#the emptiness i feel without him is unbearable

[waste-0f-spacee]

i miss my cat so fucking much.

[bizarrelovetriangel]

restless nights.

you get into an argument and they become restless without you by their side.

angst with comfort. apologies for any ooc moments and stubborn mc/reader.

sylus

"I'm not taking you with me."

His words left no room for anymore rebuttals. No matter how persistent you got and what reasoning you gave, Sylus continues to reject your request to join him for the upcoming Onychinus mission.

He's never had a problem with you tagging along before, so why now? You've learned from Luke and Kieran that Sylus will be dealing with one of the most dangerous men they'd ever met, so you wanted to support him. When you brought the topic up to him, all he said was that the setting will be too much for you.

You reassured him that you can handle anything, being a hunter who's familiar with the messiest, most vile types of environment, but regardless of your reasonings, he fully intends to go to this mission alone.

"Okay."

The moment he watched you calmly closed the door on your way out of the room, Sylus knew he fucked up.

You avoided him all afternoon, and it didn't take long for loneliness to strike him hard.

He hated the silence.

Knowing you're under the same roof and yet you're deliberately ignoring him... he'd much rather have you screaming at him.

Sylus remained at his working station to continue modifying a weapon that he'd recently purchased; however, his distracted state prevented him from making progress.

The face you made before walking away from him keeps haunting him.

The disappointment in your eyes made his chest unbearably tight.

He tried to push the uncomfortable feeling away, telling himself that his response to you is for the best, but it didn't work at all.

It was difficult to concentrate on anything else.

He wondered what you were up to.

What if you decide to leave because you can't stand to be near him?

Just imagining you rush out of the house while angry caused Sylus' hands to become unsteady and accidentally crossed some wires that weren't supposed to touch.

And so, the weapon sparked and caught on fire.

"...great."

He decided to move on to boxing, hoping to release some anger — not at you, but for his enemies that he'll be seeing for the upcoming mission. If they weren't so... filthy and gruesome, he wouldn't have to worry about keeping you away from them.

After two minutes of hitting the punching bag, Sylus' eyes started to repeatedly glance towards the entrance of the gym, checking to see if a certain someone would walk in for their weekly boxing lessons.

Your boxing gloves are in the usual place, untouched. He recalled the day when you two bought it while shopping: you were so excited about using it, you woke him up early just so you could start boxing while wearing them.

But now, you won't even step in the gym because he made you upset.

Suddenly, Sylus was no longer in the mood to box.

You didn't join him for dinner.

He wasn't surprised, though he felt another pang at his chest when he sat down on the empty dinning table.

He learned from Luke and Kieran that you had already eaten a little earlier while ranting to Mephisto, who was your only companion for supper.

The crow gave him a questioning look as he flew by and parched on the empty chair next to him, where you usually sit.

"I know. I'm working on it."

Sylus went to his bedroom, hoping that you don't run away and that you hear him out.

But when he opened the door, a cold breeze hit him along with a lonely feeling. The room is empty, and you're nowhere to be found.

He knew you're still somewhere in the house; otherwise, Mephisto would've told him already that you'd left. You staying means he's not totally screwed — not yet, at least.

The only other place he thought to check is the room where you used to sleep in, before your relationship became official.

And sure enough, after calming down his nervous, hitched breath, Sylus knocked on the door.

No response, but the room is unlocked.

He dared to take a peak inside and immediately softened at the sight of you sleeping on the bed. His feet acted before his mind and walked up towards your side.

He sat down on the mattress and his eyes slowly traced the ravishing features of your face that he missed, despite the argument being only just several hours ago.

He yearned to touch you, just for a second, to feel your warmth and softness. His right hand carefully reached towards your face, knuckles aiming to brush against your cheek.

But then, you opened your eyes.

Sylus froze for a moment, waiting for you to tell him to leave and stay away from him, but instead, you just blinked at him with curiosity and a hint of amusement.

"What are you doing?"

"...caught me redhanded." he chuckles. "I was looking at you. Because you wouldn't let me do it while you were awake. Sorry to disturb your peaceful sleep."

You watched his hand that was about to touch your face slowly retract, and you wanted to grab it and embrace it.

"...who said I was sleeping peacefully?"

Sylus looks at you with confusion.

"It's hard for me to sleep whenever we have arguments." you murmured, sitting up slowly so you can look at him properly. "I wanted to see you, but..."

You were sulking all afternoon.

You grew tired of arguing with him and thought you'd eventually find the right words to tell him later on, once you've calmed down.

"Me too." Sylus slowly reached for your hand, almost afraid that you'd pull away, though he relaxed once you intertwined your fingers with his. "Let me tell you why I'm against you accompanying me for this mission."

He told you about the shady people he'll be visiting. They are nasty criminals who have done unforgivable things to people, and everything about them is just disgusting — physically and figuratively.

As much as he wanted your company and assistance, Sylus doesn't want them setting their filthy eyes on you. He doesn't want them to know about your existence at all.

Mostly, he doesn't want to waste your time and energy on people like them. He knows you're strong enough to be by his side and help him take them down, just as you have done a few times before, but he'd much rather keep you away from their dirty hands.

"I understand now." You tightened your grip on his hand. "And still.... I want to go with you."

Though his brows furrowed as a silent reply, he stayed quiet and allowed you to fully let out everything you want to say.

"I appreciate your concern for me, truly. But ever since the twins told me about them, that they're dangerous and full of dirty tricks, I can't help but worry.

You're strong and you definitely don't need me, but still... I asked to go with you because I want to support you, just like how you sometimes help me out with my missions."

Sylus was met with the familiar look of persistence and determination in your eyes and realized he was never going to win this argument.

You've always been stubborn.

But that's just one of the reasons why he's so infauted with you.

You win.

"I should have known better than to try to leave you out of something like this." he sighs in defeat, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

You grinned at his tone. "It'll be fine. And fun — maybe. If not, then I'll suffer with you."

He clicked his tongue and poked your forehead. "Fine. But before we go, you have to prove to me that you're capable of fighting them."

"Hmm? Prove to you, how?"

"You'll have to join me in the boxing ring tomorrow, kitten."

You gasped and your eyes lit up. "My gloves! I've abandoned them! Let's go boxing right now!"

"...weren't you just about to sleep?"

"No way! I wanna hit something now! Come on!"

Sylus allowed himself to be dragged out of the room and brought back to the gym, where the boxing ring awaits.

Unlike earlier, the gym appears to be warmer and much more lively.

At last, Sylus can breathe easily.

zayne

Getting scolded by your lover was not how you were expecting your trip to the hospital to go.

He never raised his voice, but the coldness in his tone was what struck you in the chest.

He reprimanded you for being too reckless and careless at work, stating that you need to pay more attention to your surroundings and not throw yourself in danger at any chance you get.

Maybe you caught him in a bad mood, or maybe he was fed up with all the times that he has to see you with injuries. Either way, you didn't feel like being around him for a while.

Later that night, you fell asleep earlier than usual and missed a call from Zayne. You knew you probably should've called him back once you woke up in the morning, but the memory of him scolding you like a child made you throw your phone aside and momentarily avoid him.

Zayne is wide awake and his eyes are glued to the screen of his phone.

For once, he doesn't have work to keep him up late at night. Instead, you're the reason why he's unable to sleep.

You haven't been returning his texts and calls.

He knew you're upset because of what he did at the hospital. He shouldn't have spoken to you like that. You were already hurt. The last thing you needed was for him to give you a lecture over something you don't have much control over.

Zayne wanted to apologize to you.

He considered going to your apartment so he can properly give his sincere apology, but with the way you've been deflecting his attempts to communicate, he figured you wanted some space from him.

It's understandable that you'd feel that way, but still, Zayne can't ignore the aching in his chest. The other side of the bed feels colder than usual, and the silence of his house was uncomfortable.

You should've been next to him, resting your head on his chest while showing him funny memes and videos of cats after playing silly games on your phone, then you'd randomly come across an interesting article that would be your discussion until the two of you fall asleep.

This time, all he can do is keep checking his phone, just in case you decide to text or call him, and he'd answer in a heartbeat.

He wanted to hear your voice just so knows that everything is going to be okay, and that he doesn't need to worry about the possibility of losing you. Unfortunately, he wasn't granted that wish.

He eventually fell asleep with his phone on hand resting on the empty side of the bed.

Zayne was right.

You really are careless.

Showing up at the hospital twice in a week, just two days after your previous visit, is embarrassing at this point. You admit that your mind wasn't as awake and alert as it should've been, and so you've landed yourself another injury while fighting a Wanderer.

You did your best to hide from Zayne.

In fact, you tried going to a different hospital but Tara dropped you off here and fled instantly, so you have no choice but to go in with your slightly injured shoulder.

It just so happens that Doctor Greyson was the one that treated you, as he was the only one currently available.

You thought you'd be able to leave without seeing Zayne at all, but Greyson was unaware of your current situation so he informed him that he just finished fixing you up and you should be free to leave now.

Zayne just finished a long surgery, but once Greyson passed such valuable information to him, he rushed to your assigned room.

He caught you just as you were about to step out.

"Ah!" You put a hand over your racing heart. "You scared me!"

"Sorry." Zayne paused for a moment. "May I ask you to join me in my office?"

Your stomach shifted anxiously. "Sure..." The walk to the location was filled with nothing but awkward silence, which hurt to think about because it's Zayne.

That's the man whom you love more than anything else.

The last thing you want with him is an uncomfortable silence.

At the very least, you were able to gather your courage to own up to your mistakes.

Once he closed the door...

"I'm sorry!"

Zayne was caught off-guard.

"What?"

"You're right. I've been careless lately." Your shoulders sagged as you accepted defeat. "Like my injury today could've been avoided if only I was a little more cautious. I really do need to work on it better. I'm sorry for ignoring your texts and calls. I know you're just looking out for me."

Zayne let out a breath of relief.

He failed to stop himself from pulling you into his arms, so tight that you let out a gasp, though you didn't complain so he didn't release you just yet.

He desperately needed to hold you.

He was afraid that you might not want to see him anymore because of the way he had spoken to you, but it seems he'd gotten a chance to correct himself.

"I'm sorry for talking to you so coldy." He backed away just a small distance so he could look you in the eyes, though his hands remained locked on your elbows. "There are much better ways to express my concerns for you. I won't make the same mistake again. But also..."

He took your left hand and kissed the back of it. "Please don't ever try to hide your injuries from me whenever you do get hurt."

"Ah...." you wondered how he found out you were trying to hide from him today. "Sorry. I won't."

Zayne smiled and kissed your forehead.

"I'll accept your apology, on one condition...."

"What?"

"You have to spend the night and the whole weekend with me now. To make up for the times when you weren't by my side."

caleb

"I did it to protect you."

"And now, the fleet has all the access to the information that I was supposed to get. But yes. I was so fortunate that The Colonel came to my rescue. Thanks."

Caleb sighs as you shut the door and locked yourself in your own room of his house in Safehaven.

It's true that he interfered with your mission and you failed to do what you were sent for, but the man you were interrogating was equipped with a weapon that could've left you permamently injured.

What was he supposed to do?

He wasn't going to just watch and wait for you to get hurt.

The man just happened to be a common enemy of the fleet and the hunters association, and it seems that you've crossed paths for a race on whoever could capture him first.

While you technically reached him first, Caleb was the one that took him away and had him in captive with the fleet.

He figured he could just find that man and get the information you need, though it seems your mission was time sensitive and you were supposed to report to the association by tonight.

While he feels bad about you failing to accomplish your mission, he doesn't regret barging in to stop the enemy from hurting you.

His priority has always been you and it will always be you.

Everything that he's ever done is to protect you, even if you're against it. That's why this isn't the first time you've fought.

Ever since you were younger, you'd sometimes get mad at him for doing something that was intended to keep you out of harm's way.

It's nothing new.

Still, no matter how many times it happens, Caleb will always hate the feeling of you being upset with him.

He especially cannot stand it when you pretend he doesn't exist. He'd rather you hit him as hard as you can than act as if you don't see him. Otherwise, what other purpose does he have, if not to provide for you and be by your side?

Caleb made dinner for two, but he's the only one in the dinning room, sitting across an empty chair. It's dead silent aside from the noise of the flying vehicles roaming around outside his house.

He already put food in your plate and filled you a glass of juice, just in case you give in to his attempt to lure you out with the delicious smell of tonight's meal.

Caleb took his time eating. He had sent you texts, with lots of stickers, telling you that dinner is ready and that you can come out of your room now, though not a single message had gotten a reply.

His eyes would constantly dart to your closed door, hoping that it would open and you'd stubbornly come out with a pout on your face, just like what you always do ever since you were little.

He wasn't so lucky tonight.

But that doesn't mean he'll let you starve. You can be mad at him, but at the very least, be angry with a full stomach.

Caleb picked up your plate and drink and set it down on the floor right outside your room.

"Pip-squeak." He knocked a couple of times. "It's fine if you don't want to see me. You don't have to forgive me, but please eat something before you sleep. I'll leave the food outside the door."

He paused for a moment, as an apology almost slipped out of his tongue, though he wants to do it properly when you're face-to-face, so he will wait for a better time.

"Goodnight."

Afterwards, Caleb took a long bath before going to bed. You two had plans to watch movies tonight after your mission, but that was definitely not going to happen now. He had no idea things would end like how it did, and now he's staring at a wall feeling empty.

Around midnight, you quietly stepped out of your room. You brought the dirty, empty dishes back in the kitchen so you can wash them and return them in the storage.

Five steps in the dark kitchen and you almost drop the fragile items on your hands.

There's something lurking in the shadows.

"Ah!"

Your right hand swung up to hit the figure that started to walk towards you, ready to hit them with the plate.

The object was caught easily and snatched right out off your fingers. The light switch clicked and soon your eyes had been greeted by bright white light.

And you learned that the figure that had been bathing in darkness is none other than Caleb, who looked just as freaked out as you.

"Why are you still awake?!" you screeched, putting a hand over your pounding heart. "Why are you out here just standing in the dark like some demon?!"

"I wasn't standing in darkness. I was sitting." he huffs, putting the plate on the counter table. "And I should be asking you the same thing, Pip-squeak. Why are you awake?!"

His eyes suddenly widened and his shoulders stiffened.

"You're...not gonna leave, are you?"

He looked like a sad, kicked puppy that made you feel like a super villain.

"No, I'm not leaving." you replied softly, taking a step closer to him after setting down the empty glass of juice on the counter table. "I was just going to wash these... dinner was delicious.... by the way..."

Caleb let out a sigh of relief before a smile came to his face. "I'm glad you liked it. If you still have room in your stomach, wanna go for dessert? I still have some of the ice cream that you bought last time."

Your eyes lit up at the mention of the sweet dessert. "Yes!"

As the two of you enjoyed the ice cream, Caleb took the opportunity to talk about what happened.

"I'll admit that I don't regret interferring with your work to save you from getting hurt." he started slowly, watching you just in case your mood flips again. "But I am sorry for getting you in trouble."

You shook your head. "I'm over it now, but... you have to remember that I'm also capable of dealing with dangerous guys. I may get hurt, but it's part of my job. You don't have to jump out and save me every time, even though I appreciate it and you, every time."

Caleb sighs, recalling you repeating similar words to him before.

He really does jump out of nowhere to save you a lot — in fact, anytime he can, he does it.

"You're right. I know you've gotten strong, Pip-squeak." he grinned, patting your head. "I'll be sure to remember it. But also, you have to remember... worrying about you is part of my job. That'll never change, even if you become the greatest superhero of the deepspace."

"Heh."

You can't help but laugh because it's true.

That is just how Caleb is.

And it's one of the things that you love about him, despite all the times he pissed you off by being over protective.

"If I become the greatest superhero of Deepspace, will you bring me more ice cream?"

Caleb laughs at your empty bowl. "All you have to do is ask and I shall obey, Pip-squeak."

Once drowsiness finally hit you, you returned to bed and this time, Caleb made sure to cling to you the entire time.

rafayel

You'd been extremely busy for almost two weeks because of a big, intricate mission. It left you very little time to rest, and absolutely no time to go out with your lover.

But once you finally got some freedom, the first thing you did was give him a call, asking him out for lunch.

"It's okay, Miss Bodyguard. You don't have to see me if you don't want to. I know you've been really busy to make any time for me."

Maybe he was just joking or being dramatic as usual, but something about his tone rubbed you the wrong way.

"Okay then. Bye."

The moment the call ended, Rafayel wanted to throw his phone at the wall.

Why did he say that?

He'll admit that he has been sulking, disappointed that he hasn't seen you for days; however, he knows it's not your fault. You're just doing your job, after all.

His mood hasn't been the best lately, and he ended up saying the wrong thing to you. Now, he scared you away from him even more.

He wanted to see you and apologize, but you sounded quite mad and he's certain you don't want to see him at the moment, so it's probably best to leave you alone for now.

Thomas entered the studio and almost tripped over a paintbrush on the floor. The place is even messier than before.

He found Rafayel lying on the couch, wide wake and staring at the ceiling.

"Your studio's getting way too messy. Maybe you should clean up a little."

"It's fine. No one's going to come over anyways."

Thomas was quick to notice his dispirited tone. Rafayel already seemed lonely last week, but this time his mood seems worse.

Another proof of that is the lack of progress on the paintings.

"You haven't started anything new yet?"

"I haven't had any inspiration."

The one hint that Thomas got about what was bringing Rafayel down is the yellow bird plushie right next to him, who he may or may not have been talking to.

"So, it's your Miss Hunter, isn't it?"

It's happened a couple of times before. You two have gotten into arguments before and it usually ends in the same way, with Rafayel sulking like this. This time, it might've lasted longer than usual.

"I don't know what happened, but I suggest seeing her and talking it out."

"I know that. But if she doesn't want to see me.... what if she starts screaming and hitting me when I'm there?"

Or worse, you tell him you hate him.

His stomach tightened with discomfort just by thinking about it.

Thomas chuckles lightly. "So what? You can take it, can't you? Then again, she is a hunter.... and she could kill you...."

Rafayel frowned and froze for a moment.

Then, he suddenly rolls over and drops to the floor before jumping to his feet. "Thomas, you're a genius!" he exclaims, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him vigorously. "I don't care if she stabs me with her sword! I'd survive. but... if I go on another day withour seeing her, I might actually die for real..."

"Hh — sure, I guess..."

"I'm gonna go see her now!"

Thomas watched as he started to scramble and sprint out of the room. "Wait, you should clean up first before — "

"Ow! Who put this paint brush here?!"

You opened the door and Rafayel immediately shields his face with his hands, as if to protect himself from you.

"....I don't know what's going on but I'm a little offended."

You wanted to laugh but you reminded yourself that you're still mad at him.

Or at least, you were.

The moment Rafayel showed up at your doorstep, all you want to do is hug him.

"If you're gonna stab me, do it quickly but at least wait until I say sorry first so it doesn't sound like I'm using my last, dying breath to make it up to you. I mean, I would do that too if I must, but I'd prefer if I don't sound pathetic and gross."

"...what?"

Rafayel pulled himself together and held both of your hands.

"I'm sorry for what I said. I promise I didn't mean it at all. I just missed you a lot and... I.... I might've been...a little grumpy because of it... but I still shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I'm really sorry."

You softened and held his hands tighter. "I'm sorry too, for snapping so fast and running away. I also wasn't in the best mood."

Rafayel didn't waste another second before pulling you into his arms.

"Let's not do that again. It's stupid and silly and boring."

"Agreed."

He buried his face against your neck and held you tighter for a little longer while your fingers brush his hair from the back.

Rafayel took a moment to feel your warmth.

You're here, right in front of him, after days that felt like months.

Letting you go will be extremely difficult.

"Miss Bodyguard...."

"Yeah?"

"Do you wanna come to my house? Reddie misses you...

"Just Reddie?"

"...well, I missed you way more, but you can spare him five minutes of attention. But that's it. The rest of your time is mine."

xavier

For your latest mission, Jenna paired you up with a new hunter that just joined your team. She said she wanted him to learn from you, so he became your temporary partner.

Xavier wasn't quite happy with the captain's decision.

Jenna never said he couldn't join you, right? The new guy can keep following you, but that doesn't mean he has to be alone with you.

Fast forward to the end of the mission, Xavier had been so focused on making sure the new guy keeps a fair distance from you, and the newbie almost got hurt.

You took responsibility and jumped in at the very last moment to save him, leaving you with a minor scratch on your left arm. Nonetheless, the mission was a success.

You confronted Xavier afterwards. You didn't care at all about the scratch, but you were more concerned with him letting his jealousy get in the way of the mission.

Captain Jenna scolded him about not following orders. Although she never specified that he couldn't join you, he still messed with the plan that the team discussed early on. Luckily, he's not deeply in trouble: he'd only been warned not to do it again.

You mostly repeated what Jenna said, but you also told Xavier that he shouldn't have gone out of his way to physically keep your temporary partner away from you, and that you wished he trusted you a little more, especially in a professional environment.

Xavier was unable to come up with a response and like always, whenever he's jealous, dark clouds appeared all around him as he sulks.

You didn't feel like cradling him at the moment, mostly because you felt tired from the mission, and you needed to cool your ahead after all that happened.

You went straight to your apartment after work. Soon after taking a shower, you landed on your bed and welcomed a nap.

Xavier anxiously paces back and forth in his apartment.

He knows you're sleeping because of the fitness watch app that you both use. He decided that he'll wait until you wake up before apologizing, so at the mean time, he's practicing in his head what he'll be saying to you.

You two rarely have arguments because he'd learned to be more straightforward with his thoughts and feelings, but when jealousy comes into play, he still struggles to contain himself. He's working on it, but he's having quite a slow progress.

He'll admit that he might have gone a little overboard today, and he hated that his actions led to you getting hurt, even if it's just a scratch. If only he hadn't gotten in the way.

"...I'm going now."

Unable to wait any longer, Xavier teleports out of his apartment and appears on your balcony — it's become a habit of his.

He found you sleeping on the couch of your living room.

Xavier walked up to you quietly and covered your body with the throw bunched up by your feet. He knelt down on the carpeted floor and admired your features.

He knew he shouldn't get jealous so easily, but how could he not?

He's so deeply in love with you, he can't help but act irrationally sometimes.

But even more, he despises whenever you're upset with him and because of him, so he knows he can't keep behaving drastically all the time whenever another person who shows an ounce of admiration for you comes around.

"You smell like burnt cookies."

Xavier snapped out of his thoughts only to realize that you had woken up.

He took a whiff of his white hoodie and confirmed your observation. "I tried to make you some cookies to make up for earlier but I got distracted and forgot about them...."

And by distracted, he means pacing back and forth across the kitchen while writing his apology speech in his head.

"Pfftt.."

Xavier scratched the back of his head while you laughed loudly. His eyes lit up at the sight of your joy on your face.

"I'm sorry about your cookies." he sighs. "And I'm sorry for acting the way I did earlier. I promise I'll... try not to get jealous..."

You laughed again, this time softer as you leaned forward to brush his hair with your fingers. "The truth is, I don't mind that you get jealous sometimes. Even I get jealous too."

"Really?"

"Really."

He never notices you secretly being bitter whenever someone is clearly attracted to him, though you never act out on your jealousy because he always reassures you that he only has eyes for you.

"It's normal to get jealous." you told him. "But next time.... just make sure not to step out of line and get yourself or anyone innocent in trouble."

Xavier nodded and kissed the palm of your hand that had been combing his hair. "I promise I'll be more responsible from now on."

You smiled and pecked his nose.

"The smell of cookies really got me. Wanna try again? I'll help you this time."

"I'd like that. But first...." he rested his face onto your lap. "Can we just stay like this for a little while? I think I need to recharge."

Your hand returns to combing his soft hair. "Of course."

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

party on you, part of you knew (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 8k

Summary: Mattheo had been losing his belongings, forgetting things, and feeling uneasy about that random girl who was always staring at him. His solution? Blame Theodore. It's always that damn astronomy tower.

A/N: I'm so ass at summaries 😭 lowkey i kinda hate this

When Mattheo woke up, he was unbearably groggy—dragging himself around the dorm with zero fucks to give while his friends hooted and hollered with far too much morning energy.

He sighed, heavy with the weight of a dream he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it started happy—blissfully, achingly so—but by the time he opened his eyes, he felt hollow. The fog in his head made it impossible to grasp.

He barely managed to throw on his shirt, only half-buttoned, his tie dangling uselessly around his neck as he stumbled around looking for his belt. He ruffled through his drawer, groaning when he pulled something unexpected from the back.

With a frustrated grunt, he hurled a cheap bottle of perfume across the room.

It smacked Theo in the back of the head.

“For fuck’s sake, Nott,” Mattheo growled, “Tell your useless fucks to stop leaving their shit in my drawer. My boxers smell like Victoria’s Secret now. What are they, perverts?”

Theo only laughed, ducking Mattheo’s middle finger with the practiced ease of someone far too used to this scenario. It wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

To be fair, it really was on Theo for being a shameless pervert who’d flirt his way into any skirt with a pulse. Mattheo wasn’t a stranger to finding souvenirs left behind after Theo’s conquests—underwear, school ties, even flowers that Theo had given them. Gifts Theo handed out to play the nice guy before inevitably ruining their lives.

Asshole.

But Theo was completely unbothered.

He ruffled Mattheo’s already-messy hair before yanking him into a headlock and dragging him out of the dorm toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Maybe, just maybe, after some tea and food, Mattheo would start feeling like a functional human being again.

Mattheo doubted it.

Still, he knew better than to show up to McGonagall’s first thing in the morning on an empty stomach—unless he wanted to snap and earn himself a detention for cussing someone out. Which, on mornings like this, was always a strong possibility.

He walked into the Great Hall like a stormcloud, shoulders tense, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Without saying a word to anyone, he dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table.

Your eyes followed him the moment he entered.

He looked... wrecked. Moving sluggishly, like he hadn’t slept a wink. His mood practically radiated off him. Still, you watched as he poured himself a cup of tea—black, no milk, no sugar—and sipped it with his whole hand clutched around the rim, like the warmth might anchor him. A stark contrast to his polished friends, who had all been raised to drink tea like little lords—fingers lifted, saucers in hand, painfully dainty.

But Mattheo drank tea like a man dragged out of war.

You weren’t one to fall for toxic masculinity tropes, but Merlin help you—there was something a little charming about his ruggedness.

“(Y/N)? Hello?” Your friend whispered, snapping her fingers near your face. You blinked, startled, not realizing how long you’d been staring. She arched a brow, her expression tilting toward concern, “You good?”

Your gaze flicked back to Mattheo instinctively, just as he brought the mug to his lips again, the shadows beneath his eyes catching in the candlelight.

Your friend leaned in and hissed, “Don’t tell me you have a crush on Mattheo Riddle.”

Thank Merlin she had the sense to whisper. If Lavender—just two seats down—had heard, the entire castle would’ve known by lunch.

You gave a quiet huff and a crooked smile, “Me? Like Mattheo Riddle?”

But even as you said it, your eyes drifted back to him—just in time to see a Ravenclaw girl saunter up to his side. Her tone was too soft, her smile too wide, and Mattheo... smirked.

You couldn’t hear what she said, but whatever it was, it worked. She returned to her table tittering like a first-year after her first Butterbeer, and Mattheo’s friends clapped him on the back like frat boys cheering over a win.

Your stomach twisted.

“Fat chance.” You muttered under your breath.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

***

Mattheo slumped into his usual seat at the back of Transfiguration, his head pounding like someone had hexed a war drum into his skull. The classroom was too bright. Too loud. The voices around him felt like nails against his already frayed nerves.

All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep through the day. But McGonagall had already given him a formal warning for skipping too many classes, and he had no desire to sit through another one of her lectures about wasted potential and “throwing your life away, Mr. Riddle.”

So here he was. Half-awake. Half-dressed. Fully over it.

He sprawled in his chair like he hadn’t been raised to sit like a human being. The boys were already talking shit around him. Something about some girl. Someone’s sister. Or cousin. Or ex. Mattheo couldn’t be arsed to care.

And then—

Eyes.

He felt it before he saw it.

A stare. Steady. Intent. Not curious like the usual ones. Not flirty or appraising. This was something else.

He tilted his head lazily, scanning the classroom, and there you were.

Sitting with your friends at the front of the room, quill dangling from your fingers, your books open in front of you but untouched. You weren’t focused on your parchment or your notes or even your friends.

You were watching him.

And not like most girls did. Not like he was a prize or a challenge.

There was something in your eyes. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

For a second, Mattheo just stared back, caught in the intensity of your gaze.

Then:

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo leaned over with a grin far too smug for this early in the morning and jabbed him in the arm with his wand, “You’ve got a fan.”

Mattheo blinked, the moment snapping. His friends were all looking now, following Theo’s nod toward the front row.

“Who is she?” Blaise asked, already smirking.

Mattheo shrugged, leaning back in his chair with practiced indifference, “No clue.”

“You sure?” Draco drawled, giving him a pointed look, “She’s staring at you like you broke her heart.”

“Probably did,” Theo snorted, “Another one of Riddle’s charm-and-ditch girls. What’s this—lucky number fifty?”

Mattheo let a crooked grin spread across his face, “I don’t count past three. After that, it’s just a blur of names and disappointment.”

Lorenzo chuckled, “You’re sick.”

“Don’t blame me,” Mattheo said, “If they confuse good dick with love, that’s on them.”

The boys howled, loud enough to earn a sharp look from a Ravenclaw at the next table over.

Mattheo smirked, brushing his fingers back through his mess of curls. He let his gaze drift back to you again—just for a second.

But this time, your attention had turned. You were laughing at something your friend whispered to you, cheeks flushed, head bowed. The look from earlier was gone. And whatever he thought he saw? It probably never existed to begin with.

Good.

***

It wasn’t rare for Mattheo Riddle to wake up in the middle of the night—heart racing, skin clammy, breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls like he was drowning in his own lungs.

What was rare was not being able to go back to sleep after.

His chest burned. His head was spinning. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs like a vice. He needed a cigarette. Now.

He reached for the pack tucked in his blazer, fingers trembling as he searched the pockets for his lighter—his lighter, the scratched metal Zippo with the chipped corner and the warm, familiar clink that grounded him.

Nothing.

“God-fucking-dammit, Theo.” He hissed, dragging his drawer open with a harsh scrape. No lighter. Of course. His roommate probably nicked it—again—for one of his stress-smoking episodes. Mattheo could’ve used his wand, sure, but that lighter was his. That sharp click when it flipped open was the only thing that made his fidgeting tolerable.

He scratched roughly at his wrist, fingers twitching for something to hold as he climbed the stairs to his usual spot. The cigarette was already between his lips before he’d even reached the top, wand-lighting it with a muttered “Incendio.” He took the first drag, feeling the smoke scrape down his throat and spread like static in his chest.

The cold air helped. A little.

Until he realized he wasn’t alone.

His eyes narrowed when they landed on you, sitting at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling over the stone ledge like it was nothing. You were leaning lazily against the railing, illuminated by moonlight—and you looked just as surprised to see him.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped, accusatory.

You blinked at him, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Mattheo scoffed, taking another long drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out through his nose like a warning sign.

Great.

“Night terrors, huh?” You asked quietly.

He froze mid-drag, lips parting, “…How did you know that?”

“I get them too.”

That shut him up.

It went quiet. For a while, neither of you spoke. He leaned against the opposite railing, cigarette burning slowly to the filter, eyes fixed on the moonlit sky while the silence thickened.

Then he noticed your hands.

You were holding something—clutching it, almost. A stem of small, blue flowers. Mattheo stared, trying to place them. He knew he’d seen them somewhere before, probably in Herbology, but the name wouldn’t come to him.

He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like being watched, not when he was like this. Raw. Frayed. Sleepless. Unmasked.

“…Can you stop fucking staring at me?” He muttered, side-eyeing you.

Your cheeks flushed. You dropped your gaze quickly, fingers curling protectively around the petals.

Mattheo exhaled sharply, hating the stab of guilt that followed.

He felt bad. For you.

How Hufflepuff of him.

Mattheo threw the cigarette down with more force than necessary, the end flaring before he crushed it beneath his shoe, muttering another curse under his breath.

He didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t look back.

Just turned, hands once again scratching at his wrist for something to play with, jaw clenched like he was holding something back—words, or maybe the scream in his chest—and disappeared down the stairs.

Leaving you alone again.

The cold crept in as soon as he left, biting at your skin and wrapping around your ribs like a hollow ache.

You stared at the spot where he'd been, at the faint trail of smoke still curling from the squashed cigarette. Then, slowly, your gaze dropped back to the Forget-Me-Not's in your lap.

You sighed.

***

Mattheo was pissed off again.

Theo swore up and down that he hadn’t taken the lighter, which only made Mattheo tear through the dorm in a fury—rummaging through drawers, knocking over books, slamming open cabinets like the thing he was looking for might vanish if he didn’t get to it fast enough.

His wrist was already red and irritated, covered in faint scratches from how often he scratched at it now. Some nervous habit that had crept in without him noticing. It didn’t help. It never helped. Every time his fingers twitched toward that spot on his skin, it felt like he was supposed to find something there. Like something used to be there. Something that mattered.

But it was always nothing.

He yanked open his nightstand drawer again, rifling through clutter and broken quills and the chaos of his own impatience—and paused.

There, wedged between a tattered book and a scrap of parchment, was a small, flattened flower.

A faded blue. Edges browned and curled. Limp, like it had been forgotten for ages.

Mattheo blinked at it, confusion flickering briefly across his features—before his expression twisted into irritation.

“Bloody hell, Theo,” He muttered, snatching it up, “Tell your latest girl to keep her sappy crap out of my things.”

He didn’t know why it made him so angry. Maybe it was the idea of someone else’s sentimental leftovers tucked between his stuff. Maybe it was how… familiar it looked. But that only annoyed him more.

He crushed the flower in his fist and stormed over to the trash, dropping it in without ceremony. Wiped his hand on his trousers like it’d left something behind.

And that should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

Hours later, he was still restless. Still scratching at his wrist. Still glancing, without meaning to, toward the drawer where it had come from. Toward the bin where it lay now.

The feeling wouldn’t go away. The unease stayed curled around his ribs like a secret. That damn flower—it was nothing. So why did it feel like everything?

He stood up.

Crossed the room.

And dug through the bin.

There it was—crumpled, soft, and broken now. He lifted it carefully, petals cracking under his fingers.

Something inside him shifted. Just slightly. Like a door creaking open somewhere in the distance.

But nothing came through.

No memory. No explanation.

Only that feeling.

He shoved the flower back into the drawer, slammed it shut like it could bury whatever was clawing at the edge of his mind.

But it lingered.

Gnawing. Heavy. A strange, aching knowing:

He was missing something.

Something important.

***

The dorm was loud when they got back from Hogsmeade—Theo and Draco bickering over whether Honeydukes or Zonko’s was the superior stop, Blaise tossing his coat onto Mattheo’s bed without a care, and Lorenzo humming some obnoxious tune he must’ve picked up at the Three Broomsticks.

Mattheo didn’t say much.

He was still on edge—still fidgeting, still scratching at the inside of his wrist like his skin could give him answers. The chill in his bones hadn’t faded, and neither had the strange weight that had settled in his chest days ago.

Ever since that flower.

Ever since he lost his lighter.

He dropped his bag onto the bed and started to unpack: Chocolate Frogs. Licorice Wands. Cockroach Clusters—Theo’s, obviously. A new pack of cigarettes.

And then—

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo called from across the room, “Since when do you eat Sugar Quills?”

Mattheo frowned, “I don’t.”

Theo held up the pink-and-blue striped box like he was unveiling a crime scene, “Then what’s this doing in your bag?”

The moment Mattheo laid eyes on it, something echoed in his head. You’ll like it eventually.

He blinked.

Crossing the room, he took the box, turning it over in his hands like maybe it would offer some kind of explanation.

“I didn’t buy this.” He said, voice firm.

“You sure?” Blaise asked, brows raised, “You didn’t go into Honeydukes and black out in a sugar trance, you big back? You’ve got, like, twelve of these. Mate, what the hell—you’re gonna get diabetes.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, “I’d never buy these. I hate them. Too sweet. They make my teeth feel like they’re rotting out of my skull.”

Draco smirked, “Aww, are the cigarettes finally rotting your brain too?”

Mattheo didn’t laugh.

He just stared at the box.

He didn’t remember buying it.

But his hands did.

The same way they reached for his wrist like something used to be there.

Like someone used to be there.

He sat down heavily on his bed, still holding the sweets.

His jaw clenched.

“I didn’t buy this.” He repeated, quieter this time. Almost like he was trying to convince himself.

But deep down, he wasn’t sure anymore.

***

He hadn’t meant to go up to the Astronomy Tower.

Not really.

His legs just carried him there, like they always fucking did lately. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like his body was trying to remember something his mind couldn’t.

He kept doing things he didn’t mean to do—walking into places without knowing why, reaching for things he didn’t remember losing. It felt like his own body was betraying him. His mind was slipping, fading at the edges, and it was starting to scare him.

He couldn’t remember things.

He scratched at his wrist until it burned—red, raw, relentless. He felt wrong every night when he lay down to sleep, like he was somewhere he didn’t belong. And every morning he woke up with a hollow in his chest, like he’d just lost something—someone—in a dream he could never quite remember.

And this tower.

This fucking tower.

It made his skin itch. Made his hands shake. Made him want to scream and break things and disappear into its stone walls, all at once. It offered a kind of comfort he didn’t understand—a familiarity he couldn’t explain—which angered him more.

But tonight—it was different.

Because when he stepped onto the final stair, he saw you.

And the air was punched from his lungs.

You were sitting cross-legged in your usual spot, the stars painting silver on your skin, your hair spilling down your back like ink across parchment. You didn’t see him. You were too focused on something resting in your hands.

Then it clicked.

Flick. Clink.

That sound.

He stopped cold.

The lighter.

His lighter.

You were flipping it open and closed, spinning it through your fingers with a rhythm that was too natural—like it was yours. Like it had always been yours.

Mattheo’s stomach twisted hard.

He couldn’t breathe.

He knew that lighter. He’d turned the entire dorm upside down searching for it. Tore open every drawer, snapped at Theo, cursed until his throat was raw. He scratched at his wrist for weeks—like something had been ripped from it.

And there it was.

Right there.

In your hands.

And then—everything hit him.

.

“You’ll like it eventually.” You giggled, chewing on the Sugar Quill Mattheo had reluctantly picked up for you at Honeydukes earlier that day.

He grimaced, visibly cringing as you crunched through the overly sweet treat. The sound alone made his teeth hurt. He could practically feel the sugar coating his molars just by watching you. It was going to get stuck between your teeth—he knew it—and while he wasn’t exactly a stickler for dental hygiene like Granger (he smoked, for Merlin’s sake), Sugar Quills were where he drew the line.

Still, you tore into the next package with such delight, he couldn’t find it in himself to berate you. He simply gagged—dramatically, of course—when you offered him a bite.

“I’m gonna Pavlov you into liking these.” You teased, that mischievous glint sparking in your eyes.

Mattheo’s brows furrowed, “What’s tha—?”

He didn’t get to finish.

You grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him—open-mouthed, unrelenting, sweet as sin. He froze for half a second before melting into it, letting your sugar-coated tongue slip past his defenses and press the sickeningly sweet taste right onto his own.

When you pulled away, his lips were sticky, glistening with syrup.

He swallowed, stunned.

“So?” You asked, clearly too pleased with yourself.

Mattheo blinked, then licked his lips, “They’re... not that bad.”

You laughed—bright, triumphant, and a little breathless.

.

It was another late night at the Astronomy Tower.

The stars were out, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled glitter over velvet, and the air had that sharp, biting chill that clung to your skin no matter how many layers you wore.

Mattheo leaned against the metal railing, eyes half-lidded, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You want one?” He asked, offering it to you with a lazy smirk, smoke curling from his lips.

You wrinkled your nose, “I'm not kissing you if you smoke that.”

He chuckled, teeth flashing, “Is that a challenge?”

You shot him a look and snatched the lighter from his hand instead—silver, scratched, familiar. It was always warm, always had just the right amount of heft to it.

“Oi,” He said, eyebrows lifting, “That’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” You replied, holding it up like a trophy, “Finders, keepers.”

Mattheo pushed off the rail, slow and predatory, “You think stealing my lighter’s gonna get me to stop?”

“No,” You said innocently, slipping it into your robes, the metal cool against your chest, “Just… now I have something that reminds me of you.”

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, “You really need a souvenir to remember me by?”

You tried to sound casual, breezy, unaffected—even though your heart was thudding like mad, “Maybe I just like collecting little pieces of you.”

His smirk softened into something quieter. Gentler.

His fingers brushed your jaw, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing just under your eye. “You already have me,” He said, voice low. “Completely.”

You swallowed hard.

“I know,” You whispered.

And you did.

But you still kept the lighter.

Just in case.

.

One evening, he pulled a fast one on you.

You were sitting alone in the library, curled into the corner of your favorite window seat with a book in your lap, half-lost in the pages. Your hair was pulled back loosely, strands a bit wild from the wind that afternoon, but held together by your trusty hair tie.

Mattheo had been there a moment ago—pretending to study, but mostly just watching you with that unreadable expression he wore when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

And then suddenly— Fingers. Gentle and quick.

He slipped behind you like a shadow, and before you could even register his presence, he plucked the hair tie from your ponytail in one smooth, practiced motion.

Your hair tumbled down around your shoulders, soft waves cascading freely as you gasped and whipped around.

But he was already gone.

All that remained was the faint sound of his laughter disappearing down the corridor.

You found him two floors down, strolling like he hadn’t just committed a crime of war against your scalp.

“Mattheo!” You called, breathless and irritated—more flustered than anything else.

He spun around with that devilish grin that made you want to slap and kiss him all at once. “What?” He said, all faux innocence, “I’m sentimental.”

You shot him a look—equal parts annoyance and barely hidden affection—that made his heart stutter. It was the kind of look that made him want to drop to his knees just to hear you laugh.

“You’re a kleptomaniac.” You said, marching up to him.

Mattheo held up the hair tie, lazily looping it around his fingers before slipping it around his wrist like a bracelet. “It’s not stealing if it’s love,” He quipped, ���Now I’ve got something of yours, too.”

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed, “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” He murmured, stepping close enough for his breath to tickle your skin, “You still love me.”

You rolled your eyes but let him steal a quick kiss anyway. Just a brush of his lips against yours. Then you turned on your heel and walked away before he could get even more smug.

But later, at breakfast, you noticed.

He sat with his chin resting in his hand, pretending to listen to Theo ramble about god-knows-what, while the fingers of his other hand fidgeted absently with your black hair tie. Twisting it. Letting it snap against his wrist like a grounding tether.

You saw how he kept it during exams. How he twisted it when he was anxious. How his shoulders always relaxed a little more with it there.

You never asked for it back.

.

It was early spring, the air fresh with promise and the world just beginning to wake. You and Mattheo had slipped away from the noisy halls of Hogwarts, finding a quiet spot near the edge of the Forbidden Forest where wildflowers grew in soft clusters.

You spotted the tiny blue blossoms first—forget-me-nots, fragile and delicate, like little pieces of the sky nestled in the grass. Their soft petals seemed to glow faintly in the dappled sunlight.

Without a word, you bent down and carefully picked one, holding it between your fingers like a secret—its slender stem cool against your skin.

Mattheo watched you with that rare softness in his eyes, his usual guarded expression melting away just enough to let you see the boy beneath the bravado.

You stepped closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the dark curls at his temple as you tucked the forget-me-not behind his ear. The vivid blue popped beautifully against the deep shade of his hair.

“You look pretty good in blue, Matty,” You teased, voice warm and a little breathless, “Pity you weren’t smart enough to get into Ravenclaw.”

He smirked, one brow arching, “Smart enough to land you, thank you very much. Besides, I prefer being underestimated.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up like a melody he wanted to bottle and carry with him forever, “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

And then, to your surprise, he didn’t brush the flower away. He just stood there, letting you lean in again—tucking more blossoms into his hair, weaving them gently between his curls. Blue and lavender and a soft yellow bloom, until he looked like something half-wild, half-divine. He only rolled his eyes once, but never told you to stop.

“They’ll think I’ve gone soft.” He muttered, not bothering to hide the fond smile twitching at his lips.

You tilted your head, mock-serious, “They’ll think you’ve finally gotten taste.”

He didn’t take the flowers down. Not when you walked back together. Not when you kissed him goodbye just outside the castle, fingers brushing over his hand like you didn’t want to let go.

But as the stone walls of Hogwarts came back into view, and the sounds of students filtered into the air again, reality sank in.

Your relationship was still a secret — something held in the quiet, in shadows and stolen spaces. Not because you were ashamed, but because the world wouldn’t understand. Because in the daylight, things were louder, crueler, more complicated.

So Mattheo paused, just before you stepped into view of the courtyard. His fingers reached up slowly, brushing through his curls, dislodging the little blooms one by one.

He didn’t look at you as he did it — maybe because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

By the time you reached the castle steps, his hair was bare again. No trace of the wildflowers you’d threaded there with so much affection. Just the same dark, unruly curls — and the carefully unreadable expression he wore so well.

But the forget-me-not? That one he kept. The first one you tucked behind his ear — soft, sky-blue, and still warm from your touch.

He palmed it quietly, slipping it into his jacket pocket like something far more precious than it looked.

Later that night, once the castle had gone quiet and his dorm was dark, he pulled it out again. Held it in the moonlight. Turned it gently between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.

Then, like a secret he meant to keep safe forever, he slid it between the pages of a book and tucked it into the drawer beside his bed.

.

The first time you knew something was wrong, Mattheo flinched when you touched his arm.

It was late — one of your usual hidden meetups by the Black Lake. The sky was an ink spill overhead, stars scattered and silent. He’d been jittery the entire night. Pacing. Checking behind trees. Lighting a cigarette only to toss it into the water before even taking a drag.

You reached for him, “Mattheo, what’s going on?”

He looked at you like he wasn’t really seeing you — his eyes wide and distant, jaw clenched like he was holding something in his mouth that tasted like blood.

“My father’s coming to Hogwarts,” He said quietly, “Not officially. But… he’s been asking questions.”

You felt the cold seep into your chest like water through fabric.

“About you?” You asked, voice hollow, “About us?”

Mattheo hesitated — just long enough to make the answer obvious.

“He can’t know anything,” He said, “But he’s… suspicious. He doesn’t like when I get distracted. When I get soft.”

Your breath hitched, “You’re not soft, Mattheo. You’re—”

“I am with you,” He said, voice breaking, “And that’s the problem.”

After that, things changed.

He didn’t say he was pulling away — he just did. His touches grew shorter, his presence tighter, like he was wound up and couldn’t afford to unravel. He still showed up, but his eyes darted constantly — over your shoulder, into the shadows, like he was always expecting someone else to be there.

Then one night, he didn’t come at all.

You waited at your usual place for over two hours, fingers frozen and heart pacing.

When he finally appeared, it was nearly morning. You were curled on the stone steps of the Owlery, eyes red from cold and fear and something worse.

“You can’t just vanish on me.” You hissed, standing up the moment you saw him.

“I was in detention—”

“You’re lying.”

And his silence confirmed it.

Then, suddenly — he did something he hadn’t done in weeks.

He stepped forward, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last time. Like the world was ending and you were the only thing left worth saving. It was desperate, deep, a confession poured through parted lips.

When he pulled away, his shoulders were shaking.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“No,” You said immediately, because your heart already knew where this was going, “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Please,” He whispered, “You’re the only person I trust. The only one I—”

He stopped himself. Swallowed. Opened his eyes again — and this time, you saw it. Pure terror.

You backed away, “So your solution is to make me forget?”

“Not you,” He said quickly, desperate, “Me.”

You stared at him, stunned, “Mattheo—”

“If my father reads my mind—if he sees you—he’ll come for you. He won’t ask questions. He won’t give you time. He’ll just… take you.”

Your voice cracked, “You know how to protect your mind—Occlumency, you’ve been practicing—”

“It’s not enough,” He said, quietly, “Not against him. Not forever.”

“You know how to do it,” He added, “You’re brilliant. You always have been.”

“That’s not the point!” You cried, “You won’t remember me. Us. Anything.”

“I’d rather forget you than bury you.” He said.

And that was when the tears came.

“I don’t want to,” He choked, “But it’s the only way. You know it is.”

And deep down… you did.

You waited. Waited for him to change his mind. To reach for you and say never mind, say run away with me, say I’ll figure it out.

But he didn’t.

He just closed his eyes.

And nodded.

Your wand trembled in your hand.

He reached forward, gently brushing your hair back behind your ear — his touch unbearably tender.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “If things were different—”

“Don’t,” You said, stepping back, your voice a broken whisper, “Please don’t.”

And with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, with your throat tight and your chest split open, you raised your wand.

You didn’t even need to say it loud.

“Obliviate.”

The moment the light faded, you knew you’d made the wrong choice.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

And then… his eyes didn’t settle on you. They moved right past you, like you weren’t even there. Like you were just another shadow in the morning fog, barely even looking at you as he walked away, not saying another word to you.

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

You dropped your wand and cupped a hand over your mouth, falling to your knees before your legs could even register it. The sob tore out of you like a wound — raw and keening and endless.

Why had you listened to him?

Why hadn’t you fought harder?

Why hadn’t you told him you loved him one last time?

Why hadn’t you heard him out — really heard him — when he tried to tell you about his dreams of a different life?

Now you were all alone, doubled over on the stone floor, sobbing into the fabric of your robes, fingers clutching the last thing you had left of him—

His lighter.

Still warm from his pocket.

Still heavy with everything he forgot.

.

Mattheo staggered back a step, like he’d been hit.

You looked up at him, panic flaring in your eyes as you noticed the way he stared — wide-eyed, horrified, stunned. You immediately closed the lighter in your palm, like the damage hadn’t already been done.

"Mattheo..." You whispered, voice barely audible.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might stop entirely.

"You," He said, voice cracking, trembling with something raw, "You—"

You stood quickly, as if trying to close the space between you might somehow take it all back, “It’s not what you think—”

"Don’t," He cut you off sharply, eyes bright with something too painful to name, “Don’t lie to me right now. Please.”

You glanced down at the lighter still clutched in your hand — tarnished silver, the initials worn smooth, familiar in a way you could never explain away. Your throat burned. Your heart twisted. The thought of letting it go felt like tearing your soul from your body.

But your fingers moved anyway.

You held it out to him, your hand shaking slightly, silently begging — don’t take it. Don’t make me give this up.

"I found it in one of the classrooms," You said softly, voice paper-thin, not meeting his eyes, "If it’s yours... you can have it back."

Mattheo’s expression crumpled. His gaze flicked from the lighter to your face — and stayed there.

Something cracked inside him.

Because now that he really looked at you—he saw everything. The faint glassiness in your eyes. The twitch of your mouth as you tried to keep it from trembling. The hollowness in your expression that matched the ache inside his chest.

Salazar. How had he not seen you?

He'd looked right past you in that classroom. Days ago. Sat barely feet away and missed the way you blinked too fast. Missed the way your shoulders curled inward like you were trying not to fall apart. Missed every detail of the face he used to know better than his own.

How the fuck could he have forgotten you?

The realization hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Had he really let you go without a fight?

Now you were standing here, holding his lighter out like it weighed more than it should, like giving it up might tear you in half. And he could see the way your other hand was clenched behind your back, knuckles white, like you were physically holding yourself back from something—from reaching for him, maybe, or from falling to pieces.

He didn’t take the lighter.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

“I want it back.” He said quietly, voice cracking.

Your hand flinched.

But he wasn’t looking at the lighter anymore.

His eyes dropped to his wrist. Empty.

He remembered now. The hair tie. Black and fraying from how often he used to play with it.

“I want the hair tie back.” He whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mattheo took a step forward. Slowly, carefully, like you might disappear again.

And your hand began to shake.

Your eyes flickered all over his face—his brows, his lips, the curve of his jaw—as if searching for proof, for something to hold onto. And when you finally found it, that flicker of recognition in his eyes, your breath hitched. Your heart began to thump wildly against your ribcage, like it knew what was coming before your mind could catch up.

“Y-You… do you remember—?” Your voice cracked, brittle with hope and fear.

Mattheo's eyes didn’t waver.

“Remember that I’m in love with you?” He said softly, “I could never forget that.”

Your lips parted in a soundless gasp as the words landed. Your eyes filled with tears so fast they spilled over before you could stop them, hot and stinging as they traced down your cheeks. A sob escaped your throat as you closed the distance and threw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder like the world might fall away if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

And then your fist hit his back. Not hard—but enough to make him feel it. Again. And again.

“You horrible man,” You choked out between sobs, “You awful man. You left me alone for so long. You left me alone with all the memories of you. You let me watch as you moved past me without even acknowledging me—while I waited and prayed and begged for you to look at me just once.”

Mattheo clutched you tighter, his own throat thick with emotion, his arms trembling around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “I’m so sorry.”

And he meant it—meant it with everything he was. Because now he could feel what he’d been missing all this time. Not just the memories. Not just the pain. But you—your arms, your scent, the way your voice broke when you cried, the weight of everything you’d carried alone.

Mattheo clutched you tighter like he was scared you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. His voice trembled as the dam inside him cracked open, everything he’d locked away pouring out with it.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m so—so sorry,” He murmured against your hair, the words shaky and breathless, “I’m sorry for leaving you alone. For making you carry it all by yourself.”

You hiccuped through another sob, your hands bunching the fabric of his shirt, your face still buried in his shoulder as if you were terrified this moment might end.

“I never could forget you,” He continued, voice raw, “Even when I didn’t remember… it was like the essence of you had been interwoven with the very fabric of my soul.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, jaw tight like he was barely holding himself together.

“I was looking for you, even when I didn’t know who I was looking for,” He said, “I saw you in my dreams, I heard your voice in the empty echoes of a room—I felt you there with me. Like my heart remembered you even when my mind couldn’t.”

Your tears came harder at that—relief, grief, love, and anger colliding inside your chest so violently it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

“I thought I was losing my mind,” He whispered, cupping your face like you were the most delicate, precious thing in the world, “Because everything felt wrong without you. Everything.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear.

You were trembling, sobbing quietly as you leaned into his touch, hands clutching his wrists now like you needed to anchor yourself to him.

"Tell me." You whispered, voice trembling, raw. Vulnerable.

Mattheo paused, his breath catching in his throat.

"Tell me what you would do if things were different," You continued, "I asked you to stop that day... but I’ve regretted nothing more."

His features softened—pain flickering across his expression like a ghost. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering there, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“If things were different,” He said, voice hoarse, “I’d announce to the entire world that I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.”

Your breath hitched as his thumb grazed your skin again, so gently it made you ache.

“I’d tie myself to you with an unbreakable vow without a second thought,” He added, his throat tightening painfully around the words, “I wouldn’t hesitate—not for a single second.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely. Hot streaks down your cheeks. But Mattheo was already there, wiping them away as fast as they came, like he could undo the hurt if he just tried hard enough.

“We’d graduate together,” He murmured, “and move into some tiny flat close to your work—something small, maybe a little messy, but cozy. Ours.”

You laughed softly through the tears, already imagining it. He smiled faintly too, the kind of smile that was equal parts love and heartbreak.

“And we’d argue about furniture,” He added, eyes glinting, “Because obviously I’d want dark wood—rich and elegant, fits the whole brooding Slytherin vibe—”

“—and I’d want something light,” You interrupted, a wobbly grin forming, “Warm and soft. Welcoming.”

“Exactly,” He said, voice thick but fond, “We’d compromise. Or maybe I’d just let you win, because seeing you happy would be worth more than being right.”

You let out a shaky breath, and he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’d support you completely as you started your career,” He whispered, “being the househusband of your dreams—your very own doting malewife.”

You laughed again, really laughed this time, and his heart nearly cracked open at the sound. He cupped your face, eyes shining with unshed tears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I’d keep the place spotless, cook you dinner, be there every night when you got home—just to hug you and tell you how proud I am.”

You were crying again. He didn’t try to stop you this time.

“Then once you were settled, really settled... I’d ask you to marry me,” He whispered, “And you’d say yes.”

Your breath caught, and he leaned in closer.

“We’d move far away from here. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere by the sea. And we’d build a life—peaceful, messy, ours.”

He paused, his voice faltering with emotion.

“Maybe we’d have a kid. Or two,” He said, his hand moving to rest gently over your heart, “And we’d raise them right. With kindness. With patience. With love.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking fast.

“We’d give them everything we never had,” He whispered, “We’d give them a home. A real one. One where they never have to question if they’re wanted. Or loved.”

Silence stretched between you—thick with longing and mourning and love that had never really gone away.

And in that quiet, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his once more, tears mixing with his.

“I love you, Mattheo.”

The silence that followed was soft, reverent—like the universe had paused just long enough to let the words sink into the spaces they belonged. Mattheo’s chest rose and fell, his jaw trembling as he took your face in both hands.

“I love you, (Y/N).” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was raw, certain, “More than I can express. More than even I understand.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your eyes searching his. “What now?” You whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment—his gaze steady, intense, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of your face all over again. Then he shook his head with a small, breathless laugh that sounded half broken, half amazed.

“I don’t know,” He admitted honestly, his eyes searching yours, “I really don’t. I thought this plan of mine was foolproof. Now I realize that no magic on Earth could keep me from you.”

His thumb brushed softly along your cheekbone, grounding you in the moment, like he needed you to feel every word.

“But we’ll figure it out,” He murmured, “Together.”

His voice dropped, fierce and tender all at once, “There’s no way I’m ever leaving you alone again.”

And you believed him.

The silence between you was thick with everything unsaid, everything still fragile and aching and hopeful.

You sniffled, tears drying on your cheeks as your lips curled into the ghost of a smile, “You really didn’t get sorted into Ravenclaw, huh?”

He blinked, “What?”

“If you had just thought of all this months ago, we could’ve avoided… well, all of this.”

Mattheo let out a breath of laughter, warm and hoarse. His eyes shone—not just with relief, but with something softer, something that looked a lot like joy. “Brilliant timing’s never been my strong suit,” He said, cupping the back of your head and pulling you gently toward him.

“And yet,” He added, brushing his forehead to yours, “You still love me.”

Then he kissed you—slow and reverent, like a promise being made without words. And you kissed him back, like a vow being answered.

Not perfect. Not finished.

But finally, finally starting again.

***

Bonus (3 years later):

It had taken them months.

Theo had stormed through libraries and pubs, interrogated shopkeepers and old Hogwarts portraits. Draco had used every Ministry connection he had, even bribed a goblin or two. Enzo swore up and down he’d seen Mattheo in Paris (he hadn’t). Blaise exhausted every last connection in his effort to find him.

They were chasing a ghost.

Mattheo had vanished the moment he turned seventeen. No note. No warning. Just gone.

You stayed behind. Finished the year. Graduated. And then disappeared too, vanishing without a trace.

Now, with the war finally over—Voldemort gone, the dust settled—they were left sorting through the wreckage. And only now had the truth surfaced. Mattheo Riddle, the Dark Lord’s son, had been funneling secrets to Dumbledore the entire time. A double agent. A traitor to his bloodline. A hero, some dared to say.

But no one had seen him since.

Until now.

After following a trail of half-clues and rumors, here they were—standing in front of a sun-washed cottage perched on a cliffside in Greece, the Aegean sparkling behind them like a dream.

Theo knocked.

Draco crossed his arms.

“This is ridiculous,” Enzo muttered, “We should still be checking those shady pubs in Transylvania. That prat always wanted to go drag racing there.”

The door creaked open—and there you were.

Their jaws collectively dropped.

“Hi,” You said, startled but steady. A little older, a little different—but still unmistakably you, “Can I help you?”

“I know you,” Draco said, snapping his fingers, “You’re that Gryffindor girl—the one who used to creepily stare at Riddle.”

Your mouth fell open. Creepily? Really?

Then, from deeper inside the house:

“Love? Who’s at the door?”

Mattheo’s voice.

Their hearts stopped.

Before anyone could react, he stepped into view—shirtless, barefoot, hair messy and eyes half-lidded from sleep. He froze when he saw them.

Theo blinked like his brain wasn’t catching up. Blaise muttered something about hallucinations. Draco looked ready to demand blood. Enzo just pointed, wide-eyed.

“Mate,” He said slowly, “what the actual fuck.”

Mattheo ran a hand through his hair and exhaled like he’d just been hit by a Bludger, “Wow. Okay. This is... unexpected.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” You whispered, nudging him, “Invite them in!”

“…Right. Uh—come in. I guess.”

The four of them stepped inside cautiously, like crossing the threshold of something sacred. The living room was cozy and sunlit, scattered with books, candles, and—

“Hold up,” Enzo blurted, pointing at a pastel blue baby onesie draped over the arm of the couch, “What the hell is that?!”

Mattheo’s mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again.

Before he could say anything—

A soft, high-pitched wail echoed down the hallway.

And it hit them all like a Bludger to the head.

Theo staggered back. Blaise grabbed the bookshelf for support. Enzo looked like he was about to pass out. Draco let out a strangled “No fucking way.”

You sighed, unfazed, and brushed past them all toward the hallway, “I’ve got him, don’t worry.”

Mattheo watched you go, rubbing the back of his neck, caught somewhere between pride and panic.

The room was silent for a beat before Theo finally broke it, voice rough:

“Mattheo. Riddle.”

He turned slowly, lips twitching with a smirk.

“You have a baby?!”

“HOW?!” Enzo yelled.

Mattheo deadpanned, “Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Draco and Blaise snapped in perfect unison.

Before anyone could add another word, you reappeared—cradling a sleepy, blinking infant in your arms.

His dark curls were mussed from sleep, one tiny fist clutched near his face, eyes fluttering as he took in the unfamiliar faces. He had Mattheo’s wild hair, the same furrowed brow, and—when his lashes finally lifted—the same stormy, soul-piercing eyes as his father.

“This is Leo.” You said gently.

Draco went rigid, color draining from his face. He pointed an unsteady finger between you and Mattheo.

“I think—I’m—oh Merlin—I think I’m having a heart attack. I need to sit down.”

Blaise put his head in his hands and groaned, “I can’t believe I crossed international borders for this.”

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

[strawberry-bubblef]

Twst those you got overblot what should the reaction be if they hurt y/n pretty badly

Like example ( malleus but then to sleep for a very long time not wanted them to leave or like that Leon accidentally made so they lost an arm in his overblot?)

Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Part 2 :OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle had always believed in control. He lived by rules, by discipline, by order. But during his overblot, there had been nothing but rage,wild, unrestrained, and merciless.

And you had been caught in it.

The moment he woke up, his breath was uneven, his chest tight. The weight of his own magic’s backlash was suffocating, but none of it compared to the way his heart stopped when he turned his head.

And saw you.

Your body lay still, surrounded by students tending to you, but his eyes could only focus on one thing.

Your arm.

Or rather, the empty space where your arm should have been.

His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing up his throat.

No.

No, no, no.

This couldn’t be real. This had to be some kind of nightmare, a cruel illusion brought on by his exhaustion.

But the blood staining the ground was real. The pain in your eyes was real. And the devastating loss was very, very real.

Something inside Riddle shattered.

Tears welled up instantly, spilling down his face before he could even think to stop them. His breaths came in short, broken gasps as he scrambled forward on shaky limbs, his hands reaching out before stopping abruptly.

He had no right to touch you.

His magic,his own hands,had done this to you.

"Y/N—" His voice cracked, his throat tightening as the words became stuck. "I—I didn’t—"

Your eyes fluttered open at his voice, and even in agony, you managed to give him a tired smile. "Riddle…"

But that only made it worse.

You should be furious. You should hate him. You should scream at him, tell him to stay away, curse him for what he had taken from you.

Instead, you still looked at him like he was the same Riddle you had always known.

The same Riddle who had just ruined your future in a fit of unhinged wrath.

A raw, gut-wrenching sob tore from his throat as he collapsed beside you, his body trembling violently. His tears fell freely now, staining his uniform as he gripped his head, gasping between hiccupped cries.

"I’m sorry,I’m so sorry," he choked out. "I—how could I—? You—your arm—I—!"

The words wouldn't form. Nothing could possibly express the horror, the unbearable weight of what he had done.

"I didn’t mean to—I never wanted—!" He sobbed like a child, gasping for air, voice breaking over and over. "Please—please forgive me—!"

He was spiraling. He knew he was spiraling, but there was no stopping it. His magic had never failed him before, but now, it had cost you something irreplaceable.

And all he could do was weep.

Even after you were taken away for treatment, Riddle remained on the ground, curled in on himself as the tears continued to fall, his body wracked with uncontrollable grief.

For days, he could barely function. He would bring you everything you needed, yet he never had the courage to truly face you. He couldn’t look at the place where your arm had once been without feeling like the air was being sucked out of his lungs.

Even as you reassured him, even as you smiled and told him that you would find a way to move forward, Riddle couldn’t forgive himself.

And he never would.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona had never been one to sugarcoat things. Life was unfair, people were weak, and the strong took what they wanted. That was how the world worked.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

He could still remember the sheer force of his magic, the way the sandstorm had swallowed everything, the deafening roar of destruction.

And you

You had been caught in it.

He hadn’t seen it happen. He didn’t remember the exact moment when his magic had reached you. But the scent of blood in the air was unmistakable.

And the moment he opened his eyes, his world stopped.

You were on the ground, injured, battered and missing an arm.

Your dominant arm, the one you always used to pull him along when he was too lazy to move, the one that had rested so casually on his shoulder as you teased him, the one that had traced gentle patterns into his skin during quiet moments together.

Gone.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His fingers dug into his palms, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. His body trembled not from exhaustion, not from magic drain, but from the sheer force of the emotions crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

This couldn’t be real.

There was no way.

But the scent of blood told him otherwise.

And then, you opened your eyes.

“…Leona?”

Your voice was weak, but still there, still reaching for him like you always did.

His breath hitched. His hands clenched tighter, his nails drawing blood from his own skin.

You should be yelling at him. You should be cursing him, demanding to know why he let this happen, why he wasn’t strong enough to protect you from himself.

But instead, you were looking at him with tired eyes, like you were more worried about him than yourself.

That broke something inside him.

His knees hit the ground beside you, his tail low, ears flattened. His hands hovered over you, but he didn’t dare touch. He didn’t deserve to.

“…Dammit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying,failing to keep his emotions in check.

He had never cared about rules or expectations. But this? This was something that should never have happened.

He had hurt you.

He had taken something from you.

And there was no way to fix it.

“Stupid…” His voice wavered. His throat felt tight, dry. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling shakily. “Why’d you get in the way, huh? What were you thinkin’?”

You let out a tired chuckle. “Didn’t really… have time to think.”

His ears twitched at your response, but there was no amusement in his expression. His hands curled into fists. His chest ached in a way he couldn’t describe.

He had always been a realist. The world was cruel, life was unfair.

But for the first time, he wanted to deny reality.

To pretend that none of this had happened.

To believe that when he woke up tomorrow, you’d still have both arms, that this was all just some horrible nightmare.

But it wasn’t.

And he knew that no matter what he did from this point forward, he would never,never,be able to undo this mistake.

Even after you were taken for treatment, he didn’t leave your side. He didn’t sleep, barely ate. He just sat there, staring at your unconscious form, ears low, tail still, expression unreadable.He did even participated to to the spelldrive tournament.

But deep down, he knew.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how much you forgave him.

Leona Kingscholar would never forgive himself.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul had spent years perfecting his image,charming, intelligent, always in control. No one could touch him, no one could hurt him, and most importantly, no one could ever see him as weak again.

But now?

Now, he was staring at you, his beloved, as you lay unconscious in the infirmary.

And he had never felt weaker in his entire life.

His hands trembled, gripping his arms so tightly his nails nearly broke skin. His breath came in uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling far too quickly, like he was on the verge of drowning all over again.

Because you were hurt.

Because of him.

He had lost control during his overblot. The memories of it were a blur of suffocating ink, the crushing weight of his own insecurities manifesting in monstrous form. He had wanted power,more power, enough to make sure no one could ever trample him underfoot again.

And in that desperate grasp for control, he had lost the most precious thing in his life.

Your leg was gone.

You had saved him. He didn’t know how,didn’t know when you had gotten close enough to reach him, to try and pull him back from the brink.

But his ink had swallowed you whole.

And when the storm cleared, when his world came crashing back into sharp, unbearable clarity, he had seen you unconscious and bleeding.

Less than whole.

A choked, bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat, but it never made it past his lips.

This was what he had always feared, wasn’t it? Losing control, being seen as the monster he truly was.

And now you knew.

Now, there was no illusion left to protect him.

He reached for you hesitantly, his fingers barely brushing against your arm before he pulled back. He had no right to touch you.

“…You should hate me.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

He expected you to wake up and recoil from him. To push him away, to yell, to curse him for what he had taken from you.

And you would be right to do so.

But when your eyelids fluttered open, the first thing you did

Was smile at him.

“…Hey, Azul.” Your voice was hoarse, weak. “You look terrible.”

His breath hitched.

You should be screaming at him, demanding to know why, demanding answers he couldn’t give.

Instead, you were worried about him.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palm as his head bowed.

“…You’re a fool.” His voice wavered. “An absolute fool. Why did you—”

You lifted a trembling hand and placed it over his.

Azul flinched, his entire body tensing. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve your warmth, your touch, your kindness.

But you still gave it to him anyway.

“Because you needed someone,” you murmured, your fingers weak against his. “And I… I needed you too.”

He bit his lip hard, swallowing down the overwhelming emotions threatening to spill over.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but words would never be enough.

He wanted to promise he’d fix this, but no matter how powerful he was, no contract in the world could return what was lost.

So instead, all he could do was hold your hand, press his forehead against it, and try not to let the tears slip past his lashes.

And when you squeezed his fingers ever so gently, offering him comfort when it should be the other way around.

He broke.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had spent his entire life perfecting the art of control.

Control over his emotions. Control over his actions. Control over every single aspect of himself so that no one,not Kalim, not his family, not the world could ever dictate his fate.

But now?

Now, he was staring at the consequence of his failure.

And it was unbearable.

You lay on the infirmary bed, unconscious, your breathing shallow. Bandages wrapped tightly around your leg, but no amount of magic could change the fact that below the knee—

There was nothing left.

His grip tightened around the chair he sat on, fingers trembling.

How had it come to this?

He knew exactly how.

The moment he had lost himself to his overblot, the moment years of frustration and anger had finally erupted into something monstrous,he had wanted power. No, he had craved it, needed it more than anything.

And in his desperate grasp for freedom, he had taken yours away.

He could still remember it. The image was burned into his mind like a cursed brand.

He hadn’t even realized what had happened until the rage left his body, until the darkness cleared, and he saw you lying there.

He thought he had known pain.

But nothing, nothing in his life had ever hurt like this.

Jamil clenched his jaw, forcing his hands to remain still as he sat beside you, watching your every breath, as if afraid you would disappear entirely if he looked away.

What could he even say to you when you woke up?

“Sorry” wasn’t enough.

Nothing would ever be enough.

A deep, suffocating silence filled the air, broken only by the faint rustling of the sheets as you stirred.

His breath caught.

Your eyelashes fluttered, your face scrunching slightly before your eyes slowly opened.

The moment your gaze met his, something in him nearly shattered.

“…Jamil?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard.

He should leave.

He should stand up and walk out of this room before you had the chance to say anything,before he saw the realization dawn in your eyes, before you understood exactly what he had done to you.

But he couldn’t move.

“…You should hate me.” The words felt heavy, choked, forced through gritted teeth.

You blinked at him, still groggy from exhaustion.

Then, your gaze shifted downward, toward your foot.Well towards your bandaged ankle, since you technically no longer had a left foot.

Jamil felt himself go rigid, every muscle in his body locking up as he watched the understanding dawn in your expression.

Your lips parted, your breathing uneven.

And then, you laughed.

It was small, weak, almost bitter, but it wasn’t the reaction he had expected.

“…You always did run me ragged,” you murmured, voice tinged with dry amusement.

Jamil stiffened. “Don’t joke about this.”

You turned your head to look at him fully, your expression soft despite the exhaustion weighing down your body. “Are you going to keep blaming yourself forever?”

His fists clenched in his lap.

“Yes.”

You sighed. “Then I guess I’ll just have to wait until you forgive yourself.”

His breath hitched.

How could you say that? How could you be so calm, so accepting, after what he had done?

He dropped his head into his hands, his body shaking.

“I don’t deserve that,” he muttered.

He felt a weak, warm touch brush against his wrist.

“…Then earn it,” you whispered.

Jamil inhaled sharply, eyes stinging, throat burning.

Earn it.

Even after everything, you still believed in him.

His fingers curled around your hand, gripping it tightly.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he would spend every day proving that he did.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had always prided himself on his control. His grace. His ability to shape perfection with his own hands.

And yet

This was something he could never fix.

He sat frozen beside your hospital bed, the soft glow of the infirmary lights casting eerie shadows across your bandaged face.

The damage had been irreversible.

The overblot had been blinding,literally. In his descent into madness, in his obsession with beauty, in his desperate need to correct every single flaw,his magic had surged. The explosion had shattered mirrors, the shards cutting through everything in their path.

Including you.

When he had finally awakened from the nightmare, the first thing he saw was you, lying motionless on the debris of the stage of the SDC surrounded by some NRC students.Bblood streaking down your face.

And when you opened your eyes, they were..

Gone.

A horrible, cruel irony.

He, who had always been so fixated on appearances, had taken something irreplaceable from the person he loved most.

His hands trembled where they rested on his lap, clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

Vil Schoenheit did not cry.

He did not break.

But now, with you lying there,his hands tainted with something that could never be undone.

He felt as if he had shattered completely.

The sound of shifting sheets made him tense.

Slowly, hesitantly, your good eye fluttered open.

Vil held his breath.

“…Vil?”

It was soft, weak, but unmistakably you.

He exhaled shakily, willing himself to keep his composure.

“You’re awake.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, and for a brief moment, he could see the confusion in your face as you adjusted to the dim light.

Then, your expression changed.

Your fingers ghosted over the bandages on your face.

A pause.

“…I can’t see,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Vil’s chest tightened, the weight of his guilt pressing down so heavily he could barely breathe.

“I know.”

Silence.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t cry, didn’t scream like he had expected. Instead, you simply let out a breath,a tired, resigned thing and turned your head slightly toward him.

“Are you okay?”

His lips parted, eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

“…Am I—” His voice caught in his throat, emotions threatening to spill over. “You’re the one lying in a hospital bed, unable to see, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

You gave a small, weary smile. “Yeah.”

Something in him cracked.

For the first time in years, Vil let himself break.

His hands reached for yours, gripping them tightly, as if trying to ground himself,to prove to himself that you were still here. That despite everything, you hadn’t disappeared from his life completely.

“…I am not okay.” His voice was hoarse, raw, filled with something too deep to name. “I will never be okay.”

Not after this.

Not after knowing that he was the one who did this to you.

You squeezed his hand, and his breath hitched.

“…Then we’ll work on it together,” you said softly.

Vil lowered his head, pressing his forehead against your fingers.

There were no words that could ever make this right.

But if you were willing to stay,if you were willing to give him even the smallest chance.

He would spend the rest of his life making sure you never regretted it.

Idia Shroud

Idia always thought of himself as a coward.

He avoided conflict. He hid behind screens and firewalls, behind the cold comfort of technology where nothing could touch him.

But in the end, he had still managed to hurt you.

No,he had ruined you.

The reality of it didn’t set in until he saw your hand.

Your dominant hand.

Four fingers,gone.

He stood in the medical ward of Styx, his stomach churning violently as he stared at the bandages wrapped tightly around what remained of your hand.

It was his fault.

His overblot had been a nightmare of control, desperation, and raw, unchecked power.And in the chaos,when you had reached out for him, trying to pull him back one of the .

One of his spells had unfortunately touched you

A single, merciless strike.

It had been fast. Too fast.

The worst part?

He hadn’t even realized it happened until after he woke up.

Until he saw the blood.

Idia wanted to run.

He wanted to log out of reality and bury himself in the deepest depths of cyberspace, where he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he,he had caused this.

But he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a game.

He had no save points. No reset button. No way to undo what he had done.

So instead, he stood there, his hands shaking, his throat dry, and his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

“…You don’t have to stay,” your voice was quiet, strained. It was the first thing you had said to him since you woke up. “If it’s too much.”

Idia flinched as if burned.

Too much?

Was this your way of letting him off the hook? Giving him an easy way out?

He felt sick.

How could you even think that he would leave you after this?

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, closing the distance between you in seconds. He dropped to his knees beside your bed, his blue hair shadowing his face as he reached out,hesitated then finally, gently, took your injured hand in his.

His fingers barely ghosted over the bandages, as if afraid he would hurt you even more.

“…I don’t want to go.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I can’t go.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, slowly, you turned your palm upward, allowing his trembling hands to hold yours completely.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured.

He let out a weak, breathy laugh, his throat tightening.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “I’m freaking terrified.”

Terrified that you’d hate him.

Terrified that you’d never forgive him.

Terrified that he had taken something from you that could never, ever be replaced.

“…It’s going to be okay, Idia.”

How could you say that?

How could you still be so calm? So steady?

Tears welled up in his yellow eyes, slipping down his pale cheeks as he gripped your hand tighter.

“I don’t deserve that,” he whispered brokenly.

You smiled faintly. “Too bad.”

Idia let out a soft, shaky laugh, his head lowering as he pressed his forehead to your hand.

No.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he would spend the rest of his life making sure you never regretted keeping him by your side.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus had never meant to hurt you.

His overblot had consumed him,his fear of being left alone, his desperation to keep you by his side. And in his moment of madness, his magic had surged beyond his control.

A sleeping curse.

A slumber so deep that no force in the world could break it, except time itself.

At first, he had raged against it, pouring through ancient texts, consulting the wisest fae and scholars. But the truth was cruel,this was his own magic, raw and instinctual, fueled by his deepest desires. There was no counterspell.

Only patience.

And so, Malleus waited.

Centuries passed.

But he never left you.

In a quiet, secluded castle untouched by time, he watched over you, speaking to you as if you would wake any moment. He never let dust settle upon your resting place, never let the warmth of his love fade.

And then, one day

Your fingers twitched.

It was so small, so fragile, but Malleus had been watching for so long that he noticed it immediately.

His breath hitched.

Then,your eyelashes fluttered.

And finally,

Your eyes opened.

The world was blurry, but the first thing you saw was him, hovering over you, golden eyes wide with something indescribable.

“…Malleus?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

His hands trembled as he reached out, almost afraid to touch you, as if you would disappear like a dream.

“Beloved…” His voice broke. “You are awake.”

You blinked, disoriented, trying to understand why his expression was so pained, why he looked as if he had been crying for years.

And then it came back to you

The storm. The darkness. The raw magic that had swept you away.

Realization dawned, and Malleus flinched at the way your lips parted in shock.

“…How long?” You asked, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be kind.

Malleus closed his eyes, exhaling a breath as if it carried centuries of grief.

“Too long,” he whispered. “But I am here. I have always been here.”

Your heart ached not just for yourself, but for him. For the time he had lost, for the weight he had carried.

Slowly, you reached out, placing your hand over his. He stiffened at the warmth,real and present, not a memory or a wish.

“…Then let’s not waste another moment,” you murmured.

Malleus let out a shaky laugh, something between relief and disbelief, before pulling you into his embrace.

For the first time in centuries, his world felt whole again.

And this time, he would never let you go.

English is not my first language !

[shaiyasstuff]

ever after | sylus | sequel

synopsis : Fate may draw the lines, but it is choice that colors the heart. content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide) note : here is a short peek into reader’s life after the events of through the fire and red. This was super short because I kinda just ran out of ideas, forgive me lovelies🥹

“Ow,” you groaned softly as the tiny needle pricked your wrist.

A low chuckle came from beside you. Sylus leaned back in his chair, holding up his arm. “I already got yours tattooed. Besides, this was your idea.”

“I know,” you muttered, trying not to flinch. “But it hurts.”

The tattoo artist grinned beneath her mask. “Won’t be long now.”

“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago,” you grumbled, earning laughter from both of them.

—•

You stared at your wrist, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.

There it was. His name. Sylus.

Written in bold black ink, permanent against your reddened skin.

Beside you, he smirked and slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you close without a word.

“How’s it feel?” he asked.

You glanced up at him. “Itchy.”

He laughed.

“At least it’s my name,” he said, looking ahead with a rare softness in his voice.

You followed his gaze, then grinned, bumping your shoulder against his.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I guess so.”

Suddenly, the world around you fell quiet.

The hum of the city faded into a comfortable stillness as you and Sylus walked side by side beneath the soft glow of the evening lights.

There was no rush. No need to fill the silence. Just the sound of your steps, the breeze brushing past, and the warmth of his hand resting gently at your waist.

He turned to you, eyes softer than usual, the sharp edges of his expression dulled by something quieter.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You looked up to meet his gaze—those deep crimson eyes that had once unsettled you, now familiar, mesmerizing.

You reached down, letting your hand rest atop his, grounding yourself in the moment.

“To be honest,” you began, your voice calm, steady, “it was empty at first. I had to get used to not feeling the pull… the ache.”

You smiled gently, not bitter, just honest.

“But I’m here with you now. And it’s my choice.”

You paused, the weight of those words settling between you like a vow.

“It’s… liberating.”

Sylus said nothing at first—just looked at you, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours, steady and sure.

And in that silence, you both understood.

This wasn’t fate.

It was something better.

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as the quiet between you settled deeper.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips.

“Haven’t you thanked me enough?” he drawled, voice low, amused.

You chuckled softly, the sound warm against the cool evening air.

“I don’t think a lifetime of ‘thank you’s will ever be enough.”

He glanced down at you, the teasing glint in his eyes softening just slightly.

“Good,” he said, a hint of fondness lacing his words.

“Guess I’ll stick around to collect them all.”

It had been almost a year since you walked away from it all.

The heartbreak.

The mark.

The unbearable weight of loving someone who could never choose you back.

Now, your days were quiet. Peaceful in ways they hadn’t been in years.

Life with Sylus wasn’t perfect—nothing ever truly was—but it was real.

There were still nights when the past reached out with ghostly fingers.

Times when you’d turn away from his touch, not because you didn’t want him, but because the emptiness still echoed too loud.

Your body had been trained to ache for someone else.

To mourn.

To burn.

Choosing Sylus hadn’t been easy.

But he never rushed you. Never pulled when you needed space.

He waited. With the kind of patience only someone who understood pain could offer.

And little by little, you let yourself lean into him.

You let his hands steady you, his voice soothe the cracks, his presence remind you what it felt like to be wanted—not by fate, but by choice.

Now, there was no one you trusted more.

He knew you in ways no one else did.

He understood the quiet battles. The loneliness that crept in when the lights went out. The guilt that lingered like a scar.

And still, he stayed.

Not because he had to.

But because he chose to.

Just like you did.

Shaiya still called, every now and then.

The first time, you had finally felt strong enough to answer. To explain why you’d vanished without a word.

You remembered sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, the phone pressed against your ear as her voice broke on the other end.

She cried.

She apologized—again and again—for something that was never hers to carry.

You had only listened.

Because what could you say?

That it hurt more to know she cared? That her kindness made the healing harder?

You never once blamed her. You never could.

But Zayne…

You hadn’t spoken to him. Not once.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because some things are better left untouched—like old letters in a drawer or wounds that have just stopped bleeding.

The surgery had taken away the physical pain—the pull, the burn—but not the years of quiet devotion.

That kind of love didn’t vanish with ink or tissue.

And that was enough.

For you, and for him.

Shaiya had mentioned they got married. No fanfare. Just a small gathering, vows exchanged quietly with people they trusted.

You’d smiled faintly at the news.

“Congratulations,” you’d said softly, fingers brushing over Sylus’s as he sat beside you.

He didn’t say anything—just watched you with that ever-present smirk, his thumb lazily tracing slow circles against your palm like he was reminding you of his presence.

And now, things were steady. Familiar. Whole.

Until Shaiya’s voice rang from the other end of the call again, “I’m going to be in town for work. Do you wanna meet for coffee?”

You glanced at Sylus. He’d already heard.

He arched an eyebrow, not saying a word—just letting you choose.

You smiled into the phone.

“Sure. I’d like that.”

Shaiya clapped, the sound muffled but full of joy. “Okay! See you soon!”

The call ended.

You lowered the phone, and Sylus leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder, his fingers still tangled with yours.

No questions. No tension. Just presence.

And for the first time in a long time, you were at peace with the past.

Your eyes drifted down to his wrist, to the place where your name was inked in dark, permanent lines—etched into him like a promise.

You reached out, running your finger over it gently, tracing each letter with a quiet kind of reverence.

“I’ll never get used to seeing it,” you whispered, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Sylus chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm as he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against the curve of your neck.

“I know,” he murmured, as if he’d been waiting for you to say it.

And you both stayed like that—entwined in each other’s warmth, your heartbeats slow and steady beneath the quiet hum of the room.

No strings pulled by fate.

No ache left behind.

Just two people, holding on.

Not fate.

Choice.

—•

“Sy, stop it.”

“What?” he replied innocently, even as his fingers continued their relentless mission—pinching your cheek with maddening precision.

“Stop doing that!” you huffed, swatting at his hand, your pout deepening as you tried to glare at him.

He just laughed, completely unfazed. “How intimidating,” he teased, his voice low and amused.

You groaned in defeat, crossing your arms dramatically as he leaned back, clearly proud of himself.

The two of you were sitting outside a quiet little coffee shop, tucked beneath a striped awning, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees.

You were waiting for Shaiya, but somehow, with Sylus next to you, it didn’t feel like waiting at all.

Just another soft, easy moment—with a side of cheek-pinching torment.

He only stopped when he caught movement from the corner of his eye—Shaiya, approaching with a bright smile and an excited wave, her footsteps light as always.

Sylus lowered his hand, finally releasing your cheek, though his signature lazy smirk remained firmly in place.

You turned at the same moment, catching the familiar warmth in her expression, and your features softened.

You lifted your hand to wave back, fondness blooming quietly in your chest.

Beside you, Sylus leaned back in his chair, still watching you, but now with something gentler behind the teasing glint in his eyes—like he could see the weight of everything this meeting meant.

And for a moment, the world felt still again.

Steady. Safe.

You stood as she reached you, pulling her into a hug that was tighter than expected—tight enough to steal a bit of your breath, but you welcomed it all the same.

“How are you?” she asked, her voice laced with concern and hope all at once.

You pulled back just enough to smile, then glanced over your shoulder at Sylus, who was still lounging in his seat with one arm lifted in a lazy wave.

“Never been better,” you replied, the words easy, true.

Shaiya’s face lit up, her smile blooming wide as she took your hand and gave it a squeeze.

Then the three of you sat, the air light with something like peace.

No ghosts. No ache.

Just the quiet comfort of healing, and how far you’d come.

“Zayne couldn’t come,” Shaiya said, reaching into her bag, “but he asked me to give you this.”

She placed a small box on the table in front of you.

You stared at it, unmoving. First at the box, then up at her, then finally at Sylus.

He met your gaze calmly, offering only a small shrug, as if to say, It’s okay. If you want to open it, do.

With a steadying breath, you lifted the lid.

Your fingers stilled.

Inside was your doctor’s tag.

The one you hadn’t seen since the day you left. The one you were sure had been lost in the shuffle of your quiet escape.

Your breath caught.

Shock flickered across your face, tangled with confusion.

Shaiya’s expression softened. “He said you’d need it. If you’re going away.”

Your eyes lifted to hers again, searching.

She smiled gently. “He had me search your old apartment top to bottom to find it.”

You looked down at the tag again, the weight of it suddenly heavier than its size should allow.

Memories pressed at the edges, but beside you, Sylus reached out under the table, resting his hand on your knee—grounding, steady.

You exhaled.

Not everything had to hurt.

Some things could just be part of the journey you left behind.

And maybe, a small piece of it could come with you as you moved forward.

You understood what he meant.

This was his way of saying goodbye—quietly, gently.

Of apologising, to tell you he’s let go.

There was no letter, no grand parting speech. Just a small, familiar tag. A memory returned, so you could finally move forward without looking back.

You blinked back the emotion gathering in your chest and turned to Shaiya with a soft, grateful smile.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

She only nodded, eyes warm and knowing.

And beside you, Sylus gave your hand a gentle squeeze—no words needed.

You were free now.

And finally, you were ready to be.

—•

Soon, you returned to work.

It felt strange at first—stepping back into that world, but something inside you had settled. Healed.

With your resume and years of experience, the hospital welcomed you without hesitation. Chief surgeon. Yeah, just like that.

You were still wrapping your head around it when Sylus let something slip, far too casually, over dinner.

“I might have made a few calls,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass with a smug tilt of his head.

You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously.

“You’re full of secrets, aren’t you?” you teased, leaning forward. “First, you lied about your soul mark. Then you decided to casually reveal that you own this city.”

He arched a brow, unbothered.

“Is there more I should know?” you asked, grinning.

He smirked, that signature lazy curl of his lips.

“Oh, probably.”

He leans in close.

“Like how I’m exceptionally good in bed,” he said with a straight face, though his eyes gleamed with mischief.

You didn’t miss a beat. “I know that already.”

He smirked, undeterred. “How I ride bikes?”

You raised a brow. “That too.”

He leaned in closer, grinning now. “Then that means you know everything already.”

You chuckled, resting your chin in your hand as you met his gaze.

“Hardly,” you said, lips curling into a smirk of your own. “You’re an open book with missing pages, Sylus.”

He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Guess you’ll just have to keep reading, won’t you?”

You tilt your head back laughing as he smirks at you.

Your heart felt warm.

There was someone who finally saw you.

And you aren’t ever letting that go.

Soul marks be damned.

That night, as you lay in bed with Sylus, wrapped in the quiet hush of the room, you couldn’t remember a time you’d felt more at peace.

His arm was around you, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a slow, steady rhythm. You listened to the sound of his heartbeat—calm, unwavering—like the world outside couldn’t touch you here.

Then, you felt the soft press of his lips against your wrist.

You let out a quiet chuckle, warmth blooming in your chest. “What are you doing?”

He smiled against your skin, not lifting his head. “Kissing my name,” he murmured, voice low and fond. “The one that’s on my love.”

Your breath caught.

And for a moment, the world disappeared.

Just his voice, his touch, and the way your heart skipped a beat—reminding you that this, here, with him, was real.

Not fate.

Not obligation.

But love.

Chosen, freely and entirely.

“Sy?”

He turned to you instantly, eyes softening the moment they met yours—gentle, steady, like he was always ready to listen when it came to you.

“Yeah?”

You hesitated for only a breath, then reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his cheek.

“I love you,” you whispered.

The words settled in the space between you like they belonged there.

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t freeze.

He just smiled. Slow, warm, and so full of something that made your heart ache in the best way.

“I know,” he murmured, voice quiet with affection. “I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

And he pulled you closer—like you were already home.

Perhaps you were.

[riddleriddles]

ಇ do i wanna know, hozier cover.

pairing. mattheo riddle x hufflepuff!quiet!reader

summary. sometimes, pansy knows exactly how to bring couples together. when mattheo, known for his grumpy mood, finds himself growing closer to a quiet, introspective girl, he must come to terms with feelings he never expected to have.

warnings. a bit of suggestive scene, but nothing explicit

add notes. I feel like my dialogues would never be said in real life.

visit my masterlist :)

ಇ

It was Pansy Parkinson’s birthday. The Parkinson Manor was a spectacle—a grand, ancient, and imposing structure, surrounded by meticulously tended trees. Its tall stone towers stood in stark contrast to the ethereal silver of the moon on that autumnal night, while the crisp air carried the fresh, melancholy scent of fallen leaves. The entrance hall sparkled with the glow of greenish lights that reflected off the polished marble floor. Music flowed through the vast corridors of the manor, mingling with the voices and laughter of the guests. Pansy never did anything halfway, and her seventeenth birthday party was no exception.

The main hall was teeming with Hogwarts students, predominantly Slytherins, although a few figures from other houses stood out, strategically placed. Groups gathered around enchanted tables laden with exquisite appetisers, while others chatted or danced in the centre of the hall beneath the enchanting glow of chandeliers and floating magical candles.

Mattheo Riddle leaned against a wall near the fireplace. His spot had been carefully chosen, allowing him to observe the entire room without drawing attention to himself. A glass of some drink—nearly forgotten in his hand—served more as a distraction than a necessity. His eyes scanned the scene with the detached air of someone watching a mediocre play, clearly indifferent to the excitement around him. He despised parties, but Pansy had been emphatic: “If you don’t show up, I’ll never invite you to anything again, and you’ll have to live with that.”

And so, here he was, enduring the loud music, empty chatter, and the unbearable feeling of being out of place.

The room buzzed with familiar faces: Blaise was chatting with Daphne near the makeshift bar, Draco was laughing at something Theodore had said in a secluded corner, and at the centre of it all, Pansy shone like a star, greeting her guests with a smile that was as rehearsed as it was charming.

Mattheo let out a deep sigh, raising the glass to his lips and sipping half-heartedly, merely to occupy himself. His thoughts drifted to the garden, which promised a quiet, solitary escape—perfect for smoking a cigarette far from the noise and frivolity of the hall.

You entered the party hesitantly, your measured steps and reserved posture betraying your unease. Your eyes scanned the room cautiously, taking in every detail before allowing yourself to fully step in. You clutched a small, delicately wrapped gift in your hands, your arms tucked close to your body as if forming a barrier against the chaos around you.

This wasn’t your kind of place—not in a bad way, just different from what you were used to. Your hair, styled in a carefully crafted half-updo, fell in soft waves over your shoulders, catching the golden light of the chandeliers and the greenish glow of the magical candles scattered around the room. Your pastel yellow dress, a nod to your Hufflepuff identity, was graceful and perfectly suited to the occasion, modest yet elegant without being over the top.

Stepping inside, you carefully shut the door behind you with a soft thud, masked by the music filling the air. You looked around attentively, moving with the grace of someone trying to avoid drawing attention. Your eyes landed on Pansy, who, upon noticing your arrival, quickly made her way over, a radiant smile lighting up her face.

“I’m so glad you came! I’ve been waiting for you,” Pansy exclaimed excitedly, and you smiled shyly, offering her the neatly wrapped gift. She took it with equal enthusiasm and, without missing a beat, guided you with a gentle touch on your arm, introducing you to her closest friends, most of whom you didn’t know—predominantly Slytherins. To anyone watching from afar, you might have seemed out of place, but you nodded politely, feeling quietly pleased to be surrounded by the friends of your close companion.

You tried to adjust to the atmosphere. The party was loud and full of people, but you knew this was exactly the kind of event Pansy loved, and it had been hard to turn down her insistence—especially on such an important occasion as her seventeenth birthday. What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was the intensity of it all: the loud laughter, the conversations about topics you barely understood or didn’t care about, and the overwhelmingly high volume of the music.

“Relax,” Pansy whispered in your ear, giving your shoulder a light squeeze as she noticed your discomfort. “You’re going to have fun, I promise.”

Her words carried a hint of something unspoken, though you didn’t catch it immediately. She continued introducing you to her friends, eventually steering you toward a more secluded corner near the fireplace, where Mattheo Riddle stood leaning against the wall, his expression bored, as though he were merely fulfilling an obligation. Holding a half-filled glass in one hand, his grey eyes scanned the room with disinterest.

“Mattheo!” Pansy’s voice interrupted his reverie, casual but still confident. “I want you to meet someone. This is my friend [Name]. [Name], this is Mattheo.”

Pansy smiled, looking far too pleased with the situation. “I’m sure you two will get along wonderfully!”

“Uh… hi,” you said softly, offering a timid smile as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, revealing a delicate gold moon-shaped earring that Mattheo noticed with mild indifference.

“Hi,” he replied curtly, his tone brief and aloof.

Pansy watched the exchange, clearly unimpressed by the lack of enthusiasm. “Did you know that [Name] loves taking care of magical creatures? And Mattheo, you have an impressive tolerance for people who talk too much—aren’t you two a perfect match?”

“Funny, Pansy,” Mattheo remarked, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head with a trace of amusement in his otherwise dry tone.

“Thanks, it was sincere,” Pansy quipped with a playful grin before stepping away with a conspiratorial air. “Enjoy yourselves!”

With one last smile, she left you both alone, disappearing into the crowd.

For a moment, the sound of the music and the chatter around you filled the silence as you, uneasy with the quiet, fidgeted with the star-shaped pendant on your necklace.

“So…” you began cautiously, looking at Mattheo. “Do you not like parties in general, or just the people who talk too much?”

The question caught him off guard, and he raised an eyebrow, taking a moment to think before answering. “Depends on the party. And the people.”

You let out a soft, almost inaudible laugh, but it was genuine. “I get that. This isn’t really my kind of place either.”

“Then why’d you come?” Mattheo asked, his tone casual but curious, as if waiting for your answer without much urgency.

“Pansy insisted,” you admitted with a small shrug. “And you?”

“Same.”

At that, you felt a little more at ease, tilting your head slightly towards him. “Well, at least we’ve got that in common.”

“Besides Pansy,” he added, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he warmed to the idea that the conversation wasn’t as tedious as he’d expected.

The silence returned, but this time it felt less strained. You leaned against the wall beside him, gazing up at the ceiling, where floating candles with green flames illuminated the room alongside the warm, golden glow of the grand chandelier, while Mattheo’s eyes followed the movement of the partygoers.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the commotion, you noticed the atmosphere beginning to feel heavier. The grand and magical hall, while impressive, didn’t make you feel at ease. Mattheo, seemingly indifferent to the pressure of the space, appeared entirely unbothered. So, you decided to suggest something.

“How about we head out to the garden?” you asked timidly, looking up at him. “It’s… quieter, maybe?”

Mattheo, still leaning against the wall with his usual impassive expression, raised an eyebrow. “You really think the garden will be quiet, considering how many people are here?”

You smiled, slightly embarrassed. “It’s worth a try, I guess.”

With a sigh, he slipped a hand into his pocket and pushed himself off the wall, nodding. “Fine. Let’s go.”

The Parkinson mansion’s garden was undeniably stunning, but you barely noticed the perfectly trimmed hedges shaped into geometric designs or the softly glowing magical flowers. Your attention was more on the refreshing coolness of the night air and the silence—a welcome contrast to the chaos inside the hall.

The two of you walked in silence for a while. Mattheo observed you discreetly, noticing how your fingers gently brushed against the petals of the flowers along the path, as if you were connecting with their textures and details. There was no urgency in your steps, and eventually, you reached a secluded corner near an ornate fountain illuminated by floating candles casting dancing reflections on the water. He stopped by a tree, crossing his arms and tilting his head back to look at the starry sky.

“Do you always go to Pansy’s parties?” you asked, finally breaking the silence as you strolled slowly, examining the plants with more interest.

“Not a chance,” he replied with a short laugh, as if the idea were absurd. “I try to avoid them, but she’s always got these… oddly persuasive arguments.”

“Like what?” you pressed, curious.

“Like, ‘if you don’t come, I’ll tell everyone you sketch people in your notebook like a frustrated artist,’” he said, smirking slightly.

You blinked, surprised at the confession, then let out a soft laugh. “You draw?”

Mattheo shrugged, almost defensive. “Sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

“It doesn’t sound like something to be embarrassed about,” you said simply, your tone free of judgment. Kneeling beside a bush of blueberries that seemed particularly enchanting, their tiny fruits shimmering under the magical light, you added, “Actually, it sounds pretty interesting.”

He frowned slightly, as if unsure how to respond, before muttering, “You haven’t seen it.”

“Maybe,” you replied with a small smile, still studying the delicate berries. “But it’s good to have a hobby. Everyone should have one.”

He remained quiet, thoughtful, as he watched you. There was something about you that felt disconnected from the party—yet perfectly at home here in the garden. The calmness in your movements, even when you seemed shy or slightly flustered, struck him as unusual.

“So, what’s your hobby?” he asked, breaking the silence this time.

You took a moment before answering, as if reflecting. “I suppose it’s taking care of magical creatures… They don’t need explanations. You just feel and understand them.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by the clarity in your answer, but didn’t comment straight away. It was rare for someone to talk about something so simple with such genuine passion.

“Fair enough,” he finally said, his voice free of sarcasm but still lacking much emotion, as though he were processing your words.

The silence returned, though it was comfortable now—almost natural. Yet, your curiosity about him grew too strong to ignore.

“Do you go to these parties often?”

“Not at all,” he replied, his tone carrying a faint hint of amusement. “Just every now and then. Pansy’s good at twisting my arm. If I don’t show up, she starts predicting my social death.”

You chuckled lightly, your gaze shifting to him rather than the garden around you. “And you always give in?”

“I’m not great at resisting emotional blackmail,” he admitted with a short, slightly insincere smile. There was a coldness in his comment, as though he didn’t place much value on his presence here. “Pansy has a way of turning invitations into ultimatums.”

The floating candles swayed gently around the fountain, their light casting dancing shadows on the stone. You took a step aside, feeling the cool night breeze against your skin. After a few moments of light-hearted conversation, you realised the dialogue had run its course.

“Maybe we should head back,” you suggested, breaking the silence. “Before Pansy comes looking for us.”

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on you. His expression still carried a hint of seriousness, but his eyes had softened somewhat.

“Maybe you’re right,” he finally said, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “But you decide when to go back, not me.”

You chuckled softly, shyly, as though the conversation had taken an unexpected turn, though it didn’t bother you. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

ಇ

The Slytherin common room was bathed in a cosy silence, broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire. The flames cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, creating an atmosphere that felt entirely separate from the rest of the castle. Mattheo was sprawled across one of the black leather sofas, his posture completely at ease, as though he belonged to the room itself. He twirled his wand idly between his fingers, his sharp gaze lazily drifting over the surroundings, disinterested.

The peace was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of firm, purposeful footsteps echoing off the cold floor. Mattheo didn’t look up—he didn’t need to. Pansy Parkinson always made her presence known. She strode into the room with the kind of authority that promised trouble, her eyes glinting with determination.

“Riddle,” she started, stopping in front of him with her hands firmly planted on her hips. “Saturday. Hogsmeade. You’re coming with me. Theo, Blaise, Luna, and [Name] will be there too.”

Mattheo didn’t even glance up, continuing to spin his wand between his fingers. His lips curved into a faint smirk. “No.”

“No?” Pansy echoed, raising an eyebrow, her expression morphing into one of incredulity. The set of her jaw only made her look more stubborn. “Come on, you haven’t even heard what I—”

“I’ve heard enough,” he cut her off, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers. His voice was dry, laced with boredom. “And the answer is still no. I’m not going, I don’t want to, and I’m not changing my mind.”

Pansy let out a heavy sigh, though the self-satisfied smile creeping onto her lips only deepened Mattheo’s irritation. “You say that now, but come Saturday, you’ll be there.”

Mattheo let out a short, humourless laugh. “Pansy, I’d love to see you try. I’m not Theo, who does everything you say just because he thinks you’re ‘cute.’”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Pansy shot back, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she crossed her arms. “Is this about [Name]? I saw you talking to her in the garden. You actually looked… sociable.”

“And? We exchanged a few words. That doesn’t mean anything.” His tone hardened as he narrowed his eyes, clearly irritated. Leaning back into the sofa, he added flatly, “If this is some attempt to set me up with someone, just give up now. You know I hate that.”

“Merlin, you’re dramatic,” Pansy scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No one’s setting you up. [Name] doesn’t even care if you’re there, to be honest.”

“Brilliant,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “All the more reason for me not to go.”

Pansy let out a long-suffering sigh, though a mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “I know you, Mattheo. You say you won’t go, but come Saturday, you’ll end up tagging along with Blaise and Theo anyway. You need to connect with the world once in a while, you know.”

“I’m perfectly connected right here, thanks,” he shot back, gesturing around the room before rolling his eyes again. “I’d rather stay here than deal with people who think I owe them the courtesy of being interesting.”

Pansy tilted her head slightly, as though considering his words. “You’re so full of yourself. She’s not even thinking about you like that. And you know what? Maybe you should try acting normal around people who don’t fear you because of your surname.”

Mattheo huffed, but before he could muster a retort, Pansy was already making her way up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. She threw a parting remark over her shoulder, her voice bright with smug amusement. “Saturday, Mattheo. Be there, or I’ll add this to my list of lifelong grudges!”

He stayed where he was, his gaze falling back to the wand in his fingers. It spun faster now, less smoothly than before. Pansy was wrong. He wasn’t going. And if [Name] didn’t care whether he came or not, that was fine by him. A relief, really. A big relief.

ಇ

The streets of Hogsmeade buzzed with chatter and laughter, the crunch of footsteps in the snow, and the sweet smell of warm drinks wafting out of nearby shops. Despite the lively atmosphere, Mattheo would still take this over the castle any day—at least here he wasn’t constantly followed by stares and whispers. He walked with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his black overcoat, his expression bored, though his sharp eyes missed nothing.

“So,” Blaise started, nudging Theo with his elbow. “Whose brilliant idea was it to drag him out here? Thought Mattheo was allergic to socialising.”

“Don’t start,” Mattheo muttered without even glancing at them. “I’m only here because someone wouldn’t shut up about how this was going to be ‘fun.’”

Theo laughed, unbothered. “It is fun. You should be thanking me.”

Mattheo opened his mouth to fire back but was cut off as the three of them rounded a corner and found themselves face-to-face with Pansy, Luna, and [Name] standing outside the Three Broomsticks.

“Oh, what are you lot doing here?” Pansy exclaimed, her voice dripping with faux surprise. Only Mattheo caught the teasing glint in her eye.

“Pansy,” he began, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t even try it.”

“Try what?” She blinked at him innocently. “This is pure coincidence.”

Mattheo was about to argue when his attention was pulled to Blaise and Luna. The moment they spotted each other, Luna lit up with a bright smile, and Blaise… Well, he looked like someone had hit him with a softening charm. It was rare to see him like that—genuinely smitten.

Luna stepped closer immediately, lightly tugging Blaise by the arm as she spoke. Whatever she said made him laugh, low and almost shy, a side of him Mattheo hardly ever saw. Blaise was usually so composed, but with Luna, he seemed… different.

That’s when it hit Mattheo. This wasn’t some trap for him. It was for them.

He glanced at Theo, who was watching the scene with a smug smile. Theo shrugged in response, as if to say, Don’t look at me, this wasn’t my idea.

Pansy, however, wasn’t even trying to hide her satisfaction, though she kept her focus firmly on Luna and Blaise.

Mattheo sighed quietly. Right. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this whole outing really was just about those two.

But then his eyes landed on you. You stood a little behind Pansy, a small, almost shy smile playing on your lips as you watched Blaise and Luna. You didn’t seem out of place, exactly—just quiet, like someone unsure where they fit into the group dynamic.

He looked away before you noticed, but Pansy, ever observant, caught the movement.

“Well,” she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Since we’re all here, why don’t we do something together?”

Mattheo was already preparing to decline, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way you, distracted, reached out to catch the falling snowflakes in your hand, that soft, almost enchanted smile still on your face.

He frowned. What was so special about snow, anyway?

“Relax, Riddle,” Pansy said, pulling him back to reality. “I didn’t plan this.”

“You planned this,” he replied flatly.

“And if I did?” She held her hands up, her smile infuriatingly casual. “It’s not the end of the world. Try being social for once.”

Before he could respond, Theo slung an arm casually around his shoulders, as if to stop him from bolting. “Not every day we hang out with such a… diverse group.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but didn’t bother arguing. Judging by how glued Blaise and Luna were to each other, it was pointless. Still, the way Pansy kept glancing at you before whispering something to Theo made him suspicious.

You, meanwhile, seemed completely oblivious to it all. You adjusted your scarf, your attention caught by a nearby shop window where tiny enchanted ice figurines were dancing.

“Alright,” Theo said, breaking the moment of silence. “So, what’s first on the agenda?”

Mattheo let out a heavy sigh and glanced over at you. You were standing a bit apart from the group, but somehow, your eyes met his. A small, tentative smile crossed your face, the kind that seemed unsure of its place, before you quickly looked away.

He considered walking away, but something made him stay. Maybe it was the sense that Pansy would never let him hear the end of it if he left.

“The Three Broomsticks?” he suggested, his voice laced with reluctance. “If we’re doing this, might as well get it over with.”

Pansy’s smile widened, like she knew exactly what he was thinking, but to his annoyance, she said nothing.

ಇ

The Three Broomsticks was as crowded as Mattheo had expected. The buzz of conversations and laughter mingled with the clatter of mugs and the sweet smell of butterbeer, creating a lively, almost chaotic atmosphere. For most, it was a place to forget about the pressures of school, but for Mattheo, it felt suffocating. He stood near the entrance, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, ready to leave at any moment.

“See? Told you this would be fun,” Theo said, flashing a carefree grin as he dropped into a chair beside Pansy.

“If this is your idea of fun, I’d rather be back at the castle,” Mattheo replied flatly, choosing the chair furthest from the table.

Pansy, ever the orchestrator, settled in beside Theo and shot a smug look at Mattheo. “Oh, stop being dramatic. You’ll survive.”

Luna and Blaise took their seats next, the pair seemingly lost in their own little world. Blaise leaned in to whisper something, and Luna let out a soft, musical laugh. Mattheo rolled his eyes.

“They’ve already forgotten we’re here,” he muttered, tapping a keyring against the table in an almost absentminded rhythm.

Pansy smirked. “Leave them be. They’re cute.”

Mattheo huffed but didn’t bother replying. His eyes drifted across the room, eventually landing on you. You had chosen a seat near the window, detached from the group’s chatter. The soft glow of candlelight reflected in the glass as you gazed out at the falling snow, your expression calm and contemplative, as though soaking in every detail of the world outside.

For a moment, Mattheo found himself wondering what was so fascinating about the snow. It was just snow—falling endlessly, especially this time of year. But to you, it seemed to hold some deeper meaning, something he couldn’t quite grasp. You watched the flurries with a quiet intensity he found… puzzling.

“Paying attention, or has the snow got you too?” Theo teased, nudging Mattheo as he caught him staring.

Mattheo shot him a sharp look. “Shut up.”

Glancing at you again, he lowered his voice. “Why’s she so quiet?”

Pansy, ever observant, turned her gaze from you to the two whispering boys. “Because that’s how she is. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“Very funny,” Mattheo shot back, narrowing his eyes at her.

Theo chuckled. “She just doesn’t like all the noise. Makes me wonder, though… why’s she here with us?”

“Because you invited her,” Mattheo said dryly, his tone clipped. Theo shrugged, unbothered.

“She’s here for Pansy. And maybe because sometimes people like to shake things up a bit,” Theo replied, as if it were obvious.

Mattheo didn’t respond, his attention drawn back to you. You were still lost in the view outside, but you must have felt the weight of their stares because, after a moment, you turned to face the group. Your smile was small and uncertain, a touch of embarrassment in your eyes. “What?” you asked quietly, your voice soft and cautious.

“Mattheo thinks you’re mysterious,” Theo said boldly, grinning as he leaned back lazily in his chair.

You frowned, your gaze shifting to Mattheo, who let out an irritated scoff. “That’s not what I said.”

“No need to explain yourself, Riddle,” Pansy chimed in with a sly grin, hiding behind the menu.

You gave a shy smile, clearly flustered, and buried yourself in the menu as if it were a shield. Mattheo caught the faint blush creeping across your cheeks, and for some inexplicable reason, it made him glance away, feeling oddly unsettled.

“What’re we ordering?” Blaise asked suddenly, breaking the tension and redirecting the group’s focus.

While the others debated their orders, Mattheo remained silent, his fingers tapping against the table. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about you that left him uneasy—not in a bad way, but in a way that made him feel restless, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with himself.

The waiter arrived, looking a little tired but polite, his quill poised to take orders. Theo and Blaise rattled off their choices with ease, but when it was your turn, you hesitated, your voice so soft that the waiter leaned in.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” the waiter asked, his tone patient.

Mattheo noticed the discomfort on your face as you tried again, your cheeks flushing with self-consciousness. It was such a simple moment, but something about it made Mattheo feel compelled to step in.

“She’ll have a butterbeer,” he said abruptly, leaning back in his chair as if it were no big deal. “And I’ll have the same.”

The waiter blinked, then nodded. “Right, and the rest of you?”

You glanced at Mattheo, your surprise evident. For a moment, he wondered if he’d made things worse. But then you murmured, “Thanks,” so quietly it was almost inaudible. Your smile was small and a little shy, but there was something about it—something genuine—that made Mattheo’s chest tighten unexpectedly.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and while it wasn’t much, it was enough to make Mattheo look away, feeling a strange heat rising in his neck. What the hell was that?

He focused on the table instead, letting his gaze fall on Pansy. She was watching him with her usual smirk, the kind that screamed, I know something you don’t. That look alone was enough to irritate him further.

He clenched his jaw, determined to brush it off. Whatever Pansy thought she saw, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like him to get caught up in whatever game she might be playing. And yet, he couldn’t shake the thought of that small, genuine smile you’d given him—or the way it had made him feel completely out of his depth.

Later, the group had finished their meal and was now strolling leisurely through the softly lit streets of Hogsmeade. Snow fell in delicate flakes, blanketing the rooftops with a fine layer, creating a scene that was ordinary but, in your eyes, uniquely enchanting.

Mattheo walked in silence, his hands casually shoved into his pockets, while you stayed a little ahead with Luna, Blaise, and Pansy. The latter seemed particularly alert, as if she were plotting something in her mind.

“Let’s stop by Honeydukes,” Pansy announced suddenly, pausing beside Blaise and Luna. “I’m absolutely craving those ginger caramels.”

“Now? is probably a nightmare,” Theo grumbled, though his protest was pointless as Pansy was already dragging him firmly towards the shop’s entrance.

Before you could say a word, she turned to you and Mattheo with a sly, self-assured grin.

“How about you two check out the bookshop? We’ll catch up in a bit!”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing uncertainly in the direction of the bookshop and then back at Pansy. But she didn’t wait for a reply. Without giving you a chance to argue, she disappeared into Honeydukes with Theo in tow.

Mattheo let out a quiet sigh, his expression laced with a knowing irritation at Pansy’s obvious intentions. But he didn’t comment. Instead, he gave a small nod towards the bookshop.

“Fancy it?” he asked, his tone straightforward.

You nodded slightly, not trusting your voice to come out steady, and followed him towards the shop.

The interior of the bookshop was warm and serene. Tall shelves were crammed with books, from old, worn-out tomes to pristine, freshly bound editions. The air was filled with the unmistakable scent of aged paper, and the soft glow of strategically placed lamps added to the cosy atmosphere.

Walking slowly down the aisles, you trailed your fingers over the spines of books, savouring the texture of each one. Mattheo had wandered to a quieter section, where he pulled an old, dark-covered book from the shelf and examined it with mild curiosity.

“I’ve read that one,” you remarked casually, stepping closer.

Mattheo looked up at you, his expression faintly surprised. “Have you?”

You nodded, your eyes lighting up shyly but genuinely. “It’s really good, though a bit sad.”

He shrugged, placing the book back and reaching for another.

“That one too,” you said, glancing at the new book in his hand.

He raised an eyebrow, holding the book for a moment before putting it back and selecting yet another.

“Oh, that one’s brilliant!” you exclaimed, a spark of enthusiasm slipping through. “A bit heavy in parts, but it’s one of my favourites.”

Mattheo paused, studying the book in his hand before looking back at you.

“Have you read all of these?” he asked, disbelief evident in his tone.

You hesitated, your gaze flickering away briefly before meeting his again, your cheeks warming under his scrutiny.

“Almost all of them,” you admitted softly. “I just… really like reading.”

A faint, genuine smile tugged at Mattheo’s lips as he shook his head slightly.

“All right,” he said, holding up another book. “How about this one? Have you read it?” He revealed the title: The Great Gatsby.

Your eyes lit up instantly as you nodded. “Yes. It’s a classic. Sad, but so good.”

Mattheo let out a short sigh, glancing at the book with more interest. “Do you cry at all of them, or just the ones I pick because I like the cover?”

Your timid but sincere smile answered before your words. “Only the good ones.”

For a moment, he just watched you, his eyes lingering as you studied the shelves around you with quiet fascination.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “Think I’ll like this one?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Depends. Do you like happy endings?”

Mattheo chuckled lowly, a hint of dry humour in his voice. “Wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

Your expression softened at his response, but you didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you looked up at him, as though trying to understand him better. He shifted uncomfortably under your gaze and glanced away.

“I’ll take it,” he muttered, holding the book firmly. “If it makes me cry, it’s your fault.”

You laughed quietly, the sound lighter this time, as he tucked the book under his arm.

“Do you read much?” you asked, your voice still a little shy as your eyes lifted to meet his.

“Not really.”

The moment was abruptly interrupted by Pansy’s familiar voice cutting through the quiet. She appeared suddenly beside Mattheo, a smug smile on her face.

“You two are taking ages,” she teased, throwing a loaded glance between the two of you. “Buying a book or writing one?”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, refusing to dignify her with an answer, while you glanced away, feeling slightly flustered. Pansy’s satisfied grin made it clear she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. Without ceremony, she tugged Mattheo towards the counter to pay for his book. You followed quietly as they left the shop, snow beginning to fall again outside.

ಇ

Once again, the group had gathered, this time in a more comfortable setting, as if they had already gotten used to the rhythm of their regular outings. The Slytherin common room felt cosy and calm, bathed in the soft light of the fire crackling in the hearth, casting a warm, golden glow across the space. Theo and Pansy were chatting animatedly about something trivial, while Blaise and Luna stayed, as usual, wrapped up in their own bubble, oblivious to the world around them.

You and Mattheo, however, were more on the edge of the group, tucked away in a quiet corner where silence hung comfortably in the air. He was staring into the flames, his mind distant, while you flicked through a book, your eyes quickly scanning the shelves of volumes in the common room.

It was you who broke the silence, your voice soft, laced with your usual curiosity.

“Have you finished that book, Mattheo?”

He gave you a look after a brief pause, responding casually.

“Yeah, it was quick to read, just like Cat’s Cradle.”

“You’ve read Cat’s Cradle?” you asked, surprised, your eyes lighting up instantly at the thought that he might be interested in such a quirky book.

Mattheo nodded with a relaxed gesture.

“Mm-hm.”

“I love that book,” you said enthusiastically. “I thought you said you didn’t read much.”

He laughed and shrugged, not giving it much thought.

“Well, what’s ‘much’?”

You laughed, satisfied with the answer, before diving back into your love for the book.

“Cat’s Cradle is just so chaotic, so human, you know? Like a distorted mirror of ourselves.”

Mattheo furrowed his brow, now visibly more interested.

“Human?”

“Yeah,” you continued, gesturing lightly. “The way Vonnegut portrays people, with all their confusing flaws—it’s so real. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but still, it’s genius.”

Mattheo watched you for a moment, trying to understand your perspective before replying in a teasing tone.

“I’m not sure ‘genius’ is the right word.”

You let out a soft laugh, not offended.

“No? And how would you describe it?”

He shrugged, his eyes drifting to the window beside him, watching the snow fall gently outside.

“It’s more like… a bunch of people getting into trouble because they’re too thick to see what’s right in front of them.”

You tilted your head slightly, amused by the simplicity of his argument.

“Exactly. That’s what makes it genius.”

Mattheo blinked, clearly impressed by your response. He wasn’t sure if you were joking or if you really believed it.

“You think stupidity is genius?”

“Nooo,” you said with a sideways smile. “But it makes us reflect on that human stupidity, like a portrait of our own contradictions, in a raw way. It’s uncomfortable, but in a weird way, it’s beautiful.”

Mattheo fell silent for a moment, processing your words.

“Beautiful?” He raised an eyebrow, as if trying to decide whether the comment was fascinating or just plain weird.

“Yes, beautiful,” you insisted, your tone calm but firm. “I think there’s beauty in accepting that we’re flawed, that we’re always trying, even when we know we might fail.”

He let out a low, almost incredulous laugh.

“You’ve got a peculiar way of looking at things.”

“Peculiar?” You laughed back, not losing the lightness of the moment. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Before he could respond, you leaned forward slightly, without thinking too much, and with a gentle gesture, you brushed a stray curl of hair from his face. Your touch was so natural that he barely had time to process it. Your fingers slid smoothly through his dark hair, pushing the curl away, and you did it with such ease that it felt completely normal to you. But for Mattheo, the action was enough to freeze him for a moment.

Mattheo froze. His mind instantly went on alert. The touch, though brief, had triggered a cascade of disconnected thoughts that he had no idea how to sort or deal with at that moment.

You, completely unaware of the inner battle Mattheo was facing, turned your attention back to the book you were skimming through, still intrigued by the shelves in the Slytherin common room. They were filled with delicate details, snakes and symbols, which gave the place a peculiar touch.

Mattheo, on the other hand, remained silent, lost in his own thoughts. He tried to push the moment’s impact aside, but it seemed impossible. The touch was still fresh on his skin, and the echo of your words about the book lingered in his mind.

ಇ

The night was quiet and peaceful at Hogwarts Castle. Mattheo lay in his dormitory, the soft light of the moon streaming through the window, casting a subtle glow over the room. His mind, however, was restless, filled with thoughts that were hard to sort. Almost mechanically, he reached for his wand, and with a subtle motion, began to move it, calling the music.

The first notes of “Crash Into Me” began to fill the room, softly, as Dave Matthews’ voice echoed through the space, enveloping him in a familiar melody. The song seeped into him like a comforting whisper, and something in it gripped him almost viscerally. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be consumed by the music, and, without knowing why, raised his wand again to put the track on repeat.

The words of the song began to take on more meaning, subtly echoing within him, much like the thoughts swirling in his mind that he couldn’t quite organise. It was as if the song spoke directly to him, not in a clear and direct way, but through its rhymes and melody, something in between the lines made him think of you. Your calm presence, yet shrouded in mystery, took shape in his mind.

He turned over in bed, still immersed in confusing thoughts, trying to understand the nameless feeling that overtook him. What was this unease? The music seemed to break something inside him, as if it were unveiling parts of himself he didn’t know existed.

As the chords of the song filled the space around him, a quiet exhaustion began to settle in. He surrendered to the melody, letting himself drift, without haste or resistance. The last thing he thought of before falling asleep was your face.

In his dream, you were beneath the Astronomy Tower. The stars watched silently as you leaned against the balustrade, your hair softly shimmering, floating with the night’s breeze. They saw when you approached him, and the world around seemed to shrink, as if everything became insignificant. You kissed him, a simple, gentle kiss, incredibly soft, full of sincerity. When you pulled away, his eyes opened.

The song “Crash Into Me” still played in his ears, but the sensation of the kiss, the soft touch of your lips, lingered with him, even though the dream dissipated as quickly as it had come. He lay there, motionless, not knowing exactly when he had been struck. The confusion that had once dominated his thoughts now seemed entwined with that fleeting memory, and he allowed himself to feel.

ಇ

Theo’s dormitory was as cosy as ever, lit only by the bedside lamp, casting a soft yellow glow that created an intimate atmosphere. The lazy tendrils of cigarette smoke drifted in the air, mixing with the low hum of music playing from a small gramophone in the corner. Lorenzo was slouched on the sofa, his feet carelessly propped up on the coffee table, while Theo, seated on the floor with his back against the bed, took long drags from his cigarette, releasing the smoke in the air as if following a ritual.

Pansy, meanwhile, leaned against an armchair, distractedly fiddling with her wand. Mattheo remained on the outskirts, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and visibly more distant than usual.

“So,” Pansy began, breaking the silence with a mischievous smile playing on her lips, though her tone remained casual, “I’m thinking of organising another group trip to Hogsmeade next Saturday. You coming?”

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, sceptical. “Who’s going?”

Pansy shrugged nonchalantly. “Me, obviously, Theo, Blaise, Lorenzo, Daphne… if she’s not busy.”

He gave a small nod, considering the idea. Maybe getting out a bit wouldn’t be so bad, even if he wasn’t exactly in the mood.

“And [Name],” Pansy added casually, throwing him a sly sidelong glance.

The effect was immediate. Mattheo froze, quickly averting his gaze. “Ah… no, I don’t think I’ll be going, then.”

Pansy stared at him, taken aback. “You’re not?”

“I’m just not in the mood,” he replied flatly, still avoiding her gaze.

“Not in the mood or running from her?” Pansy pressed, her tone sharp. She uncrossed her arms and stepped away from the armchair, facing him head-on.

He let out a humourless laugh, pushing away from the wall. “Oh, spare me, Pansy. This is just one of your dumb ideas to try and push me onto one of your friends. I’ve told you, it’s not going to work.”

“Push you onto my friends?” she repeated, incredulous, the disbelief clear in her voice. “Merlin’s beard, do you even hear what you’re saying? I’m just organising a trip, it’s not your bloody wedding!”

“Oh, right,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly. “You think I don’t notice? You’re always trying to set people up, like it’s some kind of game. But this isn’t some stupid romance novel. And honestly? She’s none of that, not worth the hassle.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible. Even Lorenzo, who had seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, lifted his gaze, surprised by the bitterness in Mattheo’s voice. Pansy stood still for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh.

“Not worth the hassle?” she repeated, each word laced with icy venom, as she stepped right up to him. “Do you have any idea what utter rubbish you’ve just said?”

Mattheo tried to hold her stare, but there was something in her stance that unsettled him.

“You don’t even believe that,” she continued, her voice firm now. “You’re so terrified of the idea of liking her that you’d rather say something vile like that than admit it to yourself. But guess what, Mattheo? It doesn’t change a thing.”

He crossed his arms, frustration clearly etched on his face. “I’m not scared of anything. You’re the one harassing me with this ridiculous conversation.”

“Ridiculous?” Pansy raised her voice, frustration seeping through every word. “You’re the one acting ridiculous! As if liking someone is some kind of weakness. It’s pathetic, actually—it’s so sad, it’s almost funny.”

“Oh, fuck off, Pansy,” he snapped, his anger boiling over.

She laughed, a sarcastic chuckle escaping her. “I’m just trying to stop you from being an idiot. But, then again, maybe you don’t deserve someone like her. Maybe she’s too good for you, yeah?”

Mattheo clenched his jaw, irritation flashing across his face before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

In the stillness of his own dormitory, he threw himself onto the bed, his chest still heaving from the argument. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to organise his thoughts, but Pansy’s words continued to echo in his mind like an unshakable spell.

“Maybe she’s too good for you.”

He knew he shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t true, and he knew it. She was worth the effort, without a doubt. He remembered the way she spoke about books, how her eyes lit up with passion for things he didn’t even bother to notice. She was kind, funny, incredibly genuine, and, above all, special.

With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Pansy was right. He was an idiot. And, worse yet, an idiot in love.

ಇ

The pub in Hogsmeade was packed, but the noise around Jasmine felt distant as she watched the group of friends play pool with curiosity. The soft lighting gave the place a warm, inviting atmosphere, while the low music in the background punctuated the occasional laughter of Theo and Lorenzo, who were arguing about who the better player was.

Mattheo kept his gaze fixed on you, knowing there was no escaping this. He was already falling, and he knew it. Rather than resist, he decided to enjoy the moment. There was something about your cautious yet charming manner that stirred him in a way he couldn’t quite understand. But soon he realised there was no need to comprehend it. It was as if the fall was inevitable, and somehow, the view would be worth it. All that was left for him to do was relax and let it happen. Maybe it was time to be bolder. Let the fall happen. He was ready for whatever came next and wanted to see how far it could go.

“Go on, who’s next?” Theo asked, twirling the cue stick with a teasing smile, aiming it at you.

“Definitely not me,” you muttered instantly, shrugging behind your butterbeer.

“Oh, come on,” Pansy teased, smiling. “You’ve never played?”

You shook your head, feeling a little out of place. “No idea how to play.”

Before Pansy could insist, Mattheo pushed off from the wall where he had been leaning, arms casually crossed, and approached. “I’ll teach you.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “You don’t have to, I—”

“Come here,” he interrupted, leaving no room for protest. He reached out and, before you could object, gently took hold of your wrist, guiding you to the right spot at the table.

Frozen, you watched him as if he’d just cast a spell. There was something so natural about the gesture – as though you’d shared this kind of proximity for years – that it left you speechless.

“Grab the cue,” he instructed, his voice low and slightly husky. You obeyed, holding the cue with clear hesitation.

Mattheo took a step back, so close that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Like this,” he said, adjusting his hands over yours. His fingers were firm but didn’t squeeze; the touch felt casual, yet it carried an intimacy that made you blush instantly.

He tilted his head, his voice close to your ear. “You need to align with the ball.”

His breath seemed to brush against your skin, and your heart raced. “Right… okay.”

He chuckled softly. “Relax, you’re all tense.”

“I’m not tense!” you protested, though the nervousness in your voice gave you away.

“Of course not,” he teased, shifting his hands slightly to adjust the position. “Now aim here.”

Biting your lip, you tried to focus, even though the closeness made it nearly impossible. The sound of his voice, the way he leaned in, his firm yet careful touch – it was all making your mind spin.

“Ready?” he asked, and you nodded, feeling your face heat up.

With his help, you moved the cue forward, striking the ball harder than you expected. It rolled across the table, hitting a few others before dropping into one of the pockets.

“See?” he said, stepping back slightly but keeping his hand near yours. “That wasn’t so hard.”

You laughed nervously, too shy to meet his eyes. “I think it was more you than me.”

“Maybe,” he replied casually, but his gaze was now locked on yours.

You noticed he was still holding your hand, even though it wasn’t necessary anymore, and for a moment, you were completely speechless. When he finally let go, the touch seemed to linger.

“Next,” he said, handing the cue to Theo, who was already laughing.

You stepped away from the table, trying to regain your composure, but your heart was still racing. Pansy watched you with a mischievous smile, but said nothing – which, in some way, was even more embarrassing.

Mattheo, now leaning back against the wall again, looked relaxed, though a subtle smile played on his lips. He knew exactly what he’d done – and he seemed to be enjoying it.

The night was light, filled with laughter and pool shots. You still felt a bit embarrassed about the last shot, about Mattheo’s unexpected touch, and the way he seemed so at ease. The way he approached so naturally, as if there was an intimacy between you two that you didn’t know how to handle, made you nervous, but also… curious.

At one point, you stepped away to grab the drink you’d left on the table, and Mattheo was right behind you, not wasting a second before taking the empty glass from your hand.

“I’ll get you another,” he said, flashing a casual smile.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him and then at the empty glass he’d taken from your hand. “Hey, I can do it myself.”

He shrugged as he walked away. “So what? Let me do it for you.”

You stared at him as he made his way to the bar, wanting to protest, but knowing he probably wouldn’t care. He was back quickly, drink in hand, placing it gently in front of you.

“Here,” he said, smiling tranquilly.

Still unsure how to react, you responded, “You really don’t listen, do you?”

He laughed easily and sat beside you. “I listen, I just don’t care. And let’s be honest,” he chuckled softly, “you’re not exactly good at hiding that you like it when I do things for you.”

Your face flushed, but you weren’t sure whether you were more surprised by the comment or by how comfortable he seemed with the situation. You tried to change the subject, though your voice still sounded hesitant. “I really could’ve filled my own glass.”

“Sure,” he interrupted with a sly grin, “but I wanted to do it.”

Not knowing how to respond, you looked down, crossing your legs and resting the drink on your thigh, unsure of how to act when Mattheo was messing with your composure. But secretly, you were enjoying this new side of him – unsure of how to react, but liking it all the same.

“I know what I’m doing,” you whispered, more to yourself.

“I know, princess,” he replied with an easy grin, “but I like doing it.”

ಇ

As time passed, your meetings became more frequent. The group hangouts gradually gave way to moments alone, and the relationship between you two became more comfortable and intimate. Being in each other’s company felt natural, easy, almost like an extension of everyday life. Mattheo’s behaviour grew more spontaneous, with fewer of the usual walls he built up when you were around. And it wasn’t just you who noticed; the entire group of friends could see it too.

One night, you were in Mattheo’s dorm. The atmosphere was calm and welcoming, with the scent of scented candles he’d started using now permanently filling the room. They were burning all around, three on the dresser and others on the bedside table. Meanwhile, Mattheo was rummaging through the wardrobe shelves and found a few hidden bottles. It was cheap wine that Theo had bought to settle a silly bet, but had forgotten there. Mattheo remembered it like it had happened yesterday. He looked at the bottle with a smile, laughing to himself. You raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

“I can’t believe you’re going to drink that,” you said, laughing lightly while lying on the black carpet in the middle of the room, fiddling with the radio.

Mattheo shrugged, flashing a carefree smile. “Of course I am, it’s here, right?”

You gave him a sceptical look, but couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity. “That’s a bit weird.”

“It’s nothing,” he replied, walking over and sitting beside you, holding the bottle out. “Try it, go on.”

Hesitant, but tempted, you sat next to him, smiling nervously. You took the bottle from his hand, laughing before bringing it to your lips, keeping your eyes fixed on his.

After a bottle and a half shared between you, the effects of the wine were already clear. The conversation flowed easily, words coming out freely, and you both laughed at anything, letting yourselves enjoy the sense of freedom the moment brought.

Then Mattheo stood up, walked over to the radio, and adjusted the music. Fleetwood Mac, one of his favourite bands, and he knew it well. The soft notes filled the room, creating a relaxing and warm atmosphere. He smiled at you, stood up from the carpet, and waited for you to follow. “Don’t you want to dance?”

You looked at him hesitantly, but he was watching you as if daring you. It didn’t take long before you got up, still a bit loose from the alcohol, and started dancing awkwardly, singing along with Stevie Nicks, a silly grin on your face. Mattheo held your hands and settled on the bed, watching your dance. There was no pretension; it was a spontaneous dance, a bit off-beat, but genuine.

Mattheo watched you with a satisfied smile, but his gaze revealed something more. He saw you differently. You moved with clumsy grace, not caring about the rhythm, and he was completely captivated by the way you threw yourself into the moment, without a hint of self-consciousness. Your movements, though not sensual, were, in that instant, the most captivating thing he’d ever seen. You were so at ease, as if you were dancing just for him. And, in a way, you were.

You laughed, unaware of the effect you had, how your hair shone and moved perfectly with the rhythm of your motions. That sight, so natural, only drew him in more. When the music finally ended, you stopped, out of breath, and looked at him with a mischievous grin, holding onto his shoulders while he watched you from below, his expression one of admiration.

“See? Was this what you wanted?” you asked, regaining your composure, but with a faint blush on your cheeks.

“More than I expected.”

The music still filled the room, but slowly, it became a distant echo, overshadowed by the tension that now dominated the space. The air felt heavier, each heartbeat ringing in your ears as you locked eyes with him. Your hands still rested on his shoulders, and despite the relaxed smile that appeared on his face, there was something in Mattheo’s gaze that made the lightness of the moment take on a new weight.

His eyes were fixed on yours, serious, intense, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. Something in that look seemed ready to spill over, and before you could even question it, the space between you two was vanishing. Mattheo moved, his strong hands reaching up to cradle your face, holding it with a gentleness that contrasted with the fervour in his expression. The world around you faded in the blink of an eye. No more cheap wine, no more candles, no more Stevie Nicks in the background. It was just the two of you.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, filling the silence between you. His gaze didn’t waver, and the proximity made each word feel even more intimate, almost like a confession. A shiver ran down your spine, but you didn’t respond. There were no words that could capture what was going through your mind.

When he finally closed the remaining space between you, his lips found yours, and everything seemed to fall into place. The kiss began firm but soon softened, as if he was exploring each detail, testing, savouring the moment with an almost palpable intensity.

His hands didn’t stay still. One slid to your waist, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, touching your warm skin with a mixture of firmness and care. The other moved up to your neck, fingers light as a caress, but determined, keeping you close, as if he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t slip away.

When his lips left yours, it was only to trace a deliberate path along your jawline, down to the delicate spot on your neck, where he could feel your pulse quicken. Each kiss was meticulous, almost reverent, as you closed your eyes, surrendering to the sensation. The softness of his touch seemed to contradict the intensity he maintained with every movement, and it made the moment all the more overwhelming.

Then, unexpectedly, Mattheo made a quick movement, pulling you onto the bed.

He was firm, but careful, lying you down with precision and security, as if guiding you through a dance he had already mentally rehearsed. Your bodies moulded into the surroundings, as if the moment had been waiting for you both.

Mattheo pulled back slightly, his hands slowly lifting your shirt, with a near ceremonial slowness. There was no rush, just a clear intention in every gesture, as though he was absorbing the significance of what was happening. His eyes scanned your body, but not with haste or crude desire. There was something almost devotional in that gaze, something that made your breath quicken and slow at the same time.

His lips descended to your stomach, touching it with the lightness of a promise. Each kiss seemed to hold something unspoken, something long-kept. Mattheo's fingers traced slow paths along your skin, as though he wanted to memorise every detail, while you let out a sigh that seemed to echo in the intimacy of the room.

For a brief moment, he lifted his head, meeting your gaze. His eyes sparkled with a mix of desire and playfulness, and a light smile curved his lips before he leaned in again, the kisses resuming their course, now with even more care, as if each touch was a silent vow of adoration.

[rmview]

they beg to be taken back, SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — a reaction of how the stray kids boys realize they can’t live without you, and come to beg you for a second chance!

contents — angst, mentions of fights, possible reconciliation.

bang ♢ chan

bang chan had always been composed, the leader who held everyone together. but when you broke up with him, the cracks in his armor showed. he respected your decision and convinced himself that it was for the best, despite the emptiness growing unbearable.

he wasn’t himself since and the people around him began to notice. the usual spark in his eyes dimmed, and the weight of your absence felt suffocating. he replayed the last argument over and over in his head, agonizing over what he could’ve done differently. but as much as he respected your decision, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to try, just one more time, to fight for what you both had.

it was late when he showed up at your doorstep, his hand hovering over the doorbell. when you answered, you were more than surprised to see him standing there, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he was carrying the weight of the world. his hair was disheveled, eyes rimmed red. he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“chan? what are you doing here?” the nickname slipped from your lips almost too easily and you suppressed the urge to recoil. being around him — being his, was too easy. even with the two months apart, one look into his eyes was all it took for everything to come rushing back.

“i… i needed to see you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly and his australian accent slightly thicker, which was a sign of his nervousness. “i know you said that it’s over, but i can’t accept it — not without trying to make things right.”

you felt something in your chest lurch, and for a few moments you were rendered speechless. a large part of you wanted to forget the fight and what lead up to it, but the smaller part of you kept reminding you of how alone he made you feel despite being together. “we’ve already talked about this. you need to let me go. i... i don’t want to go back to feeling the way i did.”

he shook his head, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “i can’t just let you go,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “i know i messed up. i wasn’t there for you when you needed me most, i treated you like another responsibility, and i hate myself for it. but please, give me a chance to prove that i can do better. i can’t lose you like this.”

“chan…” you looked away, your heart breaking at the vulnerability in his voice. your own eyes blurred with tears and you tried to blink them away.

“i know i’m asking a lot,” he continued, taking a tentative step closer. his hands itched with the need to reach out for your waist; the feeling of your skin under his palms a muscle memory. “but i love you. i love you more than anything, and i can’t imagine my life without you in it. tell me what i need to do, and i’ll do it. just… don’t give up on us.”

his desperation was raw and unfiltered, and it was clear that he’d spent every waking moment thinking about this moment. whether you took him back or not, he was determined to fight for you until the very end.

felix ♢

felix was a wreck after the breakup. the ever-present sunshine in his personality dimmed, replaced by a quiet sadness that the others noticed but didn’t know how to fix. he replayed the moments leading up to your decision endlessly, wondering where he went wrong. no matter how hard he tried to respect your choice and acknowledge his mistakes, his heart refused to let it go.

one rainy evening, he found himself standing in the reception office of your workplace while soaked to the bone. he didn’t care that the receptionist was eyeing him in annoyance for dripping on the floors, or that he looked homeless from his red-rimmed eyes and masked face. when you finally made your way down after a call from your superiors, you were shocked.

“felix? what the hell?” you whisper-yelled, your voice laced with concern despite the shock as you grasped his arms to lead him to the bathrooms instead of the ac-blasting reception so he wouldn’t get sick.

“i had to see you,” he said, his voice trembling. both from the cold and his overwhelming feelings. “i couldn’t just… let it end like that.”

you sighed, grasping his freezing hands in yours and holding it under the hot air of the hand drier, not caring that you were in the men’s room. felix couldn’t care less either as he momentarily basked in the feeling of your soft hands in his after so long. “i know i hurt you, and i hate myself for it. but i can’t let you go without telling you how much you mean to me.”

“and you thought this was the smartest way to do it? by getting yourself sick?” you shook your head, trying to keep your emotions in check. he broke your heart, you tried to remind yourself to keep yourself steely. it didn’t work.

“i know i made mistakes,” he continued, his voice breaking as he sniffled and you avoided his gaze and chalked it up to the cold. “i wasn’t there for you the way i should have been. but you… you’re everything to me. you’re the reason i smile, the reason i wake up in the morning. please, tell me how to fix this.”

his vulnerability was heart-wrenching and you felt your own eyes blur through your silence. felix didn’t look away from you the entire time, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “i’ll do anything, anything to make things right. just… don’t walk away from me. from us.”

as the rain continued to pour outside, felix stood there, baring his soul to you. he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness — he was offering every piece of himself, hoping it would be enough to convince you to take him back.

lee ♢ know

lee know was stubborn by nature, and after the breakup, he tried to convince himself he didn’t need anyone. he put on a brave face around the others, burying himself in practice and work. taking on excess time to keep his mind off you worked for a while, but even then every time he went home to the empty silence of his apartment, your absence hit him like a freight train.

his members began to notice his stubbornness and attempt to dismiss your relationship, giving him the space he needed as they hoped he’d work through it. but it began to become clear he was taking the ostrich’s way out — burying his head in the sand and pretending everything was fine.

it took weeks for him to swallow his pride and realize he didn’t want to deal with the emptiness anymore. the fight was so stupid and you were the love of his life, so why weren’t you together right now?

he wasn’t one to beg, but losing you was something he slowly realized he couldn’t bear. and so one evening after heavy contemplation, he found himself standing outside your apartment door, clutching his phone in one hand and a small bouquet of your favorite flowers in the other.

when you opened the door, you paused and your eyes widened in surprise. your treacherous heart missed a beat and you attempted to school your expression to normal. “minho? what are you doing here?”

“i, uh, i needed to see you,” he said, his usual cool demeanor replaced with a hesitance you rarely saw.

your mind flashed with the hurtful words he threw at you during the argument and you crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “i thought we agreed that separating was for the best.”

“maybe i thought so at first,” he admitted, his voice soft but firm. “but i don’t think i can do this anymore. i can’t pretend that i’m okay being without you because i’m not.”

“minho…” you started, looking away as you didn’t know what to say.

“i know i don’t say it enough,” he interrupted, his gaze dropping to the ground. “but i love you. i loved you then, and i love you now. and i hate that i let you go without fighting for you. i hate that i was so stupid.”

“you hurt me,” you said, a slight wobble in your voice that you attempted to mask with by clearing your throat softly. but the hurt in your eyes was hard to miss. “i can’t just forget that.”

“i know,” he said, stepping closer. he put the flowers down on the floor by your feet as he took your hands in his, his palms warm. “and i don’t expect you to. but i want to make it up to you. i’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. because i mean it when i say i won’t make the same mistakes again.”

he squeezed your palms softly, bringing your fingers up to his lips. “i know i’m not the best at showing how much you mean to me. but you do — more than anything. and if there’s even the smallest part of you that still feels the same way, please… give me another chance.”

it wasn’t easy for lee know to open up like this, but the thought of losing you for good outweighed his fear of vulnerability and hesitance. whether or not you decided to take him back, he was determined to show you just how much you meant to him.

hyun ♢ jin

hyunjin wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the breakup managed to shatter the carefully built walls around his emotions. he threw himself into his art and practice, hoping it would drown out the ache in his chest. but no matter how many brushstrokes he painted or routines he perfected, nothing could fill the void you’d left behind.

while hoping to take a walk on evening , hyunjin mindlessly ended up walking into your favorite park, the place where you’d spent countless nights talking about dreams and fears. as usual, you were there sitting on the same bench you’d share, a book on your lap but your mind and gaze were elsewhere.

hyunjin stood there for a few moments, unable to look away until your wandering gaze settled on him. you paused, startled to see him there, his usually confident posture replaced by a tentative nervousness as he slowly walked to you.

“hyunjin?” you looked up at him, unsure if you should address him in public since your relationship was over. he was dressed in black, a mask covering the bottom half of his face, but you recognized him immediately.

he hesitated for aa moment before he sat down beside you, a small bittersweet smile tugging at his lips even though you couldn’t see it. “i wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he admitted.

“i didn’t know you’d be here either,” you replied cautiously, fidgeting with your book in your lap. would you have come if you knew? maybe, maybe not.

he took a deep breath, his gaze locking onto you even though you wouldn’t look back at him. “i just... i needed to see you. i can’t keep pretending i’m okay with this when i’m not.”

“hyunjin, we’ve already talked about this…”

“i know,” he interrupted, his voice heavy with emotion. “but i can’t let it end like this. i know i hurt you really bad, and i hate myself for it every day. i thought i was protecting you from this life and me, but all i did was push you away.”

your fingers softly tightened around the book, trying to calm yourself against the raw emotion in his voice. “it’s not that simple.”

“i know it’s not,” he said, scooting slightly closer. he couldn’t take his eyes off you. you were so pretty. “but i love you. i’ve always loved you, even when i was too scared to show it. and if there’s even a small part of you that still cares about me and what we had, then please… let me try to fix this.”

his voice broke as he added, “i’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if i have to. just… don’t give up on us. not yet.”

you finally looked up at him and your breath hitched at the proximity. the vulnerability in hyunjin’s eyes was almost too much for you to bear. he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness — he was offering every piece of himself, hoping it would be enough to convince you to give him one last chance. he wouldn’t lose you again.

i.n ♢

jeongin had never experienced heartbreak like this before. the breakup ended up hitting him harder than he ever thought possible. he spent days replaying the fight you both had in his head, wondering how he could’ve done things differently. his hyungs tried their best to cheer him up, but their efforts only seemed to highlight the emptiness he felt without you.

you were his first relationship, his first kiss, his first love and the woman he thought he’d marry some day. he’d questioned his success as an idol, he’d question his talents — but the lifetime of your relationship was one thing he never had to question. so to have that one dream shattered was more than the average heartbreak. jeongin would probably never date again.

only nine days had passed since you left, and after those 200 hours, jeongin couldn’t take it anymore. he knew your schedule in and out, and he knew exactly where you’d be on a weekend evening at 5.

he showed up at your favorite café, the place where you’d spent countless afternoons together and took a seat at the very booth you’d always sit at, counting down the minutes to when you’ll show up.

so when you walked in and spotted him sitting at your usual table, his nervous smile and the familiar warmth in his eyes caught you off guard.

“jeongin?” you asked cautiously as you approached, looking around the almost empty area. “what are you doing here?”

he stood up quickly, his hands fidgeting as he spoke, wanting to reach out to you. “hi. i… i wasn’t sure if you’d come here today, but i had to take the chance.”

you hesitated, unsure of what to say. it had barely been over a week since your breakup. “what do you want?”

“i want to apologize,” he said earnestly, his voice quiet but steady. he had already made up his mind. “and to ask for another chance.”

“jeongin, we already talked about this,” you replied, shaking your head softly. the argument was still fresh in your mind and you didn’t plan to give in anytime soon. yet one look into his puppy-like eyes was all it took. damn.

“i know that,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “but i can’t just let it end the way it did. i know i hurt you, and i know i wasn’t the boyfriend you deserved, but i want to make it right. i need to make it right.”

you sighed, hesitantly sitting down across from him. “it’s not that easy.”

“i know it’s not,” jeongin said, his gaze earnest. he was not going to leave without you. “but i love you. and i’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to you. i’ve been thinking about everything i did wrong, and i promise, i’ll be better. just… don’t shut me out completely. you don’t have to take me back now, but know i’m not going to let this be the end of us.”

his voice softened as he added, “i know i’m asking for a lot, but please… let me show you how much you mean to me. even if it seems a little too late.”

you found yourself softening against your will. jeongin’s sincerity was palpable, and the quiet determination in his eyes made it clear that he wasn’t giving up on you. whether or not you decided to take him back, he was willing to do whatever it took to make amends.

han ♢

han had always been known for his bright energy, and the way he could light up a room with his laughter. but ever since the breakup, his spark was gone and it became glaringly obvious. the jokes came less frequently, and the music he created sounded hollow, even to him. he missed you, missed the comfort of your presence and the way you always seemed to understand him when no one else could.

his group members had tried to give him the time and space he needed, since your relationship was long-term and impactful. you had been by han’s side since before stray kids, and the loss of your presence in his life was something all 7 of them combined couldn’t match up to.

the moment han decided he couldn’t stay away any longer, he abandoned the practice session and rushed straight to your place without even thinking it through. the journey was a blur and his body ran on instinct until he was standing outside your door.

his hands fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie as he rehearsed what he wanted to say for a few minutes before knocking once he was semi-confident of what to say and had plastered a small nervous smile on his lips.

when you opened the door, his smile faltered at the sight of you. “hey,” he said softly, his voice tinged with hesitance, looking over the sight of you in your pajamas.

“han? what are you doing here?” you paused in shock, not expecting his presence out of all things.

“i… i couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground. he forgot what he planned to say. “i know i don’t have any right to be here after what happened and what i said, but i needed to talk to you.”

you looked over his sweaty and disheveled appearance as if he ran here, and crossed your arms, looking away. “we already talked, han. what’s left to say?”

“a lot,” he said quickly, his voice trembling slightly — from being out of breath, or from the prospect of losing you, he wasn’t sure. “i know i messed up real bad. i know i didn’t always handle things the way i should’ve, but i can’t —” he paused, swallowing hard. “i can’t lose you.”

you sighed, trying to keep your composure. you knew his words were true. “you realize that now? after all that was said and done?”

“i know what i said,” he said, stepping closer. “but i need you to know how sorry i am. i didn’t realize how much i was taking you for granted until you were gone. and now… now i feel like i’m missing a part of myself. you, and what we had, none of that can ever be replaced. you were the one, and i was so stupid for letting you go like that.”

“han…”

“i’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” he continued, his voice cracking. “but i just want one chance to show you that i can be better. please, just give me that chance. i won’t screw up again.”

his vulnerability was raw and unguarded, and the tears welling up in his eyes mirrored the ache in your chest. his presence only made you realize what you were missing. han wasn’t one to beg, but for you, he’d put his pride aside if it meant that he could win you back.

seung ♢ min

seungmin prided himself on his ability to stay composed, but the breakup had shaken him to his core. he replayed your last conversation over and over, analyzing every word, every tone, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. the silence in his life without you was deafening, and no amount of logic could convince his heart to move on.

he knew he had no right to approach you or ask for forgiveness after his neglect, but damn was it hard to get past your absence in his daily life. meals, practice and sleeping alone felt void — like a puzzle piece was missing, leaving the actions feeling inadequate.

it took him a month to realize he couldn’t go on without you, weeks to decide how he was going to approach you, and another handful of days to work up the courage and find himself standing outside your door. his heart was pounding in his chest and his hands felt sweaty.

when you opened your front door, you were startled to see seungmin there, his usual calm demeanor replaced with an uncharacteristic hesitance and unease. ���seungmin? what are you doing here?”

“i…” he hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor as he suddenly felt a wave of unpreparedness. “i needed to talk to you.”

you were surprised but crossed your arms and kept your expression guarded, equally as hesitant. “we’ve already said everything that needed to be said. why now?”

“no,” he said firmly, meeting your gaze. a troubled look in his eyes. seungmin wasn’t sure if he felt like crying, or throwing up. “i didn’t say enough. i didn’t fight for you the way i should have, and i can’t let it end like this.”

“seungmin…” you frowned softly

“i know i made mistakes,” he interrupted, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “i know i wasn’t always there for you the way i should’ve been. but i love you. and i can’t just let you walk away without trying to make things right.”

you sighed, looking away. “it’s not that simple. you hurt me.”

“i know,” he said, his voice softening. “and i hate myself for it. but i want to make it up to you. i’ll do whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes. i just need you to give me a chance.”

when you didn’t respond immediately, he took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. “i’m not asking you to forget everything. i’m just asking for the chance to prove that i can be better—that i can be the person you deserve.”

the quiet determination in his voice was unlike anything you’d heard from him before. it was clear that seungmin wasn’t just asking for forgiveness—he was willing to fight for you, no matter how long it took.

chang ♢ bin

changbin wasn’t used to feeling helpless, but after the breakup, he felt like his world had been turned upside down. he threw himself into his music, trying to channel his emotions into lyrics, but even that didn’t offer the relief he was hoping for. the studio felt empty without you. his group mates tried to cheer him up, but nothing could replace your touch, the sound of your laugh or the way you’d encourage him after a long day.

it didn’t take long before he realized he couldn’t let you go. your presence couldn’t be replaced by practice or writing, and every heart wrenching feeling being poured into his file of unreleased songs. it had reached a point where he had gotten tired of the separation and ended up impulsively making his way to your apartment one evening.

changbin’s heart was pounding as he worked up the courage to knock, freezing in surprise when you suddenly opened the door in that purple shirt of yours that you always wore to grocery shop. he stared at you quietly for a few moments, watching how your expression shifted from surprise to guardedness.

“changbin? what are you doing here?” you spoke softly, your gaze flickering around the hall to make sure no neighbor was out.

he hesitated, feeling extremely unprepared despite replaying the conversation in his mind the whole ride here, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “i just needed to see you,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“bin, we’ve already talked about this,” you began the nickname slipping too easily, but he shook his head.

“no, i need you to listen,” he said, his voice firm but he had to clear his throat to stay composed. “i know i messed up. really bad. i know i didn’t always handle things the way i should’ve, but i can’t lose you. i don’t know how to be without you.”

you sighed, fidgeting slightly as you looked over his disheveled hair and troubled expression. he wouldn’t meet your eyes either. “it’s not that simple, changbin. you can’t just show up after what happened and expect everything to be okay.”

“i know that,” he said, his dark eyes pleading as he ran his palm over his face. he wasn’t one to beg but if he left this without knowing you were his again, he didn’t know what he’d do. “but i’m willing to do whatever it takes to fix this. i’ll change. i’ll be better. just tell me what you need, and i’ll make it happen.”

you looked away, trying to maintain your resolve, but his words slowly chipped away at your defenses. he was the best you’d ever had, until he wasn’t. “why now, changbin? why couldn’t you do this before and how am i supposed to believe you’ve changed?”

“because i was scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, looking up at you as he reached out to grasp your hands in his. “i was scared of failing you, or of not being enough. but i realized i’m more scared of losing you forever. i wouldn’t be able to bear that.”

his voice trembled and he nearly found himself in tears, leaning his forehead against yours. “please, give me another chance. let me prove that i can be the person you deserve.”

notes: something about writing sad shit and horny shit really makes me tingle. anybody interested in an individual smut fic?

[lovesickchoi]

📁 FILE 04: KANG TAEHYUN

⋆·˚ ༘ * He fixes, he folds, and he fucks like he’s determined to show you just how much he cares. You want nothing more than to return the favor, be the one who takes care of him for once. But Taehyun can't imagine not being of service to you.

✦ Love Language: Acts of Service

pairing: taehyun x reader ✮⋆˙✐ 3.3k

warnings: f!reader, smut, domestic tension, switch but mostly dom!taehyun, kitchen sex, service kink, oral f!receiving, no protection

🗂️ click here to access all txt member’s files

˚₊ · »-♡→ main masterlist

Taehyun never said I love you like a normal person.

He said it through tasks, timing, and attention. Always quietly folding the world around you so you never had to ask for anything. And you’d let him.

Truthfully, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d lifted a finger in his presence. You were independent when you met him—fiercely so. The kind of person who didn’t trust anyone to do things as well as you could, let alone take care of you. But Taehyun had a way of gently dismantling those walls, brick by quiet brick, until your hands were empty and your burdens shared.

There were meals cooked after long days where you both came home tired and frayed, only he wouldn’t let you touch the stove. Instead, he’d kiss your forehead and force you to sit pretty on the counter so he had a nice view while he worked. And when you were done eating? You wouldn’t dare attempt to help clean up. Not unless you wanted your hands swatted away and Taehyun sprinting upstairs to run you a bath, insisting you “go soak and relax, baby, I’ll join you soon.”

You’d never forget coming home from that terrible day, still raw from an argument with your best friend, and finding the apartment spotless, your clothes folded neatly on the bed, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter beside your favorite takeout. No questions asked.

You couldn’t even recall the last time you carried your own purse. Traveling? He always found a way to juggle both suitcases without complaint, leaving your hands completely free.

And it wasn’t just the grand gestures. It was in the subtleties. The way his eyes always flicked toward you, searching for anything you might need. How he’d bring you water without being asked. Fix a squeaky cabinet at one in the morning because it annoyed you once. Rearranged his already busy schedule for yours, because stress on your shoulders was unbearable to him.

Not to mention in bed. God, the pillow princess he’d turned you into. Taehyun was as eager to please as he was allergic to being on the receiving end. The concept of letting you take care of him was laughable, sacrilegious, even. He never let you, not once. As if your love was something he didn’t need to feel. Only something he was born to give.

He never asked or expected. He only gave, and gave, and gave. But tonight, you decided to try anyway.

There he was now, creeping into the kitchen to make you a snack because he’d heard your stomach rumble while the two of you curled up in bed mid-movie. When you reached for him, questioning why he paused the TV, he only smiled softly, kissed your temple, and slipped out from under the covers.

For a moment, you lay in the dark listening: the clinking of metal, the click of the stove, the crinkle of packaging. Soon, the savory scent of your favorite instant ramen drifted down the hallway. It pulled you from bed like a thread tied to your chest. And the moment you step into the kitchen, your heart nearly stops.

He’s shirtless, facing away from you as he stirs the pot. The warm overhead light carves golden lines down his back. His shoulder blades shifting with every movement. Sweatpants hang low on his narrow hips, the waistband tugging slightly down on one side. He’s completely unaware of how devastating he looks, and that only makes it worse.

You swallow, mouth watering—and not just because of the ramen.

A few more steps forward and you're wrapping your arms around his torso from behind. Taehyun jumps, slightly startled, then relaxes into your touch with a smile. He sets the chopsticks aside and folds his arms over yours in a welcoming gesture.

"Hi baby," he hums with contentment.

"Hi," you smile into his skin, cheek pressed to the expanse of his back. "Smells good." A soft sigh leaves your lips, warm breath brushing his bare shoulder.

Goosebumps rise across his skin. He can feel the shape of you—your nipples faintly brushing through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, your hips pressing gently to his. He knows without looking that you’re wearing nothing underneath but panties.

Still, he doesn’t move. He lets you hold him. But you? You’re already planning to do more than hold.

Your arms tighten, lips beginning to brush his back. You feel the tremor that runs through him, the tension pooling just beneath his skin. And still, he doesn’t pull away.

You trail your fingers along the firm plane of his stomach carefully, until your palms rest flat over the waistband of his sweats. You don’t dip beneath just yet, instead holding him there like he’s yours to touch.

He draws a controlled breath through his nose. “Baby…” he warns gently, voice catching in his throat.

“I know,” you whisper. “Just... let me.”

You turn him around by the hips, and Taehyun allows it, chest rising now with more visible effort. He leans back slightly against the counter perpendicular to the stove, arms going loose at his sides like he’s trying to prove something to himself and to you. But his eyes are already dark, focused on your mouth intently.

You press a kiss to his sternum. He gulps hard. Another kiss to the edge of his collarbone. And then, finally, you tilt your face up and catch his mouth with yours.

It starts sweet, nothing but melted sugar and warmth. His lips move slowly, savoring the feeling as he holds himself back.

But then your hands slip to the sides of his neck, pulling him deeper, angling his head how you want him. Your tongue drags against his with hot need. You kiss like you’ve forgotten what patience even means.

Taehyun moans softly against your lips, involuntarily. You feel his knees bend slightly, as if his whole body wants to follow yours.

You pull back, just enough to murmur, “Sit for me.”

Before he can question it, you gently push him toward the chair at the kitchen table.

He stumbles back a step and halts. His brows twitch with uncertainty. You watch the flicker in his expression: a flash of confusion and resistance. He’s never been the one sitting like this. He doesn’t really know how.

But you step forward, crowding him slowly, guiding him with your hands on his waist like you’re offering him something for once instead of taking. The backs of his legs hit the chair.

You don’t force him down, you just press lightly. He lets out a breath and finally sits.

For a second, Taehyun looks bewitched by you in the most gorgeous way. Hair tousled, chest rising and falling too fast, mouth pink and kiss-bitten. His hands clutch the edge of the seat like it’s anchoring him to the earth. Because he really might float away if he doesn’t hold on.

You climb into his lap with reverence, legs folding around him, your hands smoothing over his shoulders. His skin is flushed. His cock presses hard against you through the thin fabric of his sweats, and the friction alone has him sighing like he’s seconds from losing composure.

You kiss him again, filthier this time. Your hips roll forward, just enough to force a strangled noise from him.

“Let me take care of you for once,” you whisper into his mouth.

Your hand snakes its way down Taehyun’s abdomen. He’s so tense it’s almost laughable. He’s fighting within himself, wanting so bad to give in. But it felt unnatural.

“Baby… you don’t have to.”

His eyes are wired shut when he speaks. You don’t even grace him with a response. He sits there, feeling useless, feeling you place your lips in all the right places across his neck and jaw, fingers finding their way to cutely snake into his sweatpants.

But all he can think about is how you’re probably soaked under those panties. How you must be clenching around nothing, begging to be touched. You must want to be cared for, and oh how he wanted it to be him doing it. Suddenly, he can’t get the idea of you whining and cumming at his manipulation out of his mind.

That’s when the panic sets it.

Taehyun huffs, a sharp and frustrated sound that floods your ears, before gripping your waist so suddenly it makes you yelp. His eyes snap open, blown wide with want. So much want it nearly breaks you.

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely. “You don’t get it—I can’t.”

He lifts you with too much ease, standing abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Your legs tighten around him out of instinct. He presses your back to the kitchen table, firm but not rough, breathing hard. His forehead falls against yours.

“I’ll lose my mind if I don’t touch you the way I need to.” His voice is a growl now, trembling with restraint. “You don’t get to make me feel good and expect me to just sit here. That’s not how this works. That’s never been how this works.”

You see it all over him—how badly he wants the pleasure you’re offering, and how violently it clashes with the way he’s wired to love. It’s sexy, yes, but it’s also so deeply revealing you feel it split something open inside you. It's not that he doesn't want it. It's that he simply can't compute it.

His hands roam. One cups your jaw, the other sliding beneath your thighs. He’s already rolling his hips into you, chasing friction like it’s air.

“You’re not supposed to take care of me,” he hisses against your neck. “That’s not—what I’m made for.”

You gasp as his mouth finds the edge of your collarbone, biting gently. His grip on your waist tightens, and just like that, the control is back in his hands.

He rises slightly, pushing your shirt up over your chest to see all of you. Nipples flushed pink and hard with need, black underwear that he picked out already soaked and hugging the outline of your folds. He stares unashamedly like he always does. His hands are rough, tracing you from your ribs to your thighs as if reacquainting himself with your body.

"If I stop giving... and I let you give, it’s like I’ve failed you," he mutters, eyes glazed over with lustful thoughts of you.

While he's too busy eye-fucking you, you take your chance. You sit up slightly, just enough to reach for his cheek, grazing it softly.

“You haven’t failed anything. You love me so well. Let me love you back.” You attempt to bargain.

You rise further, closing the gap between you with a slow kiss, your legs looping around his waist to tug him closer, ankles locked. But he catches your wrist mid-motion, grinning softly, already seeing through your plan. Of course you’d try to flip the script.

But he can't take it anymore, not with your bodies this close. The food sizzles on the stove, but he doesn't care. His desire to serve takes over.

He scoops your thighs into his arms and drags you to the edge of the table, then drops to his knees. Your legs fall open over his shoulders. A breathy moan slips from his lips as he drinks in the new view—now eye level with your dripping cunt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I need to. Please—just let me.”

Your soaked panties cling to you obscenely, a clear outline of want pressed against black lace. He hums low in his chest, the sound nearly guttural.

Taehyun presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, this one open-mouthed and wet, teeth grazing just enough to make you mewl. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs to anchor himself.

He moans just from the scent of you. “Fuck." His voice is muffled, lost in the heat between your legs. “So wet.”

“Oh my god-“ You gasp as his tongue presses flat against the soaked crotch of your panties. Taehyun doesn't bother pulling them aside. No, that would be too simple. He’s decided you’re getting ruined like this: his mouth taking you through the fabric, letting every flick of his tongue sink through cotton and lace to where you need him most, and it works.

Your hips are arching up into him. But he’s relentless, hands sliding up to hold you still, palms splayed across your chest.

“Stay still,” his voice vibrated against you. “Let me do this right.”

He licks you long and slow, savoring the way your arousal has soaked through and made the panties cling to you like a second skin. Every pass of his tongue has your thighs trembling, your hands reaching blindly for something to hold.

You fist his hair. Taehyun groans—really groans—like your fingers pulling at his scalp could make him cum untouched. He presses his face deeper between your legs, nuzzling the soaked fabric as if inhaling you could give him life.

His tongue finds your clit. Even through the damp cotton, it sends a bolt of pleasure tearing through your spine. Your back arches and a cry escapes you. He hums again, pleased, adjusting the angle so he can suck gently, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

“That’s it, baby,” he inhales deeply. “Give it to me. Let me have all of it.” He exhales just as deeply.

You don’t know if he’s talking about your moans, your pussy, your entire fucking soul, but you let him have it. Maybe this was your way of giving to him.

Taehyun keeps eating, savoring, and drinking you in through the delicate fabric until it's useless and he’s so hard in his sweatpants he could cry. One of his hands leaves your hip to slip between his legs, palming himself through the fabric just for a second, just enough to breathe again.

Then his mouth drags lower, tongue teasing the spot just beneath your entrance through the sheer fabric before returning to your clit. You're writhing now, moaning like a confession, your thighs trying to close in around his head but he won’t let them.

“You're almost there, aren't you?” His voice is noticeably ruined. “Cum for me. I want to feel you shake on my tongue.”

He licks harder, and you shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave. Crashing and sweeping through your entire body until your hands fall from his hair and you’re barely able to breathe, whimpering his name over and over.

Still, he doesn’t stop, not until your hips twitch from overstimulation and your whines turn into helpless little pleas for him to end it. Only then does he pull back, panting, chin glistening, and your panties practically glued to you.

He looks up at you like he’s blessed. This is the only thing he’s ever prayed to.

“Better?” he asks, voice hoarse, lips curled into the faintest, self-satisfied smirk.

You're so busy coming down from your orgasm, about to respond, that you don’t even realize he’s stripped you. Your soaked panties gone along with his boxers and sweatpants, discarded somewhere on the kitchen table.

When you glance down, he’s already between your thighs again, his cock hard against your leg. You’re still catching your breath, body trembling from your orgasm, but his hands are already moving.

He lifts one leg, then the other, hooking the backs of your knees over the crooks of his elbows like he's done plenty of times before. His chest brushes yours, folding you in half on the table, breath warm against your skin as he lines himself up.

“Let me give you more,” he murmurs, every syllable soaking with need. “Let me stay inside you until you forget your own name.”

Then he’s pushing in devastatingly deep. Your breath stutters, your head tilting back as he sinks you down onto him inch by inch. His grip tightens around your thighs, holding you to him while your body opens for him completely.

You can feel every inch of Taehyun. But it’s not just the fullness that makes you a whimpering mess, it’s the way he’s holding you there, pinned to the surface.

“Fuck,” Taehyun exhales, eyes fluttering shut. “You feel—Jesus.”

Your hands reach to grip his neck as he starts to move. Each thrust is so expertly precise. The slow drag out, the firmer press in. His rhythm is just right, but his breath is ragged. You cling to the edge of the table and to him, legs still lifted, knees trembling slightly where they’re slung over his arms.

Taehyun's hands grip your body in a way they've never held you before. And he groans every time he bottoms out inside you.

The kitchen is filled with the slick, inappropriate sound of him moving inside you. The quiet hiss of the stove behind you both now forgotten, noodles cooking past perfect. The smell of ramen and sex drifts through the air.

“Taehyun!” you gasp, head tipping back. This is his favorite view of you.

“Yeah?” he pants, not stopping once. “Say it again.”

You do. Over and over. Not just his name, but everything. What he feels like, how he fucks you, how he makes you feel like no one else ever has. You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. Only that it pours out of you in moans and broken whines.

You feel it building again, this time too fast and way too strong. Your body tenses around him.

He must feel it too, because he drops your legs from his elbows and folds you close, hips never faltering as he hooks his arms around your waist and lifts you clean off the table. You gasp in surprise, clutching his shoulders.

Now it’s chest to chest, his forehead against yours, your legs wrapped tight around his hips. Your nails score his back as he fucks you suspended in the air.

“Come on, baby,” he pleads, voice cracked as he slams you down onto his cock. “Give it to me one more time.”

You shatter for the second time in your little kitchen. This one rips through you harder than before. You cry out, whole body shaking and convulsing around him, just the way he likes.

“Fuckfuckfuck—fuck,” he hisses, every muscle in his body going rigid as he drives into you one last time and cums harder than ever. His hips falter, then still as he pushes in as deep as possible, moaning into your mouth as he buries himself to the hilt.

Silence slowly follows. Beautiful, comfortable silence.

Taehyun doesn’t pull out of you right away. He lowers both of you down slowly, your back landing softly against the now-cleared table. His cheek rests against your thigh, damp with sweat, lips parted as he catches his breath. His arms are still around your waist. You brush a hand through his hair, looking down at him.

“One day, I’ll make you let me take care of you.” You can't help but smile.

He half-laughs and murmurs back, “I'll die trying to stop you.”

You feel the slight ache in his words. Because behind them, you worry Taehyun thinks he’s unworthy of being taken care of by you. That’s the part that guts you.

You sit up just slightly, shifting your weight until you're able to reach the stove. The ramen is still there, now slightly burnt at the edges, thick with overcooked noodles. Laughing quietly, you dish some into a bowl, scooping a bite with your chopsticks and blowing to cool it down. When you turn back and offer it to him, he almost hesitates.

But eventually Taehyun lets you. He opens his mouth, and you feed him. He chews, swallows, then drops his forehead into your neck with a sigh so deep as he relaxes into your warmth.

This is the kind of peace he’s never allowed himself. But tonight, just for a moment, he does for you.

tags: @bunnysoonie @zznblr @another-lemon-tree @gyudollies @beomgyusluver @dawngyu @boba-beom @taebatu @simpforseoho @beestvng @yyeonbinn @chubichubs @jooyeonsvape @txt-thelmi @zorange13 @jellyyjn @frenziedpiratetrap @gardnhee @txtsdoll @annovaz @morguebounddoll @melmochii @yunhorights @saccharinezennie @gyutaepie @313hwa @tyuncloudreamy @ijustwannareadstuff20 @bamtor1sss @iyoonjh

likes/reblogs/comments always appreciated <3

[saintormentor]

m e a n i e c . s

i n w h i c h . . . chris prolongs your release when you whine, and then gives you four more.

w a r n i n g s . . . orgasm prolonging, multiple orgasms, smut, stomach bulge, degradation, crying, comfort

the sex felt mindless. detached. it was frankly pissing chris off, his movements sloppy and lazy.

your body was trembling, every nerve frayed from how close you were — how unfairly close — when he pulled out without warning. just like that. gone. empty. aching.

you gasped, eyes snapping open, chest heaving as your thighs instinctively tried to close, to hold onto something that wasn’t there anymore. but all you got was the sting of abandonment and the unbearable throb of denied pleasure.

“what the fuck,” you breathed, voice shaking more from betrayal than from exhaustion. “are you serious right now?”

he just stared down at you, dark and unreadable, his chest rising and falling like he was the one on edge. like he was the one about to break.

“you think you get to come that easy after the shit you pulled?” he muttered, low and cutting. his voice was calm — terrifyingly so — and it made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

your jaw dropped. “i didn’t even—”

“exactly.” he leaned in, nose brushing yours, that stupid, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you didn’t do anything. didn’t apologize. didn’t beg. didn’t even say my name the way i like.” he tilted his head. “why would i let you finish?”

your hands clenched the sheets. tears of frustration welled in your eyes — not from hurt, but from the sheer tension knotted in your stomach, throbbing between your legs like a cruel punishment. “you’re such an asshole.”

“mhmm.” he pressed a single kiss to your lips. “but you like that.”

“i hate you.”

“no, baby,” he cooed, thumbing your swollen bottom lip. “you hate that you need me to cum. and i’m not gonna give it to you.”

you stared at him, burning, furious, unbearably needy — and he was already backing away, wiping himself off like he hadn’t just wrecked you without mercy.

“chris,” you warned, voice breaking. “don’t you fucking walk away.”

he paused at the door. glanced back.

“then don’t give me a reason to,” he said simply, and disappeared into the hallway.

you screamed into the pillow. and shit, you hated how much you still wanted him.

you laid there for a long moment, body still trembling, thighs clenched so tight it hurt. the silence in the room was deafening — not peaceful, not calm, but taunting. it mocked you. echoed your pulse. pulsed in sync with the empty ache between your legs.

your hand twitched at your side. you considered finishing yourself — just out of spite. just to feel something other than the shameful burn of need.

but it wouldn’t be the same. it never was. not after chris. so you didn’t.

you wrapped the sheet around your chest and stumbled off the bed, legs wobbly and weak, more from rage than anything. padding into the hallway, you found him in the kitchen — shirtless, sipping water like he hadn’t just ruined you on purpose. like he hadn’t just played god with your orgasm and walked away whistling.

“you think that was funny?” your voice cracked. you hated that it cracked.

he didn’t even look at you at first. just set the glass down and turned, slow, deliberate, leaning back on the counter. “wasn’t meant to be funny,” he said. “meant to teach you a lesson.”

“about what?” you hissed. “about how to become a fucking lunatic? congrats, chris. i’m there.”

his eyes flicked over you — the sheet, the flushed cheeks, the unsteady posture. “lesson about how actions have consequences,” he said smoothly, walking toward you. “and that maybe next time, you’ll think twice before pretending you don’t care.”

you opened your mouth to retort, but he was already there, tilting your chin up with a single finger.

“you came in here looking to argue. as usual.” he said, voice low, “but all i see is someone who still wants to cum, huh?”

you slapped his hand away. “you don’t get to control me like this.”

“i’m not controlling you,” he murmured. “i’m making you honest.”

and before you could reply — before you could say another word — he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and bent you over the counter.

“chris—” you gasped, the sheet slipping off your body, heat flooding every nerve.

“you think i don’t want you?” he growled into your ear. “you think it doesn’t kill me not to cum in this messy cunt?”

he pushed just the head in, slow, punishing, and you whimpered.

“this time,” he said through clenched teeth, “you’ll fucking scream for it.”

he didn’t move.

just the tip — barely nestled inside, stretched enough to ache but not enough to satisfy. your fingers gripped the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles turned white, breath coming in sharp little gasps as your thighs trembled.

“chris,” you whimpered, trying to push back against him, just enough to take more, to pull him deeper.

his hand came down hard across your ass. a sharp smack. you yelped.

“don’t,” he warned. “you don’t get to set the pace.”

he rocked his hips — shallow, infuriatingly slow — just enough for the head to slip in and out, dragging against that first ring of resistance. you choked on a moan, back arching, your body betraying you completely.

“this is what you wanted, right?” he murmured, voice low and cruel. “wanted to be put in your place. wanted to be reminded who you belong to.”

“you’re such a dick,” you gasped, eyes stinging from frustration, from pleasure that refused to peak.

he leaned down, chest against your back, one hand wrapping around your throat as he pushed in just a little deeper—then pulled out again.

“and,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, “you’re dripping all over me.”

you could feel it — the mess between your thighs, the humiliating slickness he was smearing all over with nothing more than the head of his cock. every time he rocked forward, it dragged through you, hot and swollen and soaked.

“please,” you breathed, and hated how desperate it sounded. “chris, please.”

he stilled. stayed right at the edge. unmoving. cock twitching against you.

“you gonna be good?” he asked.

you nodded furiously.

“say it.”

“i’ll be good,” you whispered. “i’ll be so fucking good, i swear—”

but he didn’t move.

he just pulled out again, rubbing himself through your folds like he wasn’t wrecking you slowly, deliberately.

“you think you deserve it?” he asked, now lazily trailing the tip up toward your clit and back down again.

“yes—“

he pressed the head in again. just the head. you bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

“you haven’t earned it yet,” he said simply, cruelly, and god—you might’ve cried.

he was merciless.

he didn’t push in. didn’t give you what you were aching for, what your body screamed for. no — all he gave you was the thick, swollen head of his cock, nudging just barely past your entrance, then pulling out again. slow. calculated. cruel.

“c’mon,” he murmured, thumb brushing the base of your spine as he kept you bent over the counter. “you’re the one who said you didn’t need me.”

you were shaking, chest pressed to the cold marble, cheek turned, lips parted as you panted. “chris,” you whimpered, the name leaving you like a sob. “please—i can’t—”

“you can.” his voice was low, cruelly gentle. “you will.”

he rocked forward again, just enough for the tip to slip in, warm and thick and teasing right against that oversensitive entrance. he held it there, hands gripping your hips so tight it left bruises.

and then he started to move.

not fully — just that inch, back and forth, shallow thrusts that barely scraped at your walls but somehow still had your legs buckling. the friction built fast. too fast. too much.

“fuck,” you moaned, high and broken, your voice echoing in the kitchen. “it’s not enough—”

“then why are you already close?” he growled.

his grip on your hips tightened, and he kept that brutal rhythm — shallow, deliberate, precise. the tip hit just right, again and again, your swollen, aching walls gripping for more that never came. but it didn’t matter. it was too much and not enough all at once.

he reached forward and slipped his fingers between your thighs, finding your clit with practiced ease. rubbed tight circles, slow and filthy, while his cock teased you open just barely.

“gonna come just like this,” he muttered. “just on the tip.”

“i c-can’t—” your whole body was shaking, voice trembling as tears pricked your lashes. “chris, please—”

“look at you,” he cooed, “crying over a cock that’s not even inside you.”

and that broke you.

your body seized, thighs quivering as the orgasm hit — sudden, sharp, and humiliatingly intense. you cried out, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open and trembling as your walls clamped down around nothing. around just the tip.

he held you through it, fingers working you through every last wave, until you were a gasping, twitching mess against the counter.

and still — he didn’t push in.

“that’s one,” he said softly, brushing your hair from your damp face. “now beg me for the next.”

your breath caught on a sob, your thighs trembling, your core still pulsing around the emptiness he left inside you — or worse, almost inside you. it felt cruel, unnatural, unbearable. you couldn’t stop shaking, body still wracked with aftershocks that hadn’t fully ebbed, and he hadn’t even given you more than the tip.

and now he was standing behind you again, lazily stroking himself, your slick still shining on his skin.

“you feel that?” he whispered, running the head along your overstimulated folds, dragging slow. “you’re still soaking. messier than before.”

“chris,” you whimpered, face turned against the cold marble. “don’t—don’t make me beg.”

“i’m not making you do anything,” he murmured, leaning in. his lips ghosted over your ear, slow and low. “but if you want to come again? you will beg. and if you want me to fuck you—really fuck you? you’ll forget your pride.”

you stayed quiet.

and he pulled back.

“wait—wait!” you gasped, twisting around, reaching for him, tears in your eyes now. frustration, yes. but more than that. shame. need. aching need. “please,” you whispered. “please, chris. i need more. i can’t take just the tip anymore, i swear—i’ll do anything.”

he tilted his head, eyes dark with something mean and satisfied.

“then show me,” he said simply.

you dropped to your knees.

your palms hit the kitchen floor. knees spread, forehead pressed to the tile. it was humiliating. it was desperate. it was exactly what he wanted.

“good girl,” he breathed, stepping behind you again. he dragged himself along your folds one more time, the swollen head catching your entrance. “stay just like that.”

and he did it again.

just the tip.

back in, slow and shallow. dragging, teasing. and now you were so sensitive, your whole body twitched with every motion.

you let out a noise — something between a moan and a cry — as he picked up the rhythm, still not fully inside you, but fast enough to drive you insane. his fingers dug into your hips. your knees started to slide. the sounds were obscene.

“you gonna come again?” he asked, and you hated how proud he sounded. “gonna fall apart with just this?”

you nodded, face still against the floor. “yes—yes, chris, i’m—”

your voice caught again.

this one was even worse than the first. you shattered with a scream, legs collapsing, body going limp as wave after wave tore through you. and still he didn’t push in. still he didn’t finish.

you were crying now. overwhelmed. destroyed.

he leaned over you, kissed the back of your neck.

“that’s two,” he whispered. “you still want the rest?”

you nodded, broken.

he smiled, slow and wicked.

“then get back on the counter.”

your legs barely worked. they shook beneath you, slick with sweat and tears and everything he’d pulled from you without even giving you what you needed. your body throbbed with overstimulation, your thighs sticking together as you tried to move. but you did. because you had to. because when chris told you to get back on the counter, there wasn’t another choice.

you reached up, pulling yourself onto the marble, chest heaving, arms trembling under your weight. your cheek pressed to the cold surface, and your legs dangled, spread open behind you as you barely managed to stay propped on your knees.

you heard him behind you. the quiet smack of skin against skin as he stroked himself, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

he came closer.

his hand smoothed up your spine. his other gripped your hip, guiding you into place. “look at you,” he murmured. “ruined. still begging.”

you didn’t speak.

you couldn’t.

and he didn’t wait.

this time, there was no warning. no teasing. no more mercy.

he slammed into you in one sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt — and your scream was raw, high-pitched, completely involuntary. your back arched, body locking up as the stretch hit like lightning. finally. he was inside. thick, deep, pulsing.

“there she is,” he groaned into your ear, his hand fisting your hair. “this what you needed? is this what you begged for?”

you sobbed out something that might’ve been a yes, your hands scrambling for grip on the counter as he pulled back and rammed into you again. and again. and again.

his pace was brutal. merciless. all control was gone now — his, yours — and he fucked into you like he had something to prove.

your body, already sensitive, couldn’t handle it. everything was white-hot. your vision blurred. your skin flushed. and the noises — the slick, filthy slap of skin on skin, the way you couldn’t stop moaning his name, the way he kept whispering how tight you were, how good you felt around him — it all pushed you higher.

“chris, i—i’m—” you choked out, tears running down your cheeks. “again, i’m gonna—”

“good,” he growled. “you’re not done ‘til i say you’re done.”

and then he brought his hand to your throat again, pulling you up by it, your back pressed to his chest now as he fucked you from behind, fully in, deep and fast and relentless.

your orgasm hit like a fucking explosion.

your scream echoed through the kitchen, loud and desperate and cracked, as your body convulsed around him, squeezing him so tight he cursed under his breath.

he didn’t stop.

not even when you collapsed onto the counter.

not even when you begged.

he just leaned over you, lips at your ear, and said—

“that’s three. now take one more for good measure.”

his hand slid from your throat, down your chest, over your stomach — hot and firm, fingers splayed as he pressed, slow and deliberate, right over that soft, swollen bulge.

“feel that?” he murmured darkly against your ear. “that’s me. that’s how deep i am.”

your eyes rolled back, a guttural moan escaping your lips as the pressure made everything worse — or better — you couldn’t tell anymore. your stomach twitched under his touch, your body already so wrecked you didn’t know where the pain ended and the pleasure began.

he pushed a little harder, palm digging in, and you felt it — the way his cock nudged something deep inside you, the faintest resistance, the unbearable fullness. it was obscene. intimate. wrong, maybe — but your body responded with a helpless clench around him anyway.

“look how far you’re letting me in,” he whispered, lips brushing your neck, his hips still snapping into yours, slower now, but deeper. filthier. “you’re taking all of me. like you were made for it.”

you sobbed something — a yes, maybe. a plea. a prayer.

his thumb circled the spot on your stomach, watching how your body tensed every time he pressed down and moved his hips in sync. like he owned your insides. like you were his to rearrange.

and god, he was so fucking deep.

“i can feel myself inside you,” he groaned, pressing just a little harder. “right here. stretching you out from the inside.”

you were gone. eyes unfocused. jaw slack. nothing in you had the strength to pretend anymore — not to fight, not to protest, not even to beg.

and he knew it.

he slid his other hand between your legs again, two fingers working your clit as he pushed up into you with a devastating roll of his hips, thumb still holding that soft bulge in your belly like he could mark you from the inside.

“one more,” he murmured. “you can give me one more. i want you to come while you feel how deep i am.”

and with his cock buried to the hilt, his hand pressing against your belly, and his fingers rubbing perfect circles over your clit — you did.

your body shattered around him, trembling and clenching and sobbing as the orgasm hit you harder than any before, your thighs twitching, stomach jumping beneath his palm. and even as you screamed, even as your body went limp — chris was still fucking you through it.

your body gave out before your voice did.

you were sobbing — not dramatic or performative, just real, guttural, raw. it tore from your chest before you could stop it, hiccuping around your breath as your limbs trembled against the counter, your face wet with tears, your body wrecked in every way imaginable.

“chris,” you choked out, broken and small. “i can’t—i can’t anymore.”

and instantly, everything changed.

his rhythm stilled. the grip on your waist loosened. and then, so gently it made the tears come harder, he slipped out of you and caught you before you could fully collapse.

“shhh,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you as he lowered both of you to the floor, letting your back rest against his chest. his hand cradled your head. his lips pressed to your temple, over and over. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you, baby.”

you sobbed into his shoulder, hands clinging to his arms like you were afraid he’d disappear. your body still trembled, overwhelmed and spent, but now the ache was emotional — too much, too fast, too deep.

he rocked you slowly, whispering soft apologies, his voice a stark contrast to the one that had ruined you minutes ago. “i’m sorry. i pushed too far. i’m so sorry.”

you shook your head against him. “no… i just… i don’t know why i’m crying.”

“it’s okay,” he murmured. “you don’t have to know. you don’t have to explain anything.”

he pulled a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around both of you, tucking you into his lap like something fragile. his hand smoothed over your thigh, your back, your ribs — grounding you with touch.

“you’re okay,” he said softly. “you’re safe. i’ve got you now. you did so good.”

you hiccuped. “i felt everything. it was too much—”

“i know,” he whispered. “i know, baby. you held it in for so long.”

you curled into him tighter, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, like a balm. and for a long, long while, he just held you. no teasing. no games. just warmth and steady breath, chest to chest, skin to skin.

and when your tears finally started to slow, when the trembling dulled into something quieter, he kissed your damp cheek and whispered again—

“i love you,” he said, barely audible. “even when i have to be mean. even when you cry.”

and somehow, that made you cry a little more. but it didn’t hurt this time.

not with him holding you like that.

you didn’t answer at first.

you couldn’t.

you just let yourself melt into him, boneless and quiet, his warmth pressed against every trembling part of you. your breath hitched now and then, like your body hadn’t fully caught up to the calm. your eyes were sore, your cheeks flushed, and your thighs still ached from how hard they’d clenched. but none of it mattered now. not with the way he was holding you — like you were glass and he hated himself for even nudging a crack.

“say something,” he whispered, voice hoarse, nose buried in your hair.

you swallowed hard.

“you love me?” you asked, voice barely above a breath.

his arms tightened instantly. he shifted just enough to pull you fully into his lap, both of your bodies tucked into the oversized blanket now. he looked down at you with eyes that weren’t cocky or taunting — just stripped. open. bare.

“yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “i do. even when you drive me crazy. even when i get in my own head and pull shit like that.”

your lip wobbled. “you… you were so mean.”

he closed his eyes. exhaled sharp through his nose. “i know. i was trying to prove something. trying to get you to feel how much i need you, even when i don’t know how to say it.”

you pressed your cheek to his chest. “there are softer ways to say it.”

his throat worked as he swallowed hard. “i’ll learn ‘em. if you let me. i just—i get scared sometimes. scared you’ll stop needing me back.”

you looked up at him, eyes still glossy. “chris. i don’t think you realize what you do to me.”

“i didn’t cry because you hurt me. i cried because i couldn’t handle how much i felt. because you don’t just fuck me, you undo me.”

something in his expression broke — softened. he reached up and cradled your jaw, brushing his thumb along your cheek like he needed to memorize every part of you.

“i don’t ever want to make you cry unless it’s from feeling too much love,” he whispered.

you let out a soft, tired laugh. “then you succeeded. idiot.”

he kissed you then. slow. grounding. nothing like earlier — no dominance, no teasing. just lips against lips, like an apology and a promise rolled into one.

you sighed into it, and when he pulled back, you stayed close.

“you want a bath?” he murmured. “or to lie down?”

“just you,” you whispered. “for a little while. just this.”

he nodded, resting his forehead against yours, arms wrapped tightly around your body. “then you’ve got me. all night.”

and this time, when your eyes welled again, it wasn’t from pain or frustration or overload.

it was relief.

[nik1okrock]

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓽 𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓻 !

Summary: you go to sleep in Riki's room <3

Genre: smut/crack

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, window sex, mating press, fingering so hard with huge rings on, multiple orgasms, I don't know anymore

Word count: 2k(and more)

Masterlist

(please when you find the playlist while reading play it in order thank u <3)

It was late at night and the house was too hot for Seoul's muggy summer. Yet, the others slept soundly, including Riki, whose air conditioner was broken.

You stumbled into the middle of your room and prayed that no one had woken up—Sunghoon in particular.

You walked out of your room and took a quick look in your brother's. Sunghoon was sleeping loudly, like a dead man in a coffin. Once your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you made it to your destination without ending up face down on the floor.

The room was dark, even in daylight. The walls were gray and the curtains, blankets, and most of the furniture were black.

The smell of cologne and deodorant were giving you the feeling of being in a gas chamber, yet you had learned to call home that mixture of smells. The boy was snoring so loud he sounded like a chainsaw. Despite the fact that you hated this kind of noise, you made an exception for him. You slid under the sheets, stepping on what, knowing Riki, were a pair of used boxers. God, how messy he was.

Once settled, you were greeted by the warmth of Riki's sweaty skin, the broken air conditioner only made it more unbearable, but these were the sacrifices you were willing to make to be near him.

Riki stretched out an arm and made your cheek collide with his bare chest, a gust of cologne filled your nostrils and you coughed from how strong it was.

“Beb...” He babbled, unable to finish the word. Riki often talked in his sleep, even happened to bite you once or twice, and he snored as well. He held you close to him, not caring to give you any space to move. Your long hair tickled his nose and, after about ten minutes, he sneezed, waking up. “Beb, why are you here?” He mumbled, giving you a kiss on the forehead. His voice, slurred by sleep and extremely rough, made you blush, so you swallowed before answering. “I wasn't sleeping.”

You were used to Riki’s low voice tone, and yet, when he was tired it always had a strange effect on you. It was warm, deep and often hoarse, the kind of sound that you had decided to put among your favorites. "Don't you dare to snore." The boy urged with a yawn, tightening his grip on your body, and putting a leg on your hip, trapping you even more. "Said the tractor.” You chuckled, and Riki, who had been pretending to sleep, rolled you over so that you were lying on your stomach and sat down on his knees next to you, a big smile on his lips as he gently smacked you on the ass. "Isn't that nice of you, I don’t snore, you know?" Riki lied, you both knew way too well. "Then even touching my ass isn’t nice of you.” “Why not? You always do it!” He whined, crossing his arms to his chest like a small child. "Because I'm a woman, if you touch my ass it's harassment." You laughed at his childish behaviour, he knew you would never accuse him for harassing you. He was your boyfriend, this was just playful behaviour.

So you got on your knees, throwing yourself on Riki and started to tickle his sides. And you laughed while Riki suffered in silence, at least until a questionable sound came out of his lips. You stopped, looking at Riki with your eyes wide open, your pink cheeks turning more and more to a deeper shade of red. Riki, unaware of what had just happened, took the opportunity to attack and tickle you in turn.You let out a scream that could have even alarmed the neighbors, but then you started to laugh again, yelling at Riki to cut it off or you both would end up hurt.

Sunghoon, who was a light sleeper, jumped up when he heard his sister’s voice being so loud. He ran into your room, and finding it empty, followed your pleas coming from Riki’s room. Once he opened the door, he was greeted by Riki on top of you, smirking as you giggled before he leaned down to give you a sweet peck on the lips. Sunghoon covered his eyes, a bit embarrassed by the sight of his sister being kissed. “Hey you two! I don't want a nephew!” He raised his voice, you and Riki's heads darting towards Sunghoon as you both blushed. “We're-” you tried to complain but Sunghoon just smirked “Just use precautions.”

But at that, Riki leaned closer to your ear, you two were young dumb and almost always went at it like bunnies, ending up with someone in the apartment blasting music to cover your screams, moans and other noises. “We can fuck the condom tonight beb.” Riki whispered once your brother left, starting to kiss down your neck. “I wanna feel you raw.” And you hit him on his chest. “You're so stupid.” You laughed, but deep down you already knew it would end up like always, but this time it would have been Heeseung’s sex playlist because he wanted to make it funnier for everyone.

You found yourself on top of him, his strong hands flipping you over like it was nothing. His hands were on your ass immediately, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. “You’re such a brat.” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw before he bit down, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave a mark.

“Says the guy who’s already hard.” you retorted in a sing-song, grinding against him just to prove your point. He groaned, he said he hated when you teased him, yet he loved it. Clothes came off fast—his shorts, your shirt, a clumsy tangle of limbs and curses as you both tried to not laugh at how desperate you were—just like always. His body was a damn masterpiece, lean muscles, golden skin, and all you could do was drag your nails down his chest just to hear him swear. “Shit, you’re feral.” he hissed, his magnetic eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with that small sparkle that told you you would end up ruined. You were about to speak up when he leaned in to capture your lips with his, devouring you until both were slightly bleeding. Soon you found his face buried between your legs, the heat of his breath searing against you, tongue dragging slowly as he worked you over. And you are so gone, head thrown back, hips twitching, thighs trembling around his ears. The only soundtrack is the obscene wetness of his mouth on you, your choked moans, and “The party and the after party” by the weeknd blasting from Heeseung's room as he had put on his playlist to help you out—but in reality it was just Jungwon’s latest desperate attempt to drown out the symphony of you and Riki destroying each other; he had asked the members to put on music so they could sleep, but it was no use, it just made you two more loud.

Get yourself a boyfriend that's a dancer, your friends said, he'll be good. And damn if they were right, being able to follow the music and keep a steady rhythm might have been your death.

Your ears were ringing. Your vision blurred every time your spine arched off the mattress. Your legs shaking so hard they barely stayed hooked around his shoulders. His fingers humping in you along with his tongue so deep that you thought your pussy would get branded by his damn huge chrome hearts rings. They were part of him he didn't even take them off while having sex. And when you were about to come, he stopped.

He stopped and slammed into you, his balls against your ass as you scream so fucking loud for the stretch. “Beb, we've been together for two years and yet you still can't take me?” He mocked, he was big, he knew well, yet he couldn't feel anything but pleased when he heard you scream every time.He started moving, deep and hard, the bedframe slamming against the wall with every thrust. You were loud—too loud, moaning his name, clawing at his back, leaving red marks he’d probably flex about later. The room smelled like sex and sweat, the air thick with it, and you loved how gross it was, how real. Riki’s hair stuck to his forehead, his lips parted as he panted, and you pulled him down to kiss him, sloppy and wet, spit smearing between you and soon the first orgasm crashed into the both of you.

And soon another orgasm.

And another.

And another.

You lost count by now, time folded as you just knew that now was that “southbound” by Artemas was playing again for what could have probably been the fourth time. The two of you were always going at it like rabbits, bodies slick and tangled, pleasure drawn out like it might never end. At some point you’re flat on your back again, back arched off the wet bed, sheets soaked with sweat and God knows what else.

At some point he took you by the hair and got up, opening the curtains and pressing you against the cool glass, your nipples immediately hardening upon contact. He wraps one arm around your waist to both keep you up and pull your hips back into him, bending you forward in front of the window. He pushes back into you without warning, like he did earlier, though this time you’re better prepared; the side of your face is against the window as you cry out his name.

Minutes felt like hours, hours like days, long heavenly hours that wished could never end. You don't know how he's still strong enough to shift your almost limp body, but suddenly your legs are pushed up and pinned high beside your shoulders. His hands curled behind your knees, holding you wide open as he sinks into you again with no warning. He grunts as he slides home, balls-deep, moaning loudly, eyes locked onto your face, drinking every twitch, every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. His hips start pounding again, relentless, slapping into your soaked cunt with a wet, brutal rhythm. And when he came, he didn’t pull out—didn’t even try. You felt it, warm and thick, spilling inside you, and he groaned like he’d just won the lottery.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting, sticky with sweat and cum and god knows what else. The room was a wreck, the sheets soaked, and you could feel his release leaking out of you, pooling on the mattress—just like the first time that night.

And it was when he was about to start again when the alarm of his phone rang:

Just come outside for the night (yeah)

Take your time, get your light (yeah)

Johnny Dang, huh-uh

I been out geekin'

Bitch

Fein', fein', fein', fein'-fein' (yeah)

Fein', fein', fein', fein'-fein' (yeah)

Fein', fein', fein', fein'-fein'

Fein', fein', fein', fein' (yeah)

“Ah shit” He cursed, out of breath as he had to pull out to go to turn off the alarm and you chuckled, did he really had “FE!N” as a morning alarm? Sure that woke him up pretty well. It was then when you noticed the sunlight peeking through the curtains, Heeseung’s playlist turning off and replaced by a predefined ringtone, five other phones starting to ring one after another, expressing the personalities of enhypen members and so you and Riki quickly wiped the fluids away from your bodies and slowly got dressed just to walk into the living room to be stared by everyone, even the manager that had just come. “How was your sleep, guys?” The manager asked, trying to break the awkward silence and both you and RIki blushed at Jungwon’s answer. “We clearly didn’t. A certain someone…” And he shooted a scolding look at you two “was screaming tonight.”

“Had fun?” Heeseung peeked in with a laugh, looking at your dishlaved look as Jay just groaned, he wanted to leave the dorm for the night since you and Riki became a couple, but he wasn’t allowed.

©2025 nik1okrock all rights reserved

[undyingdecay]

this feels like a safe place to admit that bob as sentry was SO hot

(i yearn for sentry to manhandle me)

you’re already crying when he says it.

writhing on your back, pinned beneath his weightless strength—like being crushed under light, under divinity. your legs are trembling from where he’s held them apart for what feels like hours, your pussy aching, swollen, dripping down his forearm where three of his fingers are knuckle-deep and still moving. too fast. too precise. too inhuman.

“please—” you sob, hips stuttering helplessly as your body tries to escape the unbearable friction, the overload of nerves. but there’s nowhere to go. not with his other hand flat against your sternum, keeping you in place like your bones were made for this. like your body was shaped to break open beneath his touch.

he doesn’t stop. not even when your cunt clenches so hard around his fingers that it hurts. not even when you say please again—this time with a cracked voice and tears slipping into your hairline.

“you want to cum?” his voice is soft. too soft. like the flicker of a candle right before it turns wildfire. “you think you deserve that?”

“i—i need to, i—” your voice cracks again, shame curling beneath your ribs, guilt coiled with the want. “it hurts, bob—please—”

but it’s not bob staring down at you.

not just bob.

the blue in his eyes flickers gold. his skin glows faintly like something holy and furious and carved from the sun. he doesn’t blink when he pulls his fingers out of you with a wet, obscene noise, the sudden emptiness punching a sob straight from your throat.

you reach for him, mind blank with need, but his hand catches your wrist mid-air. holds it there, gently—but like iron. “no.”

you choke. “why—?”

he leans down, mouth at your ear, voice still gentle. still cruel. “because gods don’t give without sacrifice.”

then he’s licking his fingers clean, eyes locked on yours—watching your desperation rise in your throat like a scream you can’t voice.

“pray,” he murmurs, gold light pulsing faintly behind his irises.

your thighs twitch. your back arches. your nails scrape helplessly against his chest.

“pray,” he says again, slower now, more command than request, “and maybe your god will answer.”

because this isn’t mercy.

this is worship.

and you’re going to learn how to beg for it.

[andy-15-07]

Need some hurt/comfort after episofde 2... How about reader has a nightmare of Joel dying violently and wakes up alone ? She thinks the nightmare was a memory, and cries instantly, walking in a daze in the street in her pj in the cold, only for him to be there, sharing coffee on Tommy's porch

I’ll Always Come Home

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1320 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

You wake with a start, drenched in sweat, your heart pounding like a drumbeat in an empty stadium. The blankets are tangled around you, cold air whispering against your skin. For a moment, you can’t place yourself: is that moan,was that Joel? You inhale sharply, and reality crashes over you. You’re alone.

The nightmare steals your breath. You saw him,Joel Miller,his life bleeding away in violent spasms, his fist slamming against the ground as his blood pooled beneath him like a morbid crime scene. You heard him scream your name, a ragged sound that snapped you awake, terror clawing at your chest.

In the dim glow of the bedroom lamp, you recognize the familiar layout of your home in Jackson. The cracked plaster of the walls. His guitar leaning against the rickety bookshelf. The framed photo of your wedding day, his smile radiant, his arms wrapped around you. You reach for the sheets, your fingers brushing the emptiness beside you.

Tears spring to your eyes. You clutch the blanket and press it to your face, tasting the cold cotton. A sob rattles your body, and you can’t stop it. It feels like a betrayal: you, always so strong for him; you, the one he calls home. But the pain in your chest is unbearable.

Without thinking, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed,pitter-patter, pitter-patter,and stand. You leave pillows rumpled in your wake as you pad toward the door, still in your sleep shirt and pajama bottoms. The house is silent, save for the soft hum of the generator and the distant rumble of trucks on the outskirts of Jackson.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you step into the cold, night air. Your breath clouds in front of you, ghostly puffs disappearing into the darkness. The snow crunches under your bare feet, ice scratching your soles. You don’t care. All you can think about is how real it felt,how his lifeblood stained your hands.

You stumble down the street, shoulders trembling, tears freezing on your cheeks. You don’t know where you’re going; only that staying inside would be worse. You need him. You need to see his face.

The wind bites through your pajamas. You wrap your arms around yourself, rocking gently, hummed lullabies of comfort you’ve sung for him so many times. "Stay with me, Joel. Please stay with me."

The lights of Tommy’s house appear ahead, two windows glowing amber against the midnight blue. He’s likely up late, playing cards or talking with friends. You halt at the front gate, hesitating. You’re not a child. You’re not delirious,just scared. Ridiculous.

But then you’re moving again, crossing the yard, hands shaking as you push open the door and climb the porch steps in one unsteady motion. You hear the hiss of a propane stove, the clink of mugs.

There he is. Joel. His grizzled profile lit by the stove’s glow. He lifts a chipped enamel mug to his lips, steam curling like question marks into the air. He looks up and stops mid-sip.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he breathes, eyes filling with alarm. “What’re you doing out here? At this hour?”

You blink, overwhelmed by relief that floods every nerve. He’s alive. He’s safe.

“I,I had a dream,” you manage, your voice a cracked whisper. You step forward. He stands and is suddenly there, arms outstretched, anchoring you. “You were gone.”

He wraps you in his arms. His jacket smells like wood smoke and the faint tang of coffee. You push your face into his chest, sobbing. “I thought it was real.”

Joel’s hand moves to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. “Shh. It was just a dream, darlin’. I’m right here.”

His voice is a balm, low and sure. He leads you to the porch swing. The frigid night air nips at any exposed skin, but his body heat seeps through your pajamas, anchoring you in the moment.

He hands you a mug; hot coffee radiates through your chilled fingers. You sulk into the swing, letting the rhythm soothe you.

“You’re shaking,” he says, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Joel chuckles softly. “You never scare me.”

Heat blooms on your cheeks at his words. You meet his gaze, and in the lamplight, you see the way his eyes soften.

“I woke up and,you weren’t there. I thought…” Your voice catches. You look out into the yard, into the dark. “I thought you’d left me.”

He shakes his head. “Why would I ever do that? You’re stuck with me, remember?”

He nudges you playfully with his elbow. You manage a watery laugh, panic easing away. Forty-eight hours postpartum flashbacks of feral hunters, of losing Sam, of the last time half the world fell to ashes,it still haunts you. But here, in Jackson, you found safety. A husband. A home.

“Jackson’s cold,” you mutter, lifting the rim of the mug to your lips. The coffee is bitter, but you drink deeply.

“Told you you’d get used to it,” Joel teases, though his voice is tender.

“No amount of coffee will warm me up tonight.”

He leans closer. “Then get under my jacket.” He pulls yours off, tucking it around your shoulders.

You cling to him and he doesn’t let go when your lips brush his neck. In the quiet, other sounds reach you,the creak of the swing, a distant howl of coyotes, a truck’s engine low on the outskirts of town.

“Why don’t we head inside?” Joel suggests after a few minutes. “Caroline’ll kill me if she sees you freezing on my porch.”

You smile at the mention of your neighbor’s little girl, already asleep in her room. You stand as he rises, pulling you into his arms again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, one arm around you and the other balancing both mugs. “I’ll walk you home.”

Together, you trudge through the snow back to your place. His warmth sears into you, chasing away residual horror from the nightmare. When you reach the porch, Joel pauses and tilts your chin up.

“Listen to me,” he says, eyes fierce. “I am not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Good or bad, I’m yours. You’re mine. Okay?”

You nod, tears glistening. “Okay.”

He kisses you then: gentle at first, tasting of coffee and cold air, but deepening as your arms tighten around his neck. You feel rid of the dream’s shadow.

Inside, he lights the lantern on your kitchen table. The yellow light fills the room with warmth. You lean against him as he sets down the mugs and takes yours.

“Coffee’s still hot,” he points out.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I’m not thirsty anymore.”

He gives you that lopsided grin you fell in love with.

“Come here.” He beckons you to sit on his lap. You obey, the curve of his spine a cradle. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in.

“Promise me,” you say after a moment, voice small. “Promise me you’ll always come back.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear. “I promise, every damn time.”

You close your eyes, pressing your cheek to his chest. He hums an old country tune,one you heard him sing once in the garden as tomatoes ripened on the vine. His voice is gravel, rough and comforting.

The nightmare is still there, buried beneath the blankets and the dark. But here, in Joel’s arms, you feel whole again. In a world that’s gone mad, you have this: a man who fights for you, who would die for you and, by God, always come back to you.

You drift toward sleep, wrapped in his warmth and the promise of morning light. Outside, snow continues to fall, blanketing Jackson in silence. But in your kitchen, all is bright and safe.

And you know, without a doubt, that Joel Miller will always come home.

[ryebread0605]

Hey, how do you think twst housewardens would react to an afab!s/o who's into bdsm as a domme?

Oooo interesting request! I hope you enjoy!!

Riddle: 

oh my god this man LOVES that you have rules for him to follow 

He always follows them to a T, never once questioning them or pushing back on them 

Gentle sex is a must with him, he does not like it rough

Degradation is also a no go, but praise will make him a very happy boy 

Give him a pretty little collar to wear all the time and he will do it 

Thinks it’s an absolutely honor to be collared by you 

Put a chastity belt on him and he will be a squirmy happy mess

Orgasm denial is his favorite thing ever once you show him how good it can feel 

Especially when it leads directly to overstimulation 

“P-please mistress please just let me cum!” He was begging and pleading, this being the sixth time he was denied and his body desperately wanted that release. You coo’d at him before moving your hand a bit faster,

“Be a good boy for mistress and let it all out. You’ll be painting the sheets white tonight my precious boy~”

Leona:

he is a BRAT through and through

Absolutely LOVES to annoy the shit out of you just to watch you glare at him in warning 

Will often tease you with flicks of his tail 

With lions, the lioness tends to be the one to dominate and will be the one to choose their mate so Leona is used to being the submissive one

Adores when you drag him into an empty classroom to remind him who is in charge

Has had to on multiple occasions make excuses for why his wrists have rope marks

“Cmon Herbivore~ what’re you gonna do, huh?” His smirk only made you more annoyed, the warning glare sent his way sending shivers down his spine as you grabbed his arm and marched into an empty classroom. Bending him over a desk, not even bothering to shut the door, you grinned as you ran a hand down his chest while using the other hand to hold his hands being his back,

“Such a naughty little lion, perhaps you need a reminder of who is truly in charge here~”

Azul:

when he finds out you prefer to dom AND you’re into BDSM, he’s a bit nervous

He needs a lot of praise during sex but finds himself adoring soft degrading that can almost be seen as praise 

Will let you bend him over in his office no problem

Will never admit it but LOVES pain

Mark him everywhere. He needs everyone to know who his mistress is

Is it any surprise this man also likes being gagged? If you don’t gag him he will moan loud enough for the whole school to hear

Another smack rang through the air as Azul’s body jolted in shock. His rear was a bright red, the paddle imprinting the word ‘slut’ onto him with each hit. His dick was so, so unbearable hard, his hips rutting desperately into your hand as you jerked him off with one hand and smacked him with the other,

“Such a pretty little slut~ so perverted, just for me~”

Kalim: 

is SO DOWN for it

Absolutely adores when you praise him, he just wants to make you happy

Give him a command and he will instantly obey like a puppy

In fact, he adores when you call him your puppy 

Will absolutely call you mommy/mistress in public without a second thought 

Poor Jamil almost shattered a mug the first time he heard it

You will have to gag this mans cuz he is LOUD

Loves when you peg him 

Never really bratty, just wants to be your good little pup 

Overstimulate him and he will be a moaning crying smiling mess for you

“Awww look at you sweet boy~ you take mommy’s strap so well~ such a good little pup you are~” he smiled up at you, thanking you with each thrust of your hips as tears of pure pleasure ran down his cheeks,

“Think you can handle cumming again for me~?”

Vil:

he 100% will get you a modeling job for bdsm gear

Absolutely loves seeing you in leather dresses

Will let you mark him anywhere he can easily cover

On the more switch side, sometimes bratty but very rarely 

ADORES when you praise him, makes him feel so loved

Puts on non waterproof mascara just so you can watch his makeup run as you ruin him 

“My my, would you look at that~ THE Vil Schoenheit being an absolute mess for me~ how cute~” he couldn’t even respond, his mind more focused on the sensations you were providing him as he was forced to stare at himself in the mirror, his mascara trailing black lines down his cheeks and lipstick smudged beyond fixing.

“Look at you~ such a cute little thing~”

Idia:

is absolutely terrified at the concept of real life sex in general at first so BDSM? Hes hella scared

When you slowly ease him into it, however, he finds himself to enjoy it a lot

ADORES edging turned to overstimulation

Loves when he can be tied up as he then doesn’t have to wonder what to do with his hands

Same with being gagged and blindfolded, not having to worry about what to say or what to look at makes sex a lot more comforting to him 

Works with you to make custom sex toys for you to use on him such as vibrators and strap ons

Will absolutely call you mommy

“Aww sweetheart, you look so pretty all tied up~” your voice made his face, and the tips of his hair, turn pink as the darkness surrounded him. His eyes were covered by a silky blue fabric, his arms bound by the same material. In between his legs a vibrator sat attached to his leaking tip as your hand worked his shaft.

“Just remember, if you cum, you won’t be allowed to stop~”

Malleus:

doesn’t quite understand what BDSM is at first but once it’s explained to him, he is ALL FOR IT 

You want to tie him up? He will provide as much material as you want

Want to whip him? He wears those marks with pride

Is the easiest to submit, automatically dropping to his knees the second you ask him to

LOVES being the one to worship someone else for once instead of being worshipped 

“That’s it, good boy~” his tongue delved deep into your cunt, his eyes locked onto yours as your hands held his horns tight. He was extremely hard, desperate for your touch, but knew better than to ask. And with how amazing you tasted, he could probably orgasm from eating you out alone. He let out a soft whine when you pulled his head away, before quickly getting excited once again as you reached for his belt,

“Come on sweetheart, show me how a king should treat his queen~”

[moonlight-prose]

taste me on your tongue

a/n: guess who's gonna go see deadpool and wolverine again. last night i was battling a migraine, but at around midnight it finally fucking disappeared. so i wrote a small drabble that i'd been dreaming about to make myself feel better. it's short and spicy and i'm actually obsessed with it.

summary: the taste of him became an addiction you couldn't ignore. especially when he was adamant on sharing it in multiple ways.

word count: 0.8k+

pairing: logan howlett x reader

warnings: semi-explicit, shotgunning, cigar taste, make out sessions, dry humping, his hand makes a pretty necklace, good girl usage, logan is messy with it.

His grip is loose on your neck—fingers splayed across soft skin he'd bite later. Heavy enough to keep you in place, remind you what he wanted, but with enough leeway for you to move. To slide into his lap with ease—hands braced on his leather clad shoulders. A smile painted across your heavenly face; one he tried to burn behind his eyelids in the hopes of replacing his nightmares with visions of you instead.

The cigar was set between his teeth, smoke curling past his lips that mumbled your name. He half expected you to remove it—toss it into the ash tray and leave it to smolder for the rest of the night. You surprised him by pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. A pleased sigh escaped you when he pulled you closer—the evident bulge on his jeans gave enough information about what he wanted.

"Ain't you pretty tonight," he said, thumb running along your collarbone. "Get all dolled up for me baby?"

You nodded. "I wanted to meet you at the door."

"Mm." Whatever plans the two of you set flew out the front fucking window the second he saw you prancing towards him—a soft smile on your face and hearts practically reflecting in your eyes. "Prettiest fuckin' thing I've ever seen."

Your teeth dug into your bottom lip, hips shifting over his with a whine. And Logan felt his body beg him to move this along. To strip you of your clothes and drop them to the ground. He merely spread his thighs a bit wider, forcing your legs to stretch over his hips—your fingers a sharp dig through the layers he wore.

"I missed you today."

"Yeah?"

What he wouldn't give to see that look in your eyes every fucking morning. Soft enough to break his already damaged heart. Yet filled with enough love to put it back together.

"This place is empty without you Logan."

There'd never be anything sweeter than knowing he held a spot in your life. Days without him left you longing for his touch—his voice whispering in your ears. Logan felt like an anchor. A reminder that you belonged right there with him; you weren't lost in your place in the world when he existed to find you. Although whether you knew it or not—Logan felt the exact same about you.

"'M gonna try somethin'," he said, voice hoarse as he pictured what would come after this. "Hold still for me bub."

His calloused palm slid up your throat until he gripped your chin tight enough for your lips to part. Heat pooled in your stomach when he tugged you closer—his nose barely nudging against your cheek. You thought he'd kiss you like this. Still puffing on a cigar and lips tinged with the taste of it.

You almost wished he had.

The sight of his lips closing around the end, sucking in a mouthful of smoke, before he pulled it free caused your stomach to drop—the throbbing in between your legs suddenly unbearable. You wouldn't have been able to ignore it if you tried. And thankfully Logan was always adamant on giving your body the attention it needed.

The attention he claimed you deserved.

Pushing your cheeks together, he brushed his lips over yours in a kiss. A whimper climbed its way up your throat and nearly broke free. If it weren't for the smoke he blew into your open mouth—the taste of his cigar now a part of your sharp intake of breath.

"That's a good fuckin' girl," he groaned.

Giving you no chance to respond, his lips clashed against yours in a messy kiss. The smoke that remained now escaping between the two of you—disappearing into the air within seconds. His tongue licked across your teeth, spit a wet smear along your bottom lip. For the brief second he pulled away, shifting to cup the back of your neck, a string of saliva left the both of you connected.

You took it all. Each rough grunt and deep lick he gave you. And you met him with soft sighs and moans of your own.

"Can I have another?" you asked against his cheek, hips starting a slow grind against his lap.

Logan's whole body jolted at the sound—his breath, a hot pant against the skin of your neck. He was lucky he didn't finish in his pants at your question. Yet before he could give you a straight answer, he was shoving the cigar back in his mouth—pulling in another long drag to gather as much smoke as possible.

How could he deny you something so sinful? When you asked like an angel.

"C'mere," he muttered around a mouthful of smoke. Careful to keep it from escaping.

You smiled, fingers tangling into his hair, and met him halfway for the kiss. Logan felt a piece of himself settle deep into your chest—forever now a part of you.

don't look at me okay. i just want him to blow smoke in my mouth.

[heavenlybodies333]

Like a Goddamn Wet Dream - M.R.

He’d left his wand in his room after Quidditch practice—grumbled something under his breath about fucking forgetfulness and jogged back toward the dorm. The common room was empty, torches flickering low, throwing amber shadows against the walls. The door to his dorm was cracked open, faint light spilling through—you were on top of Theo, your back arched, that same silver chain glinting between your tits, catching in the sweat on your skin. Your hands were pressed to his chest, your nails dragging down his ribs as you rode him like you were in a fucking porno.

“Theo,” you moaned, long and slow, like you were tasting his name. “Fuck—right there—”

Mattheo’s breath hitched. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw clicked. He stepped forward, quiet, slow, like his body was acting without him. Like he couldn’t not look.

The door creaked open another inch.

And there you were. On his bed. Mattheo’s fucking bed.

He should have walked away. He should have stormed in and ripped Theo off you. Thrown a punch. Hexed you both to hell.

But he didn’t. He stood there and watched.

Mattheo had seen you like this before. Beneath him. But never like this.

You weren’t just fucking Theo. You were performing. Putting on a show.

And worst of all—you knew he was watching.

Your eyes flicked to the doorway. Just once. Just for a second.

But it was enough. Your mouth parted in a wicked grin as you moaned louder, like you were putting on a concert. You leaned down, whispered something in Theo’s ear, then looked back again.

Right at Mattheo.

It wasn’t until hours later, after Theo had vanished and you had stayed—uninvited, shameless, sprawled on the couch in one of Mattheo’s stolen shirts—that he finally snapped.

“You wore this for me?” he rasps, fingers trailing up your thigh, stopping just before the line of your panties.

You tilt your head, lashes heavy. “Wore it for Theo, actually. But you’ll do.”

He paced.

Ran a hand through his hair.

“You fucked him here,” he muttered, looking at the bed like it had betrayed him too. “In my bed.”

You tilted your head, your voice sugar-sweet: “You want me to lie and say it didn’t feel good?”

His laugh was hollow as he turned to you, eyes dark and feral.

“You want honesty?” he snapped. “Fine. I jerked off to it. To the sound of you moaning his name in my sheets.”

Your smirk faltered—for a second. But you recovered quick, stepping toward him, hips swaying like a weapon. “You still came thinking about me. That’s all that matters.”

He grabbed your throat. Not tight, just enough to make you pause, enough to make you feel it.

“You think you can just walk back in here and start playing games?”

“Baby,” you purr, lashes fluttering as you smirk up at him, “if you didn’t want to play, you wouldn’t be so fucking hard right now.”

He shoved you back onto the couch. You gasped, delighted, not afraid. Never afraid. He climbed over you like a storm coming in—knees bracketing your thighs, mouth hovering over yours.

“I should hate you.”

“But you don’t.”

“You cheated on me.”

You licked your lips. “I fucked someone else, Matty. Don’t water it down.”

His fingers fisted in your hair. You gasped as he yanked your head back.

“You’re insane,” he growled.

“Matty? Listen,” you said, grinning despite the bite of his grip, “I know I was a bad girl—but come on… you’d have to be crazy not to take me back.”

He stared at you, jaw clenched, whole body tense like he was debating whether to kiss you or kill you.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

And then his mouth was on yours. Brutal. Hungry. Furious.

You clawed at his shirt, dragged your nails down his chest as you ground against him. He hissed, shoved your skirt up with both hands, and dragged your panties down with a growl.

“Still wet for me?” he taunted.

“Always.”

He pushed into you without preamble. No teasing. Just punishment. You cried out, back arching, the stretch almost unbearable—but exactly what you needed.

“You missed this,” he said, fucking into you hard, fast. “You missed me.”

You pulled him down by the chain around his neck, bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“I missed your cock,” you breathed. “Not your fucking attitude.”

That does it.

Mattheo flipped you over, hand pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing your cheek into the couch as he slammed into you from behind.

“You liked making me jealous?” he gritted out, hips snapping against you.

“Loved it.”

He leaned over you, his chain dangling against your back as he bit your shoulder—hard.

He’s brutal with it. Feral. Like he’s trying to erase the memory of someone else inside you. Like he’s punishing your cunt for letting someone else in.

His fingers tangle in your hair, yank your head up so he can hiss in your ear: “Tell me who you belong to.”

You laugh, breathless and wicked. “Thought I belonged to Theo.”

He slaps your ass so hard you cry out, body jerking forward.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

You giggle like the little demon you are, even as he drags you up by your throat again, forces you to kneel in front of him as he pulls out, cock slick and furious.

He grabs your chin, forces your mouth open. “Open wider.”

You obey, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

“That’s what I like about you,” he says darkly. “So obedient.”

Then he’s fucking your throat. Merciless. Deep. You choke around him, eyes watering, nails digging into his thighs as he uses your mouth like it’s his to ruin.

He pulls out, a thread of spit and come connecting you to him.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still smiling.

“Feel better, baby?” you croon.

“I’m gonna fuck you again,” he says, voice raw. “And then again. Until you forget every other name but mine.”

You press your body into his, your thighs sticky, your grin feral.

“This pussy,” he growled, grabbing your ass so hard it left bruises, “is mine.”

You didn’t answer.

So he dragged you back, arm around your throat, fucking you with such vicious purpose your knees gave out. He held you up—like a doll, like a toy—as he used you.

He pulled out slowly, deliberately, and flipped you over again. Your body was flushed, sweat-slicked, trembling.

He leaned down, brushing your hair from your face. “You don’t get to leave me,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Matty—”

He gripped your throat again—softer this time. Almost tender.

“You leave, I’ll fucking kill him.” His eyes searched yours for any sign of defiance,“That’s a promise princess.”

“Matty…” you whispered, voice torn between a taunt and a plea.

His eyes were black with it—rage, want, something feral and bottomless. His thumb stroked your pulse where his hand still held your throat. Then he kissed you again—slow this time, “Say it,” he growled into your neck. “Say who you fucking belong to.”

You gasped, moaned, teeth clenched.

He slapped your pussy, hard.

“Say it.”

“You,” you cried. “Fuck—you, Matty.”

He grinned against your shoulder. “That’s my fucking girl.”

your whole body shaking beneath him. He followed with a growl, spilling into you, marking you from the inside out.

He stayed buried in you for a moment. Then he pulled out slowly, watching you twitch, ruined and spent.

You collapsed to your side, trembling and red-lipped, your hair a mess, mascara smudged like war paint.

He crouched beside you, one hand brushing over your bruised thigh, almost tender.

“You ever pull that shit again,” he said, voice low and calm now—too calm, “and I won’t just kill him.”

You turned your head, smirked through swollen lips. “You gonna kill me too?”

He leaned in, pressed his mouth to your ear. “No, princess. I’ll keep you alive. Just barely.”

A pause.

“I’ll make you beg for mercy you know I’ll never give.”

You laughed, breathless and fucked out.

“Sounds like foreplay.”

Mattheo stood, dragged a hand through his hair, looking down at you like a god surveying the wreckage of a temple. You were the altar and the sin.

Sighing before grabbing his shirt off the floor, slipping it on with practiced ease. Your heart dropped, he wasn’t going to stay?

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” he said, “I‘ll be back tomorrow night.”

He flicked his wand—finally retrieved from his dorm—and your clothes flew across the room, landing in a heap by the door.

You stared at them, then at him. “You said I was yours.”

“And you are,” he replied, stepping close, fingers gripping your chin. “But being mine doesn’t mean I’m kind. It means I can do whatever the fuck I want with you.”

Your jaw clenched, tears burning behind your eyes—but you wouldn’t cry. Not for him.

He kissed you once more—slow, searing before pulling away. “Next time you let someone else inside you,” he said, voice sharp and venom-sweet, “make sure you’re ready for the consequences.”

You stared up at him, tears brimming the corners of your eyes silently falling before looking down as the ground became blurry, hearing the door slam after him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: need want matty and theo at the same damn time

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 13: "The one with the day after" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The aftermath of your night with Frankie isn’t what you expected—and maybe that’s not a bad thing. As you settle into this new rhythm, your thoughts rearrange themselves somewhere between interruptions, selfies, and a lingering cold. WC: 15.6k

A/N: Let's breath. You said you liked the long chapters—so here’s a long one. I hope you enjoy it; this one’s for my spicy girlies <3 Thank you for all your comments—I read every single one, even if the notifications don’t always hit my inbox and I take a while to reply. It means the world that you're enjoying this story, I absolutely enjoy writing this!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Frankie reached out, his hand brushing against the cool, empty space next to him. His fingers lingered there for a moment, as if the sheets might give something back to him —some sign you were still close. But you weren't. He opened his eyes, squinting toward the doorway. His heart gave a small, restless lurch.

He called your name. No answer.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. That uneasy feeling—the one that curled bitterly at the edges of his stomach—started to creep in. The light felt too harsh, too loud. He closed his eyes against it, squeezing the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to overthink.

Then: the sound of a door closing softly. Barefoot steps brushing against the hallway floor.

You appeared, standing there like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Hair loose, face bare and fresh, wearing only the white T-shirt he had thrown you the night before and the red panties he could still vividly remember sliding down your legs. 

"Hi," you said, your voice hushed, touched by sleep. You smiled, and for a second the sunlight caught the edge of it, made it look almost golden. You crawled back into bed, curling onto your side to face him.

Frankie dropped onto his back again, turning his head toward you, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

"I thought you'd left," he said.

You reached out, running your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"No," you said. "I just went to wash my face." Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. "I hate waking up with makeup still on."

He tipped his head slightly toward your touch, hungry for it without realizing. "Did you find anything useful in there?"

"Not really. But I had makeup wipes in my bag."

He huffed a quiet laugh, something easing in his chest just watching you. Your face looked softer, almost unbearably tender, and maybe he could have resisted reaching for you—but he didn’t want to. He didn't have to. He pulled you into him, your body tucking against his like you belonged there.

For a while, he drifted. He wasn't entirely sure if he had fallen asleep or just let himself hover somewhere close to it. You were still there when he opened his eyes again, your breath brushing against his bare chest in steady, even puffs.

Frankie leaned down, pressing a light kiss against your cheek. You smelled so good. Warm, familiar, sweet. It wasn't perfume. It was just you.

"Hey," he said, voice low and a little rough, "you still want to try that coffee I told you about?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "That would make me really, really happy."

And Frankie thought: good. Good, because he was already thinking of ways to make you stay.

“Hey,” you said, just loud enough to pull his attention back to you. Frankie turned his head, his gaze landing on you.

You pointed toward the piece of furniture in front of the window, your finger aimed precisely at the object sitting on top.

“You do have a lava lamp,” you said, a grin spreading across your face.

He looked over, then back at you, his mouth already pulling into a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling, his voice a little raspier than usual. “Yeah, I do. It's old, my dad gave it to me when I was like twelve.”

Fifteen minutes later, Frankie was standing in front of you, watching you like he was waiting for some verdict that might change the course of his day. He had placed a cup of coffee in your hands barely ten seconds ago, his fingers brushing yours briefly, intentionally or not.

You took a sip and then closed your eyes, tipping your head back.

“Yes,” you said, with a soft, satisfied sigh.

You didn’t say anything else.

Frankie arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “Yes? That’s it?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, lifting the cup again to your lips, the corner of your mouth curving into a smile.

He let out a short laugh, cradling his own mug loosely between his hands. He tilted his head a little, as if studying you from a new angle.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm and teasing.

You turned your head to look at him fully, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated suspicion before giving him a flirtatious grin.

“Sorry,” you said, tapping his bare stomach lightly with your fingertips. “I was busy savoring it.” You gave a small shrug, playful, self-assured. “It’s amazing. I never thought I’d say this, Francisco, but you were right.”

There was a tiny pause, a hitch in the air between you. Frankie stepped closer. He thought of something clever to fire back, something to match the spark you lit in him so easily, but the words never quite made it to his mouth.

Instead, he set his coffee down on the counter without looking away from you, then reached for your face, cupping it between his hands. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, grounding him more than they grounded you. Your eyes caught his like they had no other choice.

He kissed you, and it wasn’t rushed or impatient; it was simply inevitable. His lips found yours with a kind of easy certainty, the world narrowing to the soft, tender pressure between you. His hands slipped down to your waist, fingers pressing into your hips.

You fit against him so naturally. The thin fabric of the shirt between you did little to hide the way your body warmed his skin.

You lifted your arms, looping them around his neck, and the kiss deepened instantly, a small, involuntary sound vibrating from your throat into his mouth. It rattled something loose inside him.

It was ridiculous, honestly, how easily you could unmake him. How one sound, one kiss, could turn his blood into something reckless.

There had always been a part of Frankie that stayed careful, measured — even with the people he loved, even in the bright, stupid recklessness of his twenties. Lust had always been something he could control, contain. It never unraveled him like this.

But with you, it was different. With you, there was no polite distance between desire and need. No moment of standing still, thinking better of it.

Apparently, he was the kind of man who lost his mind over a kiss. The kind who forgot how to breathe when your hands touched the back of his neck. The kind whose body wanted things long before his mind had time to catch up. The kind who felt a desire bigger than his own body. 

And maybe, today, he didn't mind at all.

Frankie pushed you against the counter, his hands finding your thighs easily, lifting you in one smooth movement until you were perched at the edge, your legs parting instinctively to fit around his hips. Your breath caught as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers sliding down his abdomen like you couldn’t help yourself.

"Let's do it again," you said, a wicked glint flashing in your eyes. It wasn't even a suggestion.

Frankie laughed under his breath, a sound more strained than he meant it to be.

"What?" you teased, the innocence in your voice barely covering the hunger underneath. "You told me to use my words, didn't you?"

He smiled at you, or at least tried to. The expression faltered slightly as he felt your hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. His body went tight with anticipation.

"Yeah, I did say that," he murmured, voice low against the side of your neck, his teeth grazing the sharp line of your jaw. His hands tightened briefly on your thighs. "Then tell me, baby. Tell me what you want."

He could feel it in the way you shivered against him —the way you responded to being asked, like it made you braver.

"I want to feel you," you whispered, your fingers stroking the back of his neck, playing with the soft curls there. "I want to have you in my mouth."

Frankie pulled back enough to see you clearly, the way the sunlight poured over your features, the way your pupils were blown wide with desire.

"And then," you said, your voice breaking slightly on the next words, "I want you to fuck me. Like you mean it. Like you know exactly how bad I need it. Tell me, have you thought about it?"

He went quiet for a moment, letting your words sink in. They sounded strange in his mind, coming from you—words he never thought he’d hear you say. It felt odd, hearing you say something like that about him. And yet, the feeling passed almost as quickly as it came, slipping through the cracks before he could hold onto it.

He decided, almost instantly, that he liked the sound of your voice like that. So he smiled, lopsided and undone, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

"Sometimes," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "I forget how goddamn good you are with your words." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Now show me what else that mouth of yours is good for."

You bit your bottom lip, smiling against his skin, before sliding off the counter, sinking to your knees in front of him. The sight of you like that —willing, gorgeous, utterly unbothered by the fact that he was already shaking inside— knocked the air from his lungs.

Frankie rested one hand against the counter to steady himself and brushed the other along your cheek, the gesture reverent even as the tension between you grew unbearable. You weren't looking at him. Your focus was entirely on the task in front of you, on your fingers curling around the band of his boxers and easing them down, revealing just how ready he already was for you.

He could see it in your eyes, too — the same raw need tightening his chest, threading through his veins.

Your hand wrapped around him and began moving, measured and excruciating, and Frankie had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, letting the pleasure override whatever guilt or hesitation might have still been clinging to him.

When you flicked your tongue over his tip, he opened his eyes immediately, refusing to miss a second of it. You looked up at him, smirking a little, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him —and maybe you did.

He didn’t care. He was too far gone to care anymore.

You leaned in, your mouth hovering just above him, watching his reaction closely. One hand steadied you on his thigh, the other moving with cruel, perfect precision. Frankie tangled his fingers in your hair, less to guide you and more because he needed something — anything — to hold onto.

Then, you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, the heat of you making him curse under his breath. When you pulled back, dragging your lips over him, he almost said it — almost told you to take your time—but he caught himself just in time.

He knew you didn’t want instructions. You didn’t need them. You knew exactly what you were doing—and you were going to ruin him with it.

Your mouth moved with increasing certainty, every shift of your lips, every glide of your tongue drawing Frankie deeper into the kind of pleasure that made rational thought impossible. Your hand stayed at his base, fingers firm, your grip confident and perfect, squeezing just enough to make him shudder under your touch. Your mouth was so warm around him it almost hurt, like the heat itself might undo him.

His eyes caught yours —bright, sharp, impossibly dark—and you didn’t look away as you adjusted the rhythm, your own need matching the urgency rising between you. Frankie dug his fingertips into the edge of the counter, grounding himself there, every muscle in his body pulling taut like wire.

"You're so beautiful," he choked out, the words escaping without permission, barely more than a rasp between the uneven breaths stuttering out of him.

You pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet sound that made his stomach tighten even more. You stroked him once, twice, your fist gliding slick over him, before licking your lips, messy and unbothered. Drool shimmered on your chin, a bright thread against your flushed skin, and without missing a beat you grabbed the hem of his white T-shirt — the one you'd slept in — and wiped your mouth with it.

Frankie thought he might die right there, from the sheer brutality of how beautiful you looked.

There you were: cleaning yourself with his shirt like you were scrubbing away any lingering innocence he might have imagined clung to either of you. He felt wrecked by the sight, by the effortless way you ruined him without even trying.

When you leaned forward again, flicking your tongue against him in a teasing stroke, something in him snapped. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling you back, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"Stand up," he ordered, his voice low, cracked open by need.

You obeyed immediately, the quickness of it making his blood roar. Maybe there were some commands you didn’t mind after all.

The second you straightened, Frankie caught your mouth with his, the kiss messy and insistent, hands greedy as they mapped the curve of your hips, the soft weight of your ass. He hoisted you onto the counter again like you were weightless, like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

Kicking his boxers off his ankles without even glancing down, Frankie’s hands found the hem of your shirt —his shirt— and pulled it over your head in one swift movement, tossing it aside.

You leaned back on your hands, chest lifting with every breath, eyes half-lidded and glittering as you watched him.

Frankie pressed his mouth to the side of your neck, kissing the skin there hard enough to leave a mark, breathing you in. He moved lower, tasting the slope of your collarbones, the soft, sensitive skin along the tops of your breasts. You smelled like soap and sweat and him, and he didn’t know if he wanted to worship you or devour you whole.

Maybe both.

He paused, just shy of kissing the spot where your skin begged for it.

"Shit," he muttered, voice thick with frustration, eyes squeezed shut like he could will away whatever was clawing at his mind.

You stiffened under him, fingertips sliding up to the back of his neck. "What? What's wrong?"

Frankie opened his eyes, looking at you like it physically hurt him to pull away.

"I'll be right back," he said, peeling himself off your body like it required an impossible effort.

You sat up straighter as he backed toward the hallway. "Frankie, what is it?"

"I'll be back, don't move," he called over his shoulder, already halfway gone.

Frankie wasn’t a man who prayed. Not really. But in that moment, he would’ve dropped to his knees and begged whatever god was listening to let there be a condom left somewhere, anywhere. Preferably in the nightstand.

He yanked open the drawer, heart hammering, scanning the cluttered mess. Empty. He clenched his jaw.

He knew it, he had known it —last night he'd used the final one, and had briefly, irrationally, thanked the universe for his own foresight. But hope was a stubborn thing.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath, slamming the drawer shut.

He checked the bathroom too, frantic now, rifling through shelves like maybe he had forgotten a secret stash. Nothing.

It wasn't like he could even blame himself. His sex life had been non-existent for months, maybe more. There had been no reason to keep a stockpile.

Still, he cursed himself the whole way back to the kitchen.

And then he saw you.

Still perched on the counter, wearing nothing but those tiny red panties, your hair messy, looking like some fever dream he'd conjured.

You smiled when he came back into view, and reached for him.

"I—" he stopped just in front of you, feeling like an idiot. "I don’t have any more condoms."

Your smile faltered, a tiny ripple of disappointment crossing your face.

"Oh."

"We can—" he started, fumbling, desperate to not lose the moment.

"I'm on the pill," you cut in, calm, your hands brushing down your bare stomach to rest lightly at your hips. "And I’m clean. If you want—"

"You sure?" he blurted out, faster than he meant to.

You bit back a laugh.

"Yes, Frankie. I'm sure."

Frankie exhaled, a short laugh shaking through him. "Well, I’m clean too."

"Yeah, I figured," you teased, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and bright.

He kissed you back properly, this time with both hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish.

Your panties shifted under his touch, and you lifted yourself without hesitation, letting him peel them off and toss them aside, forgotten.

“I’m naked, running around my house, and you’re laughing at me,” he said against your lips, amused.

You smiled, light catching your teeth, and he kissed you again, tasting the laughter on your lips.

Your hands roamed — over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his chest — while he lifted one of your legs, resting your heel on the counter, the other leg draping over his shoulder like you belonged there.

"Don’t think just because I like you that you’re getting special treatment," you murmured.

Frankie grinned against your mouth. "I don't expect it."

He cupped your waist with both hands, steadying you, anchoring himself. He would need every ounce of control he had left to survive this.

Carefully, he shifted his hips closer, the thick head of him brushing against you, and you broke the kiss to watch — to actually watch — as he started to push inside you.

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening, and Frankie thought, incoherently, that he would never forget the look on your face right then, not if he lived a hundred years.

His hips began to move, cautious at first, almost like he was testing the strength of what was happening between you.

Frankie watched where your bodies met, watched the way you grew slicker each time he pulled away and pushed back in. It was hypnotizing, enough to make his mind empty out completely.

Your breathing was ragged, the sound of it filling the kitchen, and when you looked up at him, your pupils were wide and glassy, lips kiss-swollen and parted like you couldn’t catch enough air.

He felt something coil tight in his chest — something reckless and unfamiliar — and it unnerved him, but not enough to make him stop.

A low moan slipped from your mouth, almost involuntary, and you threw your head back, exposing the long line of your throat.

Something inside him broke apart.

Frankie moved faster, driven by the sight of you unraveling right in front of him, by the noises you made every time he pushed deeper.

The room filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, wet and urgent, with your breathing getting sharper, quicker, and the soft, almost desperate cries you couldn’t hold back anymore.

He crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that felt like it might actually leave bruises. When you bit his bottom lip as he pulled away, he made a low, broken sound in the back of his throat.

"Those fucking sounds you make," he said roughly, his voice cracking apart as his pace became more reckless, more wild, the sound of his hips meeting your body growing louder.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching him like you were afraid he might disappear, leaving shallow half-moons in his skin.

Your heel slipped from the edge of the counter but Frankie caught you without hesitation, grabbing your leg and hitching it over his hip, tugging you flush against him.

The new angle had you gasping, your body shuddering beneath his, every nerve ending lit up, and he could feel you trembling as he buried himself inside you again and again.

Little broken sounds escaped your mouth every time he moved, high-pitched and involuntary, and when you pushed forward abruptly, there was a sharp gasp of pain.

"Ouch," you whimpered, your forehead resting briefly against his shoulder.

He paused, instincts cutting through the haze in his mind.

You had bumped against the edge of the counter.

Frankie's hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a rare, tender gesture.

"Shit, sorry," he whispered, kissing your temple, his chest tightening at how small you felt against him in that moment.

Without any warning, Frankie slid you off the counter, catching you easily when your legs buckled under the weight of what you'd both been doing.

He noticed it right away —the way you trembled, your knees brushing against his as you tried to steady yourself.

His hands found your hips again, grounding you, and he turned you around. One hand smoothed down your spine, tracing the curve of your back like he was committing it to memory, until he reached the small tattoo just down there. His thumb pressed into it, soft and possessive, and he felt you shiver in his hands.

He pushed you forward, guiding you until your palms and stomach flattened against the counter. With his knee, he nudged your legs apart, shifting you into place like you were the only thing in the world he knew how to handle right now.

For a second, he just looked at you —took in the sight of you bent over, waiting for him, the muscles in your thighs tense, your back arching into the air. He swore under his breath, almost undone by it.

Frankie lined himself up behind you and slid back inside with a breathless curse, gripping your hips tightly enough that he wondered if he'd leave bruises.

It didn’t take long for him to build back the rhythm he needed, the sound of your bodies clashing filling the kitchen, raw and chaotic. You made a noise —high and desperate— and the sound shot through him like an electric current.

"I want to see you," you gasped, shifting, pushing yourself up so your back pressed against his chest.

His hand moved instinctively, skimming up your belly, palm flattened over your ribs, then higher, gliding over your breasts with reverence he wasn’t sure he deserved.

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, and he saw it —the way your face was flushed and open, like you were unraveling right there in his arms.

His fingers slid up to cup your jaw, holding you there, forcing you to keep looking at him. You moaned, louder this time, your body tightening around him as he moved harder, each thrust pulling another broken sound from your throat.

Your right arm reached up blindly, finding the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

Frankie’s breathing grew ragged, his movements growing uneven, messy around the edges.

Your voice broke the air —a soft, involuntary "yes," barely louder than a breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut, too overwhelmed to look at you, but your words clung to him, dragged him closer to the edge.

"I know you're close," you whispered, voice low and certain, like a secret only you were allowed to know. "I can feel you."

He kept one hand firm on your jaw, anchoring you to him, while the other slid down your front, his fingers finding the delicate spot between your legs with practiced ease. He felt the way your body trembled, the way you clung harder to his arm, your nails pressing into his skin.

"Francisco," you whispered — the way you said it, almost broken in two.

"I know, baby," he breathed out against your hair, voice fractured, helpless.

You fell apart then, a choked cry leaving your mouth as your body caved against the counter. Frankie moved instinctively, pushing you down gently, bending you at the waist in front of him.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice uneven, broken slightly by his own ragged breathing.

You didn’t answer—didn’t even seem to hear him, really. You were somewhere else entirely.

“Baby,” Frankie said again, softer this time.

“Huh?” You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes hazy.

“Where do you want it?”

You blinked, and for a second, he thought you might not reply. But then you said, “I—I, um, inside,” the words barely more than a whisper.

“You sure?” 

You didn’t say anything this time. Just let out a soft, aching sound and closed your eyes again, your body answering for you.

His hands gripped your hips like he might lose himself otherwise, thrusting into you with a desperation he couldn't contain anymore, every nerve in him strung tight and burning.

He threw his head back when he felt you clench around him, his heart hammering, the sounds falling from your lips driving him straight over the edge. The air between you was a collage of broken moans and harsh breathing, bodies colliding over and over.

His rhythm faltered as he felt himself giving in, gasps tearing from his throat as his climax crashed through him. Frankie kept one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other bracing your waist, and he pulled you back into him as the last shudders rolled through his body. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the damp skin of your neck, like he could somehow say everything he felt without speaking at all.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The aftershocks hummed through your bodies, your breathing slowly beginning to settle.

When he finally pulled out of you, he caught sight of the mess between your thighs, evidence, and his stomach twisted painfully with a kind of wild affection he wasn’t ready to think about.

"Stay here," he said, voice rough, thumb tracing your spine. "Don't move."

He stepped away reluctantly, running a hand over his face as he made his way down the hall.

His heart was still pounding, his blood still running fast and bright in his veins, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that it was over.

He found a towel, wiped his face, then brought it back for you.

You were waiting exactly where he'd left you, eyes hazy and mouth pink from kisses. He cleaned you up carefully, then leaned in to kiss you, soft and slow.

"I really need a shower," you said, your arms looping lazily around his neck.

He smiled and nodded, feeling like he'd just survived something that might wreck him all over again if he wasn’t careful.

Frankie watched you lower yourself onto the sofa. Your hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and you were dressed in his clothes— a black cotton T-shirt and pijama shorts. You dug around in your bag, pulled out a lip balm, and applied it with absent-minded precision, your eyes unfocused, as if your mind was somewhere else entirely.

The phone on the coffee table vibrated sharply, breaking the fragile stillness. You picked it up, thumbs moving lazily over the screen, typing something you didn’t seem particularly interested in.

Frankie lowered himself onto the cushion beside you and switched on the TV, stretching his legs out, one hand resting lazily against his stomach. He could still feel the heavy satisfaction of breakfast sitting in his gut.

After the shower, he'd made another pot of coffee because the first one... well, had gone stone cold. So you had sat at the kitchen table across from him, eating breakfast with a kind of quiet, ravenous focus that made him strangely tender toward you. You chewed through a piece of toast, staring at it longer than necessary, like you were solving a puzzle only you could see.

Now, he was warm and half-asleep, the room around him vibrating gently with the television’s glow. He ran a hand through his hair — still faintly wet — and yawned into the back of his wrist. His thumb pressed idly against the remote, flipping through channels without focus until something made you shift beside him.

"Oh, leave that one," you said, tossing your bag behind you carelessly and setting your phone face-down on the table.

Frankie hesitated, glancing at the TV. It was Friends, some old episode he half-remembered from a lifetime ago.

He was about to make a joke about it when he felt your hand, warm and light, pressing into his ribs. He turned his head toward you, and found you already looking at him, your mouth twitching.

He gave you a crooked smile. "I— I don't know if I can do it again yet—"

"What?" you cut in, your voice high with amusement, a real smile stretching across your face now. He blinked at you, bewildered, for a second too long. "I'm trying to get you to lie down so we can watch TV," you said, laughing. "What the hell did you think I meant?"

Frankie exhaled a short, embarrassed laugh and glanced away, scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh," he muttered. "Right."

You let out another bright little laugh and pushed at his shoulder until he slid down the sofa, stretching out lengthwise, his body heavy and pliant under your hands.

You climbed in beside him, nestling into the space between his arm and his ribs like it was made for you. As you adjusted, you squeezed his arm, teasing.

"What?" you said, grinning. "Tell me, Francisco. What were you thinking just now?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, smiling without looking at you, his eyes darting back toward the TV.

"So smug," you muttered, laying your head against his chest, draping your arm over him. "You're letting it go to your head, aren't you?"

He snorted, shaking his head in mock defeat.

"I just misunderstood you," he said.

"I didn’t even say anything," you pointed out, still laughing under your breath. "I just touched you."

"Yeah," he said, "but you're full of surprises, aren’t you?"

"Mhm. Sure. Whatever you say." Your hand played idly with the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging and smoothing it down again. "Right now I'm just full of toast and coffee. And very, very sleepy."

You let out a breathy sigh, your voice low and easy now, sleep already threading into it.

"Don’t let me pass out, okay? Emma’s leaving at eight. I need to be home before two."

Frankie made a low sound of agreement and slid his hand up into your hair, his fingers moving through it slowly, carefully. On the TV, the canned laughter echoed through the room.

He thought about how strange it all was, but also how strangely right it felt. As if this had been inevitable, written into the way things had always been, even though he knew, deep down, that wasn’t true. It hadn't always been this way, and pretending otherwise would only make the conversations you were eventually going to have even harder. Conversations about last night. About this morning. About the impossible weight of it all, sitting on his chest like something too large and too familiar to ignore.

He knew it wouldn’t be about admitting anything — there was no point anymore in telling you he liked you, that you made him feel every difficult, beautiful, complicated thing a person could feel. That part was obvious. It had bled through the spaces between you without needing to be named. But the rest of it — the consequences, the questions neither of you had the courage to ask yet — still blurred at the edges of his mind, a mess he wasn’t ready to sort through.

There was one thing, though, that he understood with perfect clarity: he didn’t regret any of it. Not a second. No matter how messy it could get.

It wasn’t as if this had happened out of nowhere. God knew he had thought about it — about you — for the last two weeks with a stubborn persistence that bordered on cruel. He buried himself in work, in meaningless tasks, anything to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind elsewhere. Hell, he even tried to quit smoking. But every night, without exception, you returned. You slipped into his mind at the edges of sleep, no matter how tightly he tried to close the door against you.

Sometimes the pull to reach out was unbearable. To call you. To show up at your door with takeout and ask you to put on one of those movies you were always talking about. He'd picture it sometimes — your bare feet on the coffee table, the way you’d laugh, the way you’d look at him when you weren’t trying to be careful. But every time, the same thought stopped him: maybe you didn’t want that. Maybe you needed space after what had been said between you.

And then there was Bill.

Frankie had known from the beginning what might happen. Santi had mentioned you were spending more time together for work. It seemed inevitable. A matter of days, maybe weeks, before something shifted between you and Bill in a way it hadn’t with him. It would be easier that way. Cleaner.

He should have let it happen.

But when Emma started listing all of Bill’s perfect qualities at the bar last night, something inside him recoiled. It was pathetic, the way he sat there, wanting to vanish into the cracked leather of his chair, knowing he couldn’t compete, knowing he shouldn’t even try. You deserved simple. You deserved someone who didn’t make everything harder.

Still, somehow, against every better instinct, he had stood up from the table. Some invisible thread tugging him, pulling him toward something he didn’t even understand yet. He didn’t wait for you to appear next to him, didn’t expect you to. And he certainly hadn’t prepared for what came next — for the look in your eyes, for the quiet, reckless thing in his own voice when he asked if you wanted to leave with him.

As if the choice had already been made. As if some part of him — some deep, stubborn part — had been choosing you all along anyway.

On the TV, Ross was grinning, his too-white teeth catching the studio lights.

Don’t fall asleep, Frankie thought, his mind sluggish. Stay awake.

He let his eyes close for just a second.

Just... a... second.

The sharp sound of the doorbell dragged him out of it. He blinked hard, his whole body protesting the movement, the heavy pull of sleep still thick in his limbs. You were draped across him, completely still, your breathing steady and soft against his chest.

He stretched one arm out toward the coffee table and fumbled for his phone. 1:45 p.m.

Shit.

You’d both been asleep for over an hour.

The doorbell rang again. Frankie shifted carefully, easing out from under you, doing his best not to wake you. You made a small sound but didn’t stir beyond that, your face slack with the kind of deep sleep that only comes when you stop fighting it.

Frankie padded toward the door, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. His body felt too warm, too heavy, like he'd been underwater. He peeked through the narrow curtain hanging by the window.

His heart slammed hard against his ribs.

Santi was standing outside, looking right at him through the glass, raising his eyebrows like he was in on some joke Frankie didn’t know he was telling.

Frankie backed away from the door instinctively, putting more distance between himself and the window.

"Uh, just a minute," he called out, his voice cracking slightly.

Without thinking, he hurried back toward the sofa, panic crawling up his throat. He hoped — prayed — that from the porch Santi couldn’t see anything, couldn’t piece together what had just happened, what he was about to walk into.

He crouched beside you and pressed his hand lightly to your shoulder, whispering your name once, then again.

You didn’t wake.

"Shit," Frankie hissed under his breath, glancing nervously over his shoulder toward the door.

He touched you again, a little firmer this time. You stirred, blinking at him with a foggy, confused expression that made his heart twist.

"Santi’s here," he murmured urgently.

You sat up immediately, your whole body jolting into awareness.

"What?" you said, your voice still rough from sleep. Your hair was messy and dry now.

Frankie handed you your phone, practically shoving it into your hand. "Go to my room. Now."

Without waiting for more, you clutched the phone to your chest and disappeared down the hall, moving quicker than he'd ever seen you.

Frankie exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he made his way back to the door.

When he pulled it open, Santi didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped inside like he owned the place, brushing past Frankie without hesitation. Frankie shut the door behind him and trailed after him into the living room, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and dread collecting under his skin.

"You look good," Frankie said, trying to sound casual. His voice felt like it caught a little on the words. "I figured you'd still be nursing a hangover."

"It's all appearances," Santi said, waving a hand as he dropped heavily onto the sofa, his body landing with a thud. "Inside I'm dying."

Frankie let out a short laugh and slumped down next to him. "You're old."

Santi tilted his head back, laughing properly now, the sound low and easy. "You're not exactly a spring chicken either."

Frankie shook his head, smiling despite the tightness gathering in his chest. Santi clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.

"Anyway," Santi said, stretching his arms out in front of him, "I came by to see if I could borrow your mower."

"You’re telling me you dragged your hungover ass across town at nearly two in the afternoon for a lawn mower?"

Santi shrugged, completely unapologetic. "You said it yourself, man. I'm old. I like my lawn neat." He made a vague sweeping gesture with his hand. "And besides, you're the only one of us responsible enough to actually own a functional mower."

"What happened to yours?"

"Engine’s toast. It’s dead. Beyond saving."

Frankie nodded, letting the tension in his shoulders ease a little. "Yeah, no problem. You don’t have to ask."

Santi gave a quick nod of thanks, his eyes drifting lazily across the room. He went still after a second, his gaze catching on something, next to him.

Frankie followed his line of sight.

His stomach dropped.

Santi was looking at the bag — a deep red one with a little silver star keychain dangling from the clasp — sitting right there, between them, like a fucking silent confession Frankie hadn’t thought to hide.

Santi’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Wait a second," he said, his voice light, teasing. "Are you... with someone right now?"

Frankie blinked, his brain stumbling over itself. "Huh?"

Santi nodded toward the bag. He didn't look suspicious, only amused, but that didn’t make Frankie feel any better.

"I, uh…" Frankie cleared his throat, searching for something neutral to say. "Yeah," he managed, aiming for casual. It could be anyone’s bag. It didn’t have to mean anything. Maybe Santi wouldn’t recognize it. God, he prayed Santi didn’t recognize it.

Santi grinned, slapping him lightly on the thigh as he pushed himself off the sofa.

"Man, you could’ve said so. And I'm here interrupting. No wonder you ghosted last night."

Frankie’s face burned hot. He scrambled up too, his hands finding his hips in a nervous, restless gesture. A laugh — shaky and a little too loud — broke from him.

"Come on," he said quickly, spinning toward the door like there was nothing unusual about any of this. "I’ll get you the mower."

Santi followed him out without another word, the two of them stepping into the afternoon sunlight. When Frankie handed over the mower, Santi just grinned at him, that same mischievous glint in his eyes, and winked before climbing into his truck.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to.

Frankie stood there for a moment after the truck pulled away, the hum of the engine fading, feeling like his heart was still lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You waited until you heard the front door shut and counted a few seconds, standing there barefoot in the stillness of his room. Then you stepped out.

In the living room, Frankie was slouched on the sofa like his body had folded in on itself. His head tilted back against the cushions, one arm thrown over his eyes like he couldn’t bear the light, or maybe the moment.

“Hey,” you said, your voice quieter than usual as your feet padded across the floor.

He didn’t respond right away. You sat in the armchair next to the sofa, knees angled slightly toward him.

“What happened?”

He exhaled. Slowly, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasped. His eyes found yours.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

You gave a small shrug. “Just that he came to get a mower. Then I couldn’t hear anything. You started whispering.” You paused, tilting your head. “Why? What was it?”

Frankie shook his head, one short motion, like he wanted to shake it all off. “He asked if I was with someone.”

You blinked. “And what did you say?”

“That I was.”

“Francisco—”

“He doesn’t know it was you,” Frankie interrupted, waving one hand loosely in the air. “He thinks it was someone from the bar.”

“You told him that?”

“No. He assumed. I just... didn’t correct him.”

“Oh.”

You folded your arms, your gaze drifting to the coffee table between you. There was a stain near the edge of it—maybe old coffee, something long dried. You stared at it for a moment like it might hold an answer.

When you looked back at him, his face had shifted—like something inside him had turned heavier. He wasn’t meeting your eyes anymore.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently. Your voice felt different coming out of you—quieter, less certain.

He pressed his lips together and nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just feel weird about lying to him. It’s not sitting right.” He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes scanning your face like he might find some relief there. “It doesn’t feel good.”

“I know,” you said softly. You leaned back in the chair, resting your hands on your thighs. Your fingers toyed with each other, knotting and unknotting in your lap. “It doesn’t feel great to me either.”

Frankie reached up, scratched the back of his neck. His mouth parted slightly like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

You let a few seconds pass. Then you said, “You know we’re not doing anything wrong, right?”

Your voice was quiet, but steady. He looked at you again.

“We’re adults, Frankie,” you continued. “And we’re not hurting anyone.”

“I know we’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, leaning back into the cushions like he was trying to make space between the two of you, physically if not emotionally. His hand swept through his hair, raking it back, then falling to his lap. “But still—he’s my best friend. I know him. And I’m telling you, without a doubt, he wouldn’t want me anywhere near you like this.”

You tilted your head, a crease forming between your brows. “Like what? He spent years trying to get us to be civil. I imagine he’s just relieved we finally figured out how to be in the same room without yelling.”

Frankie let out something like a laugh, but it didn’t land—more of a breath that twisted in his throat, the edge of a smile flashing and then fading before it could mean anything.

“Yeah,” he said. “He wanted us to get along. As in, be polite. Exchange basic human niceties without biting each other’s heads off. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely between you, not even bothering to name it. “Not sneaking around. Not ending up in each other's beds.”

You gave a short, thin smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Right. Because I forgot I was supposed to ask for his approval before sleeping with you.”

He groaned, your name low and exasperated in his mouth, dragging a hand over his face like he could rub the tension out of his skin.

“Come on,” he said, looking at you now. “I know you don’t agree with what I’m saying, but can you try—just try—to understand where I’m coming from?”

His hair was a mess now, sticking up in every direction. It made him look younger.

You didn’t answer right away. You let the silence open up between you, a long breath of distance, before responding.

“I do see,” you said finally, your tone clipped but not cruel. “Your best friend showed up at your house, and meanwhile his sister was hiding in your room after having sex with you. It’s awkward. I get that. Of course I get it.”

Frankie looked at you, then down, his gaze landing on your hands like they held something he couldn’t figure out. He inhaled again, deeper this time.

“But you think I’m making it into a bigger deal than it is,” he said. “You don’t think it really matters.”

“That’s not true,” you said quickly. You shook your head, almost defensive. “That’s not what I think.”

“Be honest with me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes drifted to the far wall like you were trying to find a neutral place to anchor your thoughts. A few hours ago, everything had felt light. Easy, even. Now, it was as if someone had flipped a switch and nothing felt simple anymore.

“We’ve had this conversation. I do understand what you’re saying. But I think you keep framing it like something catastrophic has happened. What exactly did you do wrong? You were nice to me. You’ve been sweet with me. What’s so terrible about that? If I like it—and I do—what’s the harm in you liking me back?”

Frankie was quiet for a second, eyes still on you. Then, voice flat but not cold, he said, “Let’s just say you’re right. Even then—it wouldn’t matter. He still wouldn’t want someone like me getting involved with you.”

You blinked. Your expression shifted.

“Someone like you?” you asked, eyebrows lifted. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with you?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression thoughtful but not entirely present, as if part of him had already begun pulling away. You could sense it—the quiet, almost imperceptible construction of a barrier between you. Not cruel. Just protective. Defensive.

“He knows me better than anyone,” Frankie said. “He’s seen the worst of it—every stupid thing I’ve done, every time I’ve blown something up that I cared about. He’s my brother. I know he loves me. But don’t think for a second that he wouldn’t want something better for you,” he added. “He knows what I’m still trying to fix. No matter how much he cares about me, don't fool yourself—he’d still want more for you.”

You let the silence stretch out for a beat.

“I think you’re confused,” you said calmly. “What makes you think he gets to decide what’s good for me? What I want, what I need—that’s not his call to make. That’s mine.”

Frankie exhaled and tried to respond, but you cut him off before he could get the words out.

“No,” you said. “And I don’t understand why you’re acting like this now, after last night? You let yourself feel something for five minutes and now one knock on your door and you're back to default mode.”

“It’s not like that. It isn’t.”

“It looks exactly like that,” you said. “You told me we should have boundaries. Then you kissed me and then you didn’t speak to me for two weeks. Two full weeks. You acted like you’d made peace with that decision, like you were fine with keeping your distance forever.”

He didn’t answer. 

“Why did you ask me to leave the bar with you last night?” You asked, voice louder.

“What?”

“Why, Francisco?”

He stared at you, his jaw set, confusion mingling with something harder.

“I wanted to be alone with you.”

“Why?”

He pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing at them like the motion might bring clarity.

“What do you mean why? Because I like being with you.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter now. “But you have my number. You know where I live. If you wanted to be with me, you could’ve shown up literally any other time. You waited until we were all sitting there, until we were surrounded by the people we’ve been hiding this from. You barely even looked at me the whole night. Like just being seen near me was risky. And then Bill comes up, and suddenly you stand, and next thing I know, you’re asking me to come with you.”

Frankie looked at you like he wanted to protest but didn’t know where to start.

“I...I don’t know,” he said, his voice caught somewhere between honesty and deflection. “It just happ—”

“Do you want to know what I think?” you interrupted, and your voice trembled near the end of the sentence. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just watched you, his eyes heavy with waiting. “I think the rules we agreed on, the distance you kept, felt perfectly reasonable to you. Until you thought there might be someone else.”

“That’s not true,” he said instantly, a little too quick.

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t know wha—”

“Then tell me!” Your voice cracked, not from anger, but from something more fragile.

“I just... I'm sorry,” he said, his voice rising, cracking under the weight of it. “I just know that last night I needed to be near you. And I didn’t know how to stop that.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, the words hitting you harder than you’d expected. There was a pause, one neither of you filled.

Then you said, “Yeah, well. That turned out to be one hell of a mistake, didn’t it?”

“It wasn’t a mistake for me,” he said, his voice clear and steady. His eyes didn’t move from yours. “Not for one second. I don’t regret it. Not last night. Not this morning. Not crossing that line with you.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. You blinked up at him, and the heat behind your eyes was instant, unforgiving. Tears clung to your lashes, not falling yet, just gathering, making everything shimmer.

“Then what are you doing?” you asked, your voice firm, but uneven at the end. “You’re constantly contradicting yourself. You say one thing, then act like none of it matters. You look like it’s killing you when Santiago comes up. But then you turn around and say you don’t regret any of it. So which is it? What are you going to do?”

“I just—” he exhaled hard, his posture faltering. “I don’t want to lose anyone.”

“You’re not going to lose him.”

He didn’t answer, not right away. His mouth opened and closed again. You could see the words catching behind his teeth, whatever truth he had trying to find a way out.

“And if you’re really this scared of Santi’s reaction,” you added, the edge still sharp in your voice, “then maybe you don’t know your best friend as well as you think you do.”

“I—”

“Or maybe this is just easier for you. Maybe it’s more comfortable to hide behind all this guilt and fear than to just say what you want. Because honestly, I don’t think you’ve thought about any of this without trying to put a label on it first.”

Frankie dropped his gaze, like he was following some invisible thread unraveling at your feet. The silence between you stretched, but it was not tense. When he looked back up, his eyes had softened.

He held out his hand, palm open, fingers curling slightly in a wordless invitation. You watched his hand for a moment, deciding. Then you placed yours in his, your fingers slipping between his like it was muscle memory.

He gave a gentle tug and you rose, knees brushing his. In one fluid, practiced motion—like he’d done it in a dream a hundred times—he drew you into his lap. His arm came around your waist, the other finding your wrist, thumb resting in the hollow there like he was memorizing your pulse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. His gaze didn’t waver this time. “This… it’s new to me. And I keep stumbling through it. Especially when it comes to Santi. It messes with my head. Makes everything feel strange.”

“I’m not exactly in the right place for any of this either,” you said, your voice low but steady, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, it’s over between me and Harry. Fully, completely. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for this.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “You think this is easy for me?”

“Then what do you want?” he asked. His voice was quieter now. “Do you even know what you want out of this?”

You looked at him, and your throat went dry. The question made your mind turn to static. You didn’t answer right away. There were too many things happening in your head at once, and none of them felt solid enough to touch. But something in you clicked toward honesty, maybe because it felt like anything else would be pointless.

“I don't. I’m just as scared as you are,” you said finally, your fingers touching his arm. “I don’t have it figured out. But I know I feel good when I’m with you. I feel safe. And I didn’t expect that. Not with you, of all people.” You gave a small, startled laugh, as if the truth of it surprised you even now. “You understand me in ways that... I don’t know. I didn’t see it coming.”

You inhaled deeply, searching for your next words.

“I don’t know if I can define what this is right now. It’s too soon for me to wrap it in a neat explanation. But I know I want to live whatever this is without pretending it’s not happening. Without tiptoeing around it. I just don’t know if you’re ready for that. And I... I can see how much this is weighing on you,” you said, your voice quieter now, as though afraid too much volume might crack something between you. “I don’t want to be the thing that adds more weight. I don’t want to be something you have to carry around like guilt.”

His response came fast, too fast, “You’re not. God, you’re not. You’re not making anything worse.”

“Maybe that’s what you want to believe but something about all this is getting to you. What happened didn’t feel wrong to me,” you said, almost in a whisper now. “Not for a second. But a few moments ago? The way you looked at me, like you were already trying to undo it in your mind... I hated that.”

Frankie nodded, the motion subtle, like he was still working through the shape of his thoughts. His gaze dropped to your lap, settling there. He stayed quiet for a few breaths, and you didn’t push him.

When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“That’s not how it happened in my head,” he said, eyes still not meeting yours. “I swear, it wasn’t— I don’t regret this. Not even a little. It wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment thing. I had time to think, to think about you. Two weeks, actually. And I used them.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and understated, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to show it yet.

You felt something light bloom in your chest. “So you thought about me?”

He gave a short, almost embarrassed snort. “Just a little.”

That made you laugh, a warm sound that belonged entirely to this version of the two of you—this strange, unfolding thing neither of you had a name for yet. You leaned in, your hand finding the familiar line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your palm. His skin was warm. You kissed him, your mouth brushing his like you’d done it a hundred times before, like it didn’t still terrify you a little. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you in with a quiet urgency, like he needed to feel more of you, like just the kiss wasn’t enough.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were on you now. Alert.

“Don’t overthink it, okay?” you said, your voice softer now.

He nodded again, this time without hesitation, and kissed you once more—quick, grounding.

“We’re just pretending, after all,” you murmured against his mouth.

He smiled.

When you opened the door, Emma didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at you, really looked—her eyes dragging slowly over the length of you, from your shoes to the crown of your head. Her gaze lingered on your face for a beat too long before she finally spoke.

“No way,” she said, sitting up straighter on the couch, clutching Mr. Darcy to her chest like he might need to hear this too. Her expression flickered—shock first, then glee. “You look criminally guilty right now.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, ears burning. A giggle escaped your lips, light and uncontrolled, almost like someone else had let it out. Embarrassment was a warm thing in your throat.

You told her everything. Naturally. Or, well—almost everything. The version with soft edges and edited scenes. Not for lack of trying on her part; she asked pointed questions, raised her eyebrows, made dramatic gasping noises until you were both doubled over in laughter.

Her excitement was instantaneous. She got so animated that her own cheeks flushed, her hands moving as she repeated things back to you in disbelief. But when the laughing ebbed, when the story was laid out like puzzle pieces between you, she reached for your hand. You let her take it.

“But you know you can’t rush into this, right?” she said, quieter now, as if saying it too loudly would tip everything over.

“I know,” you replied, your voice softer too. You leaned back into the couch. “We talked about it, in the car. It was—god, it was a whole conversation. I told him I didn’t want this to spin out before we even knew what it was. I said I’d write him sometime this week.”

Emma didn’t even blink. “Right. You’re going to write him tonight.”

You laughed immediately, half out of horror, half out of recognition.

“I’m not!”

She gave you a look, all sharp humor and affection, her lips pulling into a knowing smile.

“Yes, you are. You’ll pretend it’s casual. Something cute. Like a question about flight times or—what, turbulence? You’ll make it sound logistical.”

“I’m not that transparent,” you said, nudging her with your shoulder. “Besides, I saw him this morning. I’m trying to be chill. I’m maintaining mystery.”

Emma snorted. “Babe, any mystery you had died sometime between last night and sunrise. Pretty sure there’s no going back after someone’s seen you naked and sweaty and probably begg—”

“Oh my God, Emma.”You groaned, burying your face in your hands. 

When you finally uncovered your face, you looked at her—still flushed, still warm, but smiling now.

“I’m not calling him. I’m not writing him,” you said. “We agreed to talk later in the week.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, eyes glittering with mischief. “Which means you’ll call him tomorrow. Monday. A whole new week.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I won't!”

You didn’t. You didn’t need to. Because the next morning, while shelving a stack of biographies alphabetically—something that should have been soothing, or at least numbing—your phone vibrated in your pocket.

You wanted to believe you could’ve waited. That you could’ve finished straightening the line of uneven spines, wiped the thin film of dust from a few neglected covers, completed the task like a well-adjusted adult. But you didn’t. Not even close.

You fished your phone out of your jeans in a practiced, clumsy movement, nearly knocking over a memoir about mountaineering. The screen lit up in your hand. A message. Of course it was from him.

A photo.

Frankie.

It was a selfie, taken from a slightly awkward angle, like he’d held the phone low, somewhere near his chest. He was wearing those dark aviator sunglasses you’d teased him about once, and a pair of heavy headphones—the kind with the padded ear cups and the mic curving toward his mouth, like he was narrating something important from the sky. Behind him, the cockpit of a small plane blurred into view—wires and dials and sky outside the glass. His expression was technically serious, but you could see it, just at the edge of his mouth: that crooked thing he did when he was trying not to smile.

His hair was a mess. It looked soft, too, falling in uneven tufts over his forehead like he’d run a hand through it and then forgotten to fix it. Below the image was a single line of text:

Think about adding ‘flying lesson’ to your bucket list.

You smiled. Not thoughtfully, not hesitantly—your face just did it, all at once, without asking permission. The kind of smile you feel in your ribs. It was stupid how easy it was.

You typed back:

[You]: I will. Let me know if you know anyone good at it <3

[You]: Are you working right now?

You slipped the phone back into your pocket, or tried to. It buzzed again before your hand left the fabric.

[Francisco]: I know a guy

[Francisco]: And I’m not texting while flying, if that’s what you’re asking.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened a little anyway.

[You]: Okay. Let me think about it.

Read.

You stood still for a moment in the middle of the aisle, the dusty silence of the bookstore briefly folding in around you like a blanket. Then another buzz.

Typing…

Typing…

[Francisco]: Do you have anything to do tonight?

That afternoon, after locking up the bookstore and folding the security gate down with both hands, you walked three blocks to the supermarket and wandered through the aisles like someone with all the time in the world. You bought candy. Frankie had once mentioned, offhandedly and with a shrug, that he liked gumdrops and chocolate-covered peanuts. So you found both, holding the bags in your hands for a beat longer than necessary. 

Later, sometime just after eight, he showed up at your door holding a greasy paper bag that smelled like heaven. Burgers, fries, something carbonated in two cups with plastic lids and too much ice. He grinned when you opened the door and held up the food like an offering. 

You ate at the kitchen table, your knees bumping occasionally under the wood. No music, just the soft ambient sound of the refrigerator humming in the background, and Frankie making you laugh. He told stories about his coworkers, about mishaps during training sessions, the absurd things people said on radio calls, or when one of them once dropped a walkie-talkie in a porta potty and tried to fish it out with a wire hanger. And you found yourself leaning forward with your chin in your hand, smiling like someone on a first date. But this wasn’t a date. This was Frankie.

After dinner, the two of you migrated to the couch without really discussing it. The overhead lights were off, the living room soaked in the amber hue of the table lamp. He picked the movie—Christine, some weird eighties horror about a car that could think for itself and kill people. You rested your head on a pillow at one end of the couch and stretched your legs across his lap, trying to act casual about it. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you caught him resting his hand lightly on your ankle at one point, his thumb tracing a mindless shape there.

By the time the credits rolled, your mind had moved away from the film entirely. You could feel your heart beating in your throat. The idea had crept in during the last twenty minutes—quiet at first, then louder: Should I ask him to stay?

It was ridiculous, maybe. Or maybe not. You’d slept at his place once... Yeah, you did. He’d crashed at yours, too, drunk after a wedding. But both times had been circumstantial, convenient, semi-justified by context. This would be different. This would be you asking for something. You inviting him in, not out of necessity but because you wanted him there. With you.

“I should get going,” he said, cutting into your thoughts with the calm certainty of someone who hadn’t just thrown your internal world into chaos. He stretched his arms over his head, the hem of his T-shirt lifting just enough for your eyes to catch skin. He turned to look at you, his smile soft, almost apologetic.

“Already?” you said, glancing at your phone. 10:23 p.m. You looked back at him, not quite hiding your disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But I had a really good time.” He reached for your chin, touching it gently, his thumb brushing your skin. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“Oh,” you said, quieter than intended.

For a second, it felt like he was going to kiss you. The way his body turned toward you, the quiet tension in the air between you—it was almost unmistakable. But then he looked away, instead fixing his gaze on Mr. Darcy, who was perched sleepily on the armchair like he was the one responsible for chaperoning the evening.

A few minutes later, you were walking him downstairs. You opened the front door and he stood on the threshold, one hand braced casually against the frame, his eyes soft in the dim porch light. You thought he might say something else, but instead, he just looked at you for a long second, and then—

He kissed you.

His hand came up to cradle your face, warm and certain. His lips were soft, unhurried, the kiss full of something quieter than urgency but no less intense. You reached up, your fingers brushing the back of his neck, and he leaned into you—deeper, steadier. One of your hands found his chest, the other resting lightly against the fabric of his jacket. His hand was at your waist now, grounding you.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes met yours—deep brown, coffee, the kind of color that turned darker at night, pupils wide in the dim light. You could feel your own breath catching.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back a little, as if needing more room to explain. “Oh, I won’t be around this weekend. We’re going to Boston—me, my mom, and Mai. Going to see Luna. Henry’s not feeling great. He’s been having a rough time, I think.”

“Oh no, what happened?”

“They’re not exactly sure. Or maybe they are and Luna’s just not telling us everything yet. It’s all kind of recent.” His gaze shifted off to the side, then came back to settle on you again. “She’s the oldest. She gets this way sometimes. Like it’s all on her to manage. Doesn’t always let us in.”

You nodded. “That must be hard. Being far away.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “I wish we were closer. I’ve been wanting to spend more time with Jamie too. At first, the trip felt like it might be... intruding? Like we’d be in the way. But then my mom said Luna actually asked us to come. And I dunno, something about that made me want to go even more.”

“When do you leave?”

“Friday morning.” He nodded once, almost to himself, then glanced at you again, studying your face like it calmed him somehow. “I was thinking—when I get back, we could pick up where we left off with your list.”

You smiled. “I’d love that. Which item?”

“That’s up to you. What do you feel like doing?”

You tilted your head, squinting slightly like you were concentrating very hard. Frankie laughed.

“All right,” he said. “You can tell me when I’m back.” His smile lingered as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “You’ve got time to think it over. Or add something new.”

“I will,” you said, grinning now.

He started walking backward toward his car. “But I’ll see you before I go, right?”

You leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“You can’t shake me off that easily anymore.”

You laughed. “Good.”

The week passed quietly, the days folded in on themselves—work, errands, evenings spent helping Bill—and you didn’t really register their passing. Everything felt muted, like background music playing at low volume. You were content to let it be that way.

On Tuesday, Bill showed up at the bookstore just before your lunch break, holding a cappuccino in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.

“Coconut cake,” he said, placing it carefully beside your laptop. “Thought maybe you’d want to come to dinner tonight. Julie’s been asking.”

You said yes before really thinking about it. 

He lived just ten minutes from the you, in a two-story house that looked like it had been loved for a long time. The porch light blinked once when you rang the bell, then glowed steady, casting a soft yellow halo over the front steps. Inside, the floors creaked under your feet in a way that felt more like a welcome than a warning. The rooms were layered in warm colors—muted greens, soft terracottas—and every surface had their touch: a worn mug left on a windowsill, stacks of books arranged without order, a half-burned candle that still smelled faintly of pine. A dog named Arthur, the size of a small bear, greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who truly believed you’d come just to see him.

Julie took your hand and tugged you through the house, her voice spilling out in quick, enthusiastic bursts. She showed you Bill's room, then her's—pausing reverently by a shelf of books to point out her favorites. Meanwhile, Bill moved around the kitchen, tossing garlic into a pan, stirring something thick and fragrant. He poured you wine without asking. The food was really good. Not just passable or “dad good.” Actual, proper, you’d-pay-money-for-this good.

The night stretched on without effort. You laughed, a lot. And the more time you spent with Bill, the more clearly you saw what people loved about him. He was kind in a way that felt active. Intentional. He listened when you spoke, remembered things you’d only said once. He was an excellent father—that part was undeniable—and probably an even better friend. Whatever Emma or Santi thought they saw, you didn’t feel it. There was no subtext in his glances, no lingering pauses or suggestive remarks. If he harbored some quiet affection for you, it wasn’t the kind that asked to be noticed.

You asked yourself if maybe you were missing something. If you were brushing past a nuance you ought to catch. But no. You were a good reader of people—better than most. You’d known when others were pretending not to want things. Bill didn’t strike you that way. He simply liked having you around. And you liked being around him.

On Wednesday, Frankie texted you mid-morning: Dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up.

He picked you up at eight, punctual. He asked what you felt like eating, and you told him to choose. You meant it, too—you didn’t want to make decisions that night. You wanted to see what he thought you’d like.

He drove you to a grill, the kind of place you wouldn’t have looked at on your own. Inside, it smelled like smoke and rosemary and something vaguely citrus. The lights were and made everything feel slightly warmer. It was, really good. The food was better. He ordered for both of you after checking if that was okay. You said yes before he could list the options.

You spent nearly two hours there, not in a hurry, not really aware of the time at all. People who worked there knew him—not just nods of recognition, but real, easy conversation, the kind you only fall into when someone has been showing up for years. You liked watching that version of him: at ease, occasionally distracted by someone calling his name. You liked seeing what the world looked like when he was inside it.

When you left, the air was colder than you remembered. You pulled your sleeves over your hands as you walked to the car.

In the driver’s seat, he turned toward you but didn’t start the engine.

“You wanna come to my place?”

You looked at him. His voice had wavered just slightly when he said it.

He added, “To spend the night, if you want.” Then glanced away, and back again. “No pun intended.”

You laughed, because he looked genuinely unsure for a second.

You didn’t mind, either way. If he had a motive, you weren’t in the mood to dissect it. You might’ve had one too.

“That sounds good,” you said. “But I should swing by my place first, grab a few things. That okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a little smile, already reaching for the gearshift.

When you got back to your apartment, he walked in behind you. He stayed by the couch, crouched beside Mr. Darcy, who purred so loudly it almost sounded fake. Frankie scratched behind his ears and didn’t rush you. He just stayed there, one hand still on the cat’s head, while you tucked a few things into your bag and closed the windows for the night. Before leaving, he pressed a soft kiss into Mr. Darcy’s fur and whispered something you didn’t quite catch.

At his place, you ended up on the sofa with a movie playing—something neither of you really paid attention to. Your legs brushed a few times, but nothing happened. Eventually, your eyes began to flutter closed, and Frankie noticed before you did.

“Want to go to bed?” he asked, like it was a real question.

You nodded.

But once you lay beside him, the sleep slipped out of reach. Your mind went suddenly alert, wide open. The awareness of his presence just inches away took up all the space. Not in a tense way, but in a heightened one. You stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, barely breathing.

Just a week ago, you weren’t even speaking to him. You’d wondered what he was thinking, where he went when he disappeared into himself, and whether any of it had anything to do with you. The space between you had felt like something structural, something permanent.

Now you were lying next to him, your body relaxed, as if this had always been a possibility. As if there hadn’t been days—weeks—of restraint and awkwardness and keeping track of how long it had been since you last made eye contact. Somehow, without really noticing it, you’d stepped past all of that. And this? This felt absurdly easy.

And it wasn’t like anything outrageous had happened. He’d invited you to stay over, and maybe something more would happen, but even so—it didn’t feel dangerous. It felt like something between a joke and a dare, playful, not overwhelming. There was nothing unraveling inside you. You weren’t spiraling. And it was... nice.

He shifted beside you on the pillow, turning just enough to catch your expression.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Frankie asked, his voice dipped in amusement. “You’ve got those eyes. Crazy eyes.”

You blinked. “What? I do not.”

“You do,” he said, grinning now. 

You laughed, moving toward him instinctively, resting your cheek against his chest. You angled your head to look up at him, your chin pressing into the fabric of his T-shirt. His hand found the small of your back, easy and grounding.

“Call me crazy again and see what happens,” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

He widened his eyes in mock fear. “Oh no. What are you gonna do, eat me?”

“Worse.”

“I’d honestly like to see that.”

You kissed him. Just a brief press of your lips at first but it didn’t stay that way. Your tongue teased the inside of his lip, and he let out a low sound that vibrated under your cheek. His hand tightened on your waist, then slid lower, anchoring you to him. You lifted your leg over his hip, instinctive and teasing. His breath caught, and when you reached down between you, pressing over the fabric of his clothes, he hardened against your palm with a quiet, involuntary groan.

You smiled against his mouth.

Then, without warning, you pulled away. Your leg slid off him. Your hand retreated. You rolled onto your side and adjusted your head on the pillow, your back now facing him.

“Good night,” you said lightly, amused by your own cruelty. You smiled into the darkness, knowing full well he couldn’t see it.

He didn’t respond right away. You could feel his hesitation, feel the shape of his attention still focused entirely on you. The heat of it.

A few seconds passed.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice lower now, like he’d sunk into the mattress. “Good night.”

You heard the faint rustle of the sheets as he turned behind you. And then everything went still. Except your heart, which hadn’t quite settled yet.

Ten seconds went by. Nothing.

Another ten. Still nothing.

You stayed where you were, wrapped in the kind of silence that starts to feel personal. You didn’t say anything. Not yet. You wanted to see if he would break first. He didn’t.

Finally, you shifted, sitting up.

“Mhm. Sorry—it’s kind of warm in here,” you said lightly, like the heat had crept up on you. “Do you mind?”

Frankie turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.

“I can turn up the AC. Or grab the fan?”

You shook your head, smiling, already tugging at the toes of your socks. “I’m good.”

You peeled them off, one by one, and tossed them beside the bed. Then your fingers found the waistband of your pajama shorts. Without hesitation, you slid them off and flung them toward the far side of the bed—his side. You didn’t look to see where they landed.

Lying back, you stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t moved. His back was still to you. Either he was very committed to pretending not to notice, or this was his idea of restraint. You watched the curve of his neck for a moment, the edge of his jaw. You let a smile creep onto your lips.

Then you took the hem of your T-shirt in both hands and pulled it upward, lifting your hips to free it from under you. As it passed over your head, you felt a light breeze—barely there—touch the new skin exposed to the room. You balled the shirt loosely in your hand and tossed it, purposefully, to land just in front of him.

Still nothing.

You sighed like you meant it, settling again on your side, back turned to him, your eyes falling shut with calm.

A few seconds passed. The mattress shifted behind you.

Then you felt it—his hand, warm and cautious, settling lightly on your waist, fingertips barely skimming your skin. His chest hovered just out of reach.

His voice landed beside your ear. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

You shrugged, eyes still closed. Said nothing. Made no effort to face him.

And then—without warning—he yanked you toward him with a single, fluid pull, his hand firm at your stomach, his body suddenly pressed against yours. You gasped, surprised, and then let out a laugh that broke in the middle.

He was laughing too, quietly, into your neck. His hand moved up, steady, his palm resting just under your breast, his thumb brushing the curve of it like it was an accident.

His mouth found your shoulder. He bit you gently, just enough to make you squirm. Then he kissed the spot, soft and maddening.

“Would you look at that,” he murmured. “You’re ticklish.”

His voice vibrated against your skin.

You twisted a little in his grip, breath hitching.

“Not fair,” you said, your voice muffled.

He grinned into your shoulder. “I’m not trying to be.”

You reached back without thinking, your fingers threading through his hair, guiding him closer. Your head tilted, cheek brushing his as you glanced over your shoulder. It was dark, not pitch black, but muted—just enough moonlight slipping through the window to see his face. His eyes were the clearest thing about him, steady and unblinking, watching you.

Then his hand moved. First, it skimmed across the softness of your stomach, his fingertips tracing lazy shapes on your skin, like he was getting reacquainted with it. You felt his breath at your shoulder before his mouth found it, his lips moving upward along your neck, mapping the curve of your jaw before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss was patient, unpressured.

He slipped one arm beneath you, anchoring himself to your ribs, pulling you closer so your back rested snug against his chest. The press of his body made something flutter low in your belly.

And then his other hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers parting you gently, brushing between your folds. You breathed against his mouth, the sound fragile, instinctive. He circled your clit with the same quiet focus, like he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere, just happy to be here. The sensation bloomed across your body, sharp and tender. You arched against him, seeking more, feeling the firmness of him pressing against the curve of your ass.

Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers continued, moving in tight, even circles. Every nerve in your skin lit up, your nipples tightening in the cool air, your body reacting in ways you didn’t have to think about. Frankie exhaled behind you, uneven, his hips shifting closer. He pressed himself against you like it was involuntary, like he couldn’t help it. You pushed back into him, greedy for the friction.

Then, with a low sound in your ear, he guided one finger inside you.

You gasped, your hand tightening in his hair.

“This from the tickling?” he murmured, amused, voice rough and almost hoarse, as if speaking cost him something.

You let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back toward him, guiding his mouth to yours again. His kiss was messier now, more open, his tongue coaxing yours as he slid a second finger inside you. He moved them with precision, pressing into the spot that made you keen softly, his palm catching against the base of your clit with every stroke.

The pressure built in waves, your hips moving in small, instinctive motions, trying to follow the rhythm he gave you. He was fully hard now, pressed flush against you, and your whole body was humming, breath shaky.

Then, without warning, he withdrew his hand.

Your mouth parted, confused—but he didn’t leave you hanging long. He kissed you again, soft and sweet and then just a little smug.

“Open,” he said, his voice low and sure.

You obeyed.

He slipped his fingers into your mouth, and your tongue met them willingly, curling around the taste of yourself, tasting the salt and heat of what he’d done to you. He watched you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You didn’t look away.

He liked the way you looked right then. And you liked that he did.

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, he brought them to his own without thinking, like tasting you was a kind of instinct he couldn’t resist. Just a second—then he was reaching for the drawer beside the bed, fingers brushing quietly through whatever else was inside before he found what he needed. He set the condom on the table, its presence casual but charged—he bought more, you thought—and began undressing with a calmness that made you ache.

You slipped your panties down your legs, kicking them to the floor before lying back into the same position, your cheek resting against the pillow, the sheets cool under your skin.

You heard the sound of the foil tearing behind you and then the mattress shifting under his weight as he came back to you. You rolled slightly onto your side to meet him, propping yourself up on your elbow. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a second like he was grounding himself, then slid his arm beneath you and drew you close, the contact warm and comforting.

His other hand moved your neck, fingers settling gently at the base of your skull, thumb grazing your throat. He kissed you in little fragments—several short, breathless kisses that weren't feel hurried.

You could feel him nudging at your entrance, his body flush against your back. You ran your hand across his arm, your palm pressed over the muscle of his forearm, and held on as he began to push inside you.

It was different this time. Not rough, not wild—just something else entirely. Every thrust was measured, grounded, like he was trying to feel everything, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of you. And for some reason, that made it hit deeper. It wasn’t just physical—it was intimate in a way that made your chest tight.

He moved into you with precision, hips meeting yours again and again, his pace unshifting but strong, the repetition making your whole body throb. You closed your eyes. Let your head fall forward. You could feel your pulse between your legs, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers.

His mouth found your shoulder, then your back, kissing a line down your spine in between thrusts. When he bit gently at the skin just below your neck, you let out a sound you hadn’t meant to make. He kissed the spot in apology or affection—you weren’t sure which.

There was no chaos in this. No rush. Nothing pulling you away. It felt like the only thing in the world was his body against yours, his hand holding your waist.

You breathed in deeply, not to calm yourself but to hold the moment a little longer.

Because for the first time in a long time, you felt entirely unguarded—like being touched by him was not something you needed to analyze or defend against. It was just good. Good in the kind of way that didn’t demand anything else from you.

You pressed your hips back against him, and he let out a soft, fractured breath near your ear. And everything inside you felt like it was finally allowed to let go.

The week slipped in quietly.

Frankie left early Friday morning. He sent you a picture from the plane—a blurry shot of the wing against an overcast sky, a coffee cup in the frame. He didn’t write much with it, just a short caption and a little airplane emoji. Still, it made you smile. 

You spent the weekend indoors, your body still weighted by a lingering cold that made everything feel just slightly out of reach. Reading gave you a headache, so you let yourself drift between reruns of half-forgotten reality shows and movies you’d seen a dozen times. You dozed through some, watched others with a kind of passive affection. You stayed in pajamas longer than you meant to. You ate soup from a mug. It was quiet. Not unhappy, but not particularly anything.

On Sunday afternoon, Frankie texted to say he was staying in Boston for a couple more days. He didn’t elaborate. You asked about Henry, and he replied that he was doing fine. Just that. It wasn’t that you expected more, exactly—it was just that something inside you had already started picturing his return. You didn’t realize how much you’d been counting on that until it slipped a little further out of reach.

On Monday, you stopped by Bill’s to pick up a coffee. The light outside the window was pale and wintry, even though it was barely autumn. You closed the bookstore early—not because you had to, but because your head was still pounding slightly and your limbs felt heavy. You told yourself it was just residual exhaustion. Nothing serious.

When you got home, Mr. Darcy greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t seen you in weeks. He hopped onto the couch and pressed himself against your leg like a loyal, if slightly overzealous, nurse. His version of affection included a surprising number of claws. At one point, he kneaded your arm so hard you winced, but you didn’t push him away. You just scratched behind his ears and told him he was forgiven.

Santi came by on Wednesday, despite the message you'd sent that morning insisting you felt fine. He showed up mid-afternoon with a brown paper bag in one hand, a crumpled plastic bag of medicine in the other, and a look that said arguing would be pointless.

“I’m staying for a few hours,” he said simply, stepping past you into the house. “Just enough to take care of you. Like the excellent big brother I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled anyway.

You curled up together on the couch, a shared blanket over both your legs, and watched reruns of That '70s Show. At one point, your head tilted against his shoulder, and you stayed that way for a while, letting your eyes trace the patterns in the ceiling or the soft flicker of the TV screen.

But then his breathing changed and when you glanced up, you found him dozing. His chin tucked slightly toward his chest, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.

You smiled. Gently, you shifted away from him, pressing your fingertips against his arm as you moved.

His eyes flew open, confused and almost startled. He blinked at you, disoriented.

“You fell asleep,” you whispered, amused. “That’s all.”

He sat up straighter, rubbing his face and stretching out with a groan.

“Ah. Sorry. This couch does things to me.”

You stood, gathering the empty mugs from the coffee table.

“You can stay if you want,” you offered, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Thanks, but I should probably head out. Yov’s waiting for me.”

You nodded, catching the way his posture changedas he prepared to leave. He moved slowly down the hallway, announcing casually, “I need to pee.”

You stayed in the kitchen a while longer, rinsing out the mugs and placing them neatly on the drying rack. Mr. Darcy was weaving around your legs in tight little figure-eights, purring.

Santi reappeared beside you, looking a little less tired. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “I feel better.” You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “I told you, I wasn’t even that sick.”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the fridge.

“You say that every time. You always downplay it. You act like it’s wrong to admit when your body needs rest.”

“No, Santiago,” you said, drying your hands and heading back toward the living room. “You men just dramatize everything. I still remember that time you had the flu and acted like the world was ending.”

“Because I was dying,” he called after you.

“You had a fever,” you shot back. “Not the plague.”

“I felt really bad,” he muttered behind you, the faint sound of his steps following yours to the door. “And for the record, the flu can be deadly.”

You paused, turning back just enough to shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Yes, I know,” you said. “But you still exaggerate.”

Santi let out a short, unbothered laugh as he picked up his keys from the ceramic bowl in the foyer. And you stepped toward the coat rack and reached for his jacket, a puffy black thing he insisted on wearing regardless of the actual temperature. You handed it to him wordlessly.

He raised an eyebrow but took it from your hand anyway, his smile softening. You opened the door and stepped halfway out, but he didn’t follow. When you looked back, you saw he was still in the doorway, not moving, eyes fixed on something next to him.

You stepped closer to him again. He didn’t speak, just lifted his hand slowly, pointing toward the coat rack. You turned, following the direction of his gesture.

Your bag. You’d hung it there last night without thinking, and the little keychain attached to the clasp, the silver star with a tiny scratch on one side.

Santi reached out and touched it with the tip of his index finger. 

“Nice bag,” he said, low.

“Uh, thanks,” you said, softly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. He didn't.

Then, he gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he stepped past you, finally heading out.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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