuck.”

He shakes his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips and then he laughs. He uses the hand he’s had entangled with yours to pull you up to your feet, steadying you gently. “I can’t. Not here.”

You pout, disappointed, your body aching for him. “Why not?”

His smile widens as he adjusts your dress, pulling the fabric down to cover you properly, the moment feeling suddenly too sweet considering he was just fucking your throat.

“Because,” he draws out playfully, “I planned a prom, and like all cheesy teenagers, I don’t plan to fuck you here.”

You quirk a brow, crossing your arms across your body. But before you can say anything, Hyuck fumbles with his suit jacket, dropping to the floor to search the pockets. His hands hover for a second before he pulls out a room key, holding it up like some kind of trophy.

You scoff with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Very cliché.”

He grins at you. “I think we have pictures to take.”

#nct smut #haechan smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #nct x reader #haechan x reader #nct dream x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct hard hours #nct one shot #kpop smut

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chleem · 1 day ago

Note

Wonder what is going on with casual!drew and reader in valentine’s :////

⋆.˚ Warnings: angst w/ a side of fluff (read at own caution

word count: 3.5k

──── 𝜗𝜚 ─────

As you made your way to checkout, you weren’t so sure anymore.

It was your first Valentines’ with Drew, your casual relationship for…more than five months now.

He was next to you, mindlessly pushing the cart, AirPods in one ear, eyes focused on the snack aisle.

You couldn’t help but feel…disappointed? Sad? Weird?

It was casual, yes, but it was Valentine’s day.

Valentine’s wasn’t just another day. It was the day, the one where people at least tried to show they cared—whether with a gesture or a simple acknowledgment.

And while you’ve convinced yourself you were fine with the way things were between you two, a small part of you had hoped for something, anything.

A hint that maybe, just maybe, Drew felt differently about you today.

No. He didn’t.

Starting with this morning, no text. No call.

Well, only one, and it was ‘dinner at yours?’

Okay, you had to admit, that got you a bit excited, because maybe he got something planned?

But as the hours passed, there was nothing.

You didn’t see him at any point during the day, except for lunch. He was with his friends, laughing, hanging out, acting like… he would, on a normal day. But then, at one point, you could’ve sworn he flirted with that one girl.

The hours leading up were just bumping into couples in hallways, boring lectures, etc.

And now here you were, walking through the aisles of the supermarket with Drew, sharing AirPods, grabbing groceries like it was…just another day.

Maybe it was. You weren’t sure.

As you walked toward the checkout, it was clear—he hadn’t even mentioned it.

You glanced at him again, trying to gauge if maybe he was just oblivious, or if this was exactly what he wanted—no pressure, no expectations.

Causal, casual, casual.

But what you felt wasn’t relief; it was…you weren’t sure.

Finally, mustering up the courage, you nudge his side, getting his attention.

You could feel his blue eyes staring down at you as you both neared the end of the aisle.

"Drew?" Your voice barely above a whisper as you looked ahead. God, were you nervous?

“Yeah?” His hand pushes on the cart, fingers drumming gently to the beat of I’ll make love to you.

“…do you know what day it is?”

“Friday,” he answers almost immediately, and you can hear the slight confusion in his voice.

Oh wow. So…he really doesn’t know?

“Right,” you say, your voice almost flat as you try to play it cool. “Friday.”

“Yeah?” This yeah was definitely a confused one.

You and Drew exit the snacks aisle, making your way to the checkout counters. It's silent for a few steps, the air thick with the awkwardness, until—

"Something wrong?”

His voice is softer now, a little more tentative. He’s trying to figure out what’s going on, and part of you wants to just brush it off—tell him it’s no big deal.

You glance over at him, his blue eyes searching your face for some kind of answer, but you’re not sure of what to say.

Tell him and have him get you something last minute?

That would…feel much more worse.

But just as you’re about to settle on saying nothing, the seasonal aisle catches your eye.

Aka, The Valentine’s aisle. Bright reds and pinks, heart-shaped boxes, plush bears, and cards scattered across the shelves. Everything screams Valentine’s and stands out like a neon sign, as if to make sure you’re fully aware that today was supposed to be special for someone.

It feels like the universe is saying, Here, you can’t ignore it anymore.

Drew follows your gaze,

“Oh,”

He whispers, as if realizing.

You watch his back, your eyes scanning the t-shirt that outlines his muscles, hoping to see anything—anything that might indicate he’s getting it now. Maybe a shift in his posture, a tightening in his shoulders, like he’s finally clued in.

But no. Nothing.

He stands there for a beat, his hands still resting loosely on the cart.

In your AirPods, it’s now playing What a girl wants.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, until he turns back around, his eyes meeting yours, and there’s…a smile on his lips.

A smile that, for the first time today, seems like maybe he does get it.

“Okay,” his hands leaves the cart, wrapping around your waist. He pulls you close to him, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

Drew’s height towers over you, and he’s looking down at you with that, signature- almost smitten look of his.

You rest your arms on his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat matching the quick thrum of yours.

Is he gonna say it? Will you be my Valentine-

“Happy Valentine’s, y/n.”

Your heart skips a beat.

But then, your eyebrows furrow, and the frown on your face betrays you, unable to hide the disappointment that creeps in.

You expected something more. You wanted him to say it, to choose you in that moment, to make this first Valentine’s together something that felt significant.

And yet, it’s just… casual.

You pull back slightly, giving him a soft, but hesitant smile, the silence hanging heavier than before. You can’t help but wonder if he realizes how much this matters—or if it matters to him at all.

Drew seems to notice, and the hands on your waist gives it a slight pinch, “what?”

You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the embarrassment that’s clouding your chest.

Fuck- you really thought he was gonna say it?

No- no, it’s just casual.

“Happy Valentine’s,” you whisper to him, barely above a murmur. Without giving him a chance to respond, you pull away from his arms, your hands gripping the cart.

Suddenly, you just want to get out of here. You don’t even know why— you just do.

The wheels of the cart squeak as you push it forward, your pace quickening slightly as you make your way toward the checkout.

Drew doesn’t follow immediately, but you can hear his footsteps behind you as he catches up.

His hands overlap yours on the cart, and you feel his chest press against your back as you continue toward the long line of checkout. His presence is undeniable now—warm and familiar.

He doesn't say anything at first, and for a moment, it feels like he's waiting for you to make the first move, to give him a sign that everything’s okay—or to tell him what’s wrong.

His fingers tighten around the handle of the cart, his hand large compared to yours.

“It’s Valentine's day, right?”

You can hear his smile, even though you’re not looking directly at him.

“Yeah,” you reply quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “It is.”

“Okay…you mad?”

The line moves forward, so Drew gently pushes you and the cart forward.

His breath hits your ear every time with how close he is, and you could feel yourself going limp, harder to stay upset now.

“I’m not mad.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“…you wanna go back and forth like this?”

His tone is light, but you can hear the frustration that peaks out. He’s trying to keep it casual, trying to play it off, but you can tell he's getting frustrated too.

Before you can say anything, the cashier cuts in with a sharp “Next!”

Drew steps back, the pressure of his body against yours vanishing, but his warmth lingers, as if it’s still tied to you.

The two of you move synchronously, like this routine is one you’ve done a thousand times. You start unloading the items onto the counter, the soft beeps of the register filling the silence between you.

But then, as you reach into the cart to grab the next item, your fingers brush against something familiar... condoms.

Blood rushes to your cheeks, even hotter than before.

Oh, it’s not just any kind—it’s labeled Valentine's Special.

The packaging is red and glossy, with hearts and some playful wording plastered across the front.

His hands come in contact with yours, and when you look up, it's Drew, gently taking the box from your grasp.

“It was the last one...” he murmurs, so casually, but there's a teasing curl of his lips as he pretends to inspect the box.

He then places the Valentine's special box on the counter, its vibrant, awkwardly festive packaging sitting there between you and the cashier like a beacon of... well, awkwardness.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, no longer upset, rather, more self-conscious than ever.

It’s one thing to buy condoms, but another to buy different flavors or special packaged-ones.

Drew doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. In fact, he looks almost too relaxed, like he's having fun with it.

Knowing you’re too focused on that Valentine’s condom on the counter, Drew finishes loading the rest onto the counter, the cashier bagging up the items.

“How would you like to pay?” the cashier asks, breaking the silence.

“Card,” Drew responds, pulling out his wallet and swiping the card without a second thought.

Drew finishes the payment, grabbing the bag, his eyes flicking to you with that amused smile on his face again.

One of his hands lingers on the small of your back, his fingers just barely grazing the skin there as he guides you towards the exit. He then leans in, his voice low and teasing, “excited, baby?” he whispers, the words almost like a soft joke.

As soon as you feel like the cashier is out of earshot, you can't help yourself, gently scolding him, although, the smile on your lips betray you, “Drew!”

He chuckles softly, not even the slightest bit rattled by your reaction.

“Thought we, we’d try something special,” he shrugs.

The supermarket doors open automatically, and you feel his hand slip down into the back pocket of your jeans, as he reaches for his car keys.

The feeling of his fingers brushing against your ass sends a jolt through you, making you yelp.

The ticklish sensation makes your body instinctively pulling away just a little, which only makes it harder for him to look for his keys.

He lets out a soft laugh, the sound warm and amused, but his hand stays right where it is, maybe lingering a bit longer.

Drew knows you’re ticklish, and he knows there’s no need to keep his car keys in your pocket.

But he does it anyways, all the time.

“Hey,” you murmur, your hands going to rub your ass, where he touched.

There’s still a smile on his lips as he finally pulls his fingers out of the tight back pocket of your jeans, pressing the ‘start’ button for his car.

The sound of the car beeping open echoes in the quiet parking lot, and the trunk lifts automatically.

You both start walking toward the car, and Drew tosses the big bag of groceries into the trunk in one smooth motion, closing it after.

Then the soft thud of the car door, as both of you settle in—Drew sliding into the driver’s seat, and you into the passenger’s.

The familiar scent of his car hits you immediately, and its weirdly comforting in a way, but also stirring.

Almost immediately, as Drew starts driving out of the parking lot, one of his hands rest on your thigh, the touch gentle yet grounding.

Casual, casual, casual.

You reach forward and press play on his car screen.

Playing, Every breath you take.

“Fucking classic,” Drew murmurs under his breath, eyes focused on the road ahead.

A smile tugs at your lips at his comment, and you find yourself resting your head gently on his arm, surprisingly comfortable.

For the rest of the way back, the two of you just... settle into the silence. The music drifts through the air, and the shared playlist seems to pull you both into a space where words aren't necessary.

——

Once you stepped out the elevator, a girl stops you, her smile wide as she catches your attention.

Drew watches, as the two of you go on about…actually, he lost interest the moment she opened her mouth.

He gives you a soft tap on your waist, and it immediately pulls your attention back to him. When you meet his eyes, he cocks his head toward the bag of groceries, a silent hint that he's going to head to your dorm first.

You give him a quick nod, before returning to the conversation with the girl, maybe your classmate? Or friend? Drew didn’t care.

As Drew makes his way down the hall, the sound of your voice fading behind him, he finally reaches your dorm.

But…he stops dead in his tracks, his gaze falling to the floor in front of your door.

There, at his feet, is a large bouquet of roses. Bright, bold, and impossibly out of place in the otherwise quiet hallway.

What…the fuck?

For a second, he just stands there, the usual confidence draining from his posture as he takes in the unexpected sight.

Drew then notices a small, white card tucked in amongst the flowers. His expression flickers, a quiet moment of hesitation before he slowly bends down.

His hand reaches for the card, fingers brushing lightly over the petals before finally gripping it.

Drew’s eyes scan the words written on the card, his brows furrowing deeper with each sentence.

It slowly comes to his realization that this is a love letter…for you!

He blinks, re-reading the opening line. “‘I’ve liked you, y/n, for a very long time, please accept this…’”

His grip on the card tightens, jaw clenched. The words on the card are so sincere, so lovingly—what the fuck?

Drew flips the card over, almost desperately, hoping to find any clue as to who might’ve sent this to you.

And there it is, written in neat handwriting: Mike.

His mind scrambles for a moment, trying to place the name.

Mike…mike…mike…who the…

Then, it clicks.

Mike. That first-year at the bar. The one you bumped into a few weeks ago, the one at the library.

It’s him. The guy who's clearly interested in you, and now he’s made his move with this…this huge bundle of flowers and cringey confession.

His mind races, the feelings of frustration, confusion, and jealousy— all fighting for control.

But, what he’s feeling right now isn’t what’s concerning.

What’s concerning, is what to do with these roses?

Then, he hears footsteps, coming his way, and slightly panicked, he crumbles the card up, forcing it into his pocket.

You stand there, only a few steps away, your eyes flickering between the roses on the floor and Drew bending- well, practically kneeling next to it now.

Closing the distance, you bend down next to him, eyes focused on the roses.

And Drew sees it, clear as day; the way your eyes light up, that soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips, and the faintest flush on your cheeks— shy, happy, embarrassed, he didn’t know.

Your hand touches the roses, almost too delicately, and then, you meet his eyes.

Drew's breath catches. There's something in your eyes—something that feels like…like the entire world is reflected in them.

He’s stunned, his words stuttering out, ”you—“

“Are these for me?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah... they are,” he finally mutters, his voice quieter than usual.

Drew couldn’t help but admire the way you looked- his attention now solely focused on you, as if everything else in the world had faded away.

You turn to him, eyes soft and full of warmth as you say, “Thank you.”

As if feeling the weight behind those words, you laugh softly, trying to play it off.

But Drew knows you better than anyone. You’ll cherish these roses till they wither away, he knows it.

But then your words- ‘thank you,’ flash through his mind, and he lifts his eyebrows slightly, confused.

“You ordered these…no?”

You thought he was the one that gave you the roses.

His heart races for a split second as he considers how to handle this.

Then, he decides fuck it, a grin tugging at his lips as he shakes off the knot in his stomach.

The last time he’d seen you this excited, it was after you won that hotdog-eating contest, and honestly, he would kill to see you that happy again.

With a gentle shrug, he smiles, “you like it?”

You smile even wider, “very much.”

You pick up the big bouquet of roses from the floor, hugging it tightly to your chest.

Drew’s grin softens, and he leans in just slightly, his eyes sparkling as he catches your gaze. “Really?”

You stand up, still hugging it as if it might disappear if you let go. “Mhm.”

Drew stands up, “no you don’t,” he whispers, but not a single cell in his body believed you didn’t like it; it’s painted all over your face.

“I do! I love it,” you say, your voice growing all soft and genuine.

He stood there, watching you, almost as if time had slowed.

Standing here, outside your room, with you, with how you cradled the roses to your chest with such tenderness—it made something change inside him, something deep he couldn’t quite place.

There was something about you in this moment, the sincerity in your smile, the way you looked so... happy.

Drew didn’t expect to feel so conflicted.

He’d always been the one to keep things light, casual, to avoid feeling too much.

Was this what it felt like to want more than just the surface? To actually care?

Drew opened his mouth to say something, to make a joke, to deflect—but he couldn’t. He was struck by how genuine you were, how completely different this moment felt from everything else.

“Thank you,” you whispered again, and the words hung in the air, almost as if you were thanking him for more than just the roses.

Were you? Were you thanking him for more than just those roses?

And maybe, just maybe, Drew realized that he was starting to get a little too comfortable with the idea of something more.

Something more, with you.

Aw, fuck.

And he did it, he cuts own his thoughts off, "Prove it.”

Those words practically echo between you two, a challenge wrapped in a husky whisper.

You glance up at him, a little taken aback, but Drew notices it, the way you quickly recover.

You take a small step forward, "Prove it?”

Drew’s smile is a mix of teasing and something deeper. "Yeah," he murmurs, his eyes scanning your face. "Show me, show me you really mean it.”

Without thinking, you tilt your head just slightly, and then, just as Drew anticipated, you close the gap, pressing your lips to his.

His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you in, as the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more alive than any of the other moments you'd shared before.

In that kiss, there's no pretending, no games. At least for Drew, there’s no pretending.

Actually, not a time was he pretending. When he’s kissing you, those kisses are full of all that’s unsaid, and Drew finds himself lost in it.

And soon enough, the only thing that matters in this moment is the dent forming in Drew’s pants.

Also…the huge bouquet of roses and grocery bag in the way, almost like a wall.

He reluctantly pulls away, breathless, eyes flickering between your lips and the flowers.

Silence flows through the both of you, until Drew speaks up, his voice soft, and in his ears, sounding a bit whimper-like.

“...I'm not hungry anymore."

You’re not?” you ask, your voice a bit higher than usual.

“I am, but, for something else."

“…but I’m hungry…” you reply, your words soft, and Drew catches the little pout forming on your lips.

He freezes for a second, seriously contemplating whether he should prioritize his appetite or yours.

Drew decides against it- laughing, the sound low and warm, “Okay- okay.”

Your smile returns, and you reach into his pocket for your dorm keys, hands close to his erection that pokes evidently against his jeans.

Your eyebrows raise briefly as you take the keys out, unlocking your room.

Drew watches you, amused but also slightly captivated by how you’ve turned this moment into something playful. But that’s your charm—the way you could take something as intimate as this and make it feel light, effortless. It’s always been that way with you.

But clearly- that guy, Mike, clearly saw something in you too.

That thought makes a strange twist in his gut, yet, Drew quickly pushes it aside, not wanting to spoil the mood.

The roses might be from someone else, but this moment? That’s all his.

After all, it was Valentine’s Day.

And it goes without saying, love is in the air, and nothing could ruin it.

Or- casualness is in the air, or… whatever’s going on between you two.

-------------------------------

is there a difference between 'will you be my valentine?' and 'happy valentines.'? i wonder...

casual taglist: @maybankslover @rafeyswifey @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @amb3rsaurus @bananaminn @rafecamerons-national-anthem @milky321 @drewnationalgf @iraslore @ursogorgeous13 @jamimers @hockeybabe87 @jqtsblyth @virgochaos @wolvestitches @dontblamethedrunkcaller @thoughtdaughter0

edit: i forgot they got airpods in during shopping...pretend they took it off once they got in the car, okay? ok.

#request #inbox #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey imagine #angst #fluff #fiction

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whispsofwind · 21 hours ago

Note

I am probably (definitely) kicking the hornet's nest but... I feel like there's a disconnection in how people approach HP because I've seen so many people say "but aren't the books explicitly anti racism? How can the author be all those bad things if her books are explicitly anti racism?".

And the point is... they're not. At least they weren't intended to be: the whole pure blood thing is less about race, and more about the ridiculous "noble blood" classism that still exists in England. And once I got that I completely revaluated my interpretation of those books.

I loved those books as a child, and I am not going to sit here and tell they're all vad, because they're not. They ARE a cultural phenomenon that shaped both pop culture and Internet culture for the last 20 freaking years, though. And they will continue to do so, if nothing else because outside of the English speaking sphere, PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT JOANNE'S HATE CAMPAIGNS. Like I cannot emphasise enough, not English speaking people often don't know.

And therefore I feel it's important not only to speak up about the author, but also analyse where the books succeeded or failed, and why.

The elves were adapted from the brownies... with disastrous results, especially if you consider Hermione's campaign. The metaphor with licantropism is an absolute disaster. The way in which muggles are presented (either evil, stupid or both) is ... also not a good look, considering the context. The series is genuinely morally confused, I dare say. It professes the importance of Love TM while also refusing to take a critical look at its own dystopian world building.

Death of the author, or separating the art from the author, are also not supposed to be an absolute frame of reference. They are literary analysis tools that allow you to analyse a work without taking the will of the author into consideration (example: CS Lewis was deeply Catholic and intended Susan not going to Narnia in the end as a metaphor for loss of faith. However maybe I want to analyses Susan's arc in light of misogyny, and the correlation between sexuality and loss of innocence, rather than religion. I am literally ignoring authorial intent to do so, but it's a very valid reading).

However I feel like you cannot analyse any work of art in an absolute vacuum, and expurging the author from the art completely feels, to me, rather simplistic.

I am also not entirely comfortable with the idea of Death of the Author being used as a frame of reference for the relationship with the work AND the author, rather than being used as a simple literary tool.

I always felt like the better approach is to evaluate how to cause less damage and bring the most happiness all around. Does buying the work of Lovecraft cause any harm in this world? I would argue not, since the man is well enough dead. Does buying HP products, or Orson Scott Card's works, or Silvana de Mari's books, cause harm? I would argue yes, because these authors use they money and their platforms to attach real, vulnerable people in a systemic way right here right now. Does SPEAKING about those works cause harm? Does engaging with the fandom aspect of them cause harm? That's more complicated. Critical analysis of a work is, imo, always a net positive, and there's the very real fact that some people pour their hearts and souls into a fandom because it genuinely brings happiness to them and to people around them, and because it allows them to enhance the original world in order to ACTUALLY address the issues that were ignored. That cannot be discounted. However, at the same time it cannot be ignored that talking about a work keeps it alive, which keeps it marketable; then again, fandom's impact on ... anything large scale is negligible when compared to, again, thousands upon thousands of people across the world who don't look the author up, don't engage critically with the text, and just think the Hogwarts Lego Model looks super cute. Which is, like, 90% of the population.

I suppose the main conclusion is nuance: morality is complicated, and making the "morally right" choice is nuanced, deeply personal, and I am not going to judge anyone because they want to reread Harry Potter or want to watch Good Omens Season 3 or whatever, because the world and our impact in it is much more complicated than "person bad, therefore damnatio memoriae good".

hey do you think you could expand a bit on separating the art from the artist? clearly you’ve done it with jk rowling but what are your thoughts on it as a general idea?

okay, but you’re not going to like the answer.

here’s the truth: you can’t separate the art from the artist. not entirely. HP Lovecraft was an incredibly talented, but much more incredibly racist man. It would nice to say you don’t agree with his views but you can enjoy his works without that leaking in but…. well, I’m afraid that would be misunderstanding his books entirely.

Consider, for a second, that Lovecraft’s works were horror stories about extradimensional alien monsters having mutant children with humans, they were about invasions from distant monsters, they were about the purity of quaint European towns being tainted. Consider how this may have all been inflicted by the fact that he just simply despised anybody who wasn’t white. Consider how is opinions on “mixing the races” might fight into this; consider why being unable to maintain the “purity” of white Europe was the scariest thing of all to him.

This extends to Rowling too.

I would love to say we can just acknowledge that she is an awful, racist, antisemitic, transphobic person and then say “but at least her books are good,” because, well, they are, aren’t they? I would say so, for sure. But to suggest that one can separate her from them is…. ridiculous.

Consider why an antisemitic woman wrote about a species of goblins who live among us, but who for the most part keep to themselvesand are maybe a little bit oppressed by the institution, but also hold all the cards, all the money, run the banks.

Consider why a racist woman would write about a species of slaves who loved being enslaved, who enjoyed working for no pay, and cleaning up after humans, with the only small caveat of that they didn’t want to be beaten. Imagine that only the most radical of their species wanted to be free, and he still spent the rest of his life working for no pay and helping out a little white boy and his friends wherever he could. Consider why the only person in the story who thought they should be free, that they should have rights, was treated as an overzealous joke, who was acting against the wishes of those slaves who really LOVE being enslaved. Consider that Rowling went on to say that she kind of considers that girl to be black, now.

Consider why JK Rowling, an open and proud transphobe, wrote Rita Skeeter as having a large square jaw, thick “manly” hands, and dressing incredibly gaudily with the most obvious fake nails and fake teeth and fake hair and fake everything. Consider why a woman who tweets about how trans women are “foxes pretending to be hens to get in the hen house” might write this Rita Skeeter to then illegally transform her body in order to spy on children.

Harry Potter is full of Rowling’s bigotry, start to finish. Not even tangentially, like, “oh the goblins are bad, Rita Skeeter is bad, the house elves are bad, but most of it’s good!” because the deeper you dig and the longer you think the more you realise the entire story is based on her prejudices.

Harry Potter pretends to be an aracial story about found family, but if that were true, why are Harry’s distant ancestors important to who he is today even in the seventh book? Why does Harry have to live with his cousin and aunt and uncle? Because magic inherently prefers blood ties. Whilst Rowling was writing a story that seemed to say, “your heritage is not that important and doesn’t make you better than others” she was still writing a story about a boy who got all of his money through his bloodline, who was protected by living with his bloodline, no matter how evil, who was uniquely able to stop Voldemort because his bloodline passed down the invisibility cloak for generations and generations. Any step Harry takes he is compared to his perfect parents who were exactly like him — he looks just like his father, but he has his mother’s eyes, you know! — consider WHY a woman who is racist might’ve written a story like this. A story that on its surface, condemns a blood caste, but still in every step it takes, validates the idea that blood is thicker than water, and your geneological origin is what makes you special.

You can enjoy Harry Pottwr, of course you can. There are fantastic parts. I love a small group of teenagers deciding to become anarchies rebels and train to fight against fascism in secret. I love the murder mystery plots, I love how the series tells kids that it’s a good thing to be brave, and a good thing to fight injustice, and a good thing to challenge the government. But I cannot separate it from its author because it is such a product of its author. All of the structures of the world, the way things work in the universe, and drenched in Rowling’s beliefs, her bigotries. Of course they are: she made them.

Again. This doesn’t mean you cannot enjoy it. But I think we are past the day where we can pretend that disavowing a bigoted author is enough, and that that somehow separates the text from its bigotry. I think we are past the day where we can pretend that Harry Potter isn’t a deeply, inherently bigoted piece of media. Even the bits we love. I think we are beyond the day where we can truthfully pretend to separate it from her, because she is present through all of it. We MUST recognise its flaws. We MUST admit that she is in every part of it.

#death of the author #jk rowling #long post

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prentisssbxtch · 3 days ago

Text

An experience. pt. 2

summary: the woman you slept with the night before, ends up being your boss.

relationship: wanda x fem!reader

warnings: swearing and smut (think that’s it)

wc: 2k

pt 1

an: sorry this took so long😭 - also i’m not all that good at writing smut so i’m sorry!!

not proofread + not very good…

─── ⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰ ───

ever since you found out you'd be working for wanda, or i guess Miss Maximoff, you've make sure to stay clear of her. avoiding her like the plague. which you'd done well up until now…

your day started the same as everyday since starting your internship a month ago. you got ready, grabbed a taxi, and walked into the giant building everyone knew of.

you stepped into the elevator just to the left of the secretary's desk. clicking the number four, you grabbed your phone from your pocket feeling a vibration. just as the doors were about to close you heard a faintly familiar voice, but were unable to put a face to it.

"hold the doors," the voice yelled grabbing your attention just in time for you to stick your hand out and stop the elevator doors from closing.

the first thing you see are beautiful, most definitely expensive, black heels. looking up from the floor, you're greeted with wanda.

you can see the realization cross her face for a split second, but as you blink, it's gone. she says a quiet thank you as she steps in beside you.

giving a small smile in response, you awkwardly look down.

"floor six please," you almost don't register her speaking. quickly looking over towards her to see her looking from you to the rows of numbers.

"oh, right sorry," you say feeling your cheeks heat as you turn to press the six. you faintly hear her chuckle in amusement at you before you go back to staring at the floor.

you begin to silently pray for the elevator to hurry up and get you out of here. paying she doesn't try to make conversation.

apparently your luck has already ran out.

"how do you like working here so far?" comes from beside you.

"it's been alright," you respond after a moment, slowing nodding your head as you answer. the idea that her tongue was down your throat just a month ago, making you uneasy.

you can feel eyes on you which causes you to turn your head towards the taller woman, seeing her already looking at you. "i had fun that night."

you stare at her for a second not knowing what to say or think. opening and shutting your mouth, trying to form words. "so did i," you feel your cheeks heat up as you turn to look away. "but it can never happen again."

you glance up to see the doors should be opening any minute now. suddenly wanda moves and hits the giant red button with the words 'stop' above it. abruptly stoping the elevator before the doors can open.

"and why's that?" she questions hand moving back to her side, but she was now standing closer to you.

"you're my boss now. doesn't that go against regulations or something?" you question looking up to her. she was already a couple inches taller, but now with the heels she is a good 4-5 inches taller than you.

she gives a slight smirk before speaking, “i make the rules love,” her right hand moving to push hair over your shoulder, “but i suppose you’re correct.”

once again at a loss for words you stare up at her, feeling your cheeks slightly heating up. hoping she doesn’t notice, but based off her facial expression, she does.

she moves her hand to the stop button again, quickly pressing it causing the doors to open. glancing from the now open doors, back to her, you give a small awkward smile before walking away. quickly.

——

it’s been two weeks since the “moment” you had with wanda. if you could even call it that. you’re walking into the building for the sixth time this week, only getting one day off a week. you’re in black dress pants, a white tucked button up, and some black heels.

heels that are similar to the ones wanda wears, but not nearly as expensive.

ever since you were in that elevator with her, the tension between the two of you has increased. she’s been requesting your help more than any others. each and every time you two are speaking, she’s always closer than most people would stand by someone.

today is no different as you walk into work. getting to the fourth floor, you step out of the elevator, only for the receptionist behind the desk to tell you wanda asked for you.

confused as to why you’d be needed so early, you turn and get back onto the elevator. clicking the sixth floor, you pull out your phone checking notifications.

once the elevator dings, you step out walking towards wanda’s office. quickly adjusting your hair out of habit, you reach your arm out to knock on the big door. waiting for an invitation in.

you faintly hear a soft voice form the inside telling you to come in. you enter the room to see wanda behind her desk not looking up from her computer. you take a moment to look around the room, having been up here before but never taking the time to appreciate how nice it is.

there was full wall windows behind wanda desk, tinted for the outside. along the walls are bookshelves full of law books, pictures, plants, and even small trinkets. the walls have wanda’s achievements and plaques. as well as some painting. off to the left wall, there’s a nice couch with a coffee table in front of it.

turning your attention back to wanda you speak, “you called for me?” she slightly nods her head, clearly doing something that needs her attention. after a few seconds she turns you with a smile.

“i did, yes.” she says while moving to shut her computer. “take a seat.” she says pointing to the chairs in front of her desks.

moving to take a seat, you sit down not fully moving to put your back against the back of the chair. putting your hands in your lap you look once again to wanda, who has been watching you the whole time.

without saying anything; she stands from her chair coming to lean against her desk in front of you. making you have to raise your head to look her in the eyes.

“you know, i’ve been thinking. do you remember the night of the bar?” she questions looking at you intently. nodding your head, you feel your stomach flutter at the memory. “i’m going to be honest with you y/n, that was some of the best sex i’ve had. in a while, maybe even ever.”

you stare at her in shock, but know deep down it’s the same for you.

“i want you see you again. in that aspect i mean.” being the only words she continues saying.

“me too.”

——

you don’t know how it happened. it all being a big blur, but here you are sitting on wanda’s desk with her between your legs. her tongue is practically down your throat while one hand is gripping your waist tightly between her fingers, while the other is massaging your thigh.

she pulls back from the kiss looking at you, feeling herself getting wet just from the look of you. cheeks flushed, kiss swollen lips, hair mused. she needs to have you now. her hands move to the buttons of your shirt, looking to you for consent to unbutton it.

after giving her a small nod, she quickly moves to unbutton your shirt. being greeted by the white lace bra cupping your breasts.

“so pretty,” she says rubbing her thumbs over your peeking through nipples. “d’you wear this for me?” she speaks with a small smirk, eyes moving up to you’re face.

with a small nod you look up to her. “knew you’d like it,” you spoke not knowing where the confidence came from. you look over her body seeing her completely clothed, moving your hands to the ends of her button up you look to her eyes for permission to remove the cloth. your eyes meet her darkened eyes before your given an ok.

lifting her shirt, you’re greeted by a black bra cupping her breasts perfectly. the air in your lungs leaving you at the sight. almost like the first time you’ve seen her.

her hands move to the clasp of your bra, eyes meeting yours, asking for permission. once granted, she un-clasps the offending garment. she lets out a small groan at the sight of your breasts. nipples peaked from the cool air, begging for attention.

without any warning; her lips are wrapped around your left nipple as her hand fiddles with the right. your lips part to let out a startled sound of shock before being taken over by pleasure.

the hand moving down your stomach reaches the top of your pants, fiddling with the buckle. she lets go of your nipple with a pop before turning her attention to your face. “can i take these off pretty?”

without hesitation you agree moving to help shimmy your pants off quicker. causing wanda to let out an amused laugh.

once your pants are off, you’re left in just your panties as wanda takes in the sight. letting out a small groan she speaks, “i’m taking my time with you this time.” she runs her pointer finger over the top of your covered mound. noticing the obvious wet patch from arousal. “what’s got you so worked up, hm?”

“y-you,” you manage to stutter out, beginning to grow desperate for attention.

as if reading your mind, wanda uses one finger to slip your panties to the side, getting a full view of your arousal. “such a pretty pussy.” you hear her mumble before feeling a pressure on your clit.

letting out a small gasp at the stimulation, you buck your hips up wanting more. wanda smirks as she runs her thumb over your clit, adding more pressure when she decides.

with no warning she shoves her middle finger right into your opening, making quick work of moving in and out. not adding another finger until you’re begging.

once she has both middle and ring finger working you up, she continues her ministrations on your clit. throwing your head back in ecstasy, you miss wanda moving down to wrap her lips around your clit. letting out a loud moan as her fingers curl up to find the spot that will make you cry out.

she knows she’s found it when your hips buck up and your hand flys to her head. tugging her hair, wanting to keep her in place. you move your other hand to cover your mouth, remembering you're still at work.

you feel yourself building closer and closer to the edge, you know wanda can too as you squeeze her fingers. almost like she takes your cumming as a challenge, she speeds up her movements, helping to bring you closer.

“i- mm… i’m gonna cumm,” you finally got out as you climbed higher and higher. feeling your whole body tingling.

“cum for me baby.”

her words were the only thing it took for you to fall over the edge with a loud cry. wanda refusing to stop until you were a whimpering mess trying to get away from the stimulation.

wanda pulls back, slowly removing her fingers from inside you, moving them to her mouth to clean off. with a hum she speaks, “just as good as i remember.”

─── ⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰ ───

i was gonna tag everyone who wanted another part, but it wouldn’t let me😭

#marvel #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #fanfic #wanda maximoff x reader #x reader #wanda maximommy #pt 2

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gam3r-girli3 · 1 day ago

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Simon Riley who's dating a girl that's very into spirituality.

Personally, he doesn't believe in half of it but he loves watching her eyes light up when she talks about things like 'moon cycles' and 'charging her crystals'.

He has to admit, despite not believing in their supposed 'healing properties', he admires the pretty rock collection you keep on your nightstand, as well as the other ones you keep scattered throughout the house for different reasons such as 'protection' and 'energy cleansing.'

It's not a rare occurance for him to come home a little worse for wear after a long mission, but one time he came back in pretty rough shape after a particularly grueling mission that left him damn near bed bound for the better part of a week.

The next time he gets ready to leave once again, you present him with something: a long black leather cord necklace with a brown looking stone attached to it.

"Wha's this?" he asks in his gruff voice full of confusion.

"It's a tigers eye crystal," you explain. "Apparently Roman soldiers wore them into battle. They're supposed to help protect you and bring you home to me safe."

Now, Simon Riley doesn't believe in crystals or tarot or astrology or any other spiritual thing like you do, but he believes in the way his heart beats for you and you only - so he clutches it in his hand and kisses you, muttering a 'thanks, birdie' before slipping it into his pocket and leaving.

He won't admit it, but he takes it out sometimes when he's in his room on base, admiring the way it shimmers in the light. It's not a symbol of protection to him like it is to you; it's a symbol of your love and what he's fighting to get home to.

a/n: i just love the idea of simon having a gf who's very into her spirituality and crystals and he's just like '???' but also loves her so much so he just goes with it ♡

definitely want to explore this more!!

#simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley drabble #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost drabble #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #cod #call of duty #call of duty x reader #call of duty imagines #cod x reader #cod imagines #cod mw2 #my fics

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strawberriesoup · 2 days ago

Text

don’t come crying₊˚⊹♡

♡ genre: minho x reader, oneshot, friends to lovers, angst, fluff

♡ warnings: swearing, kissing, heartbreak

♡ wc: 2.7k

♡ a/n: HAPPY VALENTINES DAYY here’s a quick, bite-sized minho oneshot that i somehow wrote yesterday and today. it’s not proofread in any way so good luck reading (JK I HOPE YOU ENJOYY)

if you make it all the way through, please leave some feedback! i always love to hear other people’s thoughts!! your feedback is what keeps me writing stories like these <33

♡ taglist: @jisunggy @hannamoon143 @fly-you-dam-fools @chancloud8 @hannieslittlerockstar @vixensss @skzpvol @gxtwllsn @yinzgarden @kayleefriedchicken @nightmarenyxx @dwesion

if you would like to be added to my series taglist or my general taglist, send me a comment or an ask! <3

―୨♡୧―

Objectively speaking, Minho is an asshole.

Said asshole is currently sprawled over your couch, eating your cookies, and he has the nerve to berate you about who you chose to go out with on Valentine's Day? He’s insufferable.

Your eye twitches as Minho scornfully regards the picture of your date— which you had only sent him after he had nagged you nonstop for ten minutes— pointing out that his hair color didn’t quite suit him, and also that he should probably shave more often.

Having had quite enough, you snatch the phone from his grasp, earning yourself a loud “Hey!” of protest. Shutting the screen off, you toss it on the ground and cross your arms, glaring at his form on the couch next to you. If you were a jerk like Minho, you definitely would have smacked him by now. But, since you’re not, you press your mouth into a straight line and blink widely at him.

“You done?” You ask thinly.

Minho stretches before responding, whole body quivering with the effort.

“No, but I suppose I should shut up now if I want any more of those cookies,” He examines a nail with apparent disintrest.

“Good choice,” It takes everything in you to not wipe that goddamn expression off his face. He just looks so… ugh. You can’t even look at him right now. The sight of his face incites a type of rage in you that should probably be studied. “Why do you care so much anyways, huh? It’s not like your date is any better,” then you gasp, tapping the side of your head in mock remembrance, “Oh, wait, that’s right! You don’t have a date, do you?”

The roll of his eyes and curl of his lip give you your answer before he can even speak.

“That’s what I thought. Now you can shut up and eat the fucking cookie,” You snap, pushing yourself up from the couch. Minho’s voice trails after you as you storm off to your room.

“Just don’t come crying to me when he stands you up tomorrow!”

Your door slams shut before you have to hear another word from his mouth.

This is dumb. He’s a perfectly fine guy! Minho’s just being overdramatic for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Have you been wrong about guys before? Yes. Has Minho been right the majority of the time? Also yes. But that doesn’t mean he’s right this time.

You sigh dreamily just thinking about it. Just last week, he had asked you to be his valentine with a huge bouquet of crimson roses and box of chocolates. Call it childish, but you have been absolutely giddy ever since. The world seems three shades brighter, and you walk with an extra skip in your step. That is, until a certain someone had to go and open his big, opinionated, mouth.

His words circle in your mind, but you shake your head quickly to clear it. Minho’s probably just in a foul mood because you have a date and he doesn’t. Why he’s taking it out on you though is beyond you, but you try not to take it to heart too much.

You have a good feeling about this one. You just know it will go well tomorrow, and you can’t wait to rub your success in Minho’s smug face.

જ⁀➴

You have a bad feeling about this.

Your date-to-be is sitting across from you, leaning back and listening to you talk. You two had decided to touch base at a cafe before tomorrow, just to go over plans. As you are reviewing the meetup time, you swear you can sense a hint of annoyance in the curve of his lip. His knee taps up and down, as if impatient. No, that can’t be right. Minho’s words had just gotten to you, that’s all. Nevertheless, your stomach sinks a bit as your date finishes off his coffee and stands up.

“Yup, sounds good.” He tosses his empty cup in the trash, “I gotta go, but i’ll see you tomorrow,”

Without so much as a wave goodbye, you watch him head out. The door announces his departure with a pleaseant ring.

There you sit, half-finished latte in hand. He didn’t even offer to pay.

You hate to admit it, but Minho might be right. You don’t understand. What did you do wrong? Did you come off as too eager? Minho does always tell you that you’re too clingy, you guess. But it just doesn’t make sense, you had seen your date just the other day and he was all smiles, holding your hand as you walked and wrapping his jacket around your shoulders when you shivered. You must have done something wrong for him to be acting like this, there’s no other explanation. Unless he’s just had a particularly bad day.

You nod as you push out your chair and stand. That might just be it. Still, Minho’s words of warning run rampant in your mind, despite your efforts to push them to the back of your mind.

Everything will be fine, Minho’s just a hater.

જ⁀➴

Just because he’s not here yet doesn’t mean he’s not showing up.

This morning you had put on the cute little dress you had planned with a hum on your lips, a good nights sleep having managed to put some pep back into your step. When you had finished touching up your hair, you were not at all surprised to find Minho spread across your couch, watching a show and eating a bowl of cereal like he owned the place. You’re quite used to it at this point, he doesn’t know how to stay at his own house for the life of him. No words were exchanged, Minho merely glancing in your direction in greeting before returning his attention to the show.

Good. You like him better when that big mouth of his is shut.

You tap a heel nervously, the inside of your cheeks sore and raw from how much you had been chewing on them. How long has it been now? Half an hour? It might even be more, it feels like you have been standing beside this bus stop for ages. Countlesss couples had passed by, fingers intertwined as they tuck their partners hair behind their ear, or stifling giggles as whispered jokes are exchanged.

He’s not coming, is he?

Of course he’s not, you were a fool for thinking he would. Your unanswered text stares up at you, the read receipt sitting gut-droppingly below it. Hot tears prick at your eyes as you hunch your shoulders into yourself. What do you even do now? Just… go home?

Your feet move on their own, carrying you in the direction you came. When you started running, you’re not sure, but the chilly breeze stings your flushed face as you push your way through the busy sidewalk.

You pull out your phone as you run, tapping on Minho’s contact. Your blurred vision makes it nearly impossible to type a sentence. A simple, ‘you were right’ is all it reads.

Sent.

જ⁀➴

Minho had graciously not blessed you with his presence when you stumble through your front door, cheeks stained with tears and nose running. You don’t even know if he read the message, but you’re sure once he does, he’s going to be a smug little shit about it, as per usual.

It’s all you can do to not hurl yourself onto your bed and just sleep for the next three days. Maybe you’ll wake up and this will all be some bad dream.

Your disheveled appearance in the mirror stares back at you dully, assuring you that this is not a dream, and you did indeed just get stood up on Valentine's Day.

The cold of the mirror chills your hand as you lean forward on it, breaking eye contact with yourself. Your mind still can’t comprehend it. Why? Why are you always second best? Every single time you open your stitched up heart up to someone, they rip out the seams and leave you with the pieces. Frustrated tears sear behind your eyes, but you purse your lips and shove them back down. There’s no point in crying.

A single knock. Your front door opens before you can take a breath to answer it. Only one person would be so bold as to enter your place without so much as waiting for a response. The one and only, Lee fucking Minho.

You can hear him shuffling around the front door, most likely kicking off his shoes. There is absolutely no way you are going out to greet him, he’s only here to rub it in your face that he was right the whole time. And while yes, that is in fact true, it’s really the last thing you need to be hearing right now. Your fist unintentionally curls in on itself as you hear his footsteps approaching your door.

You cross from your mirror to your bed, flopping down and burying your face in the pillow. Maybe it will block out his voice when he comes in and starts yapping.

A long moment passes. You don’t hear his movements anymore. Then, softly, three knocks sound against the wood of your door.

You decidedly do not answer. He really can’t take a hint, huh?

Instead of opening the door immediately like usual, Minho waits a moment before knocking again. The knocks are just as soft and careful as before. The switch in mannerisms has your eyebrows furrowed. What’s the matter with him?

“What do you want, Minho.” Your voice is muffled, face still stuffed in the pillow.

This time, your door opens. The soft padding of his footsteps cross your room, but you don’t raise your head. You’re not sure what keeps you hidden. Embarrassment? Anger? Both? Nevertheless, you won’t be showing your face anytime soon.

The edge of your bed dips as he sits on the edge of it, not a word uttered. Yet. You tense as he takes a breath in, preparing your heart and mind for whatever he’s going to spew at you.

And yet, no such thing happens. A hand lightly sets itself on your shoulder, making you jump slightly in surprise. As he draws his hand soothingly across your back, your shoulders drop and you let out a shaky sigh.

When you finally gather the courage to look up at him, you find his gaze fixed on his lap. There, he holds a small handful of assorted wildflowers. You look from Minho, to the flowers, then back to him. Since when were his lashes this… pretty?

“It hurts, you know.”

His voice, nearly a whisper, cuts through the silence. He keeps his eyes locked on the flowers as he fiddles with one of the petals.

“Seeing you give some loser a chance,” he continues, “And you get hurt. Every. Time.” He searches your face, that little wrinkle between his eyebrows visible. “When are you going to decide you’ve had enough?”

You’re trapped in those big brown eyes of his, filled with a mixture of concern and genuine confusion. Despite his efforts to be the biggest nuisance in your life, he cares about you, even if he rarely shows it.

At your lack of response, Minho sighs and drops his hand from your shoulder, bringing it to his little bouquet of flowers. His little bouquet that suspiciously resembles the flowers planted outside of your building, along the sidewalk.

You flip over, facing the ceiling. It’s easier than facing him.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I just… I just want to be loved, y’know? Every single time, I think: ‘this one’s different’,” You let out a rueful laugh, “guess you were right, huh, genius?” You prod him in the side with one finger.

Not even a witty retort falls from Minho’s lips. In favor of an answer, he offers to you the bunch of flowers.

You turn your head, watching as a pink petal flutters from the bouquet and lands gracefully on your sheets. Your eyes never leave his face as you reach out slowly and accept his gift.

A beat of silence falls as you bring the petals to your nose. The quiet is unusual. With Minho, the bickering is practically non-stop, a quick response always on the tip of both of your tongues. But now, only the quiet whistle of his breath fills the room.

“Is this..?” You tilt your head at him as you draw yourself into a seated position.

He blinks a couple times. You wonder if he’s ever asked anyone to be his valentine before.

“It’s- yeah.” He states simply, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.

Minho’s demeanor is somewhat relaxed, but the way he keeps twisting his ring to the tip of his finger and back gives tell to his nervousness. His lips are pursed a bit at the corners, his little dimples making an appearance.

This is a side of him you rarely see. In fact, he’s never acted this way before. His blunt quips replaced with a type of openness that seems foreign even to himself.

You know what. Fuck it.

Grabbing his chin, you draw close to him. His eyes widen and he freezes in place. You take in his features with a squint. The angle of his brow, the fullness of his lips, that little beauty mark at the end of his nose. Instead of making your stomach twist in annoyance, his face ignites a little flame in your chest. You’ve always known Minho as an attractive man, you’d have to be blind to think otherwise, but you’ve never seen him quite in this light.

This whole time, he’s been trying to protect you. In his own, strange, Minho way.

His throat bobs as he swallows, lips parting. The sight of his bunny teeth peeking from beneath his lip is the final straw. You close the distance, capturing his lips in a swift kiss.

The moment is brief, and you pull away just as quickly as you had leaned in, his chin still grasped between your fingers.

He blinks rapidly for a couple of seconds, a habit of his you’ve picked up.

You break into a smile at his reaction, giddy at finally having the upper hand.

“You know, you could at least— oof!” Halfway through your sentence, you are interrupted by Minho’s grip on your arm as he yanks you towards him.

He catches you as you fall backwards over his lap, his arm supporting your back. You’re at a loss for words, your mouth opening and closing dumbly a couple of times. Minho lets out a huff of laughter and rolls his eyes.

“You’re actually an idiot, hope you realize that,” he observes.

“Just kiss me, you asshole,”

Grabbing the collar of his shirt, you drag him down to you. You can feel him smile against your lips as he tightens his grip around you, one hand drifting through your hair while the other holds you steady.

This. It feels right. More right than any of those other guys had made you feel, despite their fancy gifts and extravagant shows of so-called ‘love’. Maybe the reason none of them had worked out was because deep down, you truly only want one person. And that person is here, holding you between his own two arms, quenching the thirst for him that you didn’t even realize you had until you tried a sip. His lips move in harmony with yours. He’s firm, but not desperate. Gentle, but confident. Your body melts under his every touch, until you can't imagine being anywhere else but here.

He pulls away first, cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink that matches the flowers sitting forgotten on the mattress. He quirks an eyebrow wryly at you.

“So much for not coming crying,”

Your eyes widen in disbelief, “Excuse me? I did not!”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did too.”

“You’re such an ass, Lee Minho.”

જ⁀➴

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simp-for-love · 2 days ago

Text

Looks better on you

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Mattheo lends you his sweater on a cold day without much thinking. But when you keep wearing it, he starts to realize that maybe he doesn’t want it back.

Warnings: none. Pure fluff

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, my lovelies 💕 A bit cliché, but I wanted to post something short and sweet today.

The wind cut through the Hogwarts courtyard with an unforgiving chill, and you regretted your decision to leave your scarf in the dorm. Hugging your arms to yourself, you tried to focus on the conversation around you, but the cold made it really difficult.

Mattheo leaned casually against the stone railing, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweater, looking completely unbothered by the weather. You weren’t sure how he managed that — maybe pure arrogance was enough to keep him warm.

He was talking to Theo and Enzo about some ridiculous bet they had going, but you weren’t paying much attention, too busy trying to keep yourself from shivering, but too lazy to go to the dorm and dress something warmer. Apparently, though, Mattheo noticed.

Without a word, he pulled his sweater over his head and, before you could even protest, dropped it onto yours.

You blinked. "What—?"

"You’re freezing. Just wear it," he muttered, shaking out his curls.

The wind was still relentless, and as much as your pride wanted you to decline, the warmth from the fabric was already sinking into your skin. The sweater was warm, soft, and — most notably — it smells like him. Hesitantly, you pulled it over your head, and immediately, you were enveloped in his scent — something woodsy with a hint of smoke, like firewhiskey and late-night trouble.

The sleeves were too long, swallowing your hands completely, and when you glanced up, Mattheo was watching you with a smirk tugging on his lips.

"Looks better on you anyway," he said before turning back to the conversation, as if he hadn’t just casually sent your heart into overdrive with his sweet gesture and boyish smirk.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It was supposed to be temporary. Just until you got back to your dorm. But somehow, you kept wearing it.

It started that evening when you curled up in the common room with a book, still wrapped in the warmth of Mattheo’s sweater. He didn’t say anything about it, just raised an eyebrow as he passed by, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

Then it was the next morning at breakfast. You were too tired to notice, but Mattheo definitely did, his usual smirk faltering slightly when he spotted you across the Great Hall.

And then, in the library, when you absentmindedly pulled the sleeve over your fingers while reading a book with focused expression on your face.

By the third day, it had become a thing.

"You do realize that’s mine, right?" Mattheo finally asked, sliding into the seat beside you in Potions.

You glanced down at yourself, feigning innocence. "Oh, is it? I must’ve forgotten."

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Right. You forgot."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It wasn’t until a few nights later, when you were both sitting by the fire in the common room, that he finally said something real about it.

You were curled up on the couch, absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of his sweater. The fire cast a golden glow over everything, making the room feel warmer than it probably was. Mattheo, lounging in the chair beside you, was watching you — not that you noticed at first.

But when you finally looked up, you caught him staring.

"What?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just tilted his head slightly, a lazy smirk playing at his lips, but there was something softer in his eyes. Something hesitant.

"Nothing," he said at last, voice quieter than usual. "Just thinking I might never get that sweater back."

Your fingers froze against the fabric. The way he said it — it wasn’t teasing, not really. There was something else there, something unspoken.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his gaze. "Do you… want it back?"

Mattheo studied you for a long moment, then let out a slow exhale, shaking his head slightly with a small smile tugging on his lips.

"No," he admitted. "I think I like it better on you."

And just like that, the warmth in your chest rivaled the fire crackling beside you.

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle #Kat's write

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telephoniii · 2 days ago

Text

HEARTSHAPED CHOCOLATES

☆彡 in which you gift jamil a valentine and things get complicated

jamil viper x gn!reader

word counter: 3.1K

warnings: reader is prefect, possible ooc, miscommunication (kinda), descriptions of servitude

a/n: i wrote this at 2AM but i think it's really cute. i’m definitely biased because jamil is my favorite and i do NOT have any valentines this year whatsoever 😭

i hope you enjoy!! :>

Jamil wiped down the counter with a frustrated sigh. Kalim had, once again, gone behind his word and threw a last-minute party. One that Jamil had to do a majority of the work for. And now here he was, cleaning up after the incompetent boy.

Nothing he wasn't used to, but upsetting nonetheless. Though, he supposed that he’d be lying to himself if he claimed it was the only reason he felt bitter. His eyes flickered toward a calendar that hung on the kitchen wall of Scarabia.

Tomorrow, it’d officially be Valentine's Day.

Now, most NRC students were as single as could be for a variety of reasons— being a celebrity, focusing on grades, etc. Jamil fell under the category of being too busy. So many, much more important matters were always fighting for his attention. And a lot of them are related to Kalim in some way or form.

Being a destined servant to the Al Asim household wasn't an ideal situation. Plain and simple. Especially when it came to romantic relationships.

In middle school, young Jamil had a few girls he was interested in. However, all hopes of those crushes blooming into anything more died when they witnessed Jamil and his family bowing down to Kalim.

It's difficult to explain his role to his peers. Of course, the older he got the easier it became. But for most of his childhood, it was extremely embarrassing to have to say that he was to devote his life to serving the Al Asim family forever.

It was humiliating, giving leeway for others his age to look down on him. Now it wasn't just Kalim who he was lesser than. It was everyone. And it was hardly fair. Jamil was smarter than all of them combined.

He caught on to things quickly and was easily adaptable. When learning magic, his movement was calculated and precise. Yet, because of his last name, the respect he deserved was never given… Needless to say, he never pursued any more crushes.

By the time he was enrolled in NRC, romance no longer seemed plausible for his lifestyle. He wouldn't be able to devote so much time to another person other than Kalim anyway. That man-child can barely do anything on his own to save his life.

Jamil was convinced he’d spend the rest of his youth alone, only really finding a potential partner once he was free from the chains of servitude.

…And then you showed up at NRC.

You and your stupid soft eyes; that genuine empathy you carried on your sleeve. It's idiotic, really. You were bound to get taken advantage of in a school like this. Against his better judgment, Jamil felt drawn to you.

Despite being magicless and from a whole other world, you seemed to understand and empathize with his struggles better than those he had grown up with. And you weren't just all bark, no bite. You helped out a lot.

Many can just say that they feel sorry for Jamil, yet stand idly by as he served Kalim. You, however, saw him through his overblot. Instead of moving on, you forced him to communicate with Kalim about how he was feeling. It would've been so easy to fall back into the status quo, yet you stayed and improved his life for the better.

He’ll never quite get how one person could leave such a big impact.

You eased his worries about servitude. Being around you was naturally calming. It didn't feel like he had to babysit when he spent time with you. In fact, he felt as though he was learning new things— about both himself and others— every day with you.

The feeling scared him to his soul.

It was terrifying to be this addicted to another person’s presence. He wasn't used to having someone to look forward to: someone he wanted to be around all the time.

Jamil didn't know whether or not to pursue you. The last thing he wanted was to drag you into more of his messes… however, you seemed to frequently do that yourself, choosing to be involved for his sake. He was truly infatuated.

Despite it all, he refused to make a move.

You weren't from this world and all too soon he was sure you’d find a way back to where you were meant to be. It’d be selfish of him to pursue you, trapping you in a place you didn't belong. He knows the feeling of being trapped all too well after all.

There were no telltale signs you’d be interested in him back anyway. You were friendly with all and close to many. Who’s to say one of those fancy princes or endearingly dumb freshmen isn’t the one who’s captured your heart?

He purposely doesn't stand out, unlike some other students. Jamil assumed this put him at a natural disadvantage.

Assumed being the keyword.

Of course you, always breaking his expectations, had to crumble his thoughts by gifting him chocolates.

“Jamil?”

His eyes moved from his textbook to you in a second. He raised a brow as he watched you stare at him with an unrecognizable glint in your eyes. “Did you need help with something, Prefect?”

Those words made you perk up, grounding you back in reality. “No! No. I’m fine. Just…”

Clearing your throat, you put down your pencil. The homework in front of you was long forgotten as you focused your attention mainly on Jamil— much to his confusion.

“Do… Do you have any plans for Valentine's Day?” You cautiously asked, looking at him intently.

He furrowed his brows at the question, thinking it over. “Kalim will most definitely want to throw a party for the occasion. I'll be in charge of the decorations, cooking, and— well, everything as per usual.”

Jamil answered truthfully, not seeing much of a reason not to. Yet, he felt like he answered wrong as his eyes met your deflated gaze.

“Got it… Yeah, that makes sense…”

Before he could invite you to the party— you’re one of the only people he’d happily cook for— you messily started scouring through your bag.

He observed you curiously, mentally noting that he should help you clean out your backpack sometime. I mean, the amount of loose papers you have in there is absurd—

“Here.”

His mind goes quiet as you pull out a small, heart-shaped box and slide it toward him. Jamil looks at you like you are crazy, making you chuckle.

“I was hoping to give it to you on Valentine's Day, if you're busy then, I’d rather do it now and save you the trouble.” How thoughtful of you… His shock was transparent as he struggled to form words.

You didn't know whether or not to take that positively or negatively.

“Uhh—” It was awkward, the air was tense as you swiftly stood up. You flashed him a nervous smile. “I should go check up on Grim… Good seeing you?”

Jamil had never felt more scatterbrained. So many thoughts racing at once. Yet so little came out of his mouth.

“Good seeing you too, Prefect.”

He never did invite you, did he?

Jamil sighs at his ridiculousness. In the back of his mind, he tried to justify it.

The party wouldn't be ideal for you to come to anyway, he’d be working the majority of the time. He doubts you’d enjoy yourself. It might be awkward for you to even come after that exchange.

However, deep down, he knew he should've said something. Anything. Instead, he just let you leave with unsure thoughts.

Jamil didn't want to leave this be. He wanted to make it right. But with so little time, he was stuck.

Valentines arrived unreasonably fast, causing him to frown. The students of Scarabia could sense something was wrong, but no one had the guts. Well, no one except…

“Jamil? Are you mad?” Kalim innocently asked.

Although you made Jamil talk out a lot of his issues with Kalim, the white-haired boy’s voice still irked him to his soul.

“No. What makes you say that?” The Viper responded, keeping his tone neutral and calm.

Nonetheless, Kalim squinted at him with a pout.

“Is this about the Prefect?”

He nearly choked on his spit. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you guys like each other, right? Did you fight over something? Aww, I’m sorry if an argument broke out right before Valentine's.”

Jamil shook his head with an annoyed scoff, giving Kalim an unamused look.

“No, what—? Rewind. What makes you think we like each other?”

Kalim tilted his head like a lost puppy. It only served to frustrate Jamil further.

“Is it not obvious? You’re way happier around them than anyone else!”

Not that anyone pointed it out, but Jamil would undoubtedly deny the way his cheeks heated up at that statement.

“We’re not seeing each other romantically. Neither do we think of one another that way…”

He regretted letting his sentence trail and thinking aloud. Whenever it came to you, he was much less organized than he liked.

“…Well, sort of.” Although he merely mumbled these three words, that was all it took for Kalim to spring up ecstatically.

“Oh! So you like them but you haven't confessed? You can do it at today's party! I’ll invite them right now!” “What! No— Kalim, slow down!”

Jamil had to physically grab the other hot by his shoulders to keep him from bouncing away.

“I'm not ‘confessing’ at this party today, or any time soon.”

That lost puppy looked returned to Kalim’s face. Although he had seen it a few minutes ago, it still pissed him off all the same.

“Why not?”

Because he didn't know how to; plain and simple. Jamil for sure didn't want to have his ‘confession’ be too big. He’d hate for himself to come off as ingenuine to you.

Not to mention, Kalim and his antics have more or less ruined any big, dramatic gestures for him. Jamil can't help but find them corny and tacky now.

However, he didn't want to do something too small. A simple note won’t cut it for him. You deserve more. What exactly that entailed, he didn't know.

“Because I don’t want to.” Jamil unenthusiastically answered. He cut off Kalim before he could speak up. “No more questions.”

Not wanting to entertain this conversation any longer, Jamil walked away. Right. He had other, more pressing matters to worry about. Party preparations.

Food, decorations, music, lighting…

Damn it, why won’t you leave his mind?

The party, thankfully, went smoothly. Guests were enjoying themselves, there was enough food for everyone, and Kalim was too distracted by a few people to bother him. Letting out a relieved sigh, Jamil leaned against the wall behind him. His eyes wandered around as he started people-watching.

It was important to stay alert when it came to the people at these parties. He had to make sure no one had harmful intentions towards the young Al Asim. Though, as he should've expected, there were many couples here tonight.

Seems like a lot of Scarabian students brought their off-campus lovers here. Jamil can only hope Crowley doesn't chastise them too harshly for doing so.

He perks up as a slow song plays over the party. The lights are adjusted to dim and soon enough, practically everyone was on the dance floor. Couples, friends, strangers, talking stages— you name it.

It’s no surprise Jamil seemed drawn to the dance aspect of this part of the night. Even if he tried to hide it at times, his passion for the art of dancing always had its way of shining through. He glanced through the crowd to see if there was anyone without a partner.

Thankfully for him, it wasn't too hard to spot someone. These types of parties were always bound to have a few wallflowers. As he made his way through the crowd toward the one he had his eye on, he couldn't help but hear a couple of voices over the music.

“Ace, you little—!” That was all Jamil could make out before he felt a person suddenly collide with him. It didn't hurt or anything, and Jamil had enough sense to gauge it was most likely a mistake—

“Uh, hi.”

He didn't expect to turn around and be met with the sight of you. An embarrassed look sat upon your face as you fidgeted with the ends of your clothes.

“Hey.” Jamil curtly replied.

You gave him that stupid little smile of yours that made his heart race. A hopeful hum left your lips.

“Are you busy?”

He couldn't help but chuckle in response, giving his genuine answer.

“Nope.” He stuck his hand out, pretending that his mind wasn't going fuzzy from being in your presence. “May I have this dance?”

He felt you place your hand on top of his.

“Of course.”

With your permission, he let one hand fall to your waist as he gently guided you in a waltz-like manner. He was more experienced than you, precisely moving as the two of you dance.

You couldn't help but feel endeared. Jamil was pretty from close up. Unfortunately— or fortunately— he caught you staring. He gave you an amused look in response.

However, he didn't expect you to abruptly frown and glance away.

‘You couldn't get your hopes up,’ Your mind reminded you, recalling his reaction to your gift. It was for the better you don't get too attached.

Jamil seemed disheartened by the disconnect. His hand on your waist lightly tightened. Shortly after, a mischievous grin found its way on his face.

Suddenly, Jamil’s movement quickened. You gave him a confused raise of the brow.

“Jamil—?”

He doesn't give you time to finish your thought as he spins you, swiftly catching you in his arms afterward. Taken by surprise, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you.

You've never seen Jamil look more proud of himself as he gave you that smug little smile of his. He barely gave you time to react before he was moving the two of you again.

What you didn't expect was for him to dip you so, so low. Instinctively, you squealed. Your arms clung onto him for dear life.

“Jamil—!”

He let out a laugh at your reaction. “What? It's not like I’m going to drop you or anything.”

Your grip tightened after hearing those words. “Great sevens— you better not drop me!”

He playfully rolled his eyes. Jamil leaned in closer, his voice taking a lower tone as he whispered, “You trust me, Prefect, don’t you?”

You didn't respond to that, instead letting your small glance to the side paired with an embarrassed expression speak for itself.

In the next few steps, he taught you some more advanced footwork. He couldn't help but admire the way you’d smile as you caught onto it quickly. Jamil then spun you once more, this time it was less abrupt.

Prepared, you were able to smoothly go along with it. The boy let out an impressed hum, giving you a satisfied look. His eyes practically told you what he had planned next. Another dip.

The dip was more nerve-wracking than the spin. However, Jamil didn't intend to dip you as low as he did before— thankfully.

Your hold on him still tightened like it did before as he dipped you. Unlike before, Jamil let the pose and moment linger.

You’d gaze up at him, admiring the determined glint in his eyes. The way his hair naturally fell, framing his face, was just the cherry on top.

Oh, and how could you forget those breathtaking lips of his...

His thoughts were eerily similar to yours, taking in your features before letting his eyes roam over your lips. Jamil leaned closer, bringing his face mere inches from yours.

You swung your arms around his neck, making it easier for him to get closer… and closer… and…

Just as the two of you closed your eyes, about to connect, you hear the slow music turn to an upbeat, party song. Next thing you know, you felt your body swiftly being pulled up.

One moment, you and Jamil were so close, the next he was acting as though you were toxic. His hands left your hips as he cleared his throat.

It looked like he was planning on saying something before a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

“Jamil! Come dance with me!” The two of you both heard the young Al Asim shout.

You frowned. Right. He’s busy tonight with duties and whatnot. Although you felt disappointed, you gave him a tired smile and nod.

Jamil’s brows were furrowed, his eyes flickering between you and the direction Kalim’s voice came from.

Tonight seemed full of surprises as Jamil’d hand shoots out to your forearm and hurriedly guided you outside in the opposite direction of Kalim.

You were in shock as he pulled you outside, shutting the door behind him with a sigh.

“…You’re not gonna—?” “If anyone asks, you were nauseous from dancing and went outside with me for fresh air.”

Jamil was dead serious as he spoke, looking at you for confirmation. You nodded your head.

“Uh, got it.”

Silence soon filled the atmosphere between the two of you, the only sound being from the night’s wind. It was oddly tense. You were the first one to break the quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Jamil’s gaze immediately snapped up to yours, narrowing in confusion.

“Sorry?” He repeated, looking for clarification.

You fidgeted with the ends of your clothes. “Sorry for the chocolates. That was probably uncomfortable for you since that kinda gift is usually reserved for couples and all…”

Jamil’s expression softened the more you talked.

“Don’t be. It was a lovely gift.” His hands slowly make their way to yours, gently holding you.

“I reacted the way I did because…” Jamil sucked in a hesitant breath. “…Well, you’ve made me feel things. Feelings that I thought I was incapable of feeling.”

He carefully pulled you closer to him, allowing you to back away if you wanted to. You didn't. You just stared back into his gaze as he continued.

“Around you, I feel unburdened by my responsibilities. I feel… alive.” If you maneuvered your hand right, you could feel his pulse practically beating out of his body.

“I adore you like no other. When I received those chocolates, my mind melted. You… you turn me into such a mess.” He lightly scoffed with a small shake of the head. You can't help but chuckle.

“Nonetheless,” He gave your hands a gentle squeeze. You squeezed back.

“I’d never wish this feeling away. Never in a million years.”

Jamil’s hands momentarily left yours as he fiddled with his jacket. He was looking for something…?

“Although it’s long overdue,”

After a few moments, Jamil pulls out a small, red rose. You recognize it as a part of the decor from the party. He slips it into your hand effortlessly, his eyes staying on yours.

“Will you be my Valentine?”

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x you #twst x yuu #twst x you #twst fanfic #twst wonderland x reader #jamil viper x reader #jamil x reader #jamil viper x yuu #jamil x you #jamil x yuu #valentines day fic

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