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moonchildstyles · 5 months ago

Text

complicated

y/n meets someone, only to find out that he's going to be her stepbrother

wordcount: 17.3k+

—————

(Y/N)'s mouth pinched as she looked at the aisles of wine before her. Knowing her Uncle Mick, he wasn't even going to have a sip, not when he had whisky in the cabinet instead. But, it felt wrong meeting his new girlfriend—fianceé, actually, as of last weekend—empty handed. She wanted to make a good first impression, especially since she hadn't made any serious efforts to come by and meet her until her uncle dropped the proposal on her.

Truthfully, it was because of her uncle; he was a hopeless romantic who had told (Y/N) on more than one occasion that he had fallen in love with someone he'd just met in the years since his wife had passed. It was hard justifying taking time off from work and booking plane tickets for a short-lived relationship.

But, that obviously wasn't the case this time. He'd been raving about this woman—Anne—for the last six months. Enough so that he purchased a ring and wanted to marry her as soon as they could thread something together. And her Uncle Mick wanted her to be a part of the whole process—she was the daughter he never had, he'd said.

So, even if he wasn't going to take a single sip of whatever rosé she picked out, she was going to do it anyway. She needed to get to know this woman and let her know that she was going to be welcomed with open arms into this small, but loving family.

Perusing down the aisle, (Y/N)'s eye caught a bottle with a golden foiling around the cork. The label was especially pretty, printed in French with a year on it that would take at least a couple of minutes for (Y/N) to do the math on. It was pretty, and undoubtedly more worth more money than she planned on spending tonight. But, that was the point, she thought.

She'd make more money, but her uncle wasn't going to get married again. (She hoped, anyway).

The only problem? It was on the very top shelf and nowhere near the edge. She wasn't going to be able to reach it unless she called for help from one of the employees wandering around here. They didn't particularly seem to be in the mood, though. She didn't blame them, what with this being how they spent their Friday evening, watching every patron come in looking for some liquor to kick the night off.

Looking around, she wondered if there was anything around here, one of those pokers that many retail spaces used to get high up t-shirts off the top racks. She knew the idea was stupid before she even finished the thought, but she couldn't completely ignore the hope that fizzled in her chest.

Okay, maybe if she stood on the tips of her toes and reached really hard, then jumped she could reach it. Yeah, she could try that. Hopefully, she would only be able to reach the bottle she wanted and not knock over the plenty of other ones lining the shelves.

With her hand blindly reaching the top of the shelf, fingertips grazing the empty surface, (Y/N) readied herself to jump as high and controlled as she could.

"Do y'need help?"

The stranger's voice knocked her out of her plan. At the end of the aisle was a man with curling brown hair looking at her with a pinch between his brows. He had a white button up covering his torso, a light blue cardigan slouching over his form. He didn't wait for his answer before he started towards her.

"Um," she started, dropping to stand flat on her feet, "Yeah, actually. Thanks."

"Of course," he smiled, relief unstitching his brows. "'M happy I caught y'before y'jumped. I don't think that would have worked out like y'hoped."

"Me neither," she laughed, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, "But thank you. I was trying to reach the gold one on top."

His smile was kind as he effortlessly reached for the bottle. (Y/N) couldn't help the way her eyes dropped over him, appraising every inch. Rings glittered on his hands, some with gaudy gems, others nothing more than brassy bands. The cardigan she had seen across the aisle was actually a knitted depiction of a cloudy sky, fluffs of clouds stitched into the material. His trousers were a warm brown, matching the belt cinched around his waist and shin of his shoes. As he reached, his hand had a cross inked between his thumb and forefinger.

He was really cute. Really, really cute. In a real way, she considered if he was a model. Why a model like him, with a perfect nose and shattered green eyes, would be in the wine aisle of the liquor store of her home, she had no idea, but she was grateful for whatever circumstances put him here.

Blinking away from him in hopes of concealing just how intently she had been staring at him, (Y/N) graciously took the offered bottle in his outstretched hand.

"Thanks," she smiled, "Thinking now, I don't think my plan would have worked."

The man in front of her settled in, hands in pockets as he gazed down at her. "Yeah? Rethinking the jump?"

"Oh yeah," she laughed, "I think my bag alone would have knocked down an entire shelf."

A short, breathy laugh fell from his lips. "Definitely. Would've ruined your night before 's even started." He gave a pointed look to the bottle in her hand.

"Oh no, I'm just going to my uncle's house for dinner. He probably wouldn't have even noticed if I was soaked in wine with glass stuck in my jacket as long as he had food in front of him."

The man hummed, giving a slow drag of his eyes over her form. "I don't know. You're hard to ignore."

Her skin was decidedly warmer under his gaze. She couldn't bite back the grin that sparked over her features.

"In a good way?" she chirped, blinking up at him as if he were the sun and she a flower.

He had dimples. Her breath clung to her throat.

"Only the best," he flirted, shifting on his feet as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He hesitated before reaching for the device. A beat passed as she let him read the notification, his lips thinning before glancing up at her. "I have to get going, but... I hope this isn't weird to ask, but could I have your number? Or whatever y'would want to share?"

The man had come off so confident, approaching her without prompting. Lazily dragging his eyes over her with his hand shrugged in his pockets, entirely sure of what he could offer her should she take him up on it. But, now, asking for any way to contact her, he had struggled to find his words. She watched as he attempted to form the best way to ask for her number, a thin smile on his lips.

She only nodded her head. "I can give you my number."

The man before her brightened, dimples and bunny teeth on display. "Cool," he muttered, offering his phone up the same way he had offered the wine.

Typing in her information, she glanced at him through her lashes. "My name's (Y/N), by the way."

"Oh, yeah," he rushed out, breathing out a huff of laughter, "That's right—names. 'M Harry."

"Nice to meet you, Harry," she smiled, passing his phone back, "Thanks, again."

"Yeah, yeah," he grinned, looking down at the new contact on his phone. "Of course. I'll—um—I'll text you soon. Have a nice night at your uncle's."

"Have a nice night," (Y/N) said, biting back her own grin.

Harry hesitated in his spot for a moment, looking at her with pretty green eyes and fluttering lashes before forcing himself to take off.

He only glanced back at her twice.

—————

Sitting in her rental car, the drive to Uncle Mick's house mapped on her phone, (Y/N) took a moment in the silence.

What kind of romantic comedy had she just found herself in? Giving out her number to random, pretty boys she met in the liquor store of all places. If she found out this had been a bad choice later, she would blame the cloud cardigan and the shades of green in his eyes. Anyone would melt when faced with those.

Pushing the car into drive, (Y/N) allowed herself to wonder for a moment just how long she would have to wait for him to message her. She hoped she wouldn't have to wait very long at all before she had a chance to see him again.

—————

(Y/N) felt out of breath as she approached the front door of her Uncle Mick's house, as if she had ran here instead of driven.

The traffic on the way here had been humbling to say the least. And to think she called his place her hometown when she had turned into the wrong subdivision twice and was shocked every time another stoplight blocked what she remembered to be a straight path home. She could do another other than watch her arrival time drift further and further than the eight o'clock they had agreed upon.

Clutching the neck of the wine bottle, (Y/N) figured thirty minutes late was better than not showing up at all. Despite having texted her uncle when she pulled up, she still pressed the doorbell. On the other side, she heard the clattering of overgrown feet with barking following shortly after. Flipper was awake, then.

She was stuck outside for only a minute before the knob clicked and turned. Uncle Mick pulled the door open, smiling lips and crinkled eyes the first things she saw.

"Hi, honey," he greeted, pulling her into a hug while Flipper went crazy behind him, "You made it."

"Hi, Uncle Mick," she smiled, feeling suddenly emotional now that she was hugging him. It had been way too long since she saw him—the man that had raised her from the age of eleven. She hugged him especially tight at the thought. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too. But you're here now, and we've got dinner warming in the oven for you." His kind smile only widened when he saw her gift in hand. "And you brought wine! Did I tell you this one was my favorite?"

(Y/N) blinked. "Since when did you have a favorite wine?" she asked, passing off the wine as she locked the door behind herself.

Her uncle shrugged, tipping his chin up in faux-superiority. "Can't a man change, (Y/N)? Or must I always drink acetone?"

She let out a bubbling laugh as she followed after him, petting Flipper on his shaggy head. Trailing through the living room, she could see the lighting in the dining room, the chandelier that had gone unused for most of her childhood now lit at full power. A scented candle now dotted the coffee table, along with fluffy throw pillows and a knitted blanket on the sofa.

The entire house seemed... softened. Eased into another phase of life that included delicate edges and soft-scented air. This woman must really be something to get Uncle Mick to take down his fish of the month calendar.

Approaching the threshold, (Y/N) braced herself to follow after her uncle. She was going to have to start the night with an apology.

Mick started the introduction, stepping aside when he said her name as if presenting her to a ballroom instead of his fianceé.

"Sorry, I'm late. I—"

Her words became stuck in her throat.

Sitting in one of the four chairs at the small table was Harry. Cloud cardigan and all.

What the fuck was he doing here?

"You alright, kiddo?"

Blinking back to earth, (Y/N) nodded her head. "Yeah sorry," she muttered, forcing out a laugh, "I forgot what I was saying, as I was saying it."

A round of laughter filled the room. Including Harry's.

Making a point to avoid the end of the table that his chair sat, (Y/N) pointed her smile at the pretty, dark haired woman sitting right next to where her uncle had set himself up.

"Sorry," she started, again, walking around the table to meet the woman halfway. "I wish I could have come around to meet you sooner. You must be Anne."

(Y/N) had her hand outstretched to shake, only to be pulled into a warm hug. The embrace was soft and comforting, just like the effect she seemed to have on her uncle.

"Don't worry," the woman, Anne, smiled, "Mick has told me all about your job, so I understand. Thank you for taking the time to come down and see us. It's wonderful to finally meet you."

She had kind eyes, hazel with shatters of a familiar green. Just the reminder had a flush plucking at her cheeks, knowing who was sitting just behind her.

"It's really nice to meet you too, Anne," (Y/N) smiled, hoping the natural turn of the conversation wasn't the one that this would take.

Her hopes were shot down when Anne gestured behind her, her grin only widening.

"(Y/N), this is my son, Harry. He's down visiting from work too."

Harry. Harry was her uncle's—who was really like her father for all intents and purposes—fianceé's son. The man that would be as close to a bother as she could get as soon as this wedding happened, was the same one she had thought about going on a date with all during the drive here.

He seemed to have the same shock running through his system as she stood from his chair. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Nice to meet you, (Y/N)."

Boundaries were maintained as they shook hands. Even if she was, unfortunately, taken aback by how large his palm was compared to hers. Warm and encompassing around her fingers.

Matching his gaze, she could see the matching panic she was sure was also written on her face. They both felt that flirty energy in the wine aisle. They had only been cut off because they had somewhere to be—which happened to be the same place.

Her name was in his phone with a pink heart emoji.

And now they were just a wedding short of being step-siblings.

"Nice to meet you, Harry."

Forcing herself to pull her hand back, (Y/N) made the self-serving choice of looking towards her uncle. Whatever had conspired between her and Harry had gone unnoticed if the beaming grin on Mick's face was anything to go by.

"I can help with dinner," (Y/N) offered, hoping for a reprieve in the form of the quiet kitchen, "You said it was in the oven, right?"

"Oh yes, dinner," Uncle Mick laughed, "The lasagna is in the oven. Thank you, (Y/N)."

That was all the permission she needed before scurrying off to the kitchen. She moved on robotic limbs to the appliance, but stopped short of pulling open the door.

Instead, she leaned over the stove, hands braced on the ledge.

What kind of tragic comedy had she found herself in?

—————

"Goodnight, kiddo. Thanks for coming tonight."

(Y/N) hugged her uncle that much tighter. She could hear the sincerity in his voice; this was about more than a dinner she had managed to make it down for.

"Goodnight, Uncle Mick."

Their embrace lasted a beat longer before she unraveled herself from his hold. Over his shoulder, she could see Harry having a moment with his mother. Seeing them side by side like that, the resemblance was so clear. Even down to the set of their teeth and the cheekbones.

Especially when they smiled at each other like that.

"Still on for breakfast in the morning?" Mick asked, fatherly affection painting his features.

"If you can pick me up, yes," she conditioned, batting her lashes and beaming up at him.

"As long as you're up and ready to go, I can make that happen."

She pulled him into another hug to show her thanks. "I'll see you in the morning. Love you."

"Love you too, kiddo. Get to bed so you don't keep me waiting."

Heading towards the door, (Y/N) threw a glance over her shoulder, intending to wave to her uncle one more time, only to catch Harry following in her footsteps. Her lips thinned. She knew he was on his way out too, but she had hoped she was moving faster than him. Now It would be weird to rush out ahead of him and let the door slam in his face. Especially if this was now her soon-to-be stepbrother.

Harry's pleading eyes met hers. Begging her to wait just a second for him. She supposed, even if she wanted to avoid it, they needed to talk about this at some point.

Now, they both were waving goodbye to their respective parents. Final declarations of how nice it was to meet one another were shared, following them out onto the chilly stoop. Silence fell over them as the door sealed behind them.

Just the two of them now. (Y/N) and her almost-stepbrother. (Y/N) and the guy she had just short of fantasized going on a date with only hours earlier.

His steps slowed to match hers.

"So," he started.

She didn't offer any words. Was now when they acknowledged the obvious flirting they shared in the liquor store? Or were they going to save that for the wedding?

"Kind of fucked up, huh?"

At that, (Y/N) couldn't help but to laugh. The sound was surprisingly loud, breaking into the quiet neighborhood.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," she murmured, coming to a stop next to her car. Daring to look up at him, she caught him already looking down at her. His eyes were just as pretty now as when she saw him for the first time that night. Before she knew her adoptive dad was marrying his mom. "Did you... You didn't know before, right?"

A pinch appeared between his brows. "No. Had no idea. The last time I was down here was two years ago, when I helped my mum move."

"That's crazy. The last time I was here was two years ago, too."

A rueful smile touching his lips. They were both having the same thought.

If only...

"They seem really happy together, though," (Y/N) posited, knowing they were going to have to accept the terms of their newfound relationship.

"Really happy," Harry agreed, glancing back at her childhood home, "'S been a long time since I've seen my mum that happy."

"Same for my uncle." (Y/N) nodded her head, her smile thin when Harry turned back towards her. Whatever she had started knitting for him this evening, now needed to be severed. "It was really nice to meet you, Harry. Thanks for everything tonight."

Faint dimpled dented his cheeks. "It was nice to meet you, (Y/N). Get back to your hotel safe."

"You, too," she reciprocated, pulling open her car door. Harry took a step back, his hands in his pockets as his eyes followed her. "Oh," she gasped, "You should probably change my name in your phone, by the way. I think the emoji might throw some people off."

At that, she was granted Harry's bursting laughter as she climbed into her car. She probably felt a little bit too much pride over that.

Pulling out of her uncle's driveway and out into the street, she couldn't help but peek into her rearview. Though a part of her wanted to think Harry had his eyes following her, the other part of her was quick to send a reminder that that wasn't something she should want. Not anymore.

While there wasn't anything serious that had conjured between them, the potential having been torn from their hands was enough to feel a little bit of loss. They hadn't even had time to mess it all up themselves.

Now they'd never know.

—————

Tucked away in her cubicle, (Y/N) smiled at her phone.

The group chat labeled Wedding Party complete with every floral emoji the keyboard had to offer was going crazy. But, she still went to the single message from Harry first.

I love my sister so much but I think I'm going to have to block her if she sends one more Pinterest board to my mum. This whole thing was supposed to be small and now we're looking at a gelato bar for the reception.

There wasn't even supposed to be a reception.

She covered her mouth as if that would make the grin growing over it obsolete. She knew well what he was going through. For the first two months of this engagement, all talks of the wedding had been flippant, that the ceremony would happen when it happened. In a matter of weeks, everything had changed. There was now a joint bachelor and bachelorette party to plan.

Harry had been her lifeline through this roller coaster. They didn't talk about the night in the wine aisle, never breaching the previous terms of their acquaintance. Instead, they had grown to be friends. Good friends. The kind of friends that had separate conversations outside of group chats. The kind that would send anything that reminded them of one another. They had inside jokes now.

They were friends. Soon to be step siblings.

(Though, even if it wasn't something she acknowledged, (Y/N) knew good and well there was a phantom following her any time she interacted with Harry. That phantom never let her forget that she was still attracted to him. Even if no action could be taken, she wasn't going to be able to forget him as the man in the cloud cardigan with the pretty eyes and freckled nose).

I'm supposed to be figuring out a bachelor party and I think I would rather die than think about what my Uncle Mick would want to do on his last night as a "single man"

I might just change my number actually and hope no one notices

Hahahahahaha

And now we both get to be there for that last "single" night. Thrilling stuff!

You'd still let me have your number though, right?

She didn't want to admit how her cheeks warmed reading his texts. Maybe because it was something she wanted to see—though she'd never admit to as much out loud—, but she swore there was still that flirty undertone to the way he spoke to her. Like he wasn't quite over things like they were supposed to be.

Of course

I'm scared you'll go crazy without it and I still need you for the actual wedding

It was a small indulgence, telling him she needed him. While she wouldn't act like there was something astronomical that had been built between them, it was hard to ignore the fact that the more she spoke with him, it didn't exactly tamp down her feelings for him.

I know you do.

(Y/N) blinked at her phone screen. She could hear the words in his voice, that drawling accented voice. The way his eyes would have connected with hers had they been speaking in person. How there would have been a quirk in his lips, a reminder that this was very much a silly, lighthearted joke even if a part of her short-circuited.

Ignoring everything else, (Y/N) typed out a lame, noncommittal response ("You wish lol") before locking her phone and placing it face down on her desk. The email in her inbox suddenly sounded a lot more appealing than they had only a few minutes prior. Even making the copies she had been putting off for the whole morning had suddenly been pushed up the to-do list.

Anything to keep herself busy—too busy to think about Harry.

She would be seeing him again soon because of the bachelor/rette parties that were coming up within the next month, and she needed to have her head on straight. It was embarrassing to be so distracted, caught up in someone she'd only met in person once. A total of maybe six hours had been spent together that entire weekend she had visited home, counting both the initial dinner and the brunch before the both of them were to jet back to their respective homes. Each of those hours had even been buffered by the attendance of their parents.

And yet, here she was.

Forcing herself out of her seat, (Y/N) made her way to the copy room. Everything was going to be okay, she reminded herself, fiddling with the blunt edge of her master copies in her hands. She was going to see Harry, be so clearly and readily reminded that she was going to be his stepsister for all intents and purposes, and every affection she held for him was going to dry up. All she needed was to meet him once more, and wipe away the liquor store meeting from her head.

Everything was going to be fine. Perfectly fine.

As long as she somehow figured out how to mash the idea of a fancy dinner for Anne's bachelorette party with a fishing trip for Uncle Mick's bachelor counterpart.

—————

(Y/N) scrolled to yet another page of search results.

If she saw any more party bus and strip club ideas for a joint bachelor/bachelorette party, she was going to scream. There was no way she was going to down shots and dance on a pole around her uncle and her soon to be stepfamily.

There wasn't a single chance that she was the first to ever plan something like this for an older couple. Someone—one of the billions in the world—would have undoubtedly come up with an idea far before her. And yet, she was on the third page of google results, and she knew if she drifted to the fourth, she was done for.

There had to be at least something nearby that could check the boxes for both sides of the honored couple.

She was this close to booking reservations at a restaurant that had a claw machine for diners to pick out their "lobster" (looking at photos, it appeared to just be a handful of plastic lobster figurines based off of a cartoon). If Gemma hadn't already taken on so much with her mother, including planning out many elements of the wedding itself, (Y/N) would have just short of begged her to come up with something. But, that wasn't fair. She wanted to be a good soon-to-be sister and take something off of Gemma's plate, especially since she had apparently recently welcomed her first baby.

Shuttering her eyes, (Y/N) rubbed her temples. She needed to focus and make a decision. The reserved weekend was only a handful of weeks away, and she needed to get these plans finalized before it was too late.

At her side, her phone buzzed, the vibration scaring (Y/N) out of her skin for a brief second.

Blindly reaching, she brought her phone up, effectively blocking her laptop screen. A text message had come through. From Harry.

Are you busy?

She sighed, lips thinning as she debated answering. While she was busy, the idea of being distracted sounded much more fun than looking at another aquarium dining space—complete with a tab that would take her months to work off.

Not really why??

With that, a call came through. Also from Harry.

(YN) clutched her phone. She'd only talked to him on the phone once, and it was brief. He'd hadn't been able to reach his mother and needed quick directions to the brunch spot he met them that first weekend. She had barely talked to him, passing along the phone to his mother in the same breath as her greeting.

Tapping her thumb on the green circle, (Y/N) accepted the call before she could think better of herself. It was just Harry, she drilled into her head. Just Harry—a friend and nothing more.

"Hello?"

"Hey, you," was his greeting, his accented voice flowing through the speakers in a way that almost felt offensive. How dare he answer he as if he was just as happy to hear her voice as she was for him?

"What's going on?" she forced out, hoping it sounded a lot more casual than she felt.

Harry let out a sigh, the sound of rustling fabric audible in the background. "Nothing jus' trying to figure out m'plans for the stag weekend. Figured I'd call you since y'have all the answers."

His tone had been teasing, lilting through a smile. He knew she had been struggling to figure out what to plan for everyone, but she hadn't revealed just how much of a problem she was having. The last time they had even really discussed the topic was a week ago, when she felt as if she had all the time in the world to thread something together.

Today, after looking at the calendar and the countdown to the agreed upon dates, his poking didn't feel so funny.

"Um, yeah," she muttered, running a stressed hand down her face, "I'm figuring out everything right now, and finalizing stuff. I'll let you know for sure when I can."

A brief pause settled between them.

"(Y/N)," Harry started, his voice decidedly gentle compared to the teasing a moment before. "Y'alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, sorry," she murmured, stumbling over her thoughts. "It's just been a little bit of a long week, so I'm really tired."

She meant to finish on a breathy laugh, lighthearted even if she didn't really feel that way. Instead, it came off as just a little bit sad.

"Bad week? Or jus' a lot?"

"A lot," (Y/N) sighed, "But it's alright. I think once I get everything figured out for the party, I'll be fine."

"If y'want, I can take over some things. I can make calls or set up reservations. Whatever y'need."

A small quirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That would be really nice, Harry," she started, resigning herself to telling the truth, "but, I actually haven't picked out anywhere or decided anything yet. It's a lot harder to plan something that has the vibe of a fishing trip, but served high-class food. The closest I've found is this place with a 'lobster' claw machine."

(Y/N) didn't have to see him to know he blanched at the idea, his scoff evidence enough that he was on the same page as her.

"Yeah , that might not be what mum's looking for," Harry laughed. (Y/N) wished she could see his dimples. "I can take a look around too, though. It might help to have some more eyes."

Her lips thinned at the idea. She was supposed to be taking this on by herself; Gemma and Harry had enough on their plate, it didn't feel fair to pawn any more tasks off.

"I don't know," she mumbled, "You and your sister are already don't so much, I don't want to—"

"(Y/N), 's alright. 'S just a couple of google searches, 's not a big deal," Harry interrupted her, his voice gentle, "'M getting a little worried about you."

He ended with a breath of laughter, though (Y/N) found it hard to buy that he wasn't sharing a little bit of honesty with her.

With her bottom lip between her teeth, (Y/N) blinked at her laptop screen once more. If she had to figure out how to reword "fancy fishing restaurant" one more time, she might explode. If anything, it would be nice to take a small break from attempting to make these decisions.

"That would be nice, Harry. Thank you."

She could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again, "See? I told you, y'needed me."

(Y/N) didn't even attempt to argue.

—————

Through bleary eyes, (Y/N) caught the time on her phone. One in the morning. The phone call with Harry had just hit over the four hour mark.

"But, yeah," Harry laughed, cutting himself off with a small yawn, "I don't plan on going to any of my school reunions. I don't think it'd go over very well."

(Y/N) let out a peal of laughter, the noise quiet and tired. "I think you should; it would be very funny, at the least."

"Maybe," he hummed, "If I don't get arrested."

"For something that happened ten years ago? I don't know," she countered, singing the syllables, "We'll only know for sure if you go."

"Then y'have to come with me. If I get in any trouble, 'm making it your problem."

It could be the late hour making her delirious, or the fact that she wasn't able to convincingly lie to herself at the moment, but it felt like something to have Harry casually make those future plans with her.

"I'll be there," she cemented through a sleepy smile.

A pause settled between them, the sound of rustling sheets audible through the phone.

"I should let y'go, (Y/N). 'S later than I thought," he drawled, "I didn't mean to keep you up."

"No, it's okay," she insisted, "This was nice. Thank you for helping me—and hanging out with me tonight."

I missed you is what she wanted to say. Just barely was she able to choke the thought back.

"You've got me, you know that," he promised, "But, all of the confirmations and everything should go to you. If you need anything though, you can send them to me, I don't mind."

"Thanks, H," she hummed, letting her eyes fall to a close. "I'll talk to you soon?"

"Of course—I'll probably start bothering you first thing in the morning." He spoke as if his first text message wasn't going to be the highlight of her day.

"That'll be nice," she let slip, incredibly warm with the tufts of her bedding fluffed around her, "And I'll actually see you in a few weeks."

"That'll be really nice," Harry said, something running under his tone she was too tired to examine, "'M excited, (Y/N)."

"Me too," she yawned.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," Harry drawled, tongue lingering over her name, "Sleep well"

"Goodnight, Harry," she smiled.

There was a brief moment. A pause where neither of them hung up.

(Y/N)'s breath caught, suddenly so awake compared to just a moment ago.

Then the call cut.

Four hours on the phone with him, leaving with sore, smiling cheeks and drooping, sleepy eyes.

In three weeks, she would see him again for the first time in months. Everything was going to be fine—and normal.

—————

"To mum and Mick. Congratulations."

Flutes of champagne were raised over a white-tableclothed table, sparkling and golden. Smiling faces were shared over the setting, blushing cheeks on Anne's face with an eye-crinkling smile on Uncle Mick's. The clinking of the glasses sounded in the quiet, reserved space before being brought to smiling lips.

A wonderful way to end dinner.

(Y/N) couldn't help but to meet Harry's eyes across the flute. He was already looking at her, bouncing his brows when he caught her attention.

She looked away first, cheeks warming.

"Thank you, Gem," Anne smiled, voice sing-songing over the syllables. "I love you so much, you know."

Gemma only smiled at her mother. That was definitely the third glass of champagne beginning to talk. "I love you too, mum. Just as much."

Anne's eyes watered, glossing the already glazed look over her irises. "Both of you," she said, looking to her children, "The best, you are. I couldn't be luckier."

Gemma shared a sly smile with her husband at her side as Harry opened his mouth to take on his mother's emotional reaction. Only for Anne to cut him off, turning her attention to (Y/N).

"And, you," she started, folding her hands over her heart, "I couldn't be more excited to have you in my family. Thank you for everything you've done for Mick."

Though (Y/N) thought it was a little bit funny, the slur to Anne's words and the overly affectionate way she spoke to her, but she couldn't help but to match a bit of that emotion. It was nice to hear something so loving, and know that she would be there for her Uncle Mick when (Y/N) wasn't able to.

"Of course," she smiled, hoping no one noticed the slight sniffle of her nose, "I can't wait to be a part of your family either. I know my Uncle Mick is very lucky to have you."

It was then that Anne broke, letting out a stream of sobs. (Y/N) watched as her Uncle had his own soft smile on his face, amused at his bride's antics though there was a matching sheen to his eyes. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, looking at the guests in attendance.

"Tonight was very special, you guys. Thank you," he smiled, complete joy in his eyes, "I think it's time we head home."

Gemma was quick to agree, a gentle hand on her mother's arm. "Us too," she smiled, glancing at her husband, "It's time we get back and let the sitter go home."

When neither Harry nor (Y/N) disagreed, no one hesitated to start getting up and readying for the journey home. Jackets were donned, and eyes were wiped. While Anne was busy with her children, her hushed voice emotional, Uncle Mick came right to (Y/N).

"Thanks, kiddo. Really," he muttered, "This was perfect—and I doubt it was easy." He cast his gaze through the bow windows encompassing this private room.

Outside, the shining lake rippled under the moonlight, dock rocking in the waves. The elegance Anne had requested came in the crown molding and clean decor, while Mick's requests came through in the dock outside and the fresh seafood from the kitchen. How (Y/N) had overlooked this place through her searches, she wasn't sure, but she wasn't sure she would have been able to do this without Harry.

"Harry helped a lot," (Y/N) specified, beaming up at Mick, "But I'm happy you liked it. I'm happy you're happy."

Seeing the way he looked over his shoulder at his bride-to-be, (Y/N)'s heart almost burst. How truly lucky were they. The perfect movie they made.

"Love you, kiddo," Uncle Mick murmured, wrapping her in a hug, "You going back to the hotel?"

"Probably," she nodded, "We're still looking for your suit tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah," her uncle sighed, not entirely excited at the idea of the outfit, but willing to do what it took to make his soon-to-be wife happy. "I'll pick you up, okay?"

"Thank you," she smiled, giving him one more hug. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he smiled, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before departing.

Anne was passed from her daughter to her almost-husband, happily falling into his arms with loose limbs. She gave a noncommittal wave to the group following after her.

Gemma was the next to depart, hugging (Y/N) and sharing her thanks for planning this part of the evening. Harry didn't attempt to take any of the credit, only watching quietly until it was his turn to bid goodnight to his sister and brother-in-law.

Out in the parking lot, the pavement bathed in moonlight, (Y/N) rubbed at her thinly covered arms.

Just she and Harry were left.

"Tonight turned out really well," Harry commented, a dimpled smile on his face, "Good job, (Y/N)."

She shook her head. "I just confirmed everything, and you know that. Thank you for getting this all taken care of."

Harry shrugged, shoulders lifting though he kept his eyes trained on her. It had been like this for most of the night; his undivided attention had clung to her like a second skin. He came back to her every time. The end of every conversation was punctuated by his look to her face, gauging her reaction. It was thrilling, though the thrill was tempered from the fact that she knew she wasn't supposed to keen under his attention like that.

Looking out towards the water that had set the scene for the evening, (Y/N) could feel his eyes on her. She felt a bit crazy, her skin prickling under his attention. There was a large part of her that dreaded the fact that she had to head back to her hotel alone now. They'd barely had time to speak to one another as a group, let alone on their own. She doubted they would have a chance like this again for the rest of the weekend.

Harry was her family now. Maybe some extra time with him was all she needed to officially understand that. Overwrite those previous flirty memories of him with something much more appropriate.

That was why she wanted to keep the night going. That was why she opened her mouth, question on the tip of her tongue.

"Did you..." (Y/N) started, carefully picking her words as she kept her gaze out on the lake, "Are you tired?"

She could cringe at the sound of her voice tripping over her question.

"Not really," he drawled, smile audible in his voice, "Are you?"

"Not really," she repeated, daring to match his gaze. Her skin warmed when she caught him with his eyes already engaged on her. With the moon above draining the world of color around them, his eyes somehow still acted as a beacon, the green rippling like the lake. "Do you want to get a drink, or something?"

His dimples were cast in shadow, denting his cheeks as his grin grew. "I think I saw a bar not too far from here when I booked this, if y'don't mind walking."

While her dress didn't exactly agree with the weather, the chilly breeze kicking up the hem and casting goosebumps over her skin, there wasn't a single part of her that could find a reason to decline.

"Lead the way."

—————

"After you."

Harry opened the door with a flourish, bending at the waist as he gestured (Y/N) through the doorway. It was entirely too dramatic, especially for the kind of bar he had taken her to. A peal of laughter left her lips.

The inside of the bar was much warmer than the chilly air outside, enough so that even with the thin jacket on her arms, (Y/N) started to sweat. After Harry entered behind her, the door closed, sealing behind them.

The nautical bar was a drastic change to the restaurant they had just left.

Fishing nets were strewn over the ceiling, filled with weather torn life-preservers, various starfish, oysters and clam shells. Sparkling pearls were dotted throughout. The walls were decorated with different portraits depicting sea-faring legends and the glorious ships they sailed. Creaky floorboards sounded under their feet, the lumber matching that that boarded up the walls and made the majority of the round tables of the bar. The bartop itself was a candy apple-red, sleek and only a little scuffed. The mirrored back wall of the bar was lined with liquor, reflected int the low light of the establishment, only a single bartender fixing drinks for people (Y/N) had no doubt were a mix of regulars, and people like she and Harry who were just looking for a drink after touring through the area.

When a gentle hand landed on her back, ushering her forward, (Y/N) stiffened. Blinking behind her, she knew the touch came from Harry, though it still had her throat running dry just to see that it was, in fact, him looking out for her.

He cast his eyes around them as they slowly approached the bar, the whining floorboards louder than his voice, "'S a little different than the pictures online."

"Yeah?" she smiled, following his eyes to the portrait of a fishing captain with a sopping beard and hardened eyes. Truthfully, (Y/N) worried that if she looked away and then glanced back at the painting, a skeleton or ghoul would be in his place. "I can't believe that."

Harry let out a breathy laugh at her joke. Stepping to the bar, he didn't build upon their teasing, instead, pulling one of the vinyl stools out for (Y/N) to sit. Taking the proffered seat, she pretended to study the liquor bottles behind the bar instead of just how close Harry was now that he took the spot at her side. Especially when he settled in with his legs spreading, his knee touching hers.

"You kno—"

"What can I get you two?"

The gruff voice of the bartender cut Harry off unceremoniously, his tired eyes flicking between the two of them impatiently.

"(Y/N)?" Harry murmured, letting her go first as if she was going to be able to concentrate when she heard the syllables of her name wrapped in his voice.

"Um," she stumbled, looking at the bottles behind the barkeep as if it were a menu, "A—uh—a cosmo? Or just a vodka cranberry? Something like that."

The bartender bounced his brows as he grunted. He must not have liked (Y/N)'s answer as much as she didn't. Harry's order went much smoother, even if he did have to wipe the sly smile off of his lips as he asked for a whiskey, neat.

As soon as the man who could have easily been the subject of one of the paintings left them be as he started their drinks, (Y/N) hung her head in her hands. "Oh my god," she quietly groaned.

Harry nudged her with his shoulder, ducking his head to conspire with her though she didn't really feel like he was on her side given the way he had to bite back his amusement. "It wasn't that bad."

"Yes it was," she laughed, "I thought he was going to ID me and think it was a fake."

He shrugged. "We've got time."

(Y/N) let out a laugh, feeling a little less embarrassed as she turned to look at him, cheek cushioned by her hand. It was quite the feeling, to know that they really did have time. At least for tonight (after their parents joint bachelor/rette parties, of course). Then, she would come to her senses, and live the rest of her life with Harry as her legal sibling.

"Right. We've got time."

—————

"Harryyy."

"Yes?"

"Harryyy."

"Yes, (Y/N)?"

"Harryyy—"

Putting his hand out, Harry stopped her from spinning on her stool. (Y/N)'s singsong voice stopped right in its tracks when she saw him, warmth creeping up her neck, though she doubted it was from the alcohol. Even if there was a lot of that in her system.

"What, (Y/N)?" he laughed, craning his neck as he crowded around her.

"Do you think they'd let me do karaoke, even if there isn't a stage?"

Another bright laugh left Harry's lips at her words. "I think there might be a little more missing than jus' the stage, but 'm sure we can work something out. You've got to ask first, though."

Giving a slight incline of his head, (Y/N) followed to see him gesturing to the bartender. The one person in the whole room she was sure would immediately shoot down her idea. As if it wasn't a fun one.

"H, you know he's going to say no."

"I don't know," Harry crooned, "Y'should probably ask. He might like karaoke, too."

A light could have pinged over her head. He really could like karaoke, he's just shy about it. It would only take a little bit of convincing, maybe even a song or two, and he'd be so on board. Should she start with a ballad or a—

(Y/N) felt someone crowd around her, static running down her back. Harry looked over her head, lips thinning.

"Hey stranger."

Blanching at the greeting, (Y/N) whipped her head around. Behind her was a vaguely familiar face. She couldn't place the name, but she knew this man. Even if he was a bit harder to recognize out of uniform.

And acting way more familiar than a waiter should.

"Hi," (Y/N) answered with an owlish blink.

The man paused, as if waiting for something more to come out of her mouth. Nothing did.

He let out an awkward laugh, thrown off by her lack of response. "Wedding things over for the night?"

Behind her, she could hear Harry shifting over his seat. Just that much closer to her, his knee brushing against hers.

"For tonight, yeah," he answered for her, "Jus' getting a couple of drinks before going back home."

The man hummed, nodding his head. He didn't pay much attention to Harry, only looking at him for as long as it took him to finish his words before he was stitching his eyes back to (Y/N).

"You should've told me you were looking to go out tonight. I could have shown you the good spots."

It was a bit childish the way she pouted at him. "This place is good," she countered.

She wasn't going to let him speak bad about this place. Harry picked it and she was having fun.

"Well yeah, but," he started, "There's a couple of other places that look a little more your speed."

"I'm having fun here," she insisted, reaching blindly back towards Harry, "He picked it. I like it."

It was odd the way he looked at her. The way he followed her hand as she found his leg. He looked through her, searching for something more.

"Aren't you..." he started voice trailing off before Harry stepped in.

"I think we're alright for now, man," Harry said, "I think we're gonna head home soon, anyway."

Whatever this man had been looking for before had been pushed to the wayside. Something a little too fast flash through his eyes for her to decipher, though the brown of his irises lacked some of the flirty warmth from before.

He decidedly ignored Harry, looking towards (Y/N) as if Harry hadn't spoken at all.

"Let me buy you a drink at least," he charmed, dipping his head until he was level with her. "I can't lie, I was hoping that dinner wasn't the only time I'd see you."

(Y/N) blinked. She opened her mouth to say something disjointed and a little too drunk back, only for Harry to pipe up.

"I think we're alright; the tip we left earlier should have been enough. Thanks."

His hand landed gently upon her own where it sat on the cuff of his knee, warming her skin.

That searching look was back on the man's face, gaze locked on their hands.

"I thought... Isn't she your sister?" the man blanched, scoffing.

"Actually," (Y/N) hiccuped, "I'm his stepsister. But, not even that, if you want to get specific. His mom is marrying my uncle, so it's, like, legally even less than that."

(Y/N)'s bubbling didn't make much sense, but it didn't appear that this man was listening anyway. He only looked towards Harry, as if he was the one that was attempting to argue these details. A frown tipped her lips.

"We're alright, mate."

The man paused for a moment. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, "Weird," before stalking away.

Her brows knitted together as she watched him leave to haunt a different corner of the bar, a group of people she hadn't noticed before welcoming him in with conspiratorial glances and whispered voices.

"Sorry," Harry muttered behind her, causing her to whirl on the stool to face him, "I should have asked if you..."

She canted her head at him. She was too drunk for things to not be spelled out. "What?"

He let out a short laugh, dropping his gaze from hers as he knuckled at his nose. "I... Did y'want to talk to him? I didn't mean to get involved if y'were..."

"No," (Y/N) shook her head, "He was being annoying. Was he from the restaurant?"

There was a line holding Harry's shoulders that seemingly was cut loose then, dropping the lines of his body into something much more relaxed. "He was, yeah. Can't remember his name, though."

"Me neither!" she blurted, reaching towards him with her hands landing on his shoulders, "I thought I was just really drunk, so that's nice to—"

As if on command, she suddenly stumbled from her stool, falling into him with a gasp. Harry didn't hesitate before his hands landed on her waist, steadying her with a tight grip. Her heart bounced around her chest as she came down from. Looking up at him through the fan of her lashes, she saw him already watching her, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

"Y'alright?" he asked, a pinch between his brows.

"Yeah, sorry," she answered, simply, melting into him despite being more than capable of settling into her own spot once more. He was too comfortable, too warm, too everything she had been thinking about for months now to move on. And she was too tipsy to know better. "Thanks for catching me."

With her cheek pressed against his chest, Harry's hold on her shifted until he had his arm around her middle. The other waved down the bartender.

"I think 's time we get y'home, love."

"No," she whined, "We just got here."

The laugh he let out rumbled underneath her cheek, warming her further from the sound alone. "Maybe a few hours ago. You've got a big day tomorrow anyway, y'need to sleep."

"Maybe," she sighed, eyes fluttering to a close as Harry handled their tab. "Are you coming tomorrow? For the suits?"

"No," he murmured distractedly, "'M going home tomorrow, remember?"

"But you just got here," she argued, suddenly offended at the idea of airports and planes and flight times. What was the point of any of that if that meant Harry would be miles and miles away from her again?

"I know," he smiled, standing from his spot with a guiding hand on her back, "But we'll see each other again soon, okay? I'll make sure of it."

She didn't doubt his promise. If Harry wanted to see her, he would make it happen.

(Y/N) could only stare at him with stars in her eyes, warmth simmering under her skin.

They had time, she reminded herself. Even if just tonight.

—————

"C'mon, (Y/N). Gotta help me, love."

"Okay."

"Love, you've gotta stand up on your own for a second, 'kay? Jus' until I get the door open, then I can help y'again."

"Okay."

"(Y/N)."

"Hm?"

Harry sighed, the curve of his lips audible. Looping his arm tightly around her waist, he continued attempting to get the keycard to her hotel room to work, all while she clung to him, almost sliding down his body now that he wasn't devoting all of his attention to steadying her.

She was too tired. How could he expect her to stand up on her own when she was so tired she almost fell asleep on the way here? It was unrealistic. Especially when he was offering his body as her crutch; he was warm like a blanket, firm yet forgiving at the same time. The perfect kind of pillow.

A faint technological beep came from behind her. Harry fiddled around for a moment before he was clutching her again.

"C'mon," he murmured through an amused smile, guiding her inside though she didn't bother to turn around and face forward with her steps. Instead, she let Harry do the heavy lifting, getting her through the threshold and letting the lumbering door click to a close behind them.

Her hotel room was small and rudimentally furnished, stiff carpet under their feet. When she had checked in, she hadn't thought much of the space. Now, through bleary eyes with Harry holding her so carefully, it was the prettiest, coziest, most comforting place she'd ever come to spend the night in.

Her clothing was still strewn out of her opened suitcase, the lamp on the side of her bed turned on with the television streaming the default channel for the hotel. A normal, sober part of herself would have felt a bit embarrassed at the sight of her panties hanging out of her luggage, knowing Harry would no doubt spot it. But, she wasn't normal or sober. She was drunk and clinging to Harry like a lifeline.

"There we go," Harry mumbled, depositing her on the edge of her bed. He stood before her, running a hand through his hair. "Y'gonna be alright?"

"Mhm," she hummed, looking up at him with what she was sure were hearts in her eyes, "Are you?"

Harry laughed. His smile, dimples and all, was more intoxicating than any mixed drink could hope to be. "I think I'll be alright, (Y/N)."

She canted her head as she looked up at him, taking in the rumpled collar of his white shirt, now sporting a smudge of her pink lipstick. "Do you really have to leave tomorrow?"

His lips thinned as he gazed down at her. "Yeah. I do."

Her lips puffed into a pout, wandering hands reaching for the hem of his shirt. "When am I going to see you again, then?"

"I don't know," he answered, lips into a lopsided smile, "Before the wedding, hopefully?"

"Just hopefully?" she whined, using her grip on his shirt to tug him down until he was forced to flop onto the mattress at her side. "I thought we'd see each other more when we found out... everything."

Harry only let out a heavy sigh. His eyes glanced around her face, searching through the planes of her features. "I know."

(Y/N) laid back on her bed, suddenly hit with a weight that she had avoided thinking about for the last few hours. She could feel Harry's eyes following her.

"I don't want to be mean," she said, speaking quietly in the empty of the hotel room, "But it kind of sucks, right?"

A beat passed.

"What do y'mean?" His voice was strained. She didn't need to look at him to know that he knew what she meant.

"Like," she started, matching his gaze, "You know. Everything. I'm happy for them, but... We get along so well, you know? At least I think we do."

A small quirk tugged at his lips. A sad curl. "We do, don't we?"

"I think we would have had a lot of fun," she smiled, biting back a yawn.

"Aren't we already?" he asked, falling back to lay beside her.

This close, (Y/N) was able to see the details that had made her heart race all those months ago. The shatters of green in his irises. The sprinkle of freckles along his nose. The scar on his chin. The uneven stubble shadowing his cheeks.

"Yeah," she exhaled, tone dreamy. She reached for him, her fingers grazing over the warmth of his cheek. "I just—I thought, when we met...I thought it would be different for us."

Harry didn't say anything. His eyes fluttered closed as she touched his face, fingertips grazing over the lines of his features. Touching his cupid's bow had her heart hammering in her chest.

"Didn't you?"

When Harry blinked his eyes open, he matched her gaze unabashedly. "I did."

Reaching up to grab her hand, he laced their fingers together and pulled the bundled limbs to his chest. "But, we're alright like this, don't y'think?" he murmured, that sad smile back on his face, "At least we never had a chance to mess anything up."

She knew he was attempting to spin her thoughts into something hopeful. That they would be happy and partners in crime together like this for the rest of their lives. And it would be okay. There would never be a need or even a thought for anything more.

But, all that stood out to her was that they never had a chance.

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth, a well of emotion crashing behind her ribs. "We never had a chance."

"Oh, (Y/N)," he crooned, collecting her in his arms until her cheek was cushioned in his neck and his arms were a comforting cage around her waist.

She melted into him, reveling in the warmth of his hold and the blocks of muscle making up his body. There was so much softness to him, with the way he touched her, the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her. So much she could have gotten to know, she thought. There were always going to be parts of him that she wouldn't know.

"I miss you already," she whispered.

"You know I've got you, love. 'M always here."

"Not in the way I want."

It was bravery in the form of alcohol and the lack of eyes on her face that made it so easy for the words to slip out. Though it didn't feel so right when his hands on her back paused.

It felt even worse when he started disentangling himself from her hold, the phantom of his arms lingering around him. He slowed when he caught her eye, his own a bit sad to match the own on his lips.

"I know," he whispered, "Me too, (Y/N). But, we're going to be alright. Like this, we're going to be okay."

She didn't stop him when he left her hotel room, the door clicking behind him. He will be on a flight tomorrow, leaving her once more.

Hopefully, he had said, that they would see one another before the wedding. Though, in the silence of the suite, (Y/N) didn't have to be sober to know she had been a mistake, speaking so blatantly. The hope he had shared that they would see each other again before the wedding was no doubt diminished.

Blinking up at the texture of the ceiling, she sighed.

What the fuck had she done?

—————

"My uncle said he can pick me up from the airport, so that should be fine."

"Good, good," Gemma mumbled, "And you're staying with me and my mum or did you want your own space for the week?"

"I mean," (Y/N) mused, "I was going to leave it up to you guys. I can get a room somewhere if you want family time, or whatever you want."

"Well, you are family now, (Y/N). You're more than welcome to stay with us. I know my mum would enjoy getting to spend time with you."

(Y/N) wanted so badly to glow at the thought of being welcomed into a family like the Styles'. She had wished for years that she would somehow find out she had a long-lost sister or any sibling at all to spend her days with.

Instead, she was grateful this was only a phone call, so Gemma didn't catch the way her lips tightened at the idea of being considered family to someone she had attempted to kiss the night of her uncle's bachelor dinner.

And been promptly rejected by, of course.

But, she was over all of that, she reminded herself. Just like Harry was.

"I think that would be a lot of fun, Gemma. Thank you," she accepted in a way she hoped was gracious.

"Mum's going to be so excited to hear that," Gemma bubbled, "That works out perfect, too, since I think Harry and Michel are going to stay with your uncle for the week. Keep up the whole tradition thing, everyone all separate."

(Y/N)'s lips pinched that much more at the mention of his name. She could still feel the way the emptiness of her hotel room settled over her when he had left. Nothing was more sobering than that, she found.

"Yeah," (Y/N) chirped, "It's cute."

Gemma let out a bubbly laugh, "Exactly. Okay, so I'll get with mum and figure out all of the little things we still need to do before the wedding, and I'll let you know as soon as I know!"

"So exciting! I can't wait." There was a part that really was very excited and was looking forward to seeing her Uncle Mick get married, eager for him to be happy again after experiencing so much grief the years prior. There was another large part of her that could wait a little longer; wait a few more months, or even a year before she saw Harry again. At least long enough for her to have forgotten that night at the bar, and have a new boyfriend.

Gemma chattered a bit more, thinking out loud as she ticked things off her list. (Y/N) was fine being her sounding board, nodding and humming where needed before sharing a quick goodbye.

Locking her phone, (Y/N) was left in the quiet of her apartment. It was a little too close to the silence at the hotel room, the experience at the forefront of her mind.

Pursing her lips, she gripped the edge of her countertop. She was going to see Harry again, in just a couple of weeks.

Should she text him? Attempt to clear the air before even seeing him?

No, it was bad enough that she had scared him off, she couldn't be the one to reach out first. Months after, even. If he wanted to talk to her, he would have by now—even if only to clear the air.

It was times like this that she wished she had siblings. If she had a brother or a sister, she wouldn't be walking into this whole thing by herself. Despite her Uncle being there, his wedding wasn't exactly the setting to let him know that she'd attempted to go out with his new wife's son—the one that would be her stepbrother for all intents and purposes.

Legally, though, she corrected herself. Stepcousins.

(Y/N) sighed. That still didn't sound very good, especially not when she usually just considered her uncle her dad, no matter what she called him.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. (Y/N) flinched back at the noise before reaching for the device.

On the screen she had a single notification. A text message from a friend.

Mitchell Row-Lund

How was the phone call? Do you have to room with that guy?

Staring at the message thread, an idea came to mind. It wasn't a good one. (Y/N) could even field an argument about how it is actually a stupid idea. But it was an idea, nonetheless.

Gemma did say she still had a plus one available. And, it wasn't like Mitch had anything going on, she knew that for a fact.

Plus, he knew some of what was going on with Harry, sans many details, but enough to understand why it was a very big deal that she couldn't go into this alone. Uncle Mick would enjoy seeing him too.

Ignoring the text, (Y/N) called Mitch's contact instead. It only took a couple of rings before he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Mitch, are you busy in, like, three weeks?"

"(Y/N)..."

—————

"Are you sure you girls don't need help with anything?"

Gemma whipped around from the stove where she was spreading the different layers to the lasagna. She gave her mother a glare.

"Mum," she reprimanded, "We're fine. You're supposed to be relaxing."

"I know, I know," she sighed, "But, I don't mind helping. I can—"

"No," Gemma cut her off, abandoning her post at the stove to escort her mother back to the glass of chardonnay waiting for her in the living room. "Your only job is to answer the door when the boys get here, and watch your show."

Anne hmphed, casting a playful roll of her eyes only where (Y/N) could see. A huff of laughter left her lips as she watched the mother-daughter duo argue before Anne relented to actually being taken care of for the night. It was sweet, the kind of banter and familiarity they had between one another. It reminded (Y/N) of the relationship she had with her aunt. It was nice to know that her Uncle was marrying into a family like this.

"When will she learn?" Gemma joked when she reentered the kitchen, casting a very familiar roll of her eyes towards (Y/N). "It's like pulling teeth to get her to relax."

"She's too sweet for her own good," (Y/N) said, continuing the chopping of the vegetables for the side salad.

"Her biggest flaw," Gemma sighed, shaking her head.

"I can hear you!"

Anne's shout from the living room drew laughter from both of them.

"Then what did I say?" Gemma shot back, giving (Y/N) a look like watch this.

A pause.

"I don't know, but I know you're whispering!"

Gemma lifted her brows like see. It was enough to pull another peal of laughter from her. It was already shaping up to be quite the night. The last one before the wedding, before Mitch would be in town and the first time she would be forced to speak in a confined room with Harry since arriving.

She had been lucky enough to avoid being alone with him, the activities and rooms having been too busy to catch more than a single glance of him before rushing through. It was the nice part about Anne and Uncle Mick wanting to uphold a bit of tradition, the bridal party and groomsmen being separated as much as possible during this last week.

(As far as (Y/N) remembered, she thought it was only the night before the ceremony where this distance mattered. She wasn't going to correct anyone, though).

But, tonight had come and her sanctuary was on a timer.

In Anne's cozy dining room, there was nowhere to hide from Harry. Especially not when this evening was considered a family dinner.

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth as she kept her eyes on her hands, attempting to focus on the strokes of the knife and not anything else. Especially not the time.

That did seem to work against her, though, when the knock on the door took her by surprise. She hadn't had time to brace herself, school herself into someone who didn't care about whatever happened tonight.

Her throat bobbed when she heard the sound of Anne's front door opening, a familiar set of voices sounding from the stoop.

Gemma practically beamed as she slid the pan of lasagna into the oven before rushing out to meet her husband, who also had her daughter on his hip. (Y/N) lingered back, listening to the sounds of the stitched together family.

This time tomorrow, her uncle would be married and she would have two new siblings. One of them being the man she could hear right now cooing to his niece.

Wiping down the knife and placing it off to the side, (YN) ran a stressed hand through her hair. Seeing her uncle would make her feel better, she thought. She'd start there.

"Hey kid," her uncle murmured when he caught sight of her. His creased eyes lit up as she stepped into his hug. "How are you?"

"I'm good," she smiled, making sure her eyes stayed stitched on his face with not even a peek over his shoulder, "How are you, though? Tomorrow's the day."

(Y/N) could see light practically dancing through his eyes when he cast his own gaze behind himself, where the cooing of a baby and her fawning audience could be heard. "Excited. Really excited."

"Good, good," (Y/N) smiled, suddenly feeling a bit choked up. She wondered if this was how he was going to feel when she had her own wedding (fingers crossed, anyway. She needed to find a partner first before considering a wedding.)

"The lasagna has a few more minutes in the oven, but (Y/N)'s salad is almost done. Harry, you can set the table."

Perking up at the sound of her name, (Y/N) regretted it as soon as she heard Harry's only a moment later. Gemma was playing the role of gracious hostess, though it didn't appear she could turn down the opportunity of bossing her little brother around.

Though, it didn't seem like he minded much at all. Harry only gave a beaming grin to his niece before poking at her stomach and making his way towards the dining room.

For the first time since walking through the door, their eyes met.

(Y/N) felt her throat run dry. The last time she saw those shatters of green, the intensity of his gaze turned in her direction, he had been telling her that there wasn't any room for what she wanted with him. That they were going to be okay—whatever that was supposed to mean.

All after she had so clumsily fallen all over him, even attempting to kiss him.

Harry only cracked a small, polite smile. Not a single dimple or crease on his freckled nose appeared.

"You made a salad tonight?" Uncle Mick asked her, ripping her back to reality, "And you still have all your fingers?"

Turning to face him, (Y/N) plastered a smile on her face, playing into his small joke. "Barely. Gemma had to sew my pinky back on, but I think it should be better by tomorrow."

Her uncle let out a boisterous laugh at her jest, none the wiser to whatever had passed between her and Harry only a breath before.

This was going to be a long dinner.

—————

"Dinner was wonderful, ladies. Thank you."

Uncle Mick handed out praises to the women at the table, though Anne was quick to shrug it off.

"It was all the two girls," she insisted, "I was quarantined to wine-and-couch duties."

(Y/N) didn't have to peek under the table to know that her uncle had squeezed his bride's hand. All she needed to see was the affection that painted his gaze as he looked at her. "Well deserved," he muttered to her before looking to where (Y/N) and Gemma were sitting side-by-side, "Thank you two, then. Everything has been amazing."

Gemma gave a similar reaction to her mother, shrugging it off with a shy smile on her face. "Of course. It's the least we could do for the happy couple, right?"

She gave a look to (Y/N) the shadow of dimples in her cheeks. Too much like Harry, (Y/N) thought. She still made sure to nod and smile along.

"I'm happy everyone liked it," (Y/N) interjected, hoping she sounded more present than she really felt. Especially when she could feel eyes on her—eyes she had been pointedly avoiding all throughout the meal.

Anne stood up, beginning to collect dishes from the mats around the table. "I can start cleaning up, and—"

"Mum, no. I thought Gemma told you that you're not supposed to be doing any hard work tonight."

Harry's clear voice had (Y/N) blinking, her spine stiffening as she kept her eyes on her soon-to-be aunt.

She scoffed at his words. "Doing the dishes in my own home is far from hard work, Harry. You kids—"

"Anne," Uncle Mick piped up, a gentle hand landing on her arm, "Let them take care of this. There's still some time before I think we call it a night, and there's wine still in the bottle."

(Y/N) watched as Anne's eyes softened, features flourishing into a gentle smile.

"Oh alright," she relented, "Just for tonight. And, maybe tomorrow."

That was (Y/N)'s cue to begin collecting the dishes herself. Gemma had done the hard work by putting together the main part of the meal, and deserved a moment with her child and husband. Besides, the quiet of the kitchen and task of taking care of the dishes was what she needed after being on edge during dinner.

"I've got it, then," she offered, beaming a smile to her Uncle, "You guys go relax for a little while."

Arms laden with china and silverware, (Y/N) took to the kitchen while the rest of the family moved onto the other room. A heavy breath left her lips.

She fixed her eyes to the faucet as the sink filled with warm water, soap bubbles forming on the surface.

Truthfully, she knew there wasn't any reason to be so nervous, so stiff, all night. It wasn't like Harry was going to speak about that night out in the open—if he wanted his family to know, he'd had months to expose the facts before now. But, he hadn't.

It was a bit pathetic to admit given the fact they had never even so much as kissed, but seeing him felt a lot like running into an ex. Embarrassing, seeing as he had seen her more vulnerable than she felt comfortable showing. Nerve-wracking, as she wasn't sure what kind of reaction she was going to get from him. And a bit heartbreaking; it was hard to see him knowing there was such a definitive line in the sand.

As if there wasn't always one there, (Y/N) reminded herself. The second they made it to her uncle's house that night, there was always goin to be a barrier between them.

Flicking off the faucet, she got to work cleaning off the dishes. From the living room, she could hear quiet coos from a sleepy baby, and slight laughter amongst a family sharing memories.

That was enough to have the line holding her shoulders taut to give. A family. Everything her uncle deserved.

"Want help?"

(Y/N) practically jumped out of her skin at the sound of the deep, accented voice suddenly joining her in the space.

Whipping her head around, she saw Harry lingering in the threshold of the entrance to the kitchen. He had a short smile on his lips, the ghost of dimples in his cheeks.

Not a real smile. Something polite to be offered to someone he didn't really care to be talking to.

"No, I'm alright,"(Y/N) answered, just as tight. "Thanks, though."

"Are y'sure?" he pressed, taking a cautious step inside the barrier of the tiles, "I could dry while y'wash. It'll cut the time in half, or something like that."

She let out a huff of laughter at his attempt to lighten the mood. She was sure she wasn't the only one feeling a touch of the tension that had gathered.

She figured she couldn't really continue to avoid him forever.

"If you really want to," she relented, letting a genuine, though small, smile curl her lips.

Harry took her words as the invitation needed, crossing the room to join her at the sink. The damp dishes had begun to accumulate on the towel she had laid out at her side. He moved with familiarity through his childhood home, finding another dish towel before pushing up the sleeves of his warm brown sweater.

Just like the first time she had met him, (Y/N) couldn't help but trace her eyes over the cross tattooed on his hand. Seeing the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, she got a view of what she remembered wondering hid between that cloud-cardigan those months ago.

A bare-chested mermaid. A nightmarish beetle. A collection of tiny sketches around an anchor at his wrist.

"So," he started, wiping off the first dish in the pile, "I've barely gotten a chance to talk to y'since we've got here. How have y'been?"

She nodded absently, swiftly turning her gaze to the soapy basin. "I've been alright. Just busy getting the final details figured out with your mom and sister. How about you?"

"Same," he murmured, "'S all gone by so fast. I can't believe 's already tomorrow. I feel like we were jus' meeting for the first time."

He meant for the comment to be something lighthearted. They could bond over the passage of time, right? It was easy to nod her head and laugh, tell him that yes, everything had gone by so fast. But she was excited, nonetheless. That his mother was a wonderful person and she couldn't wait to welcome her into their small family.

Instead, (Y/N) was only able to manage a small smile.

"Yeah. Crazy."

Crazy that it really had only been months since she met Harry while perusing wine for her uncle, thinking he was just a handsome stranger. Someone she could see herself going on a date with.

Now, he was going to be as good as her stepbrother. The revelation left a sour taste in her mouth.

A beat passed.

"(Y/N)," Harry started, one of his rings clinking against the plate in his hand, "If y'want to talk about—"

She shook her head. She didn't need to revisit that night. Especially not right now, while washing his mother's dishes in her sink.

"I don't," she insisted, "Sorry if I'm being weird. I just... I was worried I had scared you off or something, since we haven't talked. But, I'm fine, really."

"You didn't. Scare me off, I mean," Harry answered, the words coming out in a rush as if a reflex. The pile of damp dishes were forgotten for the moment as he turned his attention to her. "I jus' wanted sure if y'wanted to talk to me after... everything."

"Don't worry about it," she answered, sidestepping just how much she wanted to hear anything from him in the time that had passed since the night at the bar. That she wanted to know if he still even tolerated her. "Everything got a little complicated, so it's probably best we didn't—don't. You know?"

Harry's expression seemed to solidify at her words. Unmoving, unchanging, though something seemed to leave from his eyes.

"Yeah," he agreed, a single nod of his head. He waved the cloth in her direction, nonchalant. "We've got a while to figure everything out as long as tomorrow goes well, right?"

"Right," (Y/N) laughed, a little less rigid. While it wasn't the outcome she may have wanted (that was one where he came in on a flying steed, hearts in his eyes, and unwavering conviction in his feelings for her. Or at least trying it out with her), it was the best outcome she could have predicted.

They finished the dishes in silence.

—————

(Y/N) clapped, tears in her eyes as she watched her uncle plant a kiss on his blushing bride. The white of her gauzy dress made Anne's skin glow that much brighter, sweet pink and a warm bronze.

They were now man and wife as the officiant announced, allowing them on their way.

Falling back into her role as dutiful bridesmaid, she followed after Gemma as the procession to the reception began. Glancing at Mitch, she caught him biting back a smile. She knew he would have something to say about her sobbing two seconds into the ceremony.

Getting out of the chilly garden and into the reception venue was a needed transition. (Y/N) hadn't even realized her fingers were turning to icicles until the heat from the hall wrapped around her.

It was quiet in the space. Only a select few of the venue staff milling about as they made the finishing touches on the reception space, and a newly knitted family were present. Much like herself, Gemma had tiny tears in her eyes as she reached for her daughter from her husband's hip. Harry had his mother wrapped up in a long hug.

It was her uncle that brought her attention away from the embrace. He murmured something to her, the words a bit garbled through his thick throat before he had her in his arms.

(Y/N) didn't hesitate before she was reciprocating the hold. She tucked herself against his chest, feeling just as safe as the day he had told her that she was going to be taken care of now that he was there. The memory only made her snuggle that much closer to him.

"Congratulations, dad," she whispered, choking up hearing the title she only rarely used. She knew it had the same effect on him when he clutched her tighter, a shuddering breath wracking his chest.

"Thanks for being here, kiddo. Love you."

"Love you, too."

All too soon, her uncle was whisked away to take photos with his bride, the photographer eager to capture the moments with that blissful glow on their faces. Family shots had been taken prior to the ceremony, when everyone's makeup and hair were in perfect condition, leaving (Y/N) a moment alone for the first time that day.

It wasn't until she was putting on her false lashes that she had heard Harry had brought a date. She knew that there was no reason to have any kind of reaction to that revelation, especially since she had also invited Mitch. And yet, there was still that sour, churning feeling in her stomach.

While it wasn't a thought she nurtured or had the guts to admit, there had been a lingering hope in her that maybe, with everything twisted up and complicated, that there could be something worked out. That Harry was so unhappy with the distance as she was.

But, he had brought a date. Someone serious enough to invite to a family wedding, though not serious enough to mention to her when they were washing the dishes the night before.

That was fine. He could do whatever he wanted, just as (Y/N) was doing.

And neither of them were going to be heartbroken. Least of all (Y/N).

—————

"Are you sure that's his date?"

(Y/N) only grumbled through her spoonful of gelato. That counted as the third time Mitch had questioned Harry's choice of plus one. And the third time (Y/N) thought she made it abundantly clear that she wasn't interested in speaking on the details of the coupling. It was bad enough explaining to everyone that Mitch was just a friend instead of a boyfriend, he didn't also have to rub it in that Harry had brought a real date.

"(Y/N), don't get mad at me," Mitch warned, casting his eyes over her head towards the dance floor, "I'm just asking. Because he's barely talked to her all night."

"Well, that's rude of him, then," (Y/N) cemented, taking another bite of her birthday cake gelato. This dessert had been Gemma's idea—about the same cost as a cake, but many more people could eat from the bar and there wouldn't be a handful of leftover slices that the family would be forced to take home.

"Will you still think that if I tell you it's been because he's too busy looking at you?"

She glared at Mitch through furrowed brows. "Right."

"I'm serious," he hedged, bouncing his brows before tipping his head towards her, urging her to look at her back. "If you turn around right now, you'll see."

"Just because he's looking at me, doesn't mean anything. He's my brother now, Mitch."

Reaching for his drink, Mitch didn't look very believing in the story she was spinning. "I would be a little nervous if I had a brother look at me the way he is right now."

"What does that mean?"

He knew he had her then, a crooked smile on his lips. "Look for yourself."

Giving in, (Y/N) pretending to stretch in her spot. She pasted an easy smile on her face as she nonchalantly turned to look over her shoulder.

There, on the dance floor, with his niece on his hip, Harry's cheeks flushed. He quickly looked away, having been caught by (Y/N) as he gazed at her. His date was fluttering around, speaking to Gemma and her husband with an easy smile on her face. She was familiar with the family—more familiar than (Y/N) would think a new girlfriend would be.

But, that wasn't any of her business.

Turning back to Mitch, she attempted to look as if nothing she saw had even sparked a train of thought in her mind.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Right," he drawled, sly smile on his face. "And, he's not coming over here, right now."

"What?" (Y/N) bubbled, suddenly at attention. Her cup of gelato created in her tightened grip. Whipping her head around, she stopped in her tracks, expression dropping. No one was walking over to their table—let alone Harry.

A burst of laughter came from her date.

"That wasn't nice," she said, fighting back her own laughter. Truthfully, while it was pathetic how easy it was to get her to react, she knew if the tables were turned, she wouldn't be able to contain her giggles at Mitch's desperation.

He shrugged. "It was funny, though." He took a long sip of his drink, ice clinking together. "If you're so jumpy, I don't know why you haven't gone to talk to him at all."

"Mitch," (Y/N) started, finally abandoning the remnants of her gelato, "It's just not the right time. You already know everything, so."

"So what? He obviously wants to at least talk to you. Just put him out of his misery."

(Y/N) shook her head. "Even if things weren't complicated, he brought a date, Mitch. I don't think he's really dying for my company."

"So?" he repeated, raising his brows, "You brought a date, too. And it's me."

She could only roll her lips between her teeth. She wasn't going to examine the point he was making.

"I'm going to get a drink."

—————

(Y/N) felt entirely too accomplished when Gemma's daughter burst into another round of laughter at the shapes she was throwing on the dance floor. It was easy to make her laugh now that she knew what made the little girl giggle, but it still felt like an all star achievement every time a bubbling peal left her heart-shaped lips.

"Auntie (Y/N) is just so silly, isn't she?" Gemma babbled to her daughter, equally delighted to hear her having so much fun. The later the night went, the more and more of a miracle it was that she hadn't grown fussy and in need of a bedtime.

Just as she was about to make another uncoordinated movement, a gentle hand landed on (Y/N)'s shoulder. She saw the gleaming diamond ring adorning the fourth finger first, already knowing who it belonged to.

"Could I cut in, girls? Sorry to ruin the fun," Anne asked, her beaded gown trailing behind her as she beamed at her granddaughter, "It's my turn to dance with Aunt (Y/N)." She paused, glancing over. "If that's alright, anyway."

"Yes, of course, of course," (Y/N) bubbled off, "We'll just finish our dance battle later."

"I'd watch out if I were you," Gemma teased, "After a snack, this one is going to run you out of town, I'm afraid."

"I'd like to see her try," (Y/N) played along, narrowing her eyes despite the smile attempting to take over her mouth.

Gemma walked away with a laugh, taking her daughter back to her husband. A happy little family, they were.

"I can't believe you're still at it," Anne laughed, swaying along to the music with (Y/N), "I can barely handle standing in these shoes, and you've been dancing like nothing."

(Y/N) lifted the hem of her dress, showing off her socked feet. "I took my heels off hours ago. I got through one dance before I had to make a choice."

Anne let out a boisterous laugh. The champagne bubbles from the number of toasts recited throughout the night had seemingly had their intended effect. From the corner of her eye, (Y/N) could see both her Uncle Mick and Harry looking in their direction, affectionate smiles on their faces.

"I'm just happy you're having a good time," Anne crooned, blissful smile stuck to her features, "I was getting worried."

A furrow pinched (Y/N)'s brows. "You were? Why?"

A heavy sigh left her lips. "I told Mick I wouldn't say anything," she started, casting her eyes to her new husband, "But, I've just been worried about you and H."

(Y/N)'s movements lagged in time to the music. "Me and Harry?"

"Don't tell him I told you," she rushed out, "But, he said there was something? I can't remember exactly what he said, but he just seemed really upset when I told him you were bringing a date, and when I asked what was wrong he just said it was complicated, or something like that. I could tell something was going on last night, but I didn't want to push."

In so many words, Anne was laying out her mother's intuition. Despite neither she nor Harry divulging any secrets, Anne had been able to pick up on the words between the lines.

"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, her grip on the skirt of her dress tightening.

Anne chewed on her bottom lip before speaking again. "I know it's not any of my business, you kids are adults and can do whatever you want—or don't want. But, I think you should talk to him. If it's complicated in the way I think, I want you to know that... It's okay. Complicated things happen all the time, but that doesn't mean it has to be impossible."

Champagne was a hell of a drug.

"Right," (Y/N) answered, a tight smile on her face. "Thank you, Anne. I think I need some air, I'll be right back."

Before much else could be said, Anne's brother popped in to steal her away for a dance. The heavy subject she had just dropped on (Y/N) was forgotten, instead excited to chat with someone new for the time being.

That left (Y/N) to swiftly creep out of the venue and into the garden that had previously been fashioned into an elegant aisle for the ceremony.

The chilly air she had been eager to get out of earlier now felt like a balm on her skin. In so many words, Anne had basically given permission for (Y/N) to do whatever she wanted when it came to Harry. Despite the marriage that had just connected them as family.

It was both freeing and heavy as she stood in the garden.

Freeing to know that even from someone both removed but so close to the situation, she didn't think (Y/N) was catastrophically insane or unnervingly gross for even considering Harry as someone.

Heavy to know that they hadn't been quite as undercover as she hoped. Not everyone would agree with Anne's ruling, and (Y/N) dreaded the idea of finding out just who could be on the opposing side. Including Harry and the date he brought tonight.

The music from inside seeped through the open windows. As if reading the mood from even out here, the DJ had switched to a slow song. The singing violins and melodic voice of the singer floated around (Y/N), making it that much easier to be a bit melodramatic as she trailed her finger of a wilting cornflower, the hue matching the color of her dress.

"There you are."

(Y/N) didn't have to turn to know who had joined her in the garden. The voice alone was enough to have her spine straightening, goosebumps sparking over her skin.

She offered a quiet smile to Harry as she dropped her hand from the flower. "Here I am," she said, "Is everything okay?"

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. A wilting periwinkle flower went lopsided in his breast pocket.

"Yeah, jus' saw y'with mum and then y'disappeared. I wanted to make sure y'were alright."

"I'm fine," she offered, "It got a little stuffy in there, that's all."

"Well," he started, moving towards her until his toes were just on the edge between the patio and the garden, "Y'missed our dates sneaking off together."

(Y/N) blanched at the information. "Are you joking? I'm so sorry, oh my god. I'll find Mitch right now, I can't be—"

"No, no," Harry laughed, "'S fine. Sarah's been asking me about him since he got here anyway. I know it was only a matter of time."

"Oh," she sounded, settling at the information Harry was sharing, "So Sarah's not...?"

Harry shook his head. "She's a friend I've had for years. Mum loves her, so she was coming whether or not she came as m'plus one. This way she got to pick where she sat."

(Y/N) laughed. Half from the practicality of this woman's choices, as well as a wave of relief that ran over her. So he hadn't brought a date tonight. Only a friend that was seemingly much more interested in (Y/N)'s date.

"Mitch is just a friend, too," (Y/N) clarified, pretending as if she didn't hear Anne's voice in the back of her head as she offered the information.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Otherwise, I was going to have to follow them and beat him up or something."

"No need," (Y/N) sighed, "He'd be sad if you did that, anyway. He thinks you're cool."

Harry's eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Don't get too ahead of yourself," (Y/N) warned, biting back a smile, "He only said that when I told him you put together the music list for the DJ. He thinks you have good taste."

"Well, he's not wr—"

"I had to break it to him that you think frosé is better than actual rosé. I think he's still coming to terms with it."

Mock offense took over Harry's features. "How dare you? I told y'that in confidence."

(Y/N) shrugged, a playful smile painted on her lips. "I had to save him the trouble of finding out on his own. He never would have recovered."

Harry shook his head. "'S not even that bad, I don't get it."

"Coming from someone who thinks frosé is the best wine offering, that makes sense."

He playfully nudged his shoulder against hers, shaking his head. A beat passed between them, the muffled voices from inside spilling out into the courtyard.

"I saw y'talking to mum," Harry started, switching off the subject with the tease falling out of his voice, "Looked a little intense."

She hoped he didn't catch the way her spine stiffened. "It wasn't anything serious," she lied, "Just got a little emotional with everything."

When Harry didn't immediately answer, (Y/N) chanced a look in his direction. He already had his eyes trained on her, shatters of green examining her features with raspberry lips rolled between his teeth.

"What?"

"She didn't—" Harry started, cutting himself off before reorienting himself, "It wasn't about anything complicated?"

(Y/N) blinked. Had their conversation really been that loud?

"Harry, I didn't tell her anything," (Y/N) insisted, "She said she just had a feeling, but I didn't—I don't know how she knew—"

"I told her," Harry piped up, dropping his eyes to the grass at their feet, "Kind of. She could tell something's been going on, and she asked once. She thought I didn't like y'or something. I jus' told her it was complicated, but that must have been enough."

He let out a huff of laughter though she was sure neither of them were feeling particularly humorous at the moment.

"'M sorry if she made y'feel uncomfortable or anything. She jus' wants me to be happy, and—"

"She told me it was okay."

Harry went silent at her admission. Raspberry lips rolled between his teeth.

(Y/N) waited, a breeze playing with her dress.

"She said it was okay? That... whatever she thought was happening between me and you, was okay?"

(Y/N) nodded.

She watched as the very corners of his lips turned upwards.

"Your uncle said the same thing."

A furrow had (Y/N)'s brows pinching above her pointed gaze. "When?"

Harry's lips stretched into a full smile. "Jus' now."

It took a moment to process the fact that Harry was telling her this information with a grin on his face. Nothing polite and short. A real, dimple-baring, nose scrunching smile.

He was happy. He was happy to hear this news.

That whatever had started those months ago was okay. Whatever that meant for them.

"This is good," (Y/N) whispered, voice melding with the music from inside the venue, "Right?"

There was a part of her that wanted to close the distance between them. Crush the grass under her socked feet and cup his jaw between her palms. To slot her lips between his and kiss him. To do the one thing she had been holding back from since that first dinner at her uncle's house.

But, she needed to wait. She wasn't going to have another moment like that in the hotel room. If Harry wanted her, he was going to have to say it, otherwise she was staying rig—

Taking the leap for her, Harry closed the distance in one long stride. He gently took the line of her jaw in his hands, tipping her head up until the tips of their noses were touching. The length of his lashes were only a breath away from tangling with hers.

"Really good," he breathed, waiting for her.

That was all she needed to hear before she was stretching to the tips of her toes, pressing her lips to his.

Harry steadied her with his hands on either side of her face, guiding her into this first kiss. He took her bottom lip between his two, his kiss lingering and sweet. The only urgency came from the fact that they both knew just how long they had waited for this moment, though there was no reason to rush through it.

She could taste the pistachio gelato he had earlier in the night, alongside the sweet wine served by the bar. With each tip and tilt of her head, she felt the tip of his nose grazing hers, the scruff of his chin against her own, the soft give of his mouth. Reaching up, she bundled her fingers into the lapels of his jacket, keeping the lines of their bodies close together.

(Y/N) no longer felt the chill in the air, consumed by the feeling of Harry's kiss. This was worth waiting for. Worth the complications, and the uncertainty. Worth bringing Mitch to a family wedding just for him to disappear with someone else's date. (Something she was going to expect a thank you over, if he and Sarah worked out past a hookup).

Harry drew away first, though only far enough to rest his forehead against hers. Blinking her eyes open, she found him already looking at her, half-lidded with blown pupils.

"'M sorry," he murmured, the fullest points of his lips grazing her own, "About the last time. I should have—I didn't want to leave, I jus'—"

"It's okay," (Y/N) whispered, puckering her lips to give him a delicate kiss, "I get it. It hurt at the time, but I understand. Everything was just too much then."

A slight quirk angled his lips. "Complicated, right?"

(Y/N) couldn't contain the small huff of laughter that fanned from her lungs. "Exactly."

Tipping his chin, Harry sealed his lips to hers in a lingering kiss. His hands on her jaw slid down, following the line of her arms until he reached her hands.

"We should go back inside."

Lacing her fingers between his, (Y/N) made no move to head back inside the venue.

"Do we?"

A light danced through his eyes. Casting a glance at the party going on behind them, Harry tightened his hold on her hands.

"I think we could wait a little longer. Don't you?"

All (Y/N) could do was attempt to kiss him through her smile.

—————

thank u sm for reading! sorry for any mistakes and if you have any fun ideas or requests of your own pleaseee send them in!

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bookshelfdreams · 4 months ago

Text

Now for something nice.

Christmas of 2023 my mother gave me a green fleece. 1kg of not very fine carded wool with very short staple length. But free fibre is free fibre, and I spent a good portion of 2024 spinning it.

And spinning it.

I plied the singles with ones spun from a combed top (also a robust blend from Germany that I dyed myself) for stability. Then I put it all in a basket and let it sit for a few months.

But now I think I know what I want to make from it and dug out the loom (it's too much to knit with and not fine enough for knitting anyway). But first, maths!

Turns out I have a meterage of about 300m/100g, 1.5kg in total, which is A Lot! And should hopefully be enough for a little garment. I'm gonna do a 3m warp this time and I should have enough to make 2 batches of fabric. I'm gonna do a twill again, but I'm using the 40/10 heddles, which are the second smallest. I don't want the fabric to be super dense.

The warp is warped!

And the threads are being threaded!

Next time, I will hopefully have some weaving to show off.

#look at my chunky braids!#sometimes you need to do some insane crafting to keep up with the insanity of the world ya feel #well this isnt even that insane overall #moss trousers #i think was the tag for this but i dont think i want to make trousers anymore #weaving #crafts

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meatsaint · 6 months ago

Text

The Genius, Michael Gavey.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.

English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.

oneshot.

Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too—though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.

It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.

When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.

Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.

So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.

When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.

What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.

Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.

That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.

He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.

“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.

“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.

“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.

And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.

But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.

People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?

He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.

But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.

"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.

"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.

But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.

"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.

He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.

"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.

His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.

"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.

He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.

"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.

"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.

Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.

"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.

They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.

"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.

"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.

A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.

But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.

Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."

Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.

"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.

His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.

And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.

"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.

His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.

"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.

You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.

"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.

You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.

"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.

You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.

Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.

He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.

"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.

He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.

His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.

"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.

"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.

He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.

He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.

"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.

"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.

"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.

Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.

#smut #michael gavey #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #aemond targaryen #aemond #house of the dragon #oneshot #saltburn #fanfic #x reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond

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almostwisegalaxy · 17 days ago

Text

The forbidden in his eyes

Go hyun-tak x Sieun Sister!reader

Part 2 of UP to two Read this first I beg you

The reader has a shy character in this story

.................................………………………………………

Initially, Si-eun wasn't wary.

Hyun-tak was always the quiet one, but he saw everything. A quiet rock. He never took the lead unless necessary, and yet, he was always there when needed. That was his strength. And it was surely what had reassured Y/N, even if she didn't say it.

It was gradual.

The first time was a quick trip to the local park. A break between classes, a desire for fresh air. Humin had yelled at pigeons, Juntae had gotten lost in his own thoughts as usual, and Si-eun had seen, in the distance, Y/N sitting on a bench. And Hyun-tak… standing next to her, offering her an ice cream. She had smiled. He had looked away.

No one said anything. But Si-eun felt it.

That something, there. Slight but very real. An invisible thread between the two of them.

It intensified over the weeks.

Y/N, usually reluctant to stay in overly noisy groups, more often agreed to join them. But not for them. For him.

"Is Gogo coming?" she would sometimes ask, in a detached tone that was anything but innocent.

The first time she called him that, "Gogo," everyone burst out laughing. Except Hyun-tak, who turned beet red.

"Why do you call him that?" Humin grumbled.

"I don't know. Gotak, it's ugly. Gogo, it's softer."

And as if it were obvious, it stuck. Gogo this, Gogo that.

Even Juntae smiled, with his enigmatic look. But Si-eun frowned. He didn't say anything that day. He just watched Hyun-tak out of the corner of his eye.

Y/N was tactile. That wasn't new.

She'd cling to his arm when they walked together. She'd rest her head on his shoulder on the subway when she was tired. She'd take Si-eun's hand without warning, like when she was little. And yet… it wasn't the same with Hyun-tak.

It was never her who changed. It was him.

Every time she placed her hand on his shoulder, Hyun-tak became stiffer. Every time she laughed at one of his jokes—and only his—he would pinch his lips to keep from smiling too broadly. And most of all… he'd blush. Like a living blush. guy...

Every single time.

And Y/N? She saw nothing.

She continued to talk, to laugh, to tug on his sleeve, to complain about her homework, to thank him for a snack, to sit just a little too close.

But it was always him who looked away. Who pretended. Who whispered to himself: You don't have the right.

Hyun-tak knew.

He kept telling himself it was stupid. That it was temporary. That she was fifteen, and he was seventeen. It wasn't much, maybe. But in his head, it was a barrier. A forbidden line. He told himself he wasn't good enough for her.

Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Too used to solving problems with his fists. Too awkward with words.

And yet, he couldn't help but stay. To be there. To reach out when she stumbled. To give her his jacket when she was cold. To send her a message at night when he knew she'd had a bad day.

She didn't always reply.

But when she did, it was with these simple little words:

- Thanks, Gogo.

- You save my day.

And he would sit on his bed, phone on his chest, eyes closed, his heart a little too heavy.

He didn't have the right.

But he didn't want to distance himself either.

One afternoon, they found themselves alone, without the others. Y/N had invited him, almost without thinking.

"Can you help me study for math? Oppa's not here, and I hate equations."

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he accepted.

At her place, it was quiet. Clean. A little messy too. Books, folded clothes, snacks hidden in a corner of the desk. She was comfortable. He, less so.

She had put on an oversized sweater. Did it belong to him? He preferred not to ask.

She sat on the floor, legs crossed, the textbook open in front of her.

"Explain this to me," she said, pointing to a problem.

He knelt beside her, tried to explain.

She understood quickly. And smiled.

"You're really not dumb, Gogo."

"You're better than you think you are."

"You're cute when you say that like it's nothing."

He looked at her. A little too long.

She didn't even notice.

That evening, Si-eun came home early.

He found them both in the living room, bent over a notebook. Nothing suspicious. Just… too close. Too fluid. Too natural.

Y/N looked up and said, cheerfully:

"Oppa, Gogo saved me from despair!"

Hyun-tak stood up, nervously, hands in his pockets.

"I'm going to go."

He avoided Si-eun's gaze. Y/N, meanwhile, continued to put her things away as if nothing had happened.

But Si-eun felt his stomach clench.

It wasn't that he didn't like Hyun-tak.

It might even have been the opposite.

He was the most reliable of them all. The one who fought without hesitation to protect others. Who had never betrayed, never lied, never fled. When they were in trouble, he was the one who stood firm without thinking. He was loyal, upright, courageous.

But Si-eun was struggling.

Too much.

To see him look at Y/N like that.

With that mixture of silent admiration, contained tenderness, and guilt. Si-eun saw it. He read it in his gestures, in his silences.

That look… it didn't belong to a mere friend.

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

***

A few days later, it was a rainy day.

Y/N had missed her bus. She had called Hyun-tak. Not her brother. Him.

He had run to her stop, found her soaked, shivering. She had tried to joke.

"You're allowed to tell me I'm an idiot, go ahead."

He removed his jacket without answering and placed it over her shoulders. Then, simply:

"I can't leave you like this."

They walked slowly, under an umbrella that was too small. She laughed. He blushed. And in that fine rain, he had wanted to take her hand.

But he didn't.

He didn't have the right.

Si-eun watched them from afar.

He still said nothing.

But his fists sometimes clenched, for no reason. His gaze became harder. Not towards Hyun-tak. Nor towards Y/N. Just… towards this reality he couldn't control.

He wanted to protect her. Like before. Like always.

But he also knew… that he couldn't keep her away from the world. Not forever.

And most of all, that she would choose him herself.

Even if she didn't realize it.

Even if "Gogo" remained a silly nickname in the eyes of others.

For her, he had become a landmark.

And that…

that scared Si-eun more than anything.

---

POV Hyun-tak

He should have backed away long ago.

He knew it.

He had known it the first time she ran to him with that smile too big for her still-round cheeks, when she grabbed his arm without asking permission, when she called him Gogo as if it were normal.

No one called him that. No one dared.

But she did. Without thinking. Without barriers.

And he said nothing.

He should have pushed her away, acted distant. He didn't. Because he was weak. Because in this world of chaos, blows, pain, and silence, she was light.

Not a blinding light.

A gentle flame.

Something rare. Fragile. Terribly alive.

Y/N was tactile. She always had been. She clung to the people she loved. She tugged on sleeves, tapped arms, leaned back without warning, slipped her fingers into his without realizing. And with him, it was worse.

He had tried everything to convince himself it meant nothing. That he could handle it. That he could be the one who stayed, solid, unmoving. But sometimes, when she laughed, gently hitting his shoulder, when she clung to his bag, he wanted to scream.

Scream at himself.

Because he felt too much. And she, nothing.

Not like him.

She was at an age where you live through others. Where you heal through those you think you understand. She didn't see his glances, his silences, his trembling. She didn't feel the tension in his arm when she unexpectedly hugged him. She didn't see the fire burning in his chest when she half-fell asleep on his shoulder during bus rides.

She was just herself. Spontaneous. Carefree. Without malice.

And he…

He was drowning.

He suspected Si-eun had noticed.

He wasn't blind.

He felt his gaze linger longer, heavier, when Y/N shamelessly clung to him. He saw his jaw clench, his fists tighten. He recognized that tension in his eyes, that fine blade of worry beneath his voice.

But that day, it was no longer suspicion. It was fire.

They were alone. In front of the high school. The others had left. Y/N too.

Si-eun had called him in a calm tone. Too calm. He knew that tone. It was the calm before the storm. The one used when words become more powerful than shouts.

"We need to talk."

Hyun-tak said nothing. He nodded.

They stopped at the corner of a building, by the wall, where no one lingered at that hour. It was grey. The cold wind whipped their faces.

And then Si-eun spoke. Straight into his eyes.

"You're going to stay away from her."

A blade.

Simple.

Cold.

Hyun-tak didn't flinch. But his heart skipped a beat.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"So?"

"I… I understand."

A terrible silence.

But Si-eun didn't let up.

"Do you think I hate you?"

Hyun-tak clenched his teeth. His gaze trembled.

"No."

"Do you think I take you for a jerk?"

"No."

"Then why haven't you moved? Why do you let her cling to you? Why do you look at her like that?!"

The voice rose. And the blow landed—not a fist. Just a mental slap. A sharp word.

Hyun-tak opened his mouth. Then closed it. He felt tiny. Ridiculous. Ashamed.

But he had to speak.

"Because I love her."

The word was uttered. Slowly. Like a secret being buried. A pain being bled.

Si-eun took a step back. Not shocked. Not surprised. Just… broken.

"You love her?"

"I know I don't have the right."

"You love her?!" Si-eun repeated, his voice broken this time.

Hyun-tak felt his breath shorten.

"I love her like you love what you've never had. Like a fixed point in an unstable life. I love her because she smiles like she's never suffered. Because she still sees beauty in ugly things. Because she truly laughs. And because, when she touches me, I feel like I exist."

A silence fell.

Hyun-tak wiped away a tear before it fell.

"But I won't do anything. I swear. I never have. I never will. I'm not that kind of guy. I already hate myself enough."

Si-eun lowered his head.

And then, in a whisper:

"I respect you, Hyun-tak. You're my friend. You've saved me more than once. I'd trust you with my life. But my sister…"

He looked up.

"My sister isn't just someone. She's all I have. She's the only person I've ever wanted to protect, before myself. Before everything. You were there when she was broken. You saw her in pieces. You saw how she put herself back together. And you're important in that too. But now…"

He paused.

"Now you have to choose. Either you keep making her smile, in silence, from a distance. Or you leave."

Hyun-tak didn't answer immediately.

He felt his heart screaming. His throat was dry. His eyes burned.

But he nodded.

"I'll keep my distance."

It was a lie. Not about the action—he would do it. But about the pain. He knew he would stay. That he would burn in silence. That he would live beside her, without ever having her. That every time she touched him, he would turn away. Every time she spoke too close, he would step back. That he would become a wall.

And it would hurt.

But he would do it.

For her.

For Si-eun.

For himself.

Because sometimes, loving means staying away.

That evening, he went home, alone. He locked the door. He sat on the floor, back against the wall.

He buried his head in his arms. And he cried. Silently.

No sobs. Just tears. Burning. Relentless. Uncontrollable.

Because sometimes, the heart doesn't understand that what it wants, it cannot have.

And that even sincere, tender, honest love…

… can hurt.

And be forbidden.

---

POV HYUN-TAK

Distancing himself from her. He had decided.

It was what he had to do. What Si-eun expected. What a good friend, an honest man, would do. Not what he wanted. But since when did desires have a place in this kind of equation?

So, he put distance between them.

It wasn't brutal. Just… gradual. He replied less. No longer laughed at her jokes. No longer allowed himself to be touched. When she walked past him, he pretended to be distracted. He no longer responded to her nicknames. He no longer looked at her. At least not when she could see him.

She understood.

Not everything. But enough.

Y/N wasn't stupid. Nor blind. She had first thought it was a passing mood. Then, she insisted, a little. He held firm. Until she confronted him.

"Why are you ignoring me?" she blurted out, her brows furrowed, a tremor in her voice.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm not ignoring you. It's just… better this way."

"Better for whom?" she retorted, her voice higher.

He clenched his fists. She was there, in front of him, two steps away. Her presence consumed him. She didn't understand. And he couldn't explain.

"Y/N… I'm tired. That's all."

That's all ? A lie.

She stared at him for a long time, her lips pressed together. Then she whispered:

"It's my brother, isn't it? He said something to you."

He didn't answer. And that was the worst mistake.

She took a step back, her face frozen. Tears didn't come easily to Y/N. But her gaze… it was broken.

"It's him. You're not saying anything, so it's him."

She turned on her heel. Without another word.

Later, he learned they had argued. She and Si-eun. It wasn't common. They were bound by years of silent survival, of shared pain. But this time, she had confronted him. And Si-eun hadn't denied it.

He didn't know what they had said to each other. But the next day, she walked past him without a word.

And that… that hurt more than anything.

He swore to himself to hold on. Because even if it tore him apart, it was better this way. She needed to be free. To grow up without him in her footsteps. To become who she was meant to be, without his burning glances at her back.

But Y/N… she was a flame. And flames don't accept walls.

One day, she came back to him. He was sitting on the steps behind the gym, where he often went when he needed air.

She sat next to him without saying anything.

The silence was thick. Almost heavy.

Then she whispered:

"I'm mad at you."

He turned his head towards her. She was looking straight ahead, her legs pulled up to her chest.

"You don't understand what you mean to me. And you disappeared without warning me. Without telling me why. What do you think I am? A child? A clinging girl? I'm not stupid, Gogo."

The nickname echoed in his chest. He had to close his eyes to keep from faltering.

"Y/N, I…"

"Shut the fuck up."

She was trembling. Not from cold. From anger.

"Do you think you're helping me? You're hurting me. You're hurting me like no one else."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because if a single word crossed his lips, he wouldn't be able to stop. He would tell her he loved her, that he dreamed of her, that she haunted his thoughts. And he didn't have the right.

A few days later, they all got caught up in a situation that went bad.

An old score to settle with a former group. Nothing new. Except this time, Y/N was there.

She shouldn't have been there. She was never there when things got serious. But that evening, she had decided to follow Si-eun and the others, despite her classes. Maybe to keep an eye on him. Maybe to prove something to herself.

When Hyun-tak understood what was happening—the ambush, the familiar faces of those who came for them, the improvised weapons in their pockets—his blood ran cold.

He searched for Y/N with his eyes.

She was there. Too close.

"Y/N. Leave." His voice was firm.

She frowned.

"Huh? No, why?"

"Leave! Now!"

"But I…"

"Y/N! GET OUT!"

She flinched. He never yelled. Never at her. She remained frozen.

Then he grabbed her arm, pushed her towards an alley.

"You have to leave. Run until you hear nothing more. Do you understand me?!"

"But why? It's not serious, I can—"

"You shouldn't be here! Don't you understand, damn it! I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE!"

She opened her mouth. And saw it.

The look.

That of a boy who is scared. For her. Who trembles at the mere thought of her being touched. It wasn't anger. It was raw panic. Naked.

She backed away. Slowly. Then she turned on her heel.

He watched her disappear. And at that moment, he felt something within him collapse.

He had just yelled at her. Forced her to leave. As if she were a burden. As if she were a problem.

But she was none of that.

She was the only precious thing in this rotten world.

And he had pushed her away again.

The fight was short. Violent. A little disorganized. They got out of it. But in Hyun-tak's heart, something had frozen.

He wasn't afraid of dying. He was afraid she would be hurt.

When he got home that night, he clenched his fists so hard that his nails left marks.

He sat on the floor, back against the wall. Again.

And he hated himself.

Y/N, for her part, didn't come back to him in the following days. Not like before.

She looked at him from afar. Her eyes dark, hurt. Silent.

She didn't know he loved her. But she knew he had pushed her away. She knew he was keeping his distance. And for her, that was already too much.

And him?

He acted as if he was fine.

He smiled in front of the others. He laughed with Hu-min. He listened to Juntae. He talked with Si-eun, as if nothing had happened.

But as soon as she entered a room, he stopped breathing.

Because love, true love, isn't happiness.

It's a constant burn.

A fire that cannot be extinguished.

And that must be hidden so as not to burn everything down.

---

For the past few days, a new sensation had been forming within Hyun-tak. A burning he had never felt before, and one he couldn't name at first. It wasn't disgust. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't sorrow. It was anger. Pure. Cold. Muffled. Against Si-eun.

Because he had seen Y/N crumble. He had seen her struggle against rejection, against incomprehension, against a suffering that was far too heavy for her still-teenage shoulders. And Si-eun had let her down. He had his reasons, Hyun-tak was sure of it. But that excused nothing.

He resented Si-eun for imposing this distance. For looking him straight in the eye and telling him to stay away from her. He resented him for hurting her.

And most of all, he resented himself for listening.

That night, he was on his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His phone vibrated once, then a second time. An alert. The location app they had installed together, as friends, as a joke. Y/N was in a weird place.

He frowned. A nightclub?

He called Si-eun immediately.

"Why is Y/N in a damn club?!"

Silence on the other end of the line. Then:

"What?!"

"Check the app. She's in a damn club. Explain to me what she's doing there?!"

He heard Si-eun's hurried movements. Then the call cut off.

Hyun-tak jumped up, pulling on a jacket. He couldn't wait. Not this time.

Y/N was already outside the club when Si-eun found her. She swayed, dishevelled, a tight black dress clinging to her slender hips. She was scarlet, her cheeks flushed, her eyes washed out by alcohol.

"What did you do, Y/N?! You just took off like that without saying anything?!"

She turned her head towards him and laughed. A bitter, grating, joyless laugh.

"You want to know? Nothing. I was just tired of being invisible. Tired of you, of Gogo, of your secrets and your orders."

He took her arm to drag her to the apartment. She walked with difficulty, dragging her feet. Halfway there, she collapsed onto the pavement, sitting down like a spoiled child.

"I don't want to go home!" she cried. "Let me go, I'm sick of you both!"

She was screaming. Hoarse, tearing cries. The kind that comes from too deep to be calmed.

"EVERYTHING is my fault, isn't it?! I don't have the right to exist as I want! I don't have the right to love the people I want! No right to live!"

"Y/N, stop…"

"NO! You're lecturing me when you've messed up my life! You and your damn silence! You're not my father, you're not even a real brother sometimes!"

And that's when Hyun-tak arrived.

He stopped dead when he saw her. Sitting on the ground. Her arms dangling. Her hair dishevelled. Her legs exposed. A dress too adult for her. A sadness too great for her body.

Something exploded inside him.

"Are you stupid or what?!" he roared. "Have you been drinking?! What did you do in that shitty club?!"

She looked up at him. And she smiled. A sad, defensive smile.

"Oh, Gogo. You came too. Great. Come lecture me too."

"Do you think this is a game?! What do you want to happen to you? Do you think we can protect you all the time, huh?!"

He was yelling. Loudly. His voice trembled. His fist was clenched, his breath short.

"Do you want us to find you in an alley, clothes torn and eyes empty?! Do you want to end up like that?!"

She sprang to her feet, stumbling.

"I'll do what I want! You're not my father either!"

"And do you think I want to be, damn it?! I-"

He cut himself off. Because he was about to say something he would regret.

Y/N was crying.

Big, painful, desperate tears. She hit her chest with her fist.

"You don't love me! No one really loves me! I'm just a damn burden!"

"That's not true!" Hyun-tak cried. "That's so untrue…"

But she wasn't listening anymore. She was still screaming. She was in ruins.

And so was he.

He took a step forward, then two. Then he stopped.

She was magnificent.

Not beautiful. Magnificent. Broken, lost, but so alive. With her red eyes, her dangling arms, her crumpled dress, her cries of pure pain. She was truth incarnate. And he loved her. God, how he loved her.

And he wanted her to hate him.

Because if she loved him… he could never let her go again.

He took her in his arms, without a word. She let him, empty. He slipped his back under her arms and lifted her against him. She was light. Burning. He carried her as one carries what one never wants to break.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

But their hearts screamed.

---

The sun filtered gently through the thin curtains, caressing the sheets with a warm light. Y/N slowly blinked, her stomach still knotted with the emotions from the day before. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was: there, in Hyun-tak's living room, stretched out on the old sofa he'd always refused to change.

Her throat was dry, her head heavy. And yet, something else tore her from her stupor: voices.

Voices arguing.

Gotak's, first, nervous, laced with anger.

"You think that's enough for me ?! You put a barrier between us and now you want to act like everything's fine?!"

And Si-eun's, lower, tired. But sincere.

"I don't want to separate you anymore. You're the one who's angry. Not me."

Y/N slowly sat up, straining her ears, her heart beating faster.

"I tried to do what was right," Si-eun said. "I messed up. But I thought it was what I needed to do to protect her."

"You think by moving away from her, you're protecting her? Do you know how she felt when she looked at me, not understanding why I wasn't laughing at her jokes anymore? Why I wasn't brushing against her? Why I was changing paths when she arrived?!"

"I know."

"No, you don't know. Because you only see what you want to see. She looked at me like I'd become a stranger. She smiled at me even when she was sad, and I couldn't do anything."

A pause. Then Hyun-tak's voice, lower.

"I love her, damn it."

Y/N felt her chest constrict.

Hyun-tak continued, almost in a whisper, as if he no longer had the strength to hold it back.

"I did everything to tell myself it was stupid. That it was temporary. But every time I see her, every time she touches me without even thinking about it, it's like I fall a little more. I tried to detach myself. I failed."

A thick silence followed. Y/N didn't move, frozen.

Then, the door softly closed. The voices faded away.

She then noticed a sheet of paper on the coffee table. Familiar handwriting.

It's from Si-eun, she thought.

She picked it up, and read:

"Y/N. If one day your heart races, make sure it does so for the right person. Not for an illusion. Not for a crumb of affection.

For something that burns slowly, that remains.

You've always inspired me, even if I never told you.

You've always forced me to be better, even if I denied it.

I didn't want you to fall. But I made you fall. I didn't want to distance you from those who did you good. But I did. And I won't apologize with empty words.

Just... choose someone who never asks you to hide. Who looks at you like you're worth more than the world.

I think he already does.

Oppa."

Y/N put the paper down, tears welling in her eyes.

Hyun-tak was on the roof. As often. Sitting on the edge, legs dangling in the void, a can of soda in his hand.

She joined him, her heart both heavy and light.

"You don't smoke anymore?"

He startled slightly, turned.

"I don't know how to do it. Have you forgotten?"

She smiled. Then sat down beside him.

Silence settled, but not heavy. Sweet. Warm.

She turned her head towards him.

"You said you. loved. me."

He blushed. Lowered his head.

"You heard..."

"Every word."

He sighed, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

"I hadn't planned for it to come out like that. But it's true. It's even worse than what I said. I've loved you for months. Maybe more. You changed me, Y/N. You taught me to laugh at my own foolishness. You made me believe that maybe I wasn't so bad. And I was scared. Because I've always been the one people look at last. The one who protects but is never chosen."

He finally turned his eyes to her.

"But with you, I wanted to be the first. The only one. And I was ashamed to want it."

She said nothing.

And then, without thinking, she leaned in and kissed him.

A sudden, clumsy, desperate kiss.

She pulled away immediately, her heart pounding, terrified.

"Sorry! I thought... I believed..."

But he didn't wait.

He placed his hand on her cheek, gently, and pulled her towards him.

And this time, it was he who kissed her.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

With that modesty and intensity that don't deceive. As if he had waited a lifetime to do it. As if he was putting everything he had never been able to say into that kiss.

His fingers trembled slightly against her neck, but his lips were sure. Her heart beat fast, too fast, as if every second could break him or save him.

When he pulled back, she had her eyes closed.

He looked at her, a shy smile on his lips.

"It wasn't a fireworks display," he said. "It was a lighthouse."

She opened her eyes.

And smiled.

Her heart stronger. Clearer.

They didn't know where it would lead them.

But it was already there.

And it was true.

.................................………………………………………

New Geum Seongje fanfictions

MY SHELLA 🤧

: Gotak watching Sieun act like he didn't do anything 😐

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mathysphere · 3 months ago

Text

PI DAY ADVENT 2025

It's that time of year again!

This March from the 1st to the 14th, solve 14 daily nonograms (also called picross puzzles) to reveal a math-themed cross stitch pattern!

The first puzzle (AKA the first pattern) is up and ready to play now!

Stitching details after the cut---

There are 14 nonograms in the stitch-a-long, each 35 squares long and 10 squares tall. Once they are solved, the patterns can be stitched together in a 70x70 grid to make a single complete cross stitch design.

On 14-count fabric the design is 5 inches square-- plus leave some extra for framing-- and is stitched in a single color of your choosing. Since the design is monochrome, there's plenty of room to be adventurous with fabric and thread choice-- I chose a bright variegated floss on black fabric.

Also, as an aside, making nonograms is WAY harder than I thought. It turns out that nine times out of ten the design elements that make a good-looking cross-stitch make an unsolvable nonogram. but I think the final compromise turned out pretty neat!

Happy (soon-to-be) Pi Day, y'all 😊

#cross stitch #pi day #pi day 2025 #embroidery #made by me #nonogram #picross

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hivemuthur · 16 days ago

Text

In Thy Name - Ch.9. - All We Ever Wanted Was Everything

viktorxfemale!reader NSFW, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 6,8K

author's note: Playlist here! @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! This is a penultimate chapter, we are almost at the end :') Inspo behind Viktor's bedroom.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

The door thunders into its frame, as your fingers remain threaded through Viktor’s, two pulses drumming inside a single clasp. For a breath the dark seems absolute, then a lone taper by the threshold sputters to life—Viktor striking the match with a trembling thumb. The light grows, stuttering, and the room yawns wide like the inside of some gentle leviathan: ribbed with beams, crowded with things that glitter, tick or sigh softly in their sleep.

Every surface hums with biography. On a low shelf: a tin toy-ship half the length of your forearm, sails stitched from medical gauze, hull scored by a child’s impatient engraving—V carved again and again until the tin buckled. Nearby, a brass orrery cranks without touch, planets spinning by invisible decree; tiny constellations blink on the spheres, then fade, as though the mechanism remembers the night sky only in fragments. An entire wall is given over to charms: fox teeth wired into crescents, sprigs of dried yarrow, a cracked church bell clapper tied with red thread, mosquitos trapped in resin, sea glass. Some talismans pulse faintly, like hearts caught in amber.

You exhale a soft wonder. “These… they’re beautiful, and a little terrifying.”

“Travel companions,” he answers, voice low. “Each tried to barter safety for me in its own language. None quite succeeded.” His thumb strokes the back of your hand, grounding himself. “I never trusted prayer, so I built my own.”

Your gaze drifts to the workbench where half-finished contraptions crowd each other for space: a pocket barometer weeping mercury tears; a wooden prosthetic leg whose hinges seem to breathe when the candle wavers; and, set apart beneath a dusty bell-jar, a miniature heliostat—sun of hammered brass, tiny clockwork planets whirring on copper arms whenever stray light touches a sliver of solar foil wired to its core. A smear of reddish oxidation rims the sun’s edges like dried blood.

“You built this?” you whisper, fingertip hovering a breath from the fragile orbit.

“Not by design,” he answers, voice low. “I think I hoped that if I could snare daylight and make it circle to my command, I might outpace what waits in the dark.” He attempts a laugh; it breaks small and boyish. “A child’s arithmetic: wires against eternity, now that I know where truth lies.”

Beyond the workbench stands the bed—blanket rumpled, pillows cratered from nights spent half-sitting, half-scheming. Above the headboard dangle paper charms inked with equations that coil into sigils mid-sentence, as though maths and prayer wrestled to a draw. Candlelight kisses the papers and numbers crawl for an instant—digits becoming ancient runes before settling again.

You step deeper, hand still clasping Viktor’s, and feel the floor pulse faintly, as if the room itself recognises new blood. “All these years,” you say, eyes everywhere at once, “you slept in a cathedral of unfinished miracles.”

He huffs, embarrassed. “Slept is generous. Mostly I drafted cures I never tested.” He gestures to the miscellany. “Toys to trick fear into thinking I was busy.”

Your hand drifts to the toy ship. “And this?”

His mouth lifts, half-smile, half-ache. “First thing I ever built that moved the way I asked it to. I thought if I could command oceans on tin, perhaps the world would grant me a harbour.”

You turn, facing him fully beneath the restless candle flame. “You’re a superstitious inventor,” you murmur. “A mad genius.” Your thumbs stroke the pulse at his wrists. “And somewhere in here—” you bend, touch your lips to the hollow of his throat, “—still the boy.”

Patchwork moonlight stripes the quilt; motes swirl through the beam as if suspended mid-prayer. You tilt your face into his palm, eyelids fluttering at the fragile steadiness of his touch. “Forgive me,” you whisper, breath stirring the fine hairs on his wrist. “For writing back so late.”

A dry laugh ghosts from him, equal parts scold and surrender. “So you did stall.”

“Foolishly.” Your fingers toy with the edge of his waistcoat, beneath them a frantic drum. “I would murder to reclaim those silent days—spend them all in your company, trade ink for heartbeat.”

The words slip a tremor through him; you feel it travel from chest to fingertips. Your name—soft, weighty—drops from his lips. A pause, then: “You pierce my soul,” he confesses, the line trembling like a violin string too finely drawn. “I am half agony, half hope.”

Silence follows, alive with everything left trapped within the prisons of mouth. Above the headboard, the paper sigils exhale; their numbers and runes subside into orderly stillness. The orrery slows, planets clicking into languid orbit. The toy ship stills its minute tides. It is as though the room itself, sensing two hearts locking into common cadence, chooses at last to rest—gears, ghosts, and guardian charms settling in one shared, dreaming rhythm.

The hush between you ripens, candleflame quivering as though it, too, anticipates touch. You meet in the half-light—mouths first, soft and searching, then hungry. His lips linger at the corner of yours, trace the sweet hollow beneath your ear; you answer by brushing fingertips along the delicate curve of his, learning the shape of intent. Every slow exhale fogs the small distance between your faces before you erase it again and again.

Buttons yield beneath your careful hands. Waistcoat first—wool sighing open—then the crisp lawn of his shirt. As you draw fabric free, the second brace emerges: polished steel and leather cinched close over his ribs, a hidden scaffold. Your breath stutters—not from pity but from fierce wonder. You lay a kiss where metal bends skin, then another, lips charting the borders where ingenuity has met endurance.

“You are the finest thing my eyes have ever been granted,” you murmur, voice trembling with resolve. “I have never desired another half so ardently.”

The words strike him like a hand to the sternum—his pupils dilate, colour sweeps high into his cheekbones. He fumbles at the buckles, breath catching on every clink, until you still his shaking fingers and guide the brace away, resting it gently on a trunk plastered with foreign stamps.

Freed, his torso is a pale map of healed incisions and determined muscle. You cannot resist: palms glide from his collarbones down the slope of solar plexus, exploring the subtle ladder of ribs, the dilemma of scar and skin. Each brush draws a low, involuntary sound from his throat; his abdomen tightens beneath your touch, as though the very act of being seen, being craved, is too intimate to bear. He sways toward you, every sinew strung between surrender and hunger, for he might melt into your hands were you to press harder—or disappear entirely if you ceased.

Then you rise on toes and cup his face, your foreheads resting together, breathing shared. The stroke of your thumbs along his jaw is soft yet unshakable—an oath sealed not in words but in quiet, relentless devotion.

Now he turns to you. His fingers—those same brilliant things that sketched sigils in candle-soot—slide beneath the edge of your bodice to find the hidden hooks. One by one they yield with crisp, metallic sighs. The tailored shell slips away, exposing the sheer chemisette that veils your stays. Next he unfastens the overskirt—tugs of precision guessed more than practices—so its heavy wool falls soundlessly to the floor, puddling over the petticoat’s starched hem.

When he moves behind you, breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. His knuckles brush the ribbons laced through your corset’s eyelets. For a heartbeat he pauses, as the memory of another night in this very house hits—your lungs tight with panic, his hands working the same knots in haste to grant relief. Then, urgency had been mercy. Now, it is worship. Fingers surer, slower, he loosens the laces, loop by loop. With each yielding pull, your torso unfurls; air rushes deeper, not from fear this time but from the gathering bloom of want.

The stays loosen; whalebone relaxes its grip. You feel your own heartbeat surge against liberated ribs. He exhales—as if the cords had cinched him as well—and presses a kiss between the knobs of your spine, right where the last ribbon slips free. Intention no longer questions itself; it has an answer and a name.

You step from the collapsed cage of skirts and petticoats, left in stockings, unlaced corset hanging open, and the thin lawn chemise that veils what lamplight longs to touch. He comes around to face you. Candleflame paints filigree across your collarbones. Passion darkens his eyes. They rise to yours—no plea this time, only the certainty of shared design. You nod, offering permission, and answer his slow-forming smile with a kiss—unhurried, claim and consent entwined like ink soaking deep into vellum.

When your fingers find his waistband, Viktor stills them, shakes his head, and falls to his knees—iron brace clicking like a muted bell. Half-prayer, half-claim, he slips both hands beneath your chemise, palms flat, drawing the linen north while his mouth charts the same ascent: knee, inner thigh, the place where pulse beats loudest. Silk garters surrender; stockings fall like shed skins.

He glances up—yearning already certain—then bows. Lips meet you, soft as first light, tongue follows, slow, tormenting. A second pass—hungrier; a third—borderline reckless. He eats at you the way a lost man studies a map: memorising every inlet, every tremor you give him as proof the world is real. Your hand knots in his hair, urging, begging.

His grip shifts to your hips, thumbs branding flesh. Low praises spill, half words, half grunts, vibrations sinking straight to bone. Nothing polite here—only black mass of the flesh, his mouth writing a name he fears to lose, sealing it in salt and heat while the room fades to oblivion.

It contracts to candleflame and the wet sound of worship. Somewhere a tiny clock surrenders, its mechanism halting mid-tick, as though even gears and springs bow to the fierce, time-stealing ritual unfolding at the centre of the chamber.

He works in widening spirals—slow drag, soft suck, sudden press—testing how breath catches, how your thighs falter. Each discovery earns a muffled hum from him, as though pleasure were a language he means to speak fluently before dawn. Your fingers tighten in his hair; he gives you more, sealing mouth and heat against you until the edges of the world smear.

He pauses only when your knees wobble. Lips slick, he lifts his gaze, voice sanded thin by exalt. “You taste like midnight absolution,” he murmurs, reverent and indecent. “Every pulse of you is cathedral music.” A kiss to your inner thigh marks the pause, then he returns—deeper, greedier—tongue flicking where you are tender, then flattening in a slow benediction that makes your throat expose, prayerless.

The room seems to tilt. Light scant; shadow rolls across his shoulders like spilled ink. You clutch them, riding the rhythm he sets—hips rolling, breath breaking, a low keen torn from somewhere uncharted. He encourages it, nails digging just enough to hold you to the altar of his mouth. Words tumble out, ragged blessings: Beautiful… fearless… mine.

Pressure winds tight—a bright flash, a brutal snap. You crest on his tongue, unburdened from shame, as he draws the world to a single, blinding point. Your throat nearly slits with a cry torn raw, flood spilling into his mouth. He drinks like a zealot, commandment fulfilled, steadying you through every quake, mouth easing only when your limbs slacken, crowned in candlelight like a blasphemous saint.

Beath short, you bend to him, palms skimming sweat and stubble, tracing the gleam down his neck, over shoulders and scars painted in pearl on his skin. Fingers lace with his; you draw him upright. He rises—solid, heavy with steel, bone and devotion—and melts into a kiss that is all wet consonants and desperate vowels, noses sliding, breath shared like contraband. Your hands map his chest, then skim his spine where pale skin still bears crimson ghosts from the brace.

You slip the last veil of linen from your hips while he unclasps the leg brace—metal sighing to the floor—then loosens his slacks, shoving them low, baring the heavy weight of him. The sight stalls your pulse.

You move to touch; he turns you instead. Pins tumble when your hair cascades by his hand. He noses the spill of it aside, inhales as though the scent might save him. Arms loop your waist, palms hot over belly, and together you step backward until the bed’s edge meets the backs of his thighs—two shadows poised at the brink of a night that no clock dares to measure.

He settles first, drawing you down onto his lap until your back melts against his chest. His knees part just enough to cradle your hips; the blunt heat of him presses against the well of your spine. He bends to the slope where neck meets shoulder—breath scalding a path—then tastes your skin, voice a low ribbon of velvet filth: “Do you feel it? All of me aches for the sanctuary of you.”

His hands roam upward, thumbs grazing the soft swell of your chest where breath lifts and falls. He squeezes—firm, coaxing—until a moan slips free. “Yes, sing for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And I will sing for you. I am yours to ruin,” he adds, voice fever-rough, need gnawing, all-consuming.

“And I—yours,” you vow, solemn as any oath. One palm crawls down to wrap around him and grip, guiding him to the molten ache, hard flesh meeting soft. Your arm rests on his shoulders, anchoring, hair slipping between your fingers as they tug—a challenge as much as plea.

A groan rumbles in his chest. He cups your jaw, devours your mouth—kiss deep, untidy, all heat—then slides home with one steady, claiming thrust. Your gasp pours straight into his throat; his lashes flutter, eyes half-closing at the welcome of you. “Gods above,” he whispers, wonder threading the grit of his voice. “You fit me as though you were cut to my measure.”

Both palms bracket your hips; he guides you—forward, rise, sink—each glide buries him to the hilt. “That’s it,” he mutters, breath hot at your hairline. “Ride me, my sweet torment. Take every inch—let me vanish inside you.”

The swell of your backside moulds to his stomach as though your bodies were drafted to the same blueprint; your spine bows, head tipping to his shoulder, a living arc. He answers with deeper strokes, unrelenting, lost to the cadence you make together. “Hold me tighter,” he pleads, thumbs pressing crescents into your flesh. “Keep me here—let me remember us like this.”

Candle-flame gutters; bed-timbers keen; the room lists on each gracious rhythm of flesh upon flesh. Viktor widens his stance, drawing your knees farther apart—offering you to the hush of night as though you were both shrine and sacrifice.

He attempts to end you right there. One hand slides down the silk of your thigh to the fevered source of the pulse; the other circles your throat in a tender manacle, thumb stroking the hollow where heartbeat hammers. Inside, around, upon—he is everywhere at once, until borders blur and you are single body, single breath.

“Yes—” the word is a tremor caught behind your teeth. Heat builds, bright and ruinous.

“Speak,” he urges, voice rough and silken all the same. “Tell me how to spend this life.”

A gasp, then the plea spills, ragged yet strangely proper: “Take me in earnest, Viktor—do not be gentle.”

His answering groan is gratitude turned feral. Grip tightening at your throat, he drives upward, strokes lengthening, force blooming. Tension coils sharp; your hands fly to his knees for purchase. Words tangle, dissolve into broken endearments as pleasure crests—his name, your ache, the hiss of more.

He follows every lift of your hips, every clench, until the world contracts to white heat. Your release slams through you—back arching, cry fracturing the stillness. He rides out your shudder, hands steady, until the last quake tapers into small, liquid flutters. Breath returns in ragged sips; the room slips back into focus—lamplight trembling, wood murmuring beneath the mattress.

Against your spine Viktor quakes, chest hitching, rhythm faltering. He is perilously close—every muscle drawn taut, jaw clenched, moans pressed between gritted teeth. And you know, it’s your turn to pray.

You ease off him, mourning the sudden hollow, palms sliding down his thighs as you sink to your knees. Kiss him fervently where he is warm and rigid and slick with you, tongue coaxing his undoing. And there, you take your profane communion—where Viktor breaks, a litany of worship spilled into your mouth, against your skin, joy near-violent in its clarity, as though the night itself has bent to listen and found salvation in the sound.

Viktor’s breathing calms by slow degrees, tremor melting to after-glow. He slips a shaking hand beneath your chin, guides you from your borrowed altar, and gathers you—knees, elbows, heart—into his lap. Fingers smooth the disarray from your cheeks, reverent as any priest with chrism.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice husked but certain. “Madly, recklessly—beyond sense or season.”

You draw your brow to his, lips brushing the confession back into him. “And I adore you—utterly, ardently,” you answer, words tasting of salt, the shared proof of your bodies’ prayer.

The bed receives you both in a slow collapse: limbs braided, skin cooling where sweat had clung. He curls around you, one arm draped heavy at your waist, the other beneath your head like a promised pillow. Your leg hooks over his, capturing him close. No distance remains—only the quiet thrum of joined breath and the ebb of candlelight sliding down the wall.

Outside, wind frets the eaves; inside, two heartbeats settle into a single, drowsy cadence. Wrapped in each other’s warmth—naked, sated, fragrant with mutual sin and solace—you drift beneath the linen, letting sleep claim you the way you claimed one another: slow, complete, unwilling to surrender a single inch of closeness.

Then the dream finds its seam and slides in.

You stand now in the fern-lit cavern, water seeping from stone like slow tears. Moonlight lances through a broken roof, silvering the air. The lone white fern blooms at the centre, but its petals are bruised now—edges darkening as though dipped in tar. You sense, rather than hear, a slow tread behind you.

Turn, and the darkness gathers itself—antlers of shadow, shoulders built of night mist, eyes hollow voids, deep as kilns. The god does not roar or whisper; it simply exists, and the cave shrinks to hold that existence. Cold laps your ankles, then your knees, as if the water were rising with his breath. You cannot move.

A hand—not flesh, but the idea of one—brushes your shoulder, and the skin there burns with frost. When the thing speaks, it is everywhere at once: in your ears, under your ribs, beneath your tongue.

Onъ jestь мой.

He is mine—it ripples through bone like struck glass. Around the cavern walls, echoes repeat—mine… mine… mine—until the syllables lose shape and become nothing but low thunder.

You open your mouth—whether to argue or beg you don’t know—but your voice is mud, heavy and silent. Behind the god, the fern petals blacken fully, curling inward like fists. You reach for them and your hands pass through smoke. The god’s ember gaze holds you, an unspoken ledger tallying debts.

мой —softer now, almost consoling. As if possession were mercy.

You lurch awake, heart battering ribs, breath rasping. Moonlight threads the curtains; Viktor jolts up beside you, instantly alert, palms flattening to your cheeks.

“Dream?” he whispers.

You can only nod, tears salty at the corners of your mouth. He gathers you close, his own heartbeat a frantic mirror. For a long while neither of you speaks, afraid any word might invite the dark back in. Slumber, shallow and restless, returns until morning pries your bodies apart.

It steals in shyly at first—a rinsed-grey dawn that dribbles through the uncurtained gap and strikes the heliostat on Viktor’s workbench. At once the brass sun stirs, copper planets creaking round their tiny orbits, scattering motes of green and rose across wall and sheet. Viktor wakes beneath that wobbling prism of light, limbs leaden yet warm, the curve of your body pressed along his front.

Your brow is still drawn, even in sleep. He folds you closer—arm snug over shoulders, thigh caging yours—until breath mingles. “Speak to me,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with night.

Lids lift; worry swims there. Your fingertips ghost over the planes of his chest, mapping the faint sling-scar of his brace. “He thinks he owns you,” you say, quiet as church dust.

“Does he not?” Viktor’s question is a pulse beneath the words. You stir, pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

“No,” you insist. “You belong only to yourself.”

A grim smile cuts his mouth. “My name belongs to him. All that name touches follows: work, reputation—my very marrow.”

“You never asked for power or gold,” you argue. Flecks of shy sun dance over your shoulders, painting you holy. “Every discovery you made, you earned stitch by stitch.”

He shakes his head, dark hair shadowing cheekbones. “Without the name? No college would have opened its doors, no patron would have financed a crippled boy with a tin ship and a headful of theories.”

“You cannot be certain of that,” you press, frustration brightening your voice.

“And I would rather not find out,” he snaps, sudden and sharp, like steel catching on stone. He levers upright, reaching for the torso brace that glints mute by the bed. Leather cinches; buckles clack. Slacks and the leg brace follows, metal kissing wool with practiced mercy. He snatches his cane from where it leans against the nightstand, as though preparing for retreat.

Anger pricks your eyes. “If you perish you’ll learn nothing else. And I—”

He inhales to counter, words hitch on his tongue—then a brutal cough tears through him, pitching him forward. The cane clatters. Muscles knot under your hands as you steady him, feel heat roar through his chest. The heliostat’s light reels drunkenly round the room, planets juddering in their loops while trinkets flash russet and emerald. In that cacophony of spinning colour and ragged breath, there is silence; debate has been swallowed by the stark, wet rasp of his lungs and the thrum of a god’s claim pressing ever closer at the windowpanes.

“You are cold,” Viktor murmurs when the tremor of gooseflesh lifts along your shoulders. You’d slipped from the quilt, bare as birth, to aid him. He trails a knuckle along your collarbone—an absent sketch that sparks thought as much as heat.

“Always, without you,” you reply, tipping into his touch. Lips reach for his, but he tilts back, palm hovering before his mouth. “There is blood,” he warns—taste of iron still fresh from the coughing fit.

“Then anoint me,” you breathe, closing the distance. Fingers cradle his jaw; your mouth covers his. Iron tang blooms between tongues—sharp, vital. When you part, you whisper, “This—is life, Viktor. Not only books, not only findings.” Your hand settles over the bare plane of his chest, heartbeat hammering beneath. “Give yourself a chance. Give me a chance. I would go to my knees, beg, if that is the price.”

For a heartbeat he remains stunned, arms inert, as though the plea has cut every wire controlling him. Then a twitch—a decision—and his hands climb your thighs, sweep your waist, lock behind your back, crushing you to him. Skin to skin; the leather curve of his brace presses your breasts, cool and unyielding.

“You make me forget,” he murmurs into your hair. “Forget dark. Forget cold. You thaw the ice death sets in my marrow. But its shadow hasn’t fled.”

Your palms slide up the ridged terrain of his ribs. “I am not asking you to cast your world to ruin,” you say, steady, earnest. “Help the Černoglavs first—see how the night shifts. Then decide if the name is worth its chain.”

His breath shudders; you feel it through every inch of contact. Outside, weak sun flares on tiny planets, painting the walls in orbiting gold. Inside, he clutches you tighter—caught between dread and dawning possibility—and in the hush that follows, you feel the faintest tilt of the balance: the weight of fear easing, if only by a feather’s breadth.

“We should make haste, then,” Viktor says, voice still husky against your hair. “If we are to reach them by Forefathers’ Eve.”

You lift your head, brows rising. His mouth curves—equal parts resignation and dare. “I will try.”

Gratitude surges; you claim his lips again, quick and ardent. When breath parts you, mischief sparks. “Would you care to practise lacing up, sir?”

“I shall see what skill I can muster,” he answers, rubbing his nose along your cheek, soft as a promise.

Once made presentable, you move to the study. Algernon delivers the tray there with the wary precision of a man serving wolves. Porridge, ham, a stubborn pot of tea—set between inkpots and scattered journals. His disapproval lingers in the doorway like cold draft, but Viktor barely spares a nod before unfurling fresh parchment.

Together you draft possibilities: salt circles, candle grids, sigils of severance. Pages fill—ink splattering constellations across margins—until Viktor sits back, fingers steepled.

“They must part with every gain the bargain afforded,” he decides. “Land deeds, ledgers, jewelry, even titles carved on stone. Burn it to ash, witnessed by one who bears the name.”

“Mr. Černoglav,” you murmur, “or the boy.”

He inclines his head, begins the letter in his slanted scholar’s hand:

On the night of Forefathers’ Eve, when the veil thins and ancestry stands watch, gather all documents and tokens of your ill-won estate. Fire will speak what blood once lied. I shall attend with my associate to oversee the rite.

He passes it to you for approval; you scan the lines, then ask the question lodging beneath your ribs. “And your own unbinding, Viktor? Should that not claim the same night?”

He dips the quill, thoughtful. “The Černoglav bond endured centuries; they lack the luxury of returning to the seed of their sin. We take the night for them. As for me—” a thin, fierce smile “—I possess the craft to summon without borrowed moonlight, and I know precisely where my thread began, should I wish to proceed.”

A hush settles—ink drying, clocks ticking. “You are brilliant at this,” you say, awe loosening every syllable.

Colour floods his cheeks; his chest lifts as though the words themselves grant breath. “Then let us be worthy of the praise,” he murmurs, pressing your hand—ink-smudged fingers against ink-smudged fingers—ready to wager knowledge and name against the dark. Wax seals the envelope like a heartbeat stilled, the elegant V pressed into it.

Time slides quieter than either of you expected: rainy dawns spent shoulder to shoulder over brass gears; afternoons prowling the winter garden where Rio accompanies you on warm stone, tail twitching at ghosts; nights when clouds shear open and the two of you tilt your heads to count bruised constellations, his arm a steady bar across your back. It is the smallest taste of an ordinary future—tea spoons, half-laughed experiments, your nightgown brushing his brace—and Viktor hoards each glimpse like coin.

Those hushed hours weave themselves into a fragile tapestry: letters dispatched, ritual diagrams inked and drying, travel satchels half-packed beneath the library window. On one night, after you drift upstairs with a candle and a smile that lingers in the hallway, Viktor stays behind to double-check the materials, douse lamps, and lock the door on every stray fear he can corral. It is in that pause—plans stacked, future balanced like a blade—that Algernon’s soft step intrudes, stitching the quiet domestic grace of the past two days to the darker current that still runs beneath the floorboards.

“Need anything further, sir?” he asks, pensive, posture rigid as ever, an empty silver tray tucked beneath his armpit.

“No, thank you.” Viktor pockets the key. The butler lingers, gaze unfocused. “Speak, man—what troubles you?”

Algernon’s voice drifts, oddly hushed. “I would dislike seeing you harmed, my lord. This venture smells of peril.”

“I have lived inside peril most of my life,” Viktor answers. “This venture might be the first scent of salvation.” He steps closer, cane tip ticking on the floor. “Tell me, Algernon—would you prefer me dead?”

The question lands like broken porcelain. Algernon blanches, words tumbling. “Never, sir—never. Forgive my presumption.”

He retreats, footsteps swallowed by the corridor, leaving Viktor with the hush of wavering candlelight and the uneasy sense that even loyalty can fray. Shaking off the chill, he climbs to the bedchamber where you wait, promising himself that if the nights are numbered, he will spend every last one inside the warmth of your borrowed forever.

Morning is pale and wind-sharp when Viktor offers his hand to help you into the carriage. Kid-glove lies forgotten in his coat pocket; your bare fingers slide against his, pulse to pulse.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Are you?” A small dare. He answers with a single, steady nod.

You sit close from the first jolt of wheels, speaking only through skin. His thumb roams the back of your hand, tracing nerves like poet’s ink. Outside, the October landscape unspools—fields leeched of colour, birches rattling their bones. Breath plumes in the shared space between your mouths, warm argot against the window’s chill pane. Neither of you remarks on the way time seems to fold; it is enough to feel the fold together.

By mid-afternoon the Černoglav estate rises out of the haze: brick dark as dried blood, windows blind. Mrs. Samkova meets you at the steps, skirts snapping in the wind. Worry has thinned her mouth to a thread.

“Welcome back,” she says, voice rough but civil. “And thank you for your haste, Mr. Velesny. We shall repay the debt you are owed—”

“You will do no such thing.” Viktor bows, brushing his lips to her gloved knuckles. “If this works, you will have no coin left for recompense. Keep what remains.” His gaze flicks to her husband, grey as smoke behind her shoulder.

She ushers you inside, words tumbling faster than her feet. “That—exactly—that is what troubles me.” Crossing the threshold, she lowers her voice. “Every Černoglav is buried on these grounds. Their name is scratched into lintels, etched on hearthstones. The house itself breathes the bargain.”

Viktor’s cane taps once on the parquet, a metronome for thought. “You believe we must burn it,” he murmurs, tasting the solidity of the idea.

Silence swells; the long corridor seems to listen. Dust motes drift like hesitant snow. At last he asks, soft but iron-edged, “Have you somewhere to go?”

Mrs. Samkova’s fingers find her husband’s and clasp hard. “We do,” she says, voice quaking. She peers up at Viktor, eyes bright with both terror and relief. “If fire is the price, so be it. You … you have our permission.”

The word hangs heavy, flammable. Somewhere deep in the walls, a beam creaks—as though the old house understands the sentence just pronounced. Between your joined hands Viktor’s pulse kicks, and you feel the future tip, cinder-bright, into the waiting night.

Preparations spool through the day like black thread: wardrobes emptied, heirlooms judged. You and Viktor become archivists of loss—deciding what burns, what may yet travel. By dusk, only framed silhouettes remain, pale ancestors staring from ovals of cardboard: memory without coin.

The sparse staff depart first, bundled into the carriage with the young heir; Samkova’s husband drives them toward safer roofs. Evening settles. For the last time Viktor wheels Mr. Černoglav into the drawing-room; lamplight trembles against stripped walls. Steam curls from porcelain cups, the smell of chicory and smoke already mingling.

“This inquiry has unknotted my own curse,” Viktor confesses, hands wrapped round the cup for warmth. “It seems the same god dogs us both.”

The old man’s eyes gleam, lucid despite lungs that rasp like worn bellows. “Perhaps I am mad—letting a stranger erase what centuries built. Yet you do not walk the path of madness, Mr. Velesny, I believe.”

“Please—call me Viktor.” A wry breath. “Soon our surnames may be ash.”

The elder smiles and lifts one trembling hand. “Then we meet as Radomír and Viktor, nothing more. I doubt I’ll linger long enough to learn your next name.” A pause—soft as the click of a clock reaching the hour. “Whatever comes, call me friend. Thank you for giving my family a chance.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Viktor says, the smile brittle. “I may burn your house and leave you with nothing.”

“And still I choose faith, Viktor. At the threshold of breath, hope is lighter to carry than regret.”

Hope—a word he has seldom trusted—drops hot in Viktor’s chest. It seems as if his soul has made the decision before the mind could intrude. Just then, like a confirmation fleshed out, you appear in the doorway, lantern in hand. “Forgive the interruption. It is time.”

So, the two of you begin the unmaking. Oil sloshes across boards, trickles down balustrades, pools in the cellar like black water. Fumes sting throat and eye; every footstep echoes finality. Near the front doors you lower the empty canister, chest hitching. “Harrowing business,” you manage, fabric covering mouth.

Viktor sets his canister aside, clasps your shaking hands. “Are you frightened?”

“All of that and more, beloved,” you admit with a wry smile.

“So am I.” His grip tightens. “Bravery is fear that refuses retreat, you once told me. We refuse together.” With that, your heart settles, if only for a moment.

Outside, night yawns starless, wind raw from the east. The final trail of oil is drawn across the lawn, joining house to its edge where Radomír sits bundled in blankets beside his daughter, holding a single lantern. The air stings raw and tasting of snow. The manor crouches behind you—windows dark, rooms hollowed of voice and souls.

“It is nearly midnight,” Viktor says. “Let us finish before sainted dawn.”

Radomír strikes a match. Flame trembles, then leaps to the oil path, racing toward the door like a summoned serpent. All four step back. Heat blooms; shingles pop; glass weeps molten tears. The house becomes a torch against the void—timber bones cracking, smoke billowing up like a black crown.

Viktor lifts his cane, the silver tip glinting like a star against the roaring dark. Smoke stings his lungs, but his voice rises clear, rolling through the firelit void:

“Černobog, keeper of root and grave, we return that which was never ours.

This name, once stolen for favour, we cast to embers.

These lands, these ledgers, this pride—ash for ash.

By witness of blood and breath, we break the chain.

Leave the line of Radomír Černoglav.

Claim them no longer—claim us no more.”

The wind’s answer is immediate and savage. A gale unlatches the heavens, driving sparks into spirals that hiss and writhe like fire-serpents drinking their own tails. The inferno rears higher, and in its molten heart matter curdles into shape: a vast silhouette rack-crowned with antlers, eyes the colour of furnace iron, cloak a negative of light—pure, smokeless dark. Heat buckles the air, yet a sudden chill nests in the marrow of every witness.

From that void-throat issues a voice that is less sound than verdict:

Do you spurn my gifts, House Černoglav? Will you trade inheritance for dust?

Radomír pulls the blankets from his knees, the wool scraping bone. He stands—barely—leaning on the iron arms of the wheelchair, each breath a rattle in a cracked flute. “We do,” he declares. The syllables are thin yet unwavering. “Your bounty has been our yoke.”

The god regards him—ember gaze narrowing. A pulse rolls underfoot, as if some vast heart has thudded in the deep soil. Flames along the eaves flare sickly green, licking skyward, then gutter inward, as though the blaze itself inhales. Soot-snow begins to fall: delicate, black-feathered motes that sting where they land.

Radomír’s chest lifts once more. In that breath you see him younger—lord of a house granted by unnatural means—then older again, every theft tolling through his ribs. He looks to Viktor and manages a faint, rueful smile. “Victory, my friend,” he murmurs, so low the crackle of fire nearly swallows it. “Hold fast to yours.”

The antlered shadow steps forward—no footfall, just a folding of space—and Radomír’s words cut off like a candle pinched. A column of air implodes around him; his body arches, spine bowing as if drawn to invisible hooks. Light pours from his mouth—a pale, fluttering thread—and streaks toward the god’s outstretched hand. For one shuddering instant Radomír’s eyes blaze white; then the thread snaps into the dark palm, and the man’s frame collapses to ash-grey stillness. Blankets settle over an empty cage of bone.

A wail breaks from his daughter, raw and shattering, but the wind whips it aside. Viktor lunges as though he could catch what has already flown, and the cane lands uselessly in the dirt. The god turns its gaze on him now—on you—smoke-cloak furling like storm surf. The air tastes of pennies and grave mould; every heartbeat feels counted.

I know you. You still belong to me.

A moment frozen in resin. It laughs briefly, yet the figure’s ember eyes dim, pupil-red shrinking to pinpricks. Around its antlers the fire gutters back to natural orange, as if the claim of one life has sated it for now. It speaks once more, and the words crack the air like iron gates closing:

So be it. Nameless, you shall wander. Dust for dust.

A final gust scatters the soot-snow, and the silhouette tears apart into black petals that whirl upward and vanish among the sparks.

Silence tunnels in around you. The manor’s spine caves with a groan; beams tumble in a storm of embers. Mrs. Samkova kneels beside the wheel-chair frame, pressing hands to a chest that no longer rises. Viktor stands rigid, eyes reflecting the pyre, lips moving soundlessly—some prayer or curse you cannot tell. You touch his arm; his skin is ice beneath sweat.

Above the ruins, smoke columns twist into the night like twin adders, and the smell is of pine pitch and old blood. Whatever bargain held for centuries is broken, but the cost glows hot on the ground before you, radiating grief. Flames snap and roar on, lighting a path of cinder into the darkness where tomorrow waits, stripped and raw.

Ash drifts sideways through the first sifting of real snow, grey tangling with white until sky and ground share one colour of forgetting. The hour has slipped past midnight—Forefathers’ Eve already fled into All Saints’ morning—yet no birds announce the change, and the fire’s roar seems kneaded down to a hoarse murmur. In that hush, time stalls: three living figures shoulder-to-shoulder about a fourth that has folded inward on itself, blankets still warm, bones cooling.

Viktor’s coat flaps in the wind, stiff with soot, his cane lost in the rutted grass. He watches the house collapse in slow stages—beam after beam bowing like penitents—until each fall feels less like ruin, more like punctuation. Mrs. Samkova kneels, veil of ash weaving through her loosened hair, one hand fisted round a rosary that no longer clicks. You hover beside them both, palm pressed to Viktor’s back, feeling the staccato of his heart through brace, cotton and wool. None of you speak; even grief seems hushed, afraid of echo.

Somewhere far along the frost-black lane, the small shape of the returning carriage appears, lantern bobbing like a wayward star. Its wheels whisper over gravel, slow but inevitable, drawing the living toward whatever scant future can be salvaged from this pyre. Around you the snow thickens; flakes kiss sparks, hiss, and vanish. The night exhales, and the world, lighter by one haunted name, begins—quietly—to turn again.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #in thy name

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gingersxng · 1 year ago

Text

Quickie O’Clock

Pairing: f!reader x Yunho

Genre: smut 18+

Summary: who knew crossing paths with a tall handsome guy in school would lead to so much more than just homework.

Notes: sub!reader, dom!yunho, basketball player yunho, big dick yunho, quickies, lots of ass grabbing, public sex, unprotected sex (always keep safe), creampie, lots of teasing, reader flashing herself, fingering, lots of cum, oral m.receiving. maybe forgot something

Words: 2.6k

to be honest, the college life was a whole rollercoaster ride. work here work there, do this do that. having to push yourself to get good grades although you hated studying, but you promised yourself not to fail your last year. your grades had been hanging on a thin thread for quite awhile now and so your mental health as a result. why should it be so hard to study and do good for once? that was a phrase that constantly crossed your mind. you still lived home with your parents and they were the best at showing you how bad you did at school, good grades were super important to them and they wouldn’t let you screw “them” up no no. you had four older sisters and every single one of them had turned out great, they had big houses, husbands, children and great jobs… but you, you had nothing. not even a boyfriend. being the only child at home was boring and you didn’t have a lot of friends either, well you had some friends but you never wanted to hang out with them on your spare time. having a boyfriend was something you never thought of before, it just didn’t seem interesting to have someone to share you life with. well that was until last week when you walked alone in the school corridors on your way to get your books when Yunho came walking the opposite direction. when he passed you he looked at you with a light smirk on his face and raised his eyebrows. you could only give him a smile back and it felt like your heart was about to jump out of your chest. it was all over in two seconds but something happened to you.

you knew who Yunho was cause he was in the schools basketball team but you’ve never felt something for him before. he was tall and handsome, he had black hair and glasses and hands big as U.F.Os. during your last class which was ofc math you couldn’t do anything else than think about Yunho. flying off to dreamland looking out the window biting your pen you were soon interrupted by your teacher calling your name. “y/n i know it’s the last class of the day but you can at least try do one thing before you can go home”.

it was 3:30pm and you’d finally finished for the day. you went down to your locker as fast as you could to grab your things. when you shut the locker door you were startled by a tall guy, yes it was Yunho. you could feel your bare knees shake but hopefully it wasn’t noticeable. “hi, can I help you?” you tried to sound like you didn’t care. this time it was a whole new Yunho who’s standing in front you, his eyes were big and puppy like and he had a cute smile on his face. “it’s y/n right?” he asked nicely. you gave him a nod, how did he know your name?. “I think you’re really pretty and was wondering if you maybe wanted to hang out sometime?” he said with confidence in his voice. for a second you froze in place before you could get any words out. “sure, I’d be happy to” you said closing your locker and walked away. when you walked towards the door you glanced back to see if he was gone but instead you caught him looking at you with the same look on his face as when you passed each other in the corridor. you turned your head back around and headed out the door.

you didn’t get much sleep this night cause your brain was on high the whole time thinking about Yunho, why are you obsessing over a guy you don’t even know?you started your day by grabbing your things from the locker as usual before heading to class, the butterflies in your stomach went crazy from the thought of meeting him somewhere in the school corridors but you didn’t. closing the door to the classroom you took your seat which was way back in the corner, you had to pay attention to this class cause you were having a test next week. and actually you did kinda good for a change.

when your class was over it was time for lunch, you hated lunch break cause you didn’t have any friends.. well you did but they were never waiting for you and was always left alone in the end. so you went to grab a banana from your bag and placed yourself down on a bench. suddenly you heard a familiar voice behind you. “why aren’t you at lunch?” Yunho said tilting his head with his hands in his pockets. “wasn’t hungry..” he walked over so he was standing in front of you, arms crossed and you couldn’t help but noticing that he was very focused on that banana you were eating. you felt yourself getting more flushed while he stared at you, his eyes almost darkened. finishing the banana you stood up quickly and were going to get your stuff but out of nowhere he grabbed your wrist pulling you back to him. if your heart was about to jump out of your chest yesterday it stopped now. “wha-what are you doing?” you snapped. “calm down I’m not gonna hurt you” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve been watching you for a long time and I think you’re a very pretty girl” he said still holding a tight grip around your wrist. omg he likes you too! “thank you” you said giving him a smile. the grip loosened and his hands went down to your waist making your eyes widen. his face came so close to yours you could feel his breath on your skin. “I’ve got this feeling you like me too, is that right?” he whispered making you shiver. you looked him in the eyes taking a deep breath as you gave him a nod. a smirk formed on his lips and he closed the gap between you both, you didn’t hesitate but gave in to the kiss opening your mouth to let his tongue inside. Yunhos hands travelled down to your ass and under your skirt. you pulled away holding down your skirt. “we’re in the school corridor anyone can walk by any second and if they catch us like this..” you said trying to keep your voice down as much as possible so no one could hear. “then come with me” he grabbed your wrist again dragging you with him. all the way down in the corridor was a old janitors closet no one used anymore, Yunho opened the door and you went in.

it hadn’t been used in years so the light didn’t work anymore. you could only feel him against you but you couldn’t see anything. Yunho smashed his lips into yours and his hands were everywhere, you couldn’t believe you were obsessing over Yunho and now suddenly you were in the janitors closet with his tongue down your throat. his hands grabbed your ass cheeks and kneaded them slowly, then one hand cupped your heat pressing a finger against your clit. you let out a small moan, you could feel him smirk against your lips. your knees weakened a bit when he rubbed your clit through your panties. “how did you get so wet so fast huh?” he kissed your neck. one of your hands travelled down and you could feel a huge bulge in his jeans. you palmed him making him groan. he took your hands away and turned you around so your back was facing him. the sound of his belt unbuckling made your pussy throb. as you weren’t able to see anything you didn’t know how big he was, I mean Yunho was a very big boy and by that his dick must be too. Yunho lifted your skirt up and pulled your panties to the side. you were already so wet so he didn’t need to prep you. he put his tip sliding it along your folds collecting your arousal. “lunch break is almost over so we have to be quick” you interrupted. “and you have to be quiet” he said sliding his whole cock in without giving you time to adjust his big member. a big gasp escaped your lips. you held on for dear life as Yunho sped up his pace pounding into you from behind. “shit it feels so good” he said through gritted teeth. his cock was so big yet so perfect for your hole, he could make you see stars.

he sneaked a hand down to your clit rubbing it in fast circles and the other hand reaching in under your bra pulling it down so your boobs fell out. he then pinched a nipple in between his fingers earning a moan from you. “shh you have to be quiet love” he whispered in your ear. his pace fastened and you could feel your orgasm creeping up on you. it was hard to keep yourself from screaming when Yunho slammed his big dick into your small tight pussy. Yunho pulled away his hand from your clit and onto your mouth cause he was almost about to come and he could feel you were close too by the way your pussy clenched around him. his thrusts got sloppy and his breathing got faster. the eyes rolled back in your head as you felt the knot in your stomach burst. Yunho put his face in the crook of your neck letting out a deep groan as you felt him cum inside you, squeezing your boob hard. not long after you came all over his dick moaning into his hand. Yunho pulled out and put your panties in place again. cum leaking out of you past your panties. Yunho buckled his jeans and opened the door. you could feel cum dripping along your inner thighs and you began to panic. “I can’t go like this, I have a new class in five minutes” the fear in your voice made him laugh. “do you have to go?” he raised an eyebrow. you stopped and looked at him. “my grades are already super bad I can’t just not go to class” he lowered himself so you were face to face “well you decide, I have basketball practice now so I gotta go” he gave you a quick kiss and walked away.

- time skip -

you went to Yunhos basketball training after you were done for the day. you sneaked in quietly and took a seat to watch him play. the cum on your thighs and underwear had dried up and you felt so gross, it was his fault you were in this mess but it was also worth it. you put your feet up on the low railing to get more comfortable but you didn’t think about that you were only wearing a skirt so basically your panties was showing off so anyone could see.

when they had played one game it was time for a little break. Yunho turned your way and couldn’t help but notice you having your whole bottom on display. there still was a light stain on your panties from the cum and your ass cheeks were red as well. Yunho felt his ears turn red and his dick waking up. he walked over to you pushing your legs down. “the heck are you doing flashing yourself for the whole team!?” you didn’t understand a thing you just looked clueless. “what do you mean flashing myself why would I do that?”. “I think I know why..” he gave you a bitter look. Yunho ran over to his coach and you saw him asking something quick before he headed back your way. “I told my coach I need to have a talk with you”.

he guided you back to the changing rooms and slammed you against the wall, looking you up and down as he was biting his lower lip and his eyes were filled with lust. he parted your legs with his knee and pressed his body onto yours so you could feel his rock hard boner on your lower belly. “I swear every time you wear this skirt I get so damn hard” he growled as he tugged on your earlobe. “then I’ll always wear it” you teased him. Yunho pulled up your skirt and slipped his hand inside your underwear feeling the slimy consistency between your folds. “I think someone else is excited as well hmm?” he pushed two fingers inside your hole pumping them in and out. you closed your eyes tight and put your hand on your mouth to keep as quiet as possible but it was hard when he put his thumb on your clit and fastened his pace. it didn’t take long before you milked around his fingers, cum dripping down on the floor. your knees were shaking as you did your best to stand up. “look at you such a mess” Yunho chuckled as he licked his fingers clean. he then pushed you down so you sat on your knees looking up at him with hazy eyes. he pulled down his shorts and boxers enough to let his erect dick spring free standing up against his stomach. you gulped when you saw the big veiny cock in front of you, the tip was swollen and leaking precum. he took the tip to your lips. “open wide and be a good girl” you opened your mouth and gave the tip a few licks before wrapping your lips around him bobbing your head. Yunho threw his head back and let out a deep moan. he brushed your hair behind the ear and held the rest up for you in a ponytail. it was hard not to gag when his big dick kissed the back of your throat and you felt yourself getting a bit dizzy from the lack of air.

you sped up the pace and took him in all the way to the base of his cock, your nose touching his pubic bone. “f-fuck i’m gonna cum aah” Yunho started to thrust his hips to get more friction. there were drool hanging out the corners of your mouth and you felt his cock twitch. you looked up at Yunho struggling to keep himself together, his hair sticking to his forehead and sweat dripping down his neck and chest. he stopped your movements and along with a big groan you felt hot fluids spilling down your throat. you swallowed it all and stuck out your tongue showing him that it was all gone. “damn you’re good at this” he smirked looking down at you. he put himself back in his shorts and you fixed your skirt. none of you bothered to clean up the mess on the floor. “so.. should we date or just fuck?” Yunho asked while he had one eyebrow raised. that was a question you weren’t prepared for. “maybe we’ll just fuck for a while and then we’ll see..” you said biting your lip to tease him some more. “you better go back out there before your coach kills you” you said heading out the door. you had pulled your skirt up so your ass cheeks poked out knowing Yunho would watch you. his eyes were stuck on your ass until you were out of sight. he felt himself getting hard again, a big upset sigh left his lips.

when he got back home he took care of the problem himself cause he had to wait until tomorrow to get his dick sucked again.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez smut #kpop smut #ateez scenarios #yunho #yunho x reader #ateez yunho #jeong yunho #yunho imagines #yunho smut

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pankowcrumbs · 1 month ago

Text

The three of us X Will Poulter (Requested)

Plot: Your twin brother is getting married and your ex-friend and kind of ex-flame Will is the best man and he brings his new girlfriend to the wedding.

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

8.8K words

AN: This was soo cute to write I spent all weekend doing this one cause I loved the idea I had to make it a super long one! Thanks for requesting this!

They say you don't remember much from when you're five. But I do.

I remember the day I met Will Poulter like it was etched in soft, golden light on the inside of my mind. I’d been holding my twin brother Josh's hand a little too tightly, as we were led into our reception classroom at Little Elm Primary. Mum had tied my hair back with a blue ribbon to match my dress, and my brother had grass stains on his knees before the bell had even rung.

And there he was Will with a lopsided grin, teeth too big for his face, and hair that couldn’t decide whether to stick up or lie flat. He looked like mischief wrapped in a school jumper.

"Hi," he’d said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Do you wanna build a fort out of books?"

That was it. That was the beginning.

From that moment, the three of us were inseparable. Will, my brother, and I were a trio of chaos and scraped knees, best friends in the most innocent, uncomplicated sense. We shared packed lunches, dared each other to jump from the tallest climbing frames, and spent entire weekends building dens in our garden or his, depending on who had the better biscuits.

Will always brought bourbons. I loved bourbons.

Growing up, our triangle of friendship was the kind that made other kids jealous. Teachers would separate us in class, but somehow we always managed to pass notes across the room. When my brother got in trouble for drawing superheroes in his maths book, Will took the blame without hesitation. And when Will was teased for his eyebrows or his dramatic impressions of teachers, I was the first to march over and tell the others to back off.

We were fiercely protective of one another. It wasn't until secondary school that things started to shift.

It wasn’t dramatic there was no single moment that pulled the thread loose but I started noticing things. Like how Will would glance at me a second longer than necessary when I laughed. Or how I found myself seeking him out in a crowd, even when my brother was right next to me. We pretended not to notice. We were good at pretending, Will and I.

By Sixth Form, the edges between friendship and something more had blurred so much we could barely see the line anymore.

We lost our virginity to each other on a rainy Saturday afternoon in his bedroom, just weeks before our A-Levels. It wasn’t planned, and yet somehow, it felt inevitable. There was no awkwardness, no overthinking. Just two people who knew each other better than anyone else, trusting one another completely. We didn’t talk about feelings not properly. We framed it as practical.

"Bit of practice before uni, yeah?" he said with a smirk, though his eyes searched mine like he was hoping I’d say something else.

"Exactly," I replied, forcing a smile, pretending my heart wasn’t thrashing wildly.

We hooked up a few more times after that. Always in secret. Always with that unspoken ache hovering between us. We told ourselves it didn’t mean anything that it was just experience. But I knew I was lying to myself. And deep down, I think Will knew he was too.

Then came results day. He got into drama school. I got into Oxford. We promised to stay in touch.

But we didn’t. Will and Josh did however.

I watched him from afar on telly, in films, his name growing louder, his face on magazine covers. He watched me too, I’d later learn, when I made headlines for winning a high-profile case at twenty-seven. We were both doing well. Successful. Busy.

But we hadn’t spoken in twelve years.

Until now.

Because tomorrow, Josh is getting married, and Will Poulter is the best man. And lucky me I am the maid of honour.

I hadn’t seen him yet. He was due to arrive tonight for the rehearsal dinner. I’d already made peace with the fact that he’d probably moved on, grown up, maybe even forgotten about us. About me.

But the truth was… I hadn’t forgotten a thing.

Not his laugh. Not the way his hands had felt tangled in mine. Not the weight of everything we never said.

And tonight, all of that was about to come rushing back.

The Cotswolds estate looked like something plucked out of a fairytale or a period drama at the very least. All weathered honey-stone, climbing ivy, and enormous sash windows that let in the kind of soft light that made everything feel slightly unreal.

It had ten bedrooms, three sitting rooms, a sweeping staircase I’d nearly tripped on twice already, and grounds that went on for what felt like forever. Josh and Jenna had outdone themselves. It was tasteful, elegant, and just posh enough to make you forget you were still in England.

It was also, inconveniently, the location where I was about to see Will Poulter again.

Everyone had arrived that afternoon. I'd been in my room which was a lovely little thing with a window seat and way too many cushions. Id been unpacking when Josh knocked on the door.

“You good?” he asked, peeking his head in.

“As good as I can be when you’ve put me in a rom-com and forgotten to tell me.”

He grinned. “Oh come on, it’s not that dramatic.”

“Josh,” I said, standing with a raised brow. “Your best man is someone who I haven’t seen in over a decade, and we’ve got a head table to share all weekend. That is exactly how every rom-com starts before someone gets pushed into a fountain.”

He laughed, full-bodied and easy, like always. “Look, Will’s not even here yet. And anyway, he’s bringing his girlfriend. She’s nice. Quiet. You’ll hardly notice her.”

That made something twist unpleasantly in my stomach.

“Great,” I said. “Quiet girlfriends. Love that.”

He gave me a look. “Just be cool, alright? For me.”

I nodded, exhaling slowly. “I’m always cool.”

Josh snorted. “You once tried to throw a scone at Will because he said Keira Knightley couldn’t act.”

“That was Year Nine and it was justified.”

By the time the rehearsal dinner rolled around, the house had transformed into a warm, golden-lit dream. Fairy lights zigzagged across the main dining room’s exposed beams, candles flickered in mismatched holders, and a long wooden table had been set for thirty, covered in eucalyptus, white roses, and name cards written in Jenna’s dainty handwriting.

I was already seated when I felt it.

That presence.

The kind of shift in the room where the air pulls tight and you just know someone has arrived.

I turned my head.

There he was.

Will.

Older. Taller. Somehow even broader. His hair was longer, more controlled than it had been when we were teenagers, but his face those eyes hadn’t changed. Still so expressive. Still the kind that made you forget what you were meant to be thinking.

And then there was her. Clinging to his arm, poised, sleek, and achingly beautiful in that I-model-in-Paris-and-do-yoga-in-Bali kind of way. She looked like she smelt expensive. Probably did.

His eyes scanned the room, laughing with someone as he shrugged off his coat. And then, he saw me.

It was like time folded in on itself.

Twelve years gone in the space of a heartbeat.

His smile faltered for just a second barely noticeable unless you were watching as closely as I was. Then it was back, all charming and polite as he leaned down to greet someone else. But I’d seen it. That flicker.

That “bloody hell, it’s her” flicker.

“Don’t stare,” Josh muttered from beside me, nudging my arm with his wine glass. “You’re being obvious.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

“You are. And oh God he’s coming over. Be nice.”

I looked down at my plate and tried not to think about how many times I’d seen him without a shirt on.

When I looked up, he was right there.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low and familiar in a way that made my heart lurch. “Hi.”

“Will,” I managed, standing to give him that awkward-but-necessary hug. He smelt like cedarwood and memory.

“You look...” he started, then glanced at his girlfriend and cleared his throat. “You look great.”

“So do you,” I said, voice entirely too formal.

She smiled politely. “Hi, I’m Cinthia.”

I shook her hand. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Y/N. Josh’s twin.”

“Ohhh,” she said, tilting her head like she was piecing something together. “Will’s told me so much about you.”

Has he now?

Will shifted beside her, clearly regretting ever speaking my name.

“Good things, I hope,” I replied sweetly.

“All good,” she said, oblivious to the tension thick enough to butter toast with. “He said you were the smart one.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “Well, that checks out.”

Eventually, they moved on, greeting the rest of the table, but my mind stayed stuck watching his hand on the small of her back, the way his laugh still tilted slightly to the left.

When dinner began, I found myself placed of course directly next to him at the head table.

Josh is so dead.

“Fate or sabotage?” I muttered as I sat down.

Will smirked. “Josh?”

“Obviously.”

“Right,” he said, unfolding his napkin. “So... twelve years.”

“Twelve years,” I echoed. “You’ve done alright for yourself.”

He huffed a laugh. “I try. You’re a barrister now, yeah?”

“Top one in London, apparently.”

“Of course you are.” His eyes flicked to mine. “Always knew you’d run the world.”

Something in my chest tugged. That old softness I thought I’d outgrown.

“You always did know me too well.”

He looked down at his plate, then back at me, more serious now. “You look amazing, Y/N.”

I smiled tightly. “So does Cinthia.”

And just like that, the wall went back up.

“So,” I said, pouring myself a very full glass of wine, “actor of the year and still turns up late?”

He grinned. “Some things never change.”

Neither do you, I thought, watching the way his eyes creased at the edges when he smiled.

The dinner was as lovely as it could be, all things considered. There were toasts Josh’s friend Callum cried over dessert and laughter, and Jenna’s dad told a story about mistaking Josh for a hotel employee when they first met. I laughed at all the right moments. I clinked glasses. I didn’t look at Will unless I was absolutely sure he wasn’t looking at me.

After the meal, people spilled into the sitting rooms, lounging on velvet sofas with brandy or retreating out to the patio for air. I made my way into the library, a quiet little room tucked off the hallway. It was empty, save for a dying fire and a leather armchair too inviting to resist.

I sank into it and closed my eyes for just a moment.

“You always did escape to the quiet rooms,” came a voice from the doorway.

I opened my eyes. Will stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me.

“Old habits,” I said.

He stepped inside, slowly, shutting the door behind him.

“Didn’t think I’d get a proper chance to talk to you all night,” he said.

“I figured we’d keep it polite. Casual. Avoid the part where we awkwardly acknowledge our past in front of your girlfriend.”

He winced slightly. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence passed between us.

“You look good,” he said finally, voice soft.

“You already said that.”

“I meant it.”

I looked at him properly then, really looked at him. The same boy who once nervously asked if it was really okay that we tried again. The same boy who’d whispered “this doesn’t mean anything, right?” when we both knew it did.

“So do you,” I said, and it was the truth.

“I’ve thought about you,” he said quietly, eyes meeting mine. “More than I should’ve.”

I swallowed hard.

“Does Cinthia know that?”

His jaw clenched. “Not really.”

I stood, suddenly too aware of how close the air had gotten. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be saying it.”

He reached for me, gently, fingertips brushing mine. “Y/N”

“Don’t,” I whispered. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

I turned, walked past him, and left the room without looking back.

The quiet ache followed me down the hallway like a ghost.

And I knew then despite the years, the distance, and all the things we pretended weren’t real Will Poulter still had the power to ruin me with a single look.

And tomorrow… I’d have to watch him stand by my brother’s side. Smile for pictures. Toast the bride and groom.

While pretending my heart wasn’t splintering all over again.

There’s something cruel about how perfect the morning of your twin brother’s wedding can look while your insides feel like they’ve been spun in a washing machine overnight.

The Cotswold sky was pale blue and cloudless, the grounds misty and golden in the early sun. Birds chirped with smug optimism. Somewhere downstairs, a coffee machine hissed into life and someone probably Jenna’s cousin from Leeds laughed at something far too early for human humour.

I rolled over in bed and let out a groan into my pillow.

“Just get through the bloody day,” I muttered to myself.

But of course, it wasn’t just any day. It was Josh’s wedding. And I was Maid of Honour. And Will Poulter my childhood best mate turned teenage mistake turned heartache I’d buried in the darkest corner of my memory was Best Man.

And last night… last night he had the audacity to look at me like I was still his.

Nope. Not today, Satan.

I dressed with purpose, picking the least flattering blouse I owned (to discourage flirtation, obviously), and scraped my hair into a low, tight bun. I added barely-there makeup, then decided I still looked too approachable, so threw on my big tortoiseshell sunglasses despite the fact we were eating indoors.

By the time I made it down to breakfast, most people were already gathered in the glass conservatory that jutted out from the house like a suntrap. A long table was covered in croissants, pastries, fruit platters, bacon, scrambled eggs, little jars of jam, and a jug of what looked suspiciously like mimosas even though it was barely 9 a.m.

I could see Will the moment I entered.

Unfortunately, he saw me too.

I darted behind Josh, who was mid-mouthful and completely unaware of my crisis.

“Morning,” I said brightly, practically shoving a bread basket in front of me as a makeshift shield.

Josh raised an eyebrow. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” I said through a tight smile, then immediately busied myself with cutting a slice of sourdough that I had absolutely no intention of eating.

I could feel Will’s gaze from three seats down, burning a hole through my left cheek.

“Y/N,” came that stupidly familiar voice. “You sleep alright?”

I didn’t look up. “Like a log, thanks.”

“You left pretty quickly last night.”

“Long day. Needed a shower.”

Josh snorted. “You always were a dramatic sleeper. She once fell asleep on the kitchen floor after a law school exam.”

“Because I deserved to,” I said, eyes still locked on my toast. “And it was cool. The tile helped.”

Will chuckled, that low, warm sound that used to make my spine melt. I gritted my teeth.

“Cinthia said she was going to head into town,” he said, trying for casual. “Get her hair done. She left early this morning.”

“Mmm.” I took a large sip of coffee.

“I thought maybe you and I could...”

“Nope.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“I’ve got things to do,” I said crisply. “Jenna’s dress needs steaming. I’ve got to write a toast. And I’m supposed to help herd the flower girls later, which is about as fun as wrangling caffeinated squirrels.”

Josh laughed. “She’s not kidding. The smallest one bit someone at the engagement party.”

“Only lightly,” I added.

Will looked at me like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or lose his mind. “Y/N…”

But I stood, grabbing a peach from the fruit bowl like it was a grenade and I needed an escape route.

“Lovely chat, boys,” I said sweetly. “See you at the ceremony.”

I was halfway out of the conservatory when I heard his chair scrape against the stone floor.

“Y/N, wait”

I stopped dead in the hallway, his footsteps quick behind me.

I spun. “What, Will? What could you possibly need to say to me now, the morning of my brother’s wedding?”

He stared at me, exasperated. “Can we just talk? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Why?” I said, eyes flashing. “So you can tell me again that you’ve thought about me? That you’ve wondered what might have been? That you had feelings but, oops! You’re taken?”

He flinched. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “Cinthia and I aren’t. We’re not.”

“Oh, please, don’t do that thing where you pretend your relationship is suddenly ‘complicated’ now that I’m here in a blouse you probably associate with GCSE revision nights.”

He tried not to smile. Failed.

“Y/N”

“No. I can’t do this with you. Not today. You had twelve years. Twelve years to pick up a phone. To send a bloody postcard. And now you want to hash out our non-existent unfinished business before Josh says I do?”

His face softened, quiet for a moment.

“I just miss you,” he said.

And for a second, my heart stopped.

But I steeled myself.

“No, Will. You miss who I was. And that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.”

He stared at me like I’d just punched him in the chest.

I turned again, my heels clicking like gavel strikes down the hallway floor.

The ceremony was being held under a grand oak tree that had stood for over two hundred years, its limbs arched like nature’s cathedral. Rows of white chairs lined the manicured lawn in gentle symmetry, guests already seated and chatting in hushed voices, the sunlight filtered through a canopy of late spring leaves.

I stood just behind the flower girls, heart thudding as they tossed petals down the makeshift aisle, trailing giggles and chaos. I couldn’t hear them over the pounding in my ears.

From somewhere in the distance, the quartet began to play a soft, swooning instrumental version of Can’t Help Falling in Love. I stared straight ahead, willing my face into calm neutrality.

Jenna stood behind me with her father, radiant in lace, beaming with joy.

I felt like a fraud.

“All ready?” came the soft voice of the wedding coordinator.

I nodded, barely.

“One step behind the girls. Walk slow. Smile if you can.”

I stepped forward.

The guests turned. I kept my chin up, back straight, fingers curled delicately around the bouquet Jenna had picked. Pale blush roses and eucalyptus. It smelled sweet. Unfairly gentle for what I was feeling.

But the second I rounded the hedge and saw him standing beside Josh under the tree in a fitted navy suit with a pale tie I almost faltered.

Will.

God help me, Will.

He didn’t look at Jenna. Didn’t glance at the guests. Didn’t even register the petals beneath my shoes or the wind shifting the hem of my dress.

He only looked at me.

And the expression on his face was… devastating.

His eyes were wide, brows pulled ever so slightly, mouth parted like he’d been caught off guard by something holy. Like I was a memory returned to life.

Or maybe a regret.

He looked at me like he’d just realised I was the one.

That all along after school trips and shared childhood birthdays, after kisses stolen behind the sports hall, and every moment we claimed didn’t matter I’d been it.

And now it was too bloody late.

I wanted to look away. I didn’t.

Our eyes locked for what felt like a lifetime.

And I saw everything there, plain as day.

The heartbreak. The confusion. The what ifs. The silent ache of twelve years spent apart and never quite unhooking from one another.

He blinked hard, jaw tense.

I passed him slowly, heart in my throat.

And for a split second, our shoulders almost brushed.

The music swelled behind me.

I reached the front and turned to face the aisle, standing just beside the altar. I could feel him feel him, inches to my left, stiff with the weight of unsaid things.

Jenna began her walk then, the true bride of the moment, and the crowd stood to watch her come.

But not Will.

Will didn’t turn. Not right away.

His eyes lingered on me.

Just one more moment.

As if memorising the outline of me.

As if trying to figure out how he’d ever let me slip through his fingers.

Jenna’s voice rang clear and sweet through the garden, full of warmth and sincerity, speaking promises she’d carefully written and no doubt practised in front of her mirror. Her hand trembled slightly in Josh’s as she told him how he made her feel safe, how he made her laugh, how he made her believe in love.

I stood just beside her, the soft breeze tugging at my dress, my bouquet now slightly wilting in the heat, and I didn’t hear a single word.

Because Will was looking at me again.

And I couldn't stop myself from looking back.

It wasn’t subtle, either. It wasn’t a stolen glance or a shy flicker of recognition.

It was a stare.

A plea.

His blue eyes locked on mine like they had something urgent to say. Something he couldn’t hold in for another second. Not with me standing there in a fitted pale sage dress, not with the sunlight glinting off my earrings, not with the soft outline of twelve years of distance evaporating like it had never existed.

Josh was laughing now probably at some shared memory Jenna had slipped into her vows but Will didn’t smile. He didn’t blink.

He just looked at me like I was everything.

Please, his eyes said.

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening as I shook my head ever so slightly.

Not now.

He tilted his head, just a fraction. His brows furrowed. There was so much urgency in his expression it made my heart physically ache. That was the look of a man coming undone in silence. A man who’d let time and fame and fear rip the seams of something rare and real and was only just now realising what he’d lost.

Don’t do this, I warned him silently, gripping my bouquet tighter.

It’s the middle of your best mate’s wedding.

His jaw flexed. His eyes dropped briefly to the grass, as if ashamed. As if sorry. But when they lifted again, he was still there, still asking with every ounce of unspoken emotion on his face.

Was it ever really over for you?

I blinked rapidly and looked away, focusing on the lacy edge of Jenna’s veil fluttering in the breeze, my stomach twisting violently. I could feel him watching, waiting.

But I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t.

Because the moment I did, I would answer him.

And the answer was yes.

Of course it had never been over.

Not when I’d watched every film he’d ever done, even the ones I had to stream at 2 a.m. because I was working 70-hour weeks in court. Not when I heard his voice unexpectedly in an interview clip and it made my hands tremble. Not when I opened old drawers and found crumpled notes he used to pass me in Year 10, teasing me about my obsession with strawberry laces.

Not when I saw him again after twelve years and all it took was one look to turn my world upside down.

But this wasn’t the time.

And it certainly wasn’t the place.

Josh was saying his vows now steady, grounded, in love.

And still, Will watched me.

I didn’t cry when my twin married the love of his life.

But I nearly cried because Will Poulter looked at me like I was the only girl in the world… while sitting in the front row watching him was the woman he’d brought with him.

The garden had been transformed.

Fairy lights twisted through the trees and along the beams of the marquee now strung up beside the house. Long white tables dressed in eucalyptus garlands and flickering candles stretched under the soft golden canopy. Champagne flutes chimed. Laughter floated between courses. Jenna’s cousins were already a few drinks in, and Josh was mid-speech with a napkin tucked into his shirt collar like some kind of Victorian lord.

The head table ran straight down the centre like a wedding runway. I sat in my assigned seat to the right of Jenna, with Josh at the end and tried not to notice who was directly beside me.

Will.

Of course it was Will.

Cinthia, his picture-perfect girlfriend with her razor-sharp cheekbones and glossy red lipstick, sat beside him on the other side. She was chatting animatedly to someone from Jenna’s uni days, not noticing a thing. Not noticing the way Will’s body was angled toward me, or how stiff I’d gone in my chair, like one wrong move would split me down the middle.

The waiter set a plate in front of me something mushroomy and posh that I couldn’t begin to eat.

Will cleared his throat softly beside me.

I didn’t look at him.

“Y/N,” he said low, nearly a whisper, the deep timbre of his voice sending a horrible, familiar chill across my skin.

I turned slowly, met his eyes. Only his eyes.

“Don’t.”

His brows twitched, surprised.

“Not now,” I said quietly, my voice sharp but steady. “Not here. This is their day.”

He looked like I’d slapped him, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he pulled back slightly in his seat.

“I just want to”

“Will.” I turned to face him properly, just for a moment. “This is not the time. Or the place.”

He looked at me really looked at me and for once, said nothing.

Not sorry. Not ‘I know.’ Just… nothing.

I turned back toward Jenna, who was glowing as she chatted to her mum, blissfully unaware of the chaos simmering beside her.

I forced my fork through whatever was on my plate and tried to remember how to chew. Across the table, Cinthia was laughing at something. She touched Will’s arm. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t turn toward her either.

He was still facing me.

Still watching.

Still silent.

I drank half a glass of wine in three gulps and refused to meet his eyes again.

The lights dimmed.

The air inside the marquee shifted, soft and golden, as fairy lights blinked to full brightness overhead. A hush swept through the guests like they all knew this was the moment.

Jenna and Josh took to the dancefloor hand in hand, and I could see the tension in my brother's shoulders melt away the moment her arms wrapped around him. The music started a gentle, lilting classic they both loved, something about growing old together and gardens and home. People swooned. Phones lifted. Cinthia clapped softly beside Will, already filming on her phone.

I watched my brother’s grin stretch ear to ear, his head tilted against Jenna’s like he still couldn’t believe he’d got this lucky. My heart twisted with happiness for him.

Then the DJ’s voice broke in, smooth and warm:

“And now, we’d love to invite the happy couple’s parents, and the maid of honour and best man to join them on the dancefloor.”

My heart sank.

I froze for half a beat, praying someone might intervene. That the floor might open. That anything else might happen.

But Jenna turned her head with a beaming smile and beckoned me forward with a bright, excited wave.

I forced my feet to move.

Across the floor, Will was already making his way to Josh, slipping his suit jacket off and setting it on a nearby chair, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the strong curve of his forearms. His tie was slightly loose now. He looked casual, unfairly handsome, and completely unbothered on the surface but I knew better.

I stepped into the lights. Into the centre. Into the open.

Josh pulled me into a hug as I reached him, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “You alright?”

“Of course,” I said, smiling tightly. “Perfect.”

But the moment he turned back to Jenna, Will was there.

I don’t even remember how our hands found each other but suddenly, his right hand was at my waist, and my left was resting gently on his shoulder. His touch burned through the silk of my dress like a brand.

I didn’t look at him.

I couldn’t.

“Y/N,” he said under his breath.

“Don’t.”

His fingers flexed at my waist. “Please, just look at me.”

My jaw clenched. I focused on Josh and Jenna, on the spin of her skirt, on the dim sway of the lights.

“Everyone’s watching,” I whispered.

“Let them.”

That broke me.

I looked up.

And there it was again that look.

Like he’d finally figured it out. Like twelve years of missed chances had all funnelled down into this one moment under golden lights, and he was begging for a way to undo the clock.

His blue eyes searched mine like they might still hold the answer.

I felt it. All of it. The pull. The ache. The ghost of every kiss we swore didn’t matter. Every lie we told ourselves when we said we weren’t in love.

“I’m still with her,” he said quietly, guilt curling in the edges of his voice.

“I know,” I said, softer than I meant to then I said “We can’t do this now,”

He stepped just a fraction closer. “Then when?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know.

Because I wanted him to be mine again desperately and it terrified me.

So I kept dancing.

And he kept holding on.

The song ended with a soft decrescendo and a wave of polite applause.

I stepped back the moment it was acceptable to do so, breaking away from Will’s hold like it burned. Because it did. Every inch of him, every look, every breath near me tonight had lit a match inside my chest.

Josh clapped his hand on Will’s back, thanking him for “putting up with my sister’s terrible two-step,” which earned a round of laughter.

I smiled politely.

People began trickling onto the dancefloor. The bridesmaids grabbed Prosecco and squealed as someone shouted for ABBA. Jenna’s mum was already pulling one of her younger cousins into a ridiculous waltz to Dancing Queen. Everyone relaxed. The lights shifted again party mode now.

But I couldn’t stay.

I stepped back from the group, heels crunching softly against the gravel just outside the marquee.

I didn’t make it far.

“Y/N.”

I stopped, eyes shutting tight at the sound of his voice.

“You can’t just walk away after that,” Will said quietly.

I turned to face him. He was standing just at the edge of the light, hands in his pockets, the top button of his shirt undone.

“Actually,” I said, crossing my arms, “I can. Because you’ve got a girlfriend. And I am not...I will not be the reason you mess her about.”

“I’m not messing her about,” he said, stepping closer. “I didn’t plan any of this”

“Oh, what, you accidentally fell in love with me on a wedding dancefloor?” I snapped.

He blinked. “Don’t say it like it’s not real.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “You have no right, Will.”

“I know.”

“You brought her here.”

“I know,” he repeated, more forcefully now. “I thought I’d moved on. I thought you had too. We haven’t seen each other in twelve years and I thought...” He stopped, voice cracking.

I swallowed hard. “I tried.”

Silence stretched between us.

I could hear the music shifting again, a slow track bleeding into something faster, the sound of laughter and glasses clinking in the background like static.

“You looked at me today like you’d only just seen me for the first time,” I whispered. “Like you’d forgotten what we were.”

“I never forgot,” he said. “I just buried it. Because it hurt too much to remember.”

I felt my eyes sting, but I wouldn’t let myself cry. Not now. Not in heels and mascara and the dress I’d picked to match Jenna’s colour scheme.

“I can’t do this,” I said, voice shaking. “Not while she’s in there thinking you’re hers.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t stop me when I turned.

Didn’t follow when I walked away.

But I felt it the weight of his eyes, the crackle in the air, the truth hanging between us like an unfinished sentence.

And I knew something had changed.

Not tonight. But soon.

The clinking of glasses quieted the room.

Josh stood, slightly flushed from champagne and dancing, and tapped his knife gently against his glass again just to be sure all eyes were forward.

“Alright,” he said with a grin, “you lot have already heard me waffle through my vows and butcher Ed Sheeran on the dancefloor, so it’s time we let the real speaker of the family have a go. My twin, my other half, the maid of honour Y/N.”

A cheer went up and I rose slowly, smoothing down my dress, heart hammering inside my ribs.

I glanced at Jenna, who beamed at me from across the table, her hand tucked in Josh’s.

Will was beside me. I didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

I cleared my throat and held up my cue cards slightly wrinkled from being clutched too tightly most of the day.

“Hi everyone,” I started, forcing a small smile. “If I haven’t had the chance to meet you properly yet I’m Y/N, the very lucky sister of the groom, and lifelong partner-in-crime to the man who, somehow, managed to convince a goddess like Jenna to marry him.”

The crowd laughed a warm, relaxed sound. Josh gave a little bow, which earned him a nudge from his new wife.

I took a breath and continued. “Josh and I… we’ve shared every milestone. First bike rides, first broken arms from said first bike ride” That got a cheer from our cousins. “first exams, first heartbreaks. He’s always been the first person I’ve wanted to tell good news to. And the first one I’ve turned to when everything’s gone wrong.”

I paused, blinking back the heat in my eyes.

“Seeing him today… standing there in front of all of us, looking at Jenna like she’s the answer to every question he’s ever asked; I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud in my life.”

Josh's eyes were glassy. I looked at him deliberately now, grounding myself.

“And Jenna,” I said, smiling warmly at her, “I knew you were the one for him the moment I met you. The way you look at him… the way you see all the messy, complicated, brilliant parts of him, and still love him so fiercely. Thank you. Thank you for loving my brother the way he deserves.”

She sniffled. Josh kissed her knuckles, and a few guests quietly dabbed at their eyes.

I cleared my throat. “I know it’s cliché to say, but when you grow up with someone like Josh, you set the bar high. And I used to wonder if I’d ever find someone who saw me the way he’s seen me my whole life. Who’d know all the bits of me, even the ones I try to hide, and stay.”

There was a beat.

Will stiffened beside me.

I kept my voice light, even as my heart trembled. “I still haven’t quite found it. But after watching you two today… I have hope. Real hope. That maybe one day, I will find what you two have.”

Silence.

For just a moment, it felt like the air shifted taut and fragile.

And then, movement.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him. Will.

Pushing back his chair quietly.

Standing.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a scene. He just walked.

Past the tables. Past the twinkle lights. Out into the dusk.

A few people glanced around, some whispering, but I didn’t let it stop me.

I turned back to Josh and Jenna, smile firmly in place. “To my favourite person since the day we were born. And to the person who made him even better. May you never stop being each other’s first call, last dance, and soft place to land.”

I raised my glass.

“To Josh and Jenna.”

The room echoed it back.

“To Josh and Jenna.”

And I sat down.

Even if half of me had just followed Will out that door.

Later that night the clatter of dessert forks had faded into the soft hum of music drifting from the string quartet in the far corner. Fairy lights glimmered from the wooden beams above, casting a warm, golden glow across the reception hall.

I needed a breather.

I’d stayed at the head table long enough to be polite long enough to hear the toasts and answer the sweet congratulations from extended family and friends I hadn’t seen in years. But now the soft ache in my cheeks from too many forced smiles and the tension in my shoulders from pretending I hadn’t noticed Will leaving the table begged for release.

I stood, slipped away, and found myself near the drinks table, nursing a fresh glass of champagne when a familiar voice caught me off guard.

“Y/N.”

I turned. Callum.

Callum Hart had been one of Josh’s mates since Year Seven a towering, kind-hearted type with an easy grin and the uncanny ability to charm every aunt in the room within minutes of arriving. He looked sharp tonight navy suit, pale gold tie, glass of whisky in one hand.

“Dance with me?” he asked, nodding toward the floor where couples had begun to gather beneath the low, romantic lights.

I hesitated.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Come on. We both know this is safer than you loitering by the bar pretending you’re not avoiding Will like the plague.”

My laugh cracked out before I could stop it, too tired to fake indifference.

“Alright,” I said, setting down my glass. “One dance.”

He offered his arm with a little flourish, and I took it, letting him lead me into the soft swirl of bodies on the floor.

It was easy with Callum natural. We didn’t speak much, but we didn’t have to. He spun me playfully at one point, catching me as I stumbled back laughing, the fabric of my dress rustling between us.

I let myself enjoy the moment the music, the calm. I could pretend, for just a second, that nothing else mattered.

But then I glanced over his shoulder.

And saw him.

Will.

Leaning against a pillar just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, arms crossed tight over his chest. That jaw clenched. Eyes locked not on me. On Callum.

It wasn’t subtle.

It was the kind of look that could've cracked glass.

My breath hitched for a moment, and I faltered in the rhythm. Callum noticed and looked over his shoulder.

“Ah,” he said mildly. “I see. That explains the daggers in my back.”

I rolled my eyes. “He has no right.”

“Didn’t say he did,” Callum replied, gentle. “But he’s burning holes in me all the same.”

I turned my gaze away.

But the second time I looked back not even a full minute later it wasn’t me Will was watching.

It was her.

Cinthia.

She was standing before him, eyes wide, lips moving fast as she gestured towards the dancefloor pleading, almost. She reached for his hand.

He shook his head.

Twice.

Firm.

She tried again.

He said something short and clipped. She dropped her hand, face falling.

I looked away, heart a little louder in my chest than it should’ve been.

“You alright?” Callum asked softly, giving my fingers a light squeeze.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“Liar.”

I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

“Come on,” I said, nodding toward the edge of the floor. “I need air.”

He didn’t press, just led me gently away.

And as we walked off the floor, I didn’t look back.

But I could still feel his eyes on me.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been since the wedding.

Since the speeches and the looks and the tension so thick I could’ve carved it into slices and served it for dessert.

Three weeks of silence. No messages. No missed calls. No doorstep declarations or surprise pop-ups in the office lobby. Just the still hum of my life continuing and me doing everything I could to pretend I wasn’t constantly aware of the absence of someone who’d once known every corner of me.

So when Josh texted about a “little games night” at the new house he and Jenna had just moved into, I almost said no.

But he was my twin.

And I missed him. And I missed her, too. Jenna had been lovely sending me photos of the honeymoon, tagging me in silly Instagram reels, checking in like the sister I never had.

So I agreed. Told myself I’d go, make an appearance, hug them both, maybe sneak out after two rounds of charades.

I didn’t ask who else was coming.

Which is why, when I stepped through their brand new Noth London apartment arms full with a bottle of red and a packet of posh crisps I froze.

Because I saw him.

Will.

Sat on the sofa.

Already looking straight at me like he’d been waiting for the door to open all night.

My stomach dropped.

But before I could even register how to breathe again, I heard a familiar voice at my shoulder.

“Oi,” Callum whispered, appearing from thin air and swooping to my side like a proper knight in shining armour. “I’ve got you tonight, alright?”

I turned to him, grateful beyond words. “You’re a saint.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said with a wink, taking the crisps out of my hands and nodding toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink before the staring gets unbearable.”

I followed, weaving past the others already gathered in the lounge. A few new faces, a few old ones friends of Josh’s from school and some of Jenna’s uni lot. But Will was the only one who made the room feel smaller by simply being in it.

Callum poured me a glass of wine without asking, sliding it across the counter like he’d been rehearsing. “You doing alright?”

“Fine,” I said.

He just looked at me.

I sighed. “Trying to be fine.”

He nodded once, then leaned in a little. “You should know… he came here hoping you’d come too.”

I blinked. “He told you that?”

“Didn’t have to. Bloke’s been twitching every five minutes since he got here. Kept asking Josh if you RSVP’d.”

I exhaled slowly, steadying the glass in my hand.

“He’s not with her anymore, you know,” Callum added, gentler this time.

My eyes snapped to his. “Cinthia?”

He nodded.

“When?”

“Week after the wedding.”

I swallowed. The wine suddenly tasted stronger.

But before I could say anything, Jenna swooped into the kitchen, radiant as ever, arms open. “There she is! Come here!”

I let her hug me, grateful for the temporary distraction the warmth of her, the normality of it. We talked briefly about their honeymoon, the chaos of moving, the games night schedule (yes, there was one), and who’d already sneakily voted themselves Game Master (Josh, obviously).

Eventually, we were all summoned into the lounge. People grabbed seats on the sofas or the floor, some perched on the edge of the coffee table. I sat cross-legged between Callum and a girl I vaguely remembered from uni drinks.

Will sat opposite me.

Close enough that when our eyes did meet and they did, despite my best efforts; I could see every flicker of conflict on his face.

But Callum stayed close.

He nudged me with his knee every time I looked tense. Cracked jokes when Will was too quiet. Kept the attention on me in a way that felt safe but light. And I was so, so grateful for it.

Because no matter how hard I tried to ignore it… every time I looked up, Will was still watching me.

And even from across the room, I could feel the question hanging in the air between us.

Are you still mine?

We were playing a game called “Most likely to…” When it reached me, I pulled one and unfolded it with a grin.

“‘Most likely to accidentally start a cult.’” I read aloud, laughing. “Right. Be honest. Who’s got that in them?”

The room erupted with overlapping voices.

“Josh!”

“Definitely Callum.”

“CALLUM!”

“No way,” Callum said, faux-offended. “I haven’t even got a proper Twitter following.”

“You don’t need one,” I said, nudging him. “You’ve got charisma, questionable philosophies, and that weird devotion to oat milk.”

He feigned betrayal, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. Alright. So we’re throwing each other under the bus now?”

Josh got up quickly to get something he forgot in the kitchen.

Laughter surrounded us, but I caught the way Callum’s eyes flicked quickly, deliberately over my shoulder. Then he leaned in again, voice just for me.

“He’s on the move.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“Will.”

I didn’t even need to turn.

Because a second later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. Will, standing slowly from the other sofa, drink in hand, eyes fixed on me like I was the only person in the room.

But before he could cross the space between us, Callum sat up straighter, blocking Will’s path without even trying. “So,” he said to me, launching into an exaggerated story, “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally ended up in a Swiss yodelling competition?”

I choked on my wine. “You what?”

And just like that, I was laughing again even as my heart thudded like a warning drum in my chest.

Will halted, still a few steps away. I could feel him lingering, a magnetic pull I tried to ignore, but Callum didn’t give him an inch. He kept talking, gesturing, leaning in at just the right moments to make it look natural. Friendly. Effortless.

By the time Josh re-entered the room shouting about the next game and dragging people into new teams Will was still standing alone jaw clenched so tight I swore I heard it creak.

And Callum? He just shot him a polite, infuriating little nod.

I pretended not to see the exchange.

I definitely didn’t notice the way Will’s eyes narrowed.

But I knew it was coming.

And it did in the very next game.

Articulate. High energy, competitive, and basically an excuse for everyone to shout over each other.

“Right,” Josh said, dividing us into two teams. “Let’s go with girls vs boys, since it’s mostly even and yes, before anyone gets clever, we’ll rotate um Callum and Jenna to keep it fair.”

Will and Callum ended up on opposite sides.

And that’s when it happened.

Every time it was Callum’s turn to describe a word Will challenged it.

“That's not specific enough,” he muttered when Callum said “animal” for the word giraffe.

“Actually, that’s not how you pronounce that,” he corrected on another round, interrupting Callum mid-guess.

At one point, Callum looked directly at him and said, deadpan, “You alright, mate?”

Will just smiled. Tight. Icy. “Peachy.”

I stayed quiet, cheeks burning, doing everything I could not to look at either of them too long.

But the tension was radiating now. Practically humming through the floorboards. I wasn’t the only one who noticed it.

Even Jenna leaned over at one point and whispered, “Are they having a testosterone-off or is that just me?”

I laughed awkwardly and shook my head, but something had shifted.

Will wasn’t just frustrated anymore.

He was glaring. Like every time Callum made me laugh, it scraped against something raw inside him.

And I… didn’t know what to do with that.

Because suddenly, the room felt too small again. Like every second was building toward something inevitable.

And I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

The living room slowly emptied into the kitchen and garden, the chaos of Articulate leaving everyone buzzing and in need of a break. Bottles clinked, someone put on music something low and vibey and the heavy night air drifted in through open doors.

I stood by the fireplace, sipping a fresh glass of red and trying to will my heart rate back to normal. It was like I could still feel Will’s gaze burning between my shoulder blades, even with the room half-full and no longer playing games.

Sure enough, I heard him before I saw him.

A low voice, deliberate footsteps. My stomach twisted.

“Y/N.”

I didn’t turn around yet. But Callum appeared beside me like he’d apparated, all calm and casual, drink in hand but eyes watchful. He saw Will before I did, his whole body subtly shifting in front of mine like a wall.

“You alright, mate?” Callum asked, not unkind, but with a definite undertone. “Think you lost your team the last round.”

“I need to speak to her,” Will said plainly. No bravado, no politeness. Just a statement, quiet but steady.

I stepped slightly to the side, touching Callum’s arm. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t move. Just looked at me with that soft, questioning furrow between his brows. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Promise.”

For a second, he hesitated eyes flicking between us before he sighed and gave Will one last glance that said I’m watching you, then disappeared toward the patio muttering, “I’m having a vape with Josh. Good luck.”

And then it was just us.

Will stood two paces away from me, hands in his pockets, jaw tense.

I took a breath. “You’ve been glaring at Callum like you’re planning to bury him in Jenna’s new herb garden.”

Will didn’t smile. “Can you blame me?”

“Actually, yes.”

He moved closer. “You think I wanted to bring her?”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Ex.” He said it quickly, firmly. “We broke up two days after the wedding.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “I still can’t.”

“Will…”

“No,” he said, cutting across gently. “Let me. Just this once, don’t shut me down.”

I looked up at him at that face I’d known since we were five, and yet, tonight, he looked entirely unfamiliar. Like the boy I used to sneak kisses with under the bleachers had grown into someone haunted. Someone who had been waiting twelve years to finish a conversation we never got the courage to start.

He took a step closer. I didn’t move.

“I shouldn’t have let us drift,” he said. “When we left for uni… I told myself it didn’t mean anything, what we had. I told myself it was just timing, just hormones, just… preparation.”

“It was supposed to be simple,” I said softly.

“But it never was.”

I exhaled. “You had a girlfriend. You brought her to Josh’s wedding, Will.”

“I thought I was over it. Over you.” He gave a dry laugh. “You walked down that aisle and I felt like I was eighteen again, trying to figure out how not to fall in love with my best friend’s sister.”

My heart lurched.

“You’re not saying this because of nostalgia or wine or...”

“I’m saying this because it’s true,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “I’ve messed up every relationship I’ve had because none of them were you, and it took watching you give a speech about hoping to find a love like Josh and Jenna’s to realise that I already had it once. And I let it go.”

My fingers tightened around my wine glass.

The air around us felt heavier than the storm clouds forming in the distance outside. Like the sky was holding its breath too.

He stepped even closer, voice dropping.

“I came tonight because I needed to know if you felt it too. If you still...”

“Will.”

He stopped.

My voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this here. Not in Jenna and Josh’s house. Not with everyone five feet away.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“But… I’m not sending you away, either.”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“I need time,” I said. “To think. To decide if this is real or just… leftover feelings from another life.”

He gave me the softest smile I’d ever seen on him. “Take all the time you need.”

We stood there for a beat longer, the hum of conversation spilling from the kitchen, laughter floating through the cracked back door.

He didn’t try to touch me.

Didn’t try to kiss me.

But the look he gave me before turning to go said it all.

This isn’t over.

I didn’t sleep much.

Even with the wine haze and the late-night chatter, my mind wouldn’t quiet. Will’s words kept echoing through me, bouncing around my chest until they settled somewhere beneath my ribs, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

By the time morning came, grey and drizzly over London, I was sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hand, thumb hovering over his name.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then, I pressed call.

He answered on the second ring.

“Y/N?”

His voice was soft. Rough with sleep. He sounded surprised but not shocked. Like he’d been hoping I’d call, but didn’t quite believe I would.

“Hey,” I said, trying to swallow the nerves in my throat. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he said too quickly. “Well… yeah, but I don’t care. I’m glad it’s you.”

I smiled despite myself. “I wanted to talk. Properly.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath all night too. “Yeah. Me too.”

I curled my legs underneath me and stared out the window, the rain painting streaks on the glass. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Wherever you need to,” he said.

There was a long pause. Not awkward. Just… full.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen,” I said finally. “And I think I spent the last twelve years pretending I wasn’t. Because you were off becoming Will Poulter, and I was terrified that if I said it out loud, I’d be holding you back or embarrassing myself.”

He was silent on the other end, but I could feel him listening. Could feel the weight of every word land.

I took a breath. “And then we slept together, and it was supposed to be simple, and it never was. It was never just sex for me, Will. Even when we both pretended it was.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “It wasn’t for me either.”

“I watched you walk around that wedding weekend with someone else and it felt like being gutted,” I admitted. “And I kept telling myself I didn’t have a right to feel that way.”

“I ended things with Cinthia because I realised I’d been lying to both of us. I kept chasing versions of you in other people,” he said. “But they weren’t you.”

Another pause.

“I’m scared, Will.”

His voice softened. “Of what?”

“Of this,” I whispered. “Of getting it wrong. Of falling so hard that I forget how to land. Of you waking up one day and realising I’m not enough.”

“You’ve always been too much for me,” he said. “Too brilliant, too fierce, too you. That’s why I didn’t try before. I didn’t think I deserved you.”

My throat tightened.

He continued, “But I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not going to fumble this or run from it. If you let me in… I’ll do everything in my power to show you that you’re safe with me.”

“I don’t need perfect,” I said, quietly. “I just need honest.”

“You have it. All of it.”

I closed my eyes. Rain tapped gently against the glass like a soft metronome. My heart felt louder.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this. Let’s try.”

There was a stunned beat of silence on his end. Then, “Are you serious?”

“I’m saying yes, Will.”

He let out a quiet laugh, disbelieving and a little teary. “You’ve just made me the happiest I’ve ever been before ten in the morning.”

I laughed too, wiping my cheek.

“We’re going to mess up, you know,” I warned gently.

“I know,” he said. “But this time, I’ll be there when we do.”

And somehow, I believed him.

#fanfiction #reader #x reader #one shot #requested #will poulter imagine #will poulter one shot #will poulter fanfic #will poulter x reader #will poulter #will #poulter

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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Tethered by Fate [pt. 1]

Yandere! superhero! childhood friend x civilian! fem reader

Synopsis: A seemingly innocent act of kindness from you sets off a chain of events that will irrevocably alter the course of your life. TW: bullying (not towards reader), obsessive & delusional behavior, murder (of a side char), descriptions of gore, stalking, mans is an unreliable narrator, eventual smut in pt.2 (18+, when both are adults ofc) A/N: pt.1 is mainly setting up the scene and tracing the root of his obsession through the years, so apologies if it's a little slow and long-winded. the juicier parts and climax will be featured in pt 2 (which i'm currently working on)!! Also in this universe, the red string that connects soulmates is a visible thread that everyone can see, so you'll know who is/isn't your soulmate.

You wonder if things could've gone differently.

If only you hadn't befriended him. If only you had spoken up and defended him when it mattered. If only you hadn't distanced yourself. If only you'd noticed the glaring signs, bold and bright as red ink. If only you'd been more vigilant. If only you'd skipped the shortcut route home. If only you hadn't been so trusting as to invite him inside. If only you'd been firmer with your no's and pushed back harder...

... a million iterations of what ifs circulate your mind. But none of them would've mattered.

Try as you might to conjure up fantasies to hide yourself away and find solace in, the wretched outcome remains: your invisible shackles will forever bind you to the man who tore apart and rewrote fate itself. The one who single-handedly destroyed your life.

Once he decided you were his—that you belonged together across every universe: past, present, future, alternate—no sacred verses etched in scripture, no divine prophecies, no eternal threads could ever stand in his way.

"Honey, don't cry. The kids will love you for you. You're bright, amazing, and such a good boy. Trust me, they'll open up to you, and you'll all be best buddies in no time!"

... was what your childhood friend's mom had softly cooed into his ear when he came home from school one afternoon, bawling, thick snot running down his nose.

For a middle schooler, things like reputation, fitting in, and having friends mattered a great deal. So for him to fail so miserably in all departments meant he was truly at the bottom of the food chain.

A head shorter than most of his peers, who were eagerly speculating about whose powers would manifest first, he became an easy target. His tiny, stick-thin stature made him the subject of ridicule, with some kids sneering that standing too close to him might infect them with some “powerless disease”. Ignoring him wasn’t enough—they made sure he knew exactly where he stood: nowhere.

He'd begged his mom to let him change schools (again), but she simply shooed him away, insisting that he just needed time to adjust to his new environment.

What he failed to mention were the key details—his lunch money being stolen every day, his gym uniform constantly soiled in dirty mop water, his desk decorated in insults scribbled in Sharpie, and the ugly yellow-and-purple bruises marring his skin. How could he possibly tell her? He knew his poor mother wouldn't be able to handle such distressing news or fathom that her precious baby boy was being bullied.

And so, he bided his time and suffered in silence, growing more isolated with each passing day—worn down bit by bit until he started to believe he truly was nothing more than a scrawny, useless, four-eyed freak.

That was until... you came along.

From the moment you enrolled at his school, you were loved by everyone. It was hard not to be, with your easygoing and friendly demeanor.

Imagine his surprise when you sat next to him in Math class. Never mind the fact that it was the only available seat, but does that really matter? To make it even sweeter, you said hi to him first. Him. Of all people!

Sure, maybe it was just a segue to ask to borrow a pen. But you didn't have to say hi to him, and there were plenty other classmates you could've asked. Didn't you know you were committing social suicide by talking to him?

Maybe you hadn't gotten the memo that he was the grade's biggest loser, the one everyone oscillated between taunting or ignoring. Maybe it was all part of some cruel joke he wasn't privy to.

Or maybe... you genuinely wanted to talk to him.

That latter possibility was confirmed when, for the rest of the year, you kept sitting next to him in class. Every. Single. Time. Willingly. A conscious choice you made. You began greeting him by name—wait, you actually knew his name?—and sharing whatever snack you brought that day.

He found himself looking forward to seeing you, to sharing brief moments of laughter, to basking in your comforting company. Piece by piece, his defenses chipped away. While he shrouded every room in a blanket of gloom, your presence was as radiant as the rising sun, your pretty smile blinding him with the warm, golden rays that eventually filtered through the broken walls he had built up.

Suddenly, the suffering he endured all those years didn't matter. None of it mattered, because it all led to this treasured moment of meeting you.

For once in his otherwise shitty childhood, he had someone to call a friend. A friend who made his heart race so fast it felt like it might leap out, his skin tingle with goosebumps, and his cheeks warm with a deep blush. As incoherent and messy as it was to make sense of his own feelings, one thing was certain to him—you were his destined soulmate.

But with that realization came the bitter truth: life didn't always have your best interests at heart. For this perfect happily-ever-after he dreamed of was shattered by the harsh reality he couldn't bear to face—

His red thread didn't connect to yours, and neither did yours to his.

He could see it, the string that should have bound you together. But it remained stubbornly absent, yours and his leading elsewhere—to other people—like a mocking, cruel reminder of what could never be.

By high school, he barely saw you anymore. Granted, you didn’t have any classes together, and with senior year meant more work and less spare time. But he’d hoped you’d at least make some effort to continue your after school hangouts or talk during the in-between moments. Wasn’t that what friends did?

Except, whenever he bumped into you—whether in the hallways, at the front gate, in the cafeteria, or by the convenient store both of you frequented—you didn’t even offer him a "hi" back when he called out your name. Nor did you flash that beaming smile you used to send his way.

In fact, save for the fleeting glance you’d graciously deign him every now and then—only to quickly retreat your eyes to safer territory—you acted as if he didn’t even exist.

Oh.

Somehow, that hurt more than—get out of the fucking way, freak—being haphazardly shoved into the lockers and kneed in the ribs ever could. From his crumpled position on the ground, he searched pitifully for your gaze in the sea of mindless students traversing the hall, hoping you’d cast him a lifeline. Any lifeline he can latch onto to prove he was still worth acknowledging.

It was so brief that anyone else would've glossed over it. But he knew that look; he wasn’t new to this. The message was so pathetically obvious you might as well have shouted it from the rooftops.

You looked at him like he was someone you didn’t want to be associated with, someone you were embarrassed by, someone you wanted to avoid—like he was some shit stain stuck to the bottom of your shoe, waiting to be scraped off.

It was a visceral image, seared into every ridge and groove of his mind, playing on an endless loop—each repetition feeling like you had wrenched a fist into his chest, squeezing his heart tighter and tighter until all blood flow ceased.

Slowly but surely, you were beginning to morph into the faceless monsters who’d made his life a living hell.

Nononono. Sweet, lovely you couldn’t possibly. Surely not.

Clutching his snapped-in-half glasses, fat tears brimming in his eyes, he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around your sudden change in behavior. What went wrong? Did he do something wrong? Was it because he’d finally confessed to having a crush on you?

If you were just going to reject him and toss him aside, why talk to him in the first place? Why string him along and give him false hope? Unless... unless you were playing hard to get.

Yes, that must be it. That seemed like the most plausible explanation.

After all, you secretly liked him too, didn’t you? You felt the same soulmate bond he felt so deeply in his bones too, right? Suffice it to say, once this thought took root—an all-consuming unease that sat heavy in the pit of his stomach, born from his desperation to prove his belief true—it quickly spiraled into a cancerous obsession.

He shadowed you everywhere. Memorized your schedule and lingered in spots you were most likely to pass. It was no coincidence, then, that every time you rounded the corner, he was somehow there. Or when you lined up for food during lunch, he was always standing right behind you. At the library? You can bet he was at the same row, pretending to check out books he didn’t care about.

It was during one of these moments, in the midst of trying to catch another fleeting glimpse of you, that he overheard something that would cement his spiral further. You were laughing with your friends near the lockers, unaware that he was standing just far enough to hear every word.

"Sooooo, any thoughts on who your red thread connects to?" the whiniest of your girlfriends giggled.

Me. Who else would it be?

He’d expected you to say something casual, or even tease them, but instead, you spoke without hesitation. "Well, I'm hoping it's someone like Zenith."

His heart dropped into his stomach. That... up-and-coming superhero?

A chorus of "booooring", "you're literally like every other bitch," "can you get any more basic?" erupted from your posse. For once, he actually agreed with them.

You let out a carefree laugh—god, even your laugh sounded ethereal. "Nah, hear me out. He's strong, brave, and has a literal heart of gold. That's the holy trinity right there. Heard he stopped some major armed robbery last week. And he's only 24!"

"Yeah, and? So is Blaze."

"Why are you looking at me all crazy, like I just pitched your dad or something?" you playfully scoffed. "C'mon. I mean, have you seen those muscles on Zenith? And he's tall..."

It was stab after stab. Perhaps because Zenith was close in age to all of you that the jealousy in him amplified tenfold. The hero's popularity was unmatched, and it seemed like everyone couldn’t stop talking about how perfect he was.

The idea that you—you—might be thinking about him like that, the way others fawned over him, made him want to throw up.

He wasn’t like that. Not strong, not charming, not good enough.

Of course, that was it.

He was just... not what you wanted. He couldn’t measure up to someone like that. That was why you avoided him, why you wouldn’t acknowledge him anymore. It wasn’t that you weren’t interested. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. Or that you didn’t believe he was your soulmate. No, it was that he didn’t fit the ideal you had in your head. He wasn’t the hero you were dreaming of.

The curiosity that had initially taken hold mutated exponentially, growing into a festering itch he couldn’t ignore. You were the itch, burrowing under his skin, making bile churn in his gut, his insides writhing like a breeding ground for parasites.

He staggered to the bathroom, barely able to keep himself upright as nausea clawed at his throat. Slamming the stall door behind him, he doubled over the sink, dry heaving into the basin. The bile didn’t come, but the suffocating pressure in his chest wouldn’t let up.

His breaths came in shallow, panicked bursts as his trembling hands tore at his neck, nails raking deeper and deeper into his skin until blood welled beneath his fingertips. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't—

When he finally forced himself to look up, his reflection in the mirror seemed almost unrecognizable.

The sink shook beneath his grip, a low, shuddering rattle that reverberated through the tiled walls.

And then, with a sharp, earsplitting crack, the mirror shattered into a thousand jagged fragments. Overhead, the light bulbs exploded in rapid succession, sending tiny shards of glass cascading down like rain.

Everything around him fell eerily still. The ringing noises in his head drained into silence, leaving only the sound of his own labored breaths.

In and out. In and out.

As he stared at his broken reflection, bloodied fingers trembling against the sink edge, his eyes flickered a deep, vivid red.

It was like a fog had lifted from his mind.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

~ Good evening. We bring you shocking and tragic news tonight. Beloved superhero Zenith, a symbol of hope and strength to many, was found dead late last night in an alleyway on Broad Street. At just 34 years old and at the peak of his career, his passing has sent shockwaves through the nation.

A passerby discovered his body, which authorities report was severely mutilated, with deep lacerations rendering him almost unrecognizable. Forensics have confirmed he was decapitated, though the full autopsy results are still pending. As investigators work to piece together the circumstances of his death, the burning question on everyone's mind remains: was this a case of suicide, or a brutal, targeted murder?

If it was murder, the world is left wondering—who could commit such a heinous act against one of our greatest heroes? We’ll continue to provide updates as more information comes to light. For now, our thoughts and prayers are with— "Jesus, that's fucking gruesome," your fiancé interrupts the TV broadcast, the sound of the news anchor’s voice muffling as he slides beside you on the couch. He balances a plate of heated lasagna in one hand and hands it to you.

"Thanks," you murmur, the warmth of the plate grounding you momentarily as you take it. Your gaze remains fixed on the TV, the harrowing details of Zenith's death replaying in your head.

"It's honestly so crazy, really," A pause, your voice quieter. "I mean, I can't believe it. He was so young."

"I'm more surprised he didn't survive the fight, for someone his caliber," he replies, taking a bite of his own lasagna. His nonchalance contrasts sharply with the knot of unease forming in your stomach.

"You think it’s a murder?" You glance at him sideways.

"And you don’t?"

"Well..." You hesitate, shifting the plate in your lap. "I do, I guess. With injuries that bad, it couldn’t have possibly been a suicide. It’s just... so sad. And I won’t lie, if someone like Zenith can die like that, meaning there’s someone out there more powerful, more dangerous, roaming our streets..." You trail off, absently twirling your fork in the pasta. "I don’t know how safe I feel."

Your fiancé hums thoughtfully, then leans back against the couch. "Well, there’s always that other hero our age. He’s quite popular now, isn’t he? I’ve seen him all over my feed. Twitter, TikTok, billboards, Youtube ads—fucking hell, it’s getting to be too much, honestly."

The mention of your old classmate's superhero alias pulls at something uncomfortable, buried deep. You tense slightly, fingers curling around the plate. "Can you blame them?" you manage, forcing a casual shrug. "The world loves to fixate on the next hot thing."

"Wait, didn’t you two go to school together? How was he like back then?"

Your stomach twists. "Oh yeah... we did," gaze suddenly focused on your lasagna as if it holds all the answers in the world. Your silence afterward feels louder than it should.

Thankfully, your fiancé doesn’t seem to notice your lack of response to his question. He mistakes your discomfort for grief over Zenith, not the weight of old memories—flashes of your classmate's persistent confession, of clinging to you everywhere—crawling their way to the surface.

He places a comforting hand on your knee. "Don’t worry, I’ll be here to protect you," he says with a wink.

At that, you snort, the tension breaking just slightly. "Pfft, you? And what can you do, huh?"

"Hey! I’m very strong, thank you very much," he protests, flexing his biceps dramatically. Before you can respond, he lunges forward, his fingers digging into your sides with an attack of tickles.

"H-hey! Ahaahaha! S-stop it!" you gasp, squirming beneath his playful attack.

You both tumble into a heap on the couch, breathless and laughing. You collapse onto his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall as his arms wrap loosely around your waist.

For a moment, the world feels lighter. Closing your eyes, you intertwine your fingers with his, the soft red string looped around your pinky tangling neatly with his. The faint connection hums warmly, a quiet reassurance against the discomfort tucked in the corners of your mind.

"I love you," you whisper, though something inside you feels unmoored.

He squeezes your hand gently. "I love you too."

As you lie there and the buzz of the TV fades into the background, the heaviness in your chest remains. Zenith's death. Your former classmate. The memories you try so hard to suppress. They linger, like shadows that no amount of warmth can fully dispel.

~ You're not sure why you decide to take a different route home from work this time, but you do.

Perhaps it's the paranoia creeping in. First, there's the unsettling fact that the killer responsible for Zenith's death is still at large, which is hardly reassuring for a normal civilian like you. Then there's the chilling sensation you've been experiencing for the past two weeks, a feeling you just can't shake, like someone's watching you.

Your fiancé was quick to rationalize it, insisting that the latter might simply be your fear projected from the former playing tricks on you. But that doesn’t change how real and invasive it feels. It's as if unseen eyes are salaciously snaking up and down your body, peeking under the gaps of your clothes, tracking your every move—from your apartment to work, the grocery store, and even the gym. It's unnerving.

Tonight, you're hoping the shorter route, dim as it is, will be your saving grace.

As you trek down the poorly lit street, you clutch your bag a little tighter. You glance back, just once, to make sure no one's there.

Your fiancé has your live location—a precaution you ensured before leaving the office. Just a few more meters, and you'll be home-sweet-home, ready to jump into a hot shower and unwind for the day.

But luck has never been your strong suit.

At first, you almost don’t hear it: the faintest scuff of a footstep behind you.

A chill pierces through your body. You freeze mid-step. Your heartbeat thunders, hammering against your chest so loud you swear the entire neighborhood can hear it.

You're just being paranoid. It's late and you're imagining things.

But then it happens again. A step. And another. You walk faster, and the sound mirrors your pace. When your pace turns to a sprint, so does theirs.

And fuck! Why the hell did you decide to wear these stupid heels today of all days? You're running as fast as you can, praying and praying you'll make it out alive, but that person is suddenly catching up to you because you can hear their breaths and it's scaring you and your legs are starting to feel like lead, anchoring you to the ground, but you can't stop now if you stop they'll catch up and god knows what they'll do to you oh god oh god oh god—

A sickening crunch.

"Woah," a deep, smooth voice cuts through the night. "That was close. Any second later, and things could've gotten... real messy."

You don't have to turn around to know who the voice belongs to.

He steps into view, and you meet eye-to-eye—or rather, after craning your neck to look up—with your former classmate.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" His smile is bright, almost boyish. For a split second, his laidback, easygoing demeanor disarms you, almost making you forget about being chased. But then your eyes drop to his hand. Crimson coats his open palm, shards of skull and smears of brain matter wedged between his fingers, the carnage dripping sluggishly down the back of his hand and pooling at his wrist.

Reality crashes down on you.

Your body moves to let out a bloodcurdling scream, but sensing that, he quickly interjects—

"Hey, hey, none of that, okay?" His hand—cleaned off in one swipe across his dark hoodie—comes up in a mock-placating gesture, palms open. "You don’t want to wake the whole neighborhood, do you?"

Your scream dies in your throat, lips trembling as you clamp your mouth shut.

“See, that’s better. No need for theatrics. You’re safe now. Though, with a reaction like that, you’d think I was the one chasing you. You wound me, you know?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock pain, as if your terror has genuinely hurt his feelings. “Here I am, your knight in shining armor, and all I get is fear.” It’s difficult to process exactly who you're talking to, owed simply to the fact that the man before you is so vastly different from the timid, nerdy boy he once was.

For one, he’s no longer the small, scrawny kid with limp arms. His once frail frame has been replaced with broad shoulders, lean muscle, and a big-boned sturdiness that makes it impossible to look away. And two, he exudes a confidence that feels almost foreign, his tone carrying a gravitas and assuredness that commands attention.

He’s grown into someone almost unrecognizable, eerily reminiscent of Zenith in both presence and charm. "Thank you," you eventually remember your manners, shaken from your reverie. "I—god, that was...that was fucking scary." A shudder of relief escapes you as your fingers brush through your hair, soothing yourself, trying to steady your racing heart.

But beneath the relief, a thread of confusion winds its way into your thoughts. You're surprised, but grateful. Grateful for his intervention, yes, but something about this situation doesn't sit right.

He's an elite, A-list superhero. Why the hell would he be dealing with petty street crime? Shouldn't that be left to the junior heroes, the ones still earning their medals? And how the hell did he end up in your neighborhood at exactly the right time and place? The timing alone feels too perfect, almost too convenient.

Your mind screams at you to drop it. To not pry. To avoid opening Pandora's box. But you can't help it. So against your better judgement, you ask, "Why... why are you here? This... doesn't seem like your usual type of scene. You know, with your—" you gesture vaguely toward him, the potent aura he's practically radiating, "—everything."

He chuckles, the sound light, carefree, as if he hasn't noticed the way you're trying to process it all. "Why not? You think I only deal with the big stuff?" He steps closer, teasing grin widening. "No, no. It's my job to save everyone. Doesn't matter if it's a suspicious guy lurking around the corner or a city-wide crisis. Every life counts."

"People have been reporting strange sightings around here," he continues. “Someone’s been poking around the area lately. Guess I was just in the right place at the right time. And I'm glad I was."

On any other given day—when you would be thinking straight, less frazzled, more like your logical self, and not on the verge of hyperventilating from a near-death experience, you might've exercised more caution, more discernment.

You might’ve pressed further, questioning whether it was truly necessary to kill the man in such a grotesque way. You can see the headless corpse left to rot in your periphery, blood pooling on the asphalt, and—shit—you’re gonna be sick. Isn’t it protocol to hand him over to authorities first for custody anyway? By now, alarm bells should’ve been blaring in your head.

But tonight? Tonight, your sense of self preservation is dimmed by the weight of what just happened, your nerves still rattled by the close call.

So, while your mind lingers on the oddity of it all, the warmth of his smile, the ease with which he carries himself, are enough to disarm your defenses, reassuring you more than you'd care to admit. Somehow, in a haze of confusion and adrenaline, you find yourself standing at the front of your apartment. How you got there, you're not sure. The walk from the street to the lobby, through the elevator, and up to your floor feels like a blur. You can barely recall the steps, yet here you are, staring at your door—unlocked and ajar. It almost doesn't make sense, yet your hand is already on the handle, pushing it open with a slight jerking motion as if on autopilot.

You don’t say goodbye, though. Instead, you look at him with a half cocked head, as if still questioning your own actions. A strange combination of guilt, relief, and the faintest sense of obligation rush through you.

Maybe it's the guilt for how you distanced yourself from him in high school, never standing up for him when he needed it most. Or perhaps it’s your gratitude for not dying tonight—you're still floating on that cathartic relief. Maybe it’s the lingering impulse to repay him, or simply a strange desire to reconnect with someone you once knew a decade ago. Besides, your mind rationalizes, your fiancé will be home soon, so it’s not like you can’t kick him out if things get uncomfortable. And he's an old classmate, right? Nothing to lose here.

"Do you want to come in?" The invitation tumbles out before you can even think to stop it.

Little do you know just how terrible of a mistake that is.

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tinytalkingtina · 7 months ago

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Your Loss, My Gain

Rating M | WC 665 | Ao3 link

Tags: past Tommy/Eddie, first kisses, self-esteem, Gay Tommy/Eddie, Steve is some flavor of queer it's not important for this story what label he uses, established Steve/Eddie, possessive Steve, hurt/comfort, implied/referenced blow jobs and anal sex, use of the f slur

Written for the STWG Novembr 9th prompt "True hate's kiss" Thanks to steddiecamerarollgraphics for the divider

Steve shot straight up from the bed.

"Who?!?" Eddie shrugged.

"Tommy H. The summer before my freshman year."

"What was that, 1980?” Steve asked, doing the math in his head quickly. “Shit, Tommy and I weren't even friends yet. Didn't know he ever talked to you before you started selling weed.”

Eddie blushed.

"When his family first moved here they were in the trailer park for a year before his dad came off of active duty. We spent a lot of time running around together. It's just…” He picked at a loose thread on the blanket.

“One day he was upset we were going to different schools in the fall, kept saying I was gonna forget him. He looked so sad, I couldn't stand it anymore. Just kinda-" He gave the quickest peck to Steve’s lips. “And told him I couldn’t forget my first kiss.”

“Oh. What'd he do when you did it?"

Eddie curled up and put his head in Steve’s lap.

"Kissed me back for a second before he punched me in the face, called me a fag, and threatened that I'd better not touch him ever again or else he’d beat the shit out of me.”

Steve stroked Eddie’s hair. It had the desired effect when some of the tension left his boyfriend’s shoulders, and Eddie closed his eyes as he continued:

“Never gave him a reason to worry after that. By the time he got to high school too I’d already joined Hellfire and found new friends, and he was busy with basketball and swimming. So it’s not like we crossed paths much. Least ’til I started dealing.”

Steve remembered how insistent Tommy had been to go put up with “the Freak” alone at any party where Eddie showed up.

“When he bought weed off you, did he…” he asked carefully. Eddie barked out a hollow laugh.

“Yeah, yeah he’d have no problem with me touching him when he was drunk off his ass, and him and Carol had broken up for what, the fifth time that year? Had it down to a choreographed dance: We’d make out for a bit then he’d push me down to the ground, ‘cause it’s totally fine to get a blow job from another guy. It’s not gay if you’re not the one on your knees you know.”

Steve felt wetness on his leg.

“And the worst thing? I let him do it. Every single fucking time. Didn’t have enough respect to shove him away. Figured this ‘true hate’s kiss’ shit I got from Tommy was the best I was gonna get so might as well take the stupid scraps of affection he bothered throwing my way. Not like there was anyone else lined up to take his place.”

Steve waited until his boyfriend’s breathing evened out before speaking up.

“Hey.” He tilted Eddie’s face until he could see his red rimmed eyes. “Fuck Tommy.”

That startled a laugh out of him.

“Sweetheart, I love topping for you when the mood strikes us, but I really would prefer not to fuck another closeted guy for the rest of my life.”

Steve laughed and scooped Eddie up in his arms.

“Please, like I would want to share you with anyone else. Really, fuck him for trying to have it both ways, and fuck that town that convinced you to give up.”

Before Eddie, Steve had always tried to squash the little voice in his head that insisted he go all out and show how badly he wanted. But now, as he held Eddie tight, he didn’t mind letting the little voice out.

“You’re mine.”

He was going to keep Eddie for the rest of his life. And the crazy thing was, he was pretty sure Eddie wanted the same thing, judging by the awestruck expression and blush on his face whenever Steve got possessive like this.

“Your loss Tommy,” Steve thought as he ducked down to kiss Eddie. He was going to keep his happy ending.

Author's notes -You can't convince me that sports-obsessed Steve isn't good at math -Read another story that made Tommy's family a military one and rather liked the idea, so I decided to add that in here too

On a personal level, this was an awful week where I spent a lot of time in hospitals/a funeral home. This had been mostly written before that all happened, and I wasn't sure if I should post it. Managed to find a moment to feel comfortable sitting down and finishing it, so I'm just gonna put it up as is for now.

#stranger things #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #tinawrites #stwgdailyprompt #this has been a bad week #but he would have been happy I was able to enjoy the writing #and not put him anymore in the spotlight than he has been due to the circumstances

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pomrania · 7 months ago

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Continuation from my previous thread (because it got long), of stuff from @200-word-rpgs that I find interesting.

THE CURSE: A Rabbit and Steel Fangame by @ringedretrospective I'm not sure I've even HEARD of "Rabbit and Steel" before, let alone know what it's like. But having "apologize for what you did last night", as the single sentence for the "day" phase, amuses me greatly.

Make Brown by @thee-rat-king I like colour stuff; I also appreciate how "should or shouldn't end up brown" is a 50% thing determined at the start of the game. And that's just SUCH a cool concept, how one player gets their colour combined with that of the other.

Paleolithic Fantasy by @cavetalesz I agree with the writer (whose url is PERFECTLY fitted for this game), we need more stuff set in this… setting. And also more FANTASY stuff in that setting; heck, if we're going from the thing we commonly see in fantasy of "magic has been fading from the world", then the earlier back we go, the more room there is for magic (and also it's not like there's any written documentation to contradict it). As to the game itself, I appreciate how the "stuff you find" table includes entries with relevant stats, and then at the end there's just "the antlered man", no detail given.

Elegy For A Better Yesterday by @notsomeoneyouknow I don't have enough familiarity with John Woo movies to properly appreciate this. But from the design notes, it seems like a lot of thought went into mechanics that properly match the theme.

Mires by @i-exist-for-spleen and manguypersondude I appreciate something that, as they put it, turns "how partial a GM is inevitably going to be" into a feature and not a bug. Also, something that started with a design requirement ("no dice math") and then built from there. And yeah, when you just stumble upon a theme or concept that ties everything neatly together, that is SUCH a good feeling; the spark of inspiration that lights up the tinder you've prepared from your own efforts.

You Know How This Story Ends by @indraklyr I just think it's cool; everyone has things that will happen, then those things get placed in an order, then you play out how the things happen.

You Sunk My Battleship! by @ineffable-gallimaufry Gotta respect something that finds a way to turn BATTLESHIP, of all things, into an RPG.

#no fandom #gaming #not a reblog

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miasmaghoul · 2 years ago

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Kinktober Day 2 - Quintosis Control

Pull Me Under

Thank you to @kroas-adtam for curating these prompts!

Rating: E

Pairing: Aeon/Dew (but also technically Aether/Dew)

Word Count: 2.3k

Contains: quintosis (obviously), oral, fingering, anal, prone bone, phone sex, Dew getting fucked in literally every possible way

-----

Aeon stares at the ghoul knelt between his legs with a raised eyebrow. Dew tilts his head, palming Aeon through his jeans with a placid smile on his face. His expression remains guarded though, and Aeon supposes that makes sense.

After all, this isn’t the most…common of requests.

“So,” Dew murmurs, fiddling with Aeon’s zipper, “think you can do it?”

Aeon hums while the smaller ghoul drags the closure down, reaching out to twirl a loose lock of ashy blonde hair hanging from Dew’s bun. It’s softer, somehow, when they’re stuck in glamour like this. Only their unearthly eyes give away their true nature, and Dew’s copper ones burn up at him like miniature suns. Warm fingers wriggle into his jeans, pet at his slowly growing chubby, and Aeon spreads his knees just a little wider.

-----

Read the rest below, or on AO3!

After all, this isn’t the most…common of requests.

“So,” Dew murmurs, fiddling with Aeon’s zipper, “think you can do it?”

Aeon hums while the smaller ghoul drags the closure down, reaching out to fiddle with a loose lock of ashy blonde hair hanging from Dew’s bun. It’s softer, somehow, when they’re stuck in glamour like this. Only their unearthly eyes give away their true nature, and Dew’s copper ones burn up at him like miniature suns. Warm fingers wriggle into his jeans, pet at his slowly growing chubby, and Aeon spreads his knees just a little wider.

“Don’t see why not,” he replies, cheeks dimpling under a playful smile. “If it’s something you really want.” Aeon groans when Dew pulls him from the confines of his pants, sighs when Dew wraps bony fingers around him.

“It is,” the other ghoul assures him, leaning in to swipe his tongue over Aeon’s tip just enough to make him grunt. “Wanted to ask for a while, actually.”

Dew’s giving him slow strokes now, languid drags of a loose fist. Aeon knows he’s going to be dripping in no time. He pulls the tie in Dew’s hair, tosses it away in favor of threading his hand into those impossibly soft strands. Dew’s eyes droop just right whenever he does this, and Aeon watches a little bit of the apprehension on his handsome face melt away. His other hand fists itself in the comforter of the hotel bed he’d fallen onto for all of ten seconds before Dew had wrestled him to the end of it.

Not that Aeon’s complaining, mind. Having any part of Dew on his cock is always an occasion worth celebrating.

“Why haven’t you, then?”

Dew shrugs, that one little crease forming between his eyebrows. The one he wears when he’s focused on a solo, or when Cirrus asks him to do mental math. Aeon thumbs over the spot where one of his horns should be, and Dew’s shoulders slump a hair.

“Thought it might be weird.” Well, he’s not wrong about that. “Thought it might, y’know,” the little ghoul makes a vague gesture, focused only on the way his hand glides over Aeon’s cock. “Thought it might be too much.”

If Aeon’s fangs were out, he’d be smiling with every single one.

“Good thing I’m a fan of ‘too much’, ” he croons, giving Dew’s hair a tug. Hard enough to make his hand stutter and his eyes pinch shut. “And I know you are too -”

Aeon leans down, slow and with purpose. Invades the space Dew has made for himself and earns a surprised blink for it. Aeon sighs while he nuzzles their cheeks together, hearing Dew’s breath catch, basking in the warmth of his skin. He presses a kiss to the other ghoul’s ear, and it carries the smallest of sparks.

“- firefly.”

The word drips in magick, and Aeon can tell by the shocked sound Dew makes that he doesn’t hear it entirely in his voice. He can feel his power sink into Dew’s skin, feels the rush of static that flows beneath his scalp and through the callused fingers curled around him. A pulse of something unnaturally cool that has Dew shuddering. Aeon pulls back to find Dew looking suddenly much looser. Shoulders rounded, eyes wrinkled at the corners and glassy, his smile something more than skin-deep. The very specific visage of someone in the beginnings of quintessence-fueled bliss.

“That feel good? Looks like it does,” Aeon lilts, the hand buried in the blanket coming up to cup the little ghoul’s cheek. “But you’ll need more than that for what you’re asking, y’know.”

Dew makes an affirmative sound, not quite a word but close enough. His hand starts moving again and Aeon feels the muscles in his stomach jump - Dew’s hands always have that effect on him. He takes a deep breath through his nose, scratching at Dew’s scalp while the first wave of his magick settles into the folds of his mind. Aeon groans with the casual way the other ghoul takes his tip between his lips, hot tongue sliding over sensitive flesh. Aeon gives his hair the suggestion of a stern pull, and delights in the way Dew just…takes it. Takes more of him into that silken mouth, enough so the blunt head of Aeon’s cock pokes his hollowed cheek. Makes a lovely bump that Aeon can’t help but run his thumb over.

“Ready for more?”

He probably shouldn’t be so breathless already, but Dew’s mouth does have that effect on…well, everybody. The little ghoul pulls off with a wet pop, smears the tip over his own lips to leave them wet and shiny. A decidedly slutty move that makes Aeon’s balls ache.

“Yeah, I think you are,” he huffs, cheeks warm. Aeon runs a hand through his own hair with a chuckle. “Wanna call now? Or after I get my fingers in you?”

Dew makes a strangled sound, scrambles for his phone, and as his dick is left to bob freely in the air Aeon has his answer.

He chuckles softly, stretches his arms over his head while Dew fumbles through his contacts. Rolls his eyes when the other ghoul drops the phone in his eagerness. Aeon stands, busies himself with gathering lube and arranging pillows, but keeps an eye on Dew through it all. He raises the phone to his ear just as Aeon’s shrugging out of his t-shirt. He hears it ring while he shucks his belt, and Aeon pauses with his jeans around his thighs when his sharp ears pick up a click. A deep, familiar voice follows it, Dew presses a flat palm to his crotch, and a thrill runs up Aeon’s spine when the little ghoul says,

“Hey, Aeth. Got a proposition for you.”

Things move quickly after that. Aether had been immediately, enthusiastically on board with Dew’s idea, faster than Aeon had expected. Something that told him the other two had definitely discussed this before. In no time Aeon had Dew over his lap, sitting up against the headboard with the little ghoul drooling into the sheets with each press of Aeon’s fingers.

Fingers that, at least for Dew, feel like someone else’s entirely.

“Aether,” he slurs, sounding more fucked up that Aeon think he’s ever heard him, “Aeth, please -”

The word blurs into a moan when Aeon crooks his fingers just so, knuckles rubbing against Dew’s prostate. Aeon feels a blurt of pre leak out onto his thigh and heaves a happy sigh when Dew clamps down around him. He keeps quiet as he can, though. He isn’t the one Dewdrop needs to hear right now.

“That feel good, baby?” Aether’s smooth voice rings tinny through the phone’s speaker, but only to Aeon. For Dew, he’s sure the words flow directly into his veins. “You love my fingers, don’t you?”

Aeon twists his digits the exact way he knows Aether would - one benefit of his unparalleled sense memory - and fills the little ghoul’s mind with the burn of a much more intense stretch. One that has Dew crying out, fingers curling into rumpled sheets and his little hole clenching hard. Aeon only has two fingers inside, but with the way Dew’s writhing you’d think he was taking all five.

Ah, the power of suggestion.

“So good,” Dew mumbles, strands of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. He’s flushed crimson straight down his throat; Aeon can’t believe how fucked out he looks already, but he imagines the magick isn’t exactly helping in that regard. “‘S so much, Aeth, so big -”

“I know, firefly,” Aether trills, gentle, “but you take them so well for me. In fact, I think you deserve another one.”

Aeon takes the hint, pulling back to the first knuckle and running a third fingertip over Dew’s taut rim. The little ghoul makes the most wonderful gagging sound, one that’s only amplified when Aeon slides back inside with three elegant fingers. Dew howls once they’re fully in, fists white-knuckled in the bedsheets. Aeon’s other hand rubs soothing circles into his lower back, just like Aether would, and Aeon makes sure that hand feels heavier too.

It’s a delicate process, manipulating Dew’s mind and body at once. Sending tendrils of quintessence into the recesses of his mind and pulling on wispy threads of memory. The specific timbre of Aether’s voice, the weight of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the scent of his sweat. Immersing the little ghoul into a haze that erases Aeon’s presence entirely. It may be his touch Dew’s feeling, but right now his whole world is Aether and if Dew keeps making these noises then Aeon certainly won’t complain. His own pleasure will be playing second fiddle tonight anyway.

Aeon taps at his prostate and Dew’s leg spasms.

“Aeth - Aether please ,” Dew whimpers, gasping between the words. “'S been so long. Need… need you, please -”

Aeon doesn’t think he’s ever heard Dewdrop sound so desperate. It’s beautiful .

“You’ve got me, sweet boy,” Aether assures. “Can’t you feel me?”

Aeon swirls his fingers, slides his palm up the length of Dew’s spine, and the little ghoul goes boneless in his lap with a noise that speaks to how far gone he is. Aeon’s drunk on the feel of him, the sound, the sight of his lovely face scrunched up in agonizing pleasure. His own erection has long since flagged, but the pressure low in his belly hasn’t dissipated in the slightest.

“Need…more,” Dew pants, pawing at the bed and mindlessly grinding his hot little stiffy into Aeon’s thigh. “Need…Aeth, fuck me. ”

Dew pleads it like his life is ending and Aeon’s head thuds against the headboard with the effort of remaining silent. Aether must hear the thunk , judging by the amusement coloring his next words.

“Of course, droplet,” he hums, and if he listens close Aeon can just make out the slippery sound of Aether tugging at himself. “Whatever you want.”

Aeon moves the slight body in his lap with mild difficulty - he’s not all that much bigger than Dew when they’re glamoured like this, and the little ghoul is entirely too gangly for his own good. Aether orchestrates his movements, tells Dew he’s going to take him on his belly, the way they do when he really needs to feel Aether. Gets Dew face down with a pillow snuggled under his narrow hips, legs spread just enough for Aeon to admire his pretty pink hole while he gets a hand on himself. He’s hard as diamond again in seconds, impossible not to be with Dew like this.

“Are you ready for me, firefly?”

The little ghoul gurgles out an uh huh at Aether’s words, and Aeon takes that as his cue to get in position. His heart hammers away while he does, fingers jittery as he straddles Dew’s thighs. Plants his hands on either side of his chest. Leans down to kiss the place between Dew’s shoulder blades. Aeon reaches back to line himself up, prods at Dew’s puffy entrance with his own wet tip, and the way it slips over that wrinkled skin makes Aeon’s eyes roll back.

“I’m gonna put it in now, alright?”

“Yes,” Dew sobs on an exhale, sweat prickling up along the length of his spine. “Fuck, yes .”

Aeon holds his breath, every inch of him thrumming, and then he’s sinking in with a slowness he’s never employed. But it’s necessary with the way he floods Dew’s magick-addled mind with the glorious stretch Aether’s fat cock instead. He can hear Aether talking somewhere distant, but the only thing Aeon can focus on are the stunning cries pouring from Dew’s lips. Aeon has to work to keep his own shut, nails biting into his palms with every rock of his hips.

“Deep breaths, love,” Aether rumbles through the din of pleasure, his tone making even Aeon’s stomach twist. “I know you can take it.”

Dew wails, and Aeon can’t hold in the groan that bubbles up when he finally bottoms out. Dew’s walls are like searing hot velvet around him, so slick that Aeon can feel it leaking out around his cock. The little ghoul flutters ceaselessly around him, and it’s nothing short of maddening.

“There we go, well done.” Aether coos down the line, soothing. Calming. Aeon brings a shaky hand to Dew’s head, strokes his hair. Plays out the intent so plainly coloring Aether’s words. “Are you ready for the rest of me, baby?”

Dew nods frantically against the sheets, and Aeon focuses. Lowers his own wiry frame down onto the little ghoul’s sweaty back while Aether reminds him again to breathe. Dew needs it - every bit of himself that Aeon settles against Dew’s body seems to knock the air from him in punched-out huffs. Aeon shouldn’t be so surprised, not when he knows that Dew’s feeling a much, much heavier weight.

“Oh, Dew,” Aether sighs, the sound of his strokes much more obvious now, “ you feel fucking amazing.”

Aeon’s inclined to agree, relaxing his full weight onto the little ghoul below and giving the sublest roll of his hips. Just enough to make Dew yelp. He buries his nose in silky hair and breathes deep, warm spice and tobacco, hands traveling up his sides. Grazing Dew’s straining ribs, caressing his shoulders, mapping soft skin. The hair on Dew’s arms tickles his palms, the veins on the back of his hands so pronounced beneath his fingertips.

“Aeth,” Dew whimpers, patting at the bed, blindly searching. “Aeth, where -”

Aeon laces his fingers with Dew’s then, and the little ghoul wastes no time in holding his hand right back.

“I’ve got you, baby boy,” Aether promises, husky with lust Aeon swears he can feel through the phone. “Daddy’s gonna take such good care of you.”

His cock throbs, Dew moans so loud it rattles his chest, and Aeon makes a mental note to ask Aether about that little exchange later.

Much later.

#miasma's work #the band ghost fic #aeon ghoul #phantom ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #aeon/dew #aether/dew #aeon x dew #aether x dew #i feel like this is a weird concept but i really liked it so i hope you guys do too lmao #ghost kinktober 2023 #kinktober day 2

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dogsplayingpoker · 9 months ago

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(math is part of planning)

#quilting #quiltblr #quilters of tumblr #i'm learning about incredible tags beyond my wildest dreams #poll #i also am in love with the idea of someone who hates piecing more than anything

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translatemunson · 1 year ago

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thought of calling you, but you won’t pick up • ttfd

chapter four of the tortured firefighters department

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

cw: fem!reader, afab!reader, no descriptions of reader, banter (because i love it), reader is a math and science nerd, chris is here, mentions of food, hints of mental issues, proofread by my bye-lingual ass (let me know if i forgot anything)

You checked your phone again. Last night, Eddie texted that Carla would be joining you and Chris on your small field trip because he forgot he had booked her for the day. You never met the lady, but you were sure it was gonna be fine. With an extra adult ticket in your pocket, you waited.

Fifteen minutes and no sign of them. Maybe you should text Eddie and get Carla’s number? She was probably stuck in traffic, but that information would ease your worries — and you could help her avoid the even worse routes the apps were giving these days. At this pace, you’d wear off the soles of your white Nike Dunk and pull every single thread of your maroon sweater.

You were about to text Eddie when you saw the black Jeep Wrangler parking not a few spots down to your left. No fucking way, you thought as you marched into its direction.

“Let’s go, Chris, we’re gonna be late!” Buck helped the kid out of the car and picked up a small paper bag before closing the door.

“Hey, Chris! Are you excited?” You hugged him and kept your hands on his shoulder, finally looking at the one person you’ve been successfully avoiding. “Thanks for dropping him off, Buckley. Is Carla joining us later?”

“Actually, I’m on babysitting duty today.” He extended you the paper bag. “Peace offering?”

“What is this?”

“The reason why we were late.” He insisted you accept the bag. “C’mon, aren’t you curious?”

“He said you’d like it,” Chris added.

You accepted the gift, peaking it before opening the bag and finding one of your favorite cupcakes from your favorite bakery. The one from the incident that set the whole “we could be friends” situation on fire.

“Can we call it a truce for today?” It was implied, but he was definitely saying this for Chris’ sake.

“Ok, just today. But this doesn’t make things magically disappear, Buckley.”

“Why do you call him Buckley?” Chris asked you, his head tilted in your direction. “I call him Buck!”

“She’s mad at me, little guy.” He took a step closer to you two, probably testing the waters. “Did you get the tickets?”

“Who do you think I am? But give me one second, I can’t enter the museum with food.”

“Take your time. Wanna see if we can get to the museum before Brains, Chris?” And off they went.

You were almost sure Eddie planned this out. Leaving you to babysit his son and his annoying friend, who everyone under the 118 roof knew you were avoiding. One hundred percent intentional, right? And of course he would be late because he drove all the way to Santa Monica to buy your favorite cupcake — someone gave him a tip.

You started to feel a bit sad for ignoring his calls and texts all week long. But you pushed it away while you ate the cupcake and watched the boys walking to the entrance. With your clean hand, you gave Buck the tickets and told them to go ahead and go all the way back after the main hall: it was smart to take advantage of the morning weather on the Nature Gardens outside and explore all the fossils and animals later on.

You were just a few steps behind when you caught up with them in the outdoor gardens. As a newcomer to this whole Chris’ babysitter duty job, you left to Buck to finish the small walk around the main paths. It was a good opportunity to text Eddie and say that, even though you offered to take Chris to the Museum, you were only assigned to take care of one kid, not two. In his best single-father in the middle of a shift style, he texted you a ‘thumbs up’ back. Oh he was so hearing about it later.

The Natural History Museum in Los Angeles was definitely packed with exhibitions that could keep a child and adults entertained. You’d been there once, as soon as you moved to LA, almost a year ago now, and the featured exhibitions were different back then, but still a pretty good curating work after all.

However, the moment Chris saw the Dinosaur Hall and the Dino Lab, you knew it was over for any other exhibitions. And could you blame him? The dinos were pretty badass and Chris was a very curious kid, so he kept asking you all the questions you could’ve imagined — and a few more you weren’t prepared for. You acted like his own private tour guide, proud of spending some time researching and studying about dinosaurs the last few days.

You almost missed all the attention Buck was giving to you while you talked. To be honest, you couldn’t tell who was more focused on you: the kid or the annoying adult.

After all that talking, you for sure were starting to feel a little tired and overwhelmed. Even with short breaks for some water, you still felt like you needed a reset. You signaled to Buck that you’re going to the restroom for a second, he kept reading Chris the charts about butterflies and insects.

You washed your hands and used some of the water on your neck, trying to calm yourself down. How did you go from wanting Buckley’s head on a plate to babysitting with him? Life was fast and unpredictable by the Pacific shore. One lady entered the restroom and stopped by the sink to your right, trying to get rid of the chocolate and ketchup in her hands. You saw her a few minutes ago, when you stopped to grab some water.

“Can I just say you are an adorable couple? And your son is so sweet.” Her tone was sweet and definitely meant well. But she was so wrong about everything.

“Oh, he’s not our kid,” you rushed to explain the situation. “We’re just babysitting for a friend while he’s working.”

“Well, just like my grandparents told me once: sometimes you’ll have a taste of what your life could be with a special person at the moment you least expected.”

You smiled at her through the mirrors. “Did they give you any advice on how to know if it’s the right one?”

“No, but you look like someone who knows how to find that answer.” She threw the paper towels away. “Sorry for being so cryptic. Have fun!”

She left before you could even thank her for… well, the advice. Not that you asked for it, but it did show up in a nice time. Or maybe not. You weren’t sure. Did that truce mean you could let yourself feel everything you were repressing for the past few weeks? Not just regarding Evan Buckley and his lack of manners, but about everything in your life.

After all the dinosaurs and lectures about natural history, you decided to wrap up and move on to the next stop on your list. Buckley helped Chris get down the entry steps and you took the directions back to the parking lot close to the museum.

“Thanks for your services, Buckley. You can just,” you motioned your head to his car. “Ok, Chris. What do you wanna do now?” You opened your Uber app to get a ride to the next destination.

“Not necessary.” Buckley took the phone out of your hands and stored it into his jacket pocket. “I’m also the designated driver for the day.”

“What happened to you getting out of my hair?” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“I thought we were in this together.” He gave you the classic — and a little bit sassy — Buckley smile. He paid for the parking. “C’mon, Chris, we have places to go.”

The three of you walked to his car, but you were still not convinced. It was your idea to babysit Chris for the day, all your plans were picked towards your goal: having a nice and chill day with him. You didn’t need Evan Buckley and all his golden retriever energy to disturb your perfect equation.

While you were hating on him, he made sure Chris was comfortable and safe on the back seat.

“Why are you ruining my plans?” You didn’t move from the driver’s door. Maybe, if you were warned beforehand you’d had to deal with him, you'd grow some patience. But not today, not this fast.

“I’m not. Still your plans with Chris. Tell me where to go next, I’ll drive us.”

“Give me my phone back.”

“Are you letting me be your driver today?” He leaned against the car.

“What choice do I have, Evan?” You rolled your eyes.

“Hey, I’ve told you I’m sorry.” You stepped aside, finally letting him grab the door handle. “Also, none of my friends call me Evan, by the way.”

“And since when am I your friend?”

“Since now. Hurry up, he’s gonna grow impatient and snap at us.”

“He would never do that.”

“Wanna test your theory, future doctor?”

“Not at all.”

He closed the door. You went around the vehicle, still pissed at him for taking your phone from you. You jumped into the car and checked Chris.

“Ok, are we hungry already or can we check out this cool place before that?”

“Pancakes!” Chris shouted from his seat. “Please?”

“Sure! Ok, let me just,” you instinctively reached out for your phone, but it was still being held hostage by Buck. “Phone, please.”

“Here,” he handed it to you, an aux cable attached to it. “Put the address in the GPS, and please play something kid friendly, ok?”

“Excuse me? What do you think I listen to while I’m driving to work?”

“With that sassy attitude of yours? I expect the worst.”

Just to prove him wrong, as soon as you entered the address on the GPS, you blasted one of your personal favorites. “I stay out too late, got nothing in my brain. That's what people say, mm-mm,” you sang.

“That's what people say, mm-mm,” and Chris, in the back seat, joined you.

You were definitely getting under Buck’s skin. The fact that you picked a song Chris knew the words too left him in disadvantage because you were sure he wanted the taste of saying “Told you so” as soon as he proved his point. But he should’ve known better than to provoke you.

“And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate. Baby, I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake. I shake it off!” You sang it right by Buck’s ear, dodging his hand because he was trying to get you out of his hair. Well, how does it feel now, Evan?

Your queue was really impressive: it looked like you were up-to-date with what the younger generation was listening to — not that you didn’t enjoy the same songs occasionally, but you never kept your options too narrow. There was just one scary moment where you thought you added an explicit song, but you deleted it in time.

Buck was too busy following the GPS directions. You were stuck with him for the rest of the day, which was a nightmare by itself, and kinda stuck into the endless LA traffic. Chris didn’t notice the animosity between you because you both toned it down — for him, only for one day. Most of it sounded like some friendly banter.

Under the upbeat pop song you were playing, you could hear him singing another tune, barely familiar, but still unrecognizable.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing.” He made a left turn, but kept on singing it. “If you could see it… been here all along… how could you not know baby.”

Without a warning, you typed the name of the song in your library and gave it priority in your queue. His fingers started tapping in the beat, and he started following the lyrics, saying the right words this time.

“If you could see that I'm the one who understands you, been here all along. So, why can't you see? You belong with me,” you two sang along together. But you really kept your poker face because you couldn’t give him any reasons to be even more annoying.

“Looks like we’ve arrived,” he announced, breaking the spell of one song.

Buck pointed to the restaurant you found a few months ago. It was located south of Santa Monica, a few blocks from the beach, but with the rooftop seats, you could definitely say you were eating by the beach. You parked not far from the entry, and you rushed upstairs to get one of those special tables, telling Buck to help Chris because you didn’t want to ruin the surprise.

On the very edge of the roof, your favorite table awaited you: closer to the corner, with a huge light blue umbrella over your head, the four seat table had the perfect view and vibes. You pulled a chair for your bag and greeted the waiter. She didn’t get why you were in a rush until she saw Chris on Buck’s back.

“Could you just pick a place with an elevator next time?”

“I thought you were the muscles, Buckley. Hey, Chris, let me help you.” You held him tight, removing him from Buck’s embrace and putting him on the floor. “I had to make sure we had the perfect table.”

Three stores of stairs, in a rush, were justified once you got to see the smile on Chris’ face. You could catch your breath later.

+++

Chris ate way too many pancakes. You’d have to do a lot of explaining to Eddie, but hey, if the kid was happy, how could that be a problem?

You had to cancel the last plan of the day — a trip to another museum — and settle down at an arcade close to the restaurant before ending your babysitting duty. Just buying you enough time to Eddie leave the firehouse and be home. So you were watching Buck and Chris playing some games while you tried to schedule some study breaks between classes and shifts.

“What’s wrong?” Buck sat down to your right. Chris was just in your sight, in case he needed more coins or any help.

“Nothing.” You turned off your phone screen, ignoring your packed schedule.

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” He gave you a little smudge on the shoulder. “C’mon, Brains, talk to me.”

“I’m just a bit tired, it’s fine.”

“You know, you can go home now, I’ll take him to Eddie’s. You look like you need a good night of sleep.”

“To be honest, I can’t go back home now because I’d feel guilty. My brain is all mushy,” you pointed to your head, “and I wouldn’t be able to study or relax. I would rather stay here, where my mind is focused on something else.”

“I know what you mean,” he leaned his body back, his eyes staring something beyond what you could see. “I support you distracting yourself, but this won’t go away just because you’re ignoring it, you know? Are you sure you’re ok?”

Being ok was a concept you weren’t sure about the past few days. You wanted to be ok, to look ok to everyone around you, but it was hard. You were just faking until you made it. The PhD program was starting to wear you off, and even though you loved it, the thoughts of giving up were taking every single inch of your notes and books.

But what would be your excuse to leave it unfinished when numbers, probabilities and hours of understanding the impossible things were half of your life at this point?

“Did I hit my head or something? Do you have a fever? Why are you being nice to me?” You swiftly tried to change subjects.

“We’re on a truce, remember?”

“Maybe we could be on good terms again,” you suggested. “I mean, if you ever eat my cupcakes again, Bobby will need to hire a new firefighter.”

“So we’re good?”

“We’re good.” Your screen lit up with a notification. “Eddie is gonna be stuck with an emergency, but Carla is on her way to the house. Should we just go?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll go get him and then we drop him off.”

“Great.”

Chris black out as soon as Buck started the drive back to the Diaz house. The radio volume was low, and the orange and pink tones of the sunset were being replaced by the dark blue of the night. You found it hard to keep your eyes open for too long, and only noticed you took a nap when Chris was calling for your name, wanting to say goodbye before going inside.

“Thank you for today, Brains!” He hugged you, and it made everything worth it. “Can we do this again soon?”

“We’re gonna chase all the dinosaurs in LA, I promise.” You gave him one last huge and walked back to the car, watching Carla and Buck talking by the front door.

And there you were, back in the car with Evan Buckley. If he wanted to make a comment about how he was right, he let it slide. You connected your phone and entered the address to your house on the GPS. He took your phone from your hands, declaring “Now that everyone in this car is over 18, we can play the good stuff.”

“Are you sure you are old enough? Give me that back, Evan!”

“Hey! I’m driving. And you challenged me. I’m gonna show you what I usually blast in my car.”

You expected anything from Evan Buckley, even the worst genre of music, but nothing prepared you for when you listened to the introduction of ‘You Give Love A Bad Name’ blasting through the speakers.

The playlist had completely changed and moved away from what you played when Chris was in the car. Bruce Springsteen, The Beatles, even a little of Led Zeppelin, just to enjoy some classics you never thought Buck appreciated. But he was more than just a firefighter with a sassy attitude, some wrongs and lots of muscle.

You look around, panicking a little when you notice you’re entering your building’s garage. You were definitely expecting to be dropped off at the front of the building. What the hell was going on?

“What… How did you get the access?”

“So, funny story. Maddie told you about the place, right?” He turned his head to check your reaction. “Well, I was the one that mentioned that a unit was available when I was complaining about my ex neighbor… So yeah, we are neighbors.”

“You’re annoying, you know that, right?”

“I thought Maddie told you.”

Well, she almost did, but she was interrupted by your neighbor himself that night. Shit.

“For how long did you know this?” You pointed to the garage and between you two.

“For a few weeks, when I saw your car after the cupcake incident.”

“I pledge the fifth.” You disconnected your phone from his car. Well, it would only get awkward if you walked to your apartment in complete silence, so you asked, “Wait, so you were texting and calling me from across the hall? You’re unbelievable.”

“What? If I knock on your door, you’ve got a restraining order against me.”

You left the car at the same time, and walked to the elevators.

“I bet I could convince Sergeant Grant to arrest you.”

“You’d make her dreams come true.”

Same elevator, same floor. You took opposite directions: his place was to the left, yours to the right, on the corners of the building, just one unit between you. You waved him goodbye and entered your home. To your right, your kitchen and dinner table. The glass doors to your balcony were opened — your mistake when you left in a hurry that morning — and it felt more like home than you expected.

Under the stairs, your notes and books were scattered. Sundays were for studying and writing the thesis. Your gray couch held the books you were searching the other day, too busy to put them back in the high and long bookshelves you had on the wall. Your television was the least used electronic in the place.

You walked upstairs and threw yourself in the bed. Maybe you should’ve picked up his calls before, but now it wasn’t a problem anymore.

author's note: are we watching the beginning of their friendship? I THINK SO! yes, i love a slow burn, but i swear it's gonna be worth it, ok? hope you're enjoying this series as much as i am. also: i published a blurb, so check the series masterlist bc i kinda loved it, not gonna lie. ALSO, my lovely friend, casey, made a playlist for the series. just check the masterlist! see yall next week!

#evan buckley fanfic #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #evan buckley x you #9 1 1 abc #9 1 1 fanfiction #evan buck buckely #buck fanfiction #evan buckley imagine #effie writes

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