03230

[03230]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 3

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Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 3.3k+

Note: Oh my goodness thank you everyone for the kind words!!!!! I'm literally dying. Also if you're a programmer irl pls tell me if i sound like a boomer trying to write gen z slang. i also only did programming in school

xxx

The next two weeks blur into a rhythm I didn’t expect to find so quickly.

George and I fall back into sync like no time has passed. We have late-night conversations over leftovers, arguing about whether I should care about FIFA (absolutely not), whilst sitting too close on the couch without noticing. There’s an ease to it that’s both comforting and dangerous.

I find myself slipping back into old habits: stealing his hoodie when mine’s still damp from the wash, knowing exactly how he takes his coffee without having to ask. He still hums when he’s concentrating. He still leaves all the cupboard doors open like a gremlin lives here. It’s so familiar I almost forget how unfamiliar everything else is.

Chris and Arthur are new. I’ve never lived with them before, and the dynamic is still a little strange. Chris has a habit of narrating his thoughts out loud in the kitchen, and Arthur plays obscure indie music at volumes that feel vaguely confrontational, but they both seem genuinely nice. There’s a friendliness to them that doesn’t feel forced, just unpolished.

We don’t talk much beyond casual hallway chat, but I get the sense they’re good people. I’m still figuring out the rules of this new house: who uses which mug, whether it’s okay to steal someone’s oat milk, how long is too long to leave laundry in the machine. I tread carefully. It’s not mine yet.

I still haven’t unpacked properly.

My large suitcase lies half-open in the corner like it gave up halfway through. Every morning I rummage through it for something vaguely clean and wrinkle-free, and every night I promise myself I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I haven’t even begun to properly make space for myself yet. The best I’ve managed is rearranging a few things, so now I’m wedged between an unused exercise bike and a stack of old cardboard boxes labelled “wires??” in George’s handwriting.

I’ve discovered my cot sags in the middle. not dramatically, just enough to feel slightly tragic. I can’t decide whether to invest in a real bed now or wait until I have a flat of my own. I’ve saved over a hundred listings online, but I just can’t be bothered yet.

The room is not uncomfortable, just temporary. Everything about the space feels borrowed. Like I’m squatting in someone else’s life, waiting to see if I’ll be allowed to stay.

Instead of sorting out the mess of my personal life, I throw myself into work. Jira tickets and Slack threads are less complicated than the awkward limbo I’m in with George. And honestly, they feel like a better use of my energy than trying to figure out why I don’t quite feel like a real person yet.

The team at work are fine, in that aggressively polite British way where you can’t tell if they actually like you or if they’ve just been trained not to sue each other. I learned quickly who hoards the good coffee, who talks through every stand-up, and who has been very quietly dating the guy from DevOps for six months. The intern calls me “Miss Australia” like I’m some sun-kissed coding goddess. One of them asks how many snakes I’ve seen in my life. I say five. I make it sound casual even though it’s closer to zero.

In the evenings, I rewrite documentation just for the illusion of control. I start colour-coding my IDE themes. I spend an absurd amount of time making sure my folder structure is “aesthetically intuitive.” It’s easier to worry about whether my code is legible than to wonder whether George Clarke ever got over whatever it was that stopped him from liking me all those years ago.

Because sometimes I catch him looking at me like nothing’s changed. Like we’re still nineteen and in that stupid flat with the peeling wallpaper and the leaky bathroom and the futon we used to share when people stayed over. But then he blinks and it’s gone, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it.

Or if I just want to.

Life is just a bit weird right now. Not bad, exactly, just strange. It’s like that moment when you’re driving down the highway and suddenly realise: oh god, this is it. This is your actual life. Not a practice run or the bit before the plot kicks in, just the middle of the story, already happening. Emails and meal prep and laundry and pretending to understand council tax. Meanwhile, other people are out there getting engaged, starting companies, running countries. And I’m wondering if I can justify a full tank in a 2001 Toyota Corolla.

God, I miss that car. It wheezed like it had asthma and smelled like spilled iced coffee, but it was mine. Familiar. Predictable. I knew exactly how it handled on a sharp turn.

Here, nothing feels quite nailed down. Like I’m trying on someone else’s routine and hoping no one notices it doesn’t belong to me. I keep thinking real life is about to start any minute now, once I get settled or unpack or buy actual furniture. But this is it. The job, the cot, the too-quiet mornings and my severe lack of friends that I'm not harbouring a deranged crush from. I’m already waist-deep.

I just haven’t figured out how to feel real inside it yet.

xxx

One evening, I’m lying on my cot, doomscrolling through flat listings in Shoreditch. Spoiler: I can’t afford a single one. Cramped studio after overpriced shoebox blurs past my screen. Somewhere in the living room, the boys are talking. Chris’s voice bouncing off the walls, Arthur chuckling, George quieter as always.

I get up, thinking I should try to be social, or at least civil. They’re practically nocturnal, and I’ve barely exchanged full sentences with them. But just as my hand touches the doorknob, I hear my name.

“Ella’s actually really pretty, isn’t she?” Chris says, like he’s surprised by his own observation.

There’s a pause. Its brief, but loaded. Then George: “Don’t.”

Just that. One syllable, sharp as glass. No laughter. No explanation.

I freeze. A chill curls up the back of my neck. Chris lets out an awkward laugh, mutters something I can’t quite make out, probably a joke, probably nothing. I slip my headphones back in like I didn’t hear a thing. But I did.

And now, I can’t stop replaying it.

The way Chris said it, So offhand, so casual, like he was commenting on the weather. The way George responded, fast and instinctive. One word. Don’t.

My stomach twists in that old, familiar way. What did I expect? A denial? A laugh? Maybe a 'Yeah, she is'? I’m not sure. But I know I wanted something different.

But I know George. He wasn’t being protective. He was being George. Keeping the peace. Not making things weird. He’s always been good at that—drawing clean lines in places where things get messy.

Still… he didn’t disagree.

I pull my blanket up to my chin, stare at the glow of my phone screen. I know better than to read too much into one word.

But I do anyway.

xxx

The party is a last-minute, thrown-together type of thing. George bursts into my room while I’m mid-doom scrolling.

“Come on,” he says, tossing my jacket onto my lap. “We’re touching grass.”

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s ten degrees and I’m in my trackies.”

“Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

The flat belongs to someone George knows from work.

Ha, “knows from work.” He’s a YouTuber too. I think he has a podcast? Or owns a podcast studio? I’ve honestly given up keeping track of his friends. I have a 9–5. They have brand deals and discuss 'the algorithm'.  Whoever this guy is, he definitely doesn’t have enough cups.

There’s music blasting from a Bluetooth speaker taped to the wall, a weird smell I can’t place (incense? weed? vape juice?), and one of those cursed LED signs that says something like Live Laugh Lager or whatever. I already hate it here.

George disappears to stash his drinks, and I end up perched on a broken stool in the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm cider and wondering if I’m officially boring for not enjoying sticky countertops and people arguing over which club to go to after. I’m contemplating leaving when he walks in.

Will.

I know his name is Will because three people shout it at once “WILL!” like he’s just come back from war or prison or a particularly long bathroom break.

He’s tall, dressed like he didn’t try but still looks like he belongs on the event poster. Black hoodie, denim jacket, messy hair, sharp smile. There’s a confidence to him. No, not confidence. Ease. Like the room bends a little to make space for him.

I clock the accent immediately. Northern. Thick, unapologetic, and halfway through a passionate rant about oat milk being a scam. His voice slices through the noise, equal parts outrage and entertainment.

And then we make eye contact.

Just for a second. But it’s direct, disarming. He smiles. Keeps talking to James? Jacob? Whoever he is looks more arty than the rest. I wonder if he's friends with Arthur.

James-Jacob exits the conversation, and before I’ve even registered that Will is moving, he’s already walking over.

Straight to me.

And for the first time tonight, I forget how sticky the floor is.

“You’re staring,” he says, but there’s a grin behind it. Its teasing, not arrogant.

“You’re loud,” I shoot back, deadpan.

His smile sharpens. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with that.”

He steps closer, offering a quick, almost polite nod. “Hi. I’m Will.”

“Y/N.”

He tilts his head like he’s just solved a puzzle. “Of course you are.”

I blink. “What does that mean?”

He smirks. “Nothing. Just… George mentioned his uni mate was in town. Didn’t think he meant you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking over me with a grin that’s too knowing. “Dunno. Thought you’d be taller.”

I narrow my eyes. “And I thought people who rant about oat milk would be quieter.”

“Ouch,” he says, hand to heart. “We’re starting off strong, aren’t we?”

I don’t usually like cocky. I actively avoid it. But something about the way he grins, the way he doesn’t flinch when I bite back. It’s disarming. Confusing. He’s not my usual type, but there’s a weird… gravity to him. He makes the whole room feel like background noise.

George reappears, handing me a fresh cider. His eyes flick to Will, then back to me. It’s subtle, but there’s something in it, like he’s clocking the moment, not judging it.

Will picks up on it anyway. “Alright, mate.” His tone’s easy, casual, like they’ve done this a hundred times. I realise they probably have.

“I Didn’t know you were coming,” George says, leaning against the counter. "Good to see ya". He smiles.

“Yeah, wasn’t gonna,” Will says. “But I needed to touch some grass.”

“No way, that’s literally why Y/N's here.” George beams. “She’s been in the flat three weeks and already hates all of us.”

“I don’t hate you,” I say, taking a sip. “I just hate the constant yelling and your collective refusal to do dishes.”

Will laughs. “Sounds about right.”

Then he gestures to me. “She’s not your girlfriend, right? I feel like I would've heard.”

George snorts. “Not even slightly.”

“Cool,” Will says, shooting me a grin. “Would’ve been awkward if I kept talking.”

George raises a brow, still smiling. “When has that ever stopped you?”

Will shrugs, grinning wider. “Fair point.”

It feels a bit strange to be talked about like this, but I choose to ignore it.

George peels off a moment later, off to talk to someone across the kitchen, and I’m left wondering if that was nothing… or something. The exchange felt normal. Friendly. But the timing, plus Will’s question and George’s glance. It all lingers in the air between us.

“Oi, you’re double-fisting now,” Will said, grinning.

I choked on my drink. “What??”

“You’ve got two ciders in your hands.”

“Oh my god,” I laughed. “We say ‘double parked’ back home.”

Will shook his head, smirking. “That’s mental. Double-fisting is proper classic though. Means you’re serious about the party.”

George, overhearing from across the kitchen, called out, “Aye, Y/N's catching up already. Might be our most committed guest yet.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue, taking a solid gulp from the half-empty cider.

Will raised his glass. “To double-fisting and proper nights out.”

I raised mine back, feeling the weird pull of fitting into this wild scene, still half confused, half curious.

I end up spending most of the night talking to Chris. He’s hanging out with Arthur, who’s, well… Arthur is smart, that much is obvious, but he's also three beers past the point of functional. He’s swaying slightly, his words getting a little slurred, but he’s still genuinely interested in my work. He asks me questions about programming, about how I got into it, and what languages I like. At one point, he confesses that he dabbled in it back in high school, which surprises me. I didn’t expect someone like him to have any kind of coding knowledge.

But here he is, drunkenly discussing arrays and variable types like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s endearing in a weird way. We keep talking shop, while the others drift in and out of the conversation like a blurry haze. I’m introduced to them all, but honestly, I lose track after the third guy who’s wearing a hoodie with an logo.

The host of the party stops by for a second, patting me on the back like we’re old friends. “You remind me of George,” he says with a wink, and I can't quite tell if he’s joking or serious. I nod, unsure how to take it, but I choose to take it as a compliment. No matter how weird, George is funny and good-looking.

The whole night, Will keeps hovering. Not in a weird way, just… present, popping in and out of the groups Chris and I keep forming. Will is the kind of person who fills up the space without even trying. He keeps throwing out jokes, arguments, ridiculous hot takes about tube lines and the food in London, and at one point, he tries to convince me to watch a Formula One race, despite the fact that I’ve already told him I’m allergic to high-speed sports.

Every time I think he’s about to move on, he swings right back into my orbit with something new, whether it’s an outrageous opinion on pineapple on pizza (pineapple can go on pizza, it goes on burgers back home) or an unsolicited, yet somehow fascinating, debate on why Spotify’s algorithm is “fundamentally flawed.”

And every time, I can’t help but bite back, giving as good as I get. I find myself engaging more than I expected, throwing in my own offbeat commentary, even laughing at things I’d normally find irritating. With him, it’s different. He’s relentless in the most entertaining way.

Meanwhile, George stays on the outskirts of the party, drifting around the edges of the room like he’s trying to blend in without fully participating. It’s familiar in a way that almost comforts me. He’s always nearby, but he's having his own fun, and I guess letting me touch my own grass. I try not to notice the way his eyes keep flicking over to Will every time he laughs, or the way his gaze seems to linger when I laugh with Will.

It’s subtle. Maybe it’s nothing. But I can’t shake the feeling it’s something more.

Eventually, I make my way to the door, my head spinning a little from the mix of cider and strange conversations. I catch George in the hallway, already on his phone, pretending to be ordering an Uber, which is the universal sign that it’s time to go. But just before I walk out, I hear Will's voice behind me.

“Oi,” he calls, his tone light but with that edge that makes my stomach do a little flip. “You’re alright, you know.” He pauses for a beat, considering his next words. “For someone who calls it double parked.”

My brow lifts. “Wow. That’s going straight in my LinkedIn recommendations.”

He laughs. He genuinely laughs like a muppet. Instead of his jaw dropping, his head flings backwards dramatically. I’m not sure why, but hearing him laugh like that feels like an invitation to something.

Something dangerous or something fun I can't tell, but either way, it pulls me in.

Without missing a beat, Will pulls out his phone, flicking through it like he’s already got a plan. There’s a beat where I stand there, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t say anything, he just opens the Instagram search page. His fingers hover over the screen before gliding across. He looks up at me. There’s a challenge in his eyes, something playful but still sharp, like he’s testing me without saying it out loud.

I hesitate for just a second. Then, on instinct, I fill in my details. "Y/F/N.HTML?" he says, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "What's that about, then?"

I shrug, trying to play it off. "Oh, I’m a programmer."

Will's grin widens, and I can see him processing that for a moment, letting it sink in. "fuckin' nerd." It’s not unkind. More like a compliment wrapped in sarcasm.

I roll my eyes. "Tell me something I don’t know."

Will gives me a thumbs-up and, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, taps ‘follow.’ “I’ll see you around, Ella."

I try to think of something to quip back, but he's already returned to the party.

As I step outside into the cold night air, the sound of George's voice calling out after me reaches my ears. "You good to go?"

I nod, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. Will seems arrogant and cocky, but his sweet moments are laced in. I can’t decide if I like it or if I should be annoyed.

I try not to let the thought linger too long, but somewhere in the back of my mind, Will’s grin lingers, and I can’t quite shake it off.

Somewhere about three blocks from the flat, I get a DM from Will.

I snort, despite myself, glancing over at George. He’s staring out the window, arms folded, looking like he’s thinking too hard about something. I don’t show him the phone, but I can’t resist. “Will says drop the big brother act.”

George glances at me, a little surprised, then smirks. “Right. Got it. I’ll stop looking out for you... and start letting you make terrible life decisions on your own.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds about right.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Maybe I’ve been a bit much.” He grins sheepishly. “But you know, I’ve got to make sure no one’s corrupting you. That’s a full-time job.”

I laugh, but there’s a shift in the air. His eyes flick to me, and for a moment, it feels like there’s more behind his smile. Like maybe he's not sure how to let go of the old ways.

Something’s changing, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. But I can’t look away.

[03230]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 2

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Note: Thanks for all the love!!

xxx

The pub’s better than expected. No sticky floors, the bathrooms lock, and there’s surf and turf on the menu. It’s loud for a midweek night, but it suits the mood. Chris leans across the table, a pint in hand and a grin already forming.

"So Y/N, was George a crazy womaniser in uni? Or is that a recent thing?" Chris asks me smugly.

Chris strikes me as one of those guys who walks the line between cocky and endearing. He’s got that energy, like he knows he’s good-looking but also knows he’s 5'4, so he doesn’t push his luck too hard. There’s something quick behind his eyes, though. Like he’s always turning something over in his head, even when he’s joking. I get the sense he’s smarter than he lets on. Maybe he’s used to people underestimating him, or maybe he likes it that way.

Arthur’s harder to pin down. He’s definitely more... arty. A little offbeat. I know he makes music, George mentioned it once, and I actually listened to some on the plane,  but he doesn’t lead with that. He’s got a drier humour, says things that make you blink twice before you realise it was a joke. Like he’s testing the room just to see who’s paying attention. I haven’t quite figured him out yet, but I’m intrigued.

"George is a womaniser now? Oh my, how times have changed." I say grinning "Once, when we lived together for a bit, he met this girl on a night out. She's like stunning. Little tiny blonde girl who could definitely be a model." Chris and Arthur are already beaming, ready to hear what their friend was like. "And we all pile into the Uber, me George, this girl, and I think someone else?, I don’t remember, anyway, in the Uber, George starts going on about the Yemen crisis. Like really going on. Not in a passing comment sort of way like full TED Talk mode.” The boys are already cracking up.

“So I try to steer the conversation back to, like, flirting, or literally anything else. I'm like 'oh George, how's football going', 'did you know George does volunteering with me?'. But then, George puts his hand on her knee, but like nothing else. Like, stiff as. Doesn’t move it, doesn’t creep up her thigh, no small circles, just, like, on her knee." They’re howling now.

“So now I’m trying to make eye contact with him to be like 'what are you even doing?’ but she just starts talking to me. So we chat. About pop culture, I think the Kardashians came up? We get out the uber, and George is now holding her hand but she is so focused on talking to me. And she keeps talking, for Like, hours. I keep dropping hints. ‘Oh, George is probably asleep!’ ‘Wow, it’s late!’, but she doesn’t move. At one point I think I actually fell asleep." I pause for dramatic effect.

“It’s 4am. She finally peeks into George’s room, and he’s asleep, fully starfished, snoring, and she just… leaves. Doesn’t say bye. Doesn’t ask for my Insta. Nothing. Like she was never even there.” Chris is wiping tears from his eyes.

Arthur adds through laughter, “That’s literally what happened the other week! Girl comes over, gets the flat tour, goes to George’s room, and then, two minutes later, walks out the front door. Just gone.”

George mutters, “I said ‘that’s a nice road’ when we looked out the window,” like that explains everything.

Now I'm laughing, we’re all gasping for air. Chris has slid halfway off his chair, his face red, wheezing like an asthmatic kettle. Arthur’s head is in his hands, shaking silently before he bursts out laughing again, that kind of delayed laughter that just keeps coming in waves. I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts, eyes watering, barely able to get air in. It’s like being drunk on nothing but shared history and second-hand embarrassment. George just sits there, face in his hands, muttering, “It wasn’t that bad,” which only makes it worse. The whole table’s gone feral.

xxx

Later, after another pint, Arthur turns to me. “So what was your flight like? Isn’t it like 26 hours or something?”

“It actually took me, like, three days,” I say, already regretting how long this is going to take to explain. “I caught the latest flight I could from Brisbane to Sydney, stayed the night there… I was meant to sleep in the airport but got kicked out, so I crashed on an old friend’s sofa. They held my luggage hostage, so I had like, fuck all clothes. Just vibes.”

I keep going. I don’t mean to, but suddenly I’m deep into the whole saga—Sydney, an 8 hour long stop in Singapore, almost crying in the airport bathroom at 3am. The story drags on, messy and too detailed, my brain fogged from jet lag and too much Guinness.

“…and then I arrived in London early this morning!”

I stop. Silence. Oh god. “I’m so sorry. That was… so long. I just trauma-dumped my whole itinerary.”

The boys laugh, kindly. “No, it’s cool,” Chris says, grinning. “That was wild.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow and sips his drink. “Yeah, that was a lot. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make us feel bad for not picking you up from the airport.”

I snort. “Wow, okay.” I'm too jetlagged to care. But then Arthur just nods, looking vaguely impressed.

“Honestly though, I would’ve cried in Singapore.”

The rest of the night flows easily. I get to know Chris and Arthur better, and I see that George is no different with them than he is with me. I hate it when boys act different around their friends. George was a bit like that in uni. He had this one friend who made ever-so-slightly misogynistic remarks about me, and George would smile at them or even laugh. I got really mad at him for that.

Chris bought me one more pint to 'keep me here longer', and I end up chatting about the rain with Arthur. "So actually, Sydney, I've never lived in Sydney but it’s where the stat is from, gets like four times as much rain as London. But London has way more rainy days than Sydney. I reckon Brisbane is the same. In summer it can rain so heavily for three days straight that you almost can’t drive anywhere. Once, when I was like four, it rained so hard I couldn’t see my dad standing a metre away from me."

Arthur seems genuinely interested, no quick jabs. I think he can tell I'm too tired. He says he kind of assumed it never really rained much in Australia. He tells me about his trip there a few months back, where it didn’t even have a cloud the whole week.

I don’t remember much after we got home, just the bone-deep exhaustion sinking into my limbs, and the familiar fuzz of jet lag fogging everything. I crash hard, and sleep like the dead for the next eighteen hours.

xxx

When I finally surface, blinking blearily at my phone, it’s 3pm. I peel myself off the camping cot, every joint stiff, my mouth dry, hair glued to one side of my face.

In the kitchen, George is already there. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and hands me a cup of tea—half a sugar, a small dash of milk, teabag still in. Exactly how I like it. No questions, no fuss.

It hits me, that kind of knowing. That quiet familiarity. The kind you don’t even notice until it’s in your hands again.

It reminds me of the morning after that night out. It was our second year of uni, well, technically my first year again. I’d changed my course after the first hell year, and I was determined to not change again. When the end-of-year exams had finished, George had convinced me to come out for drinks with some of his friends and their girlfriends. It was one of those nights that started with plans and ended in chaos. We were all laughing too loudly, drinking too quickly, glowing with that special kind of post-exam delirium.

Somewhere between pub three and club one, a guy started hovering around me. Not in the cute, flirty way. In the “I’m ignoring your polite attempts to leave” kind of way. Every time I stepped back, he stepped forward, brushing off every excuse I gave like I hadn’t spoken at all.

I caught George’s eye across the room. He was mid-laugh, pint in hand, but his smile dropped the second he clocked my expression. I raised an eyebrow and gave him a tight, uncomfortable smile. He was by my side in seconds, like he’d been waiting for an excuse.

“Hey, babe,” he said smoothly, sliding an arm around my waist and planting a kiss just above my temple, firm and certain. “Everything okay here?”

The guy blinked, half-laughed like it was all a joke, but George didn’t laugh back. His tone was still polite, but his stare wasn’t. “She’s with me.”

George didn’t let go straight away. I didn’t pull away either.

The rest of the night that guy was always hovering, so we spent the rest of the night pretending. Every time someone asked, we played it up—holding hands, whispering jokes, stealing sips of each other’s drinks. My hands slipped under his puffer jacket on instinct. I told myself it was just for the bit. But later, when he gently led me home and tucked me into his bed, I wasn’t so sure.

George crashed on the couch like we always did, taking turns, depending on who was more wrecked. But that night, something in me cracked open. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just that brief moment of closeness I didn’t know how badly I wanted until I had it.'

“George,” I whispered from the bed, voice thick and slurred.

“Mmhmm?”

“I wish it was real.”

Silence.

Then: “Go to sleep, Y/N.”

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of cheap toast and instant tea. My head was pounding. George passed me a mug, the way he always did. Half a sugar, small dash of milk, teabag still in.

“Did I say anything stupid last night?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re not my type, Y/N. I don’t like you like that.”

It stung. Not because I thought he did. But because for a few hours, I’d let myself believe he might. Also he answered soooo quickly, so I laughed. Too quickly.

“God, what the hell did I say to get that answer?”

He just smiled and shrugged.

That night, I went on a date. Some guy from my ethics tute. I didn’t even really like him, but I got ready at Georges flat. I was doing the whole 9-yards. Loud texts, extra spritz of perfume, a full outfit change, and a "do I look okay" to make sure George really noticed.

It wasn’t about the guy. It was about proving I was fine. That I hadn’t meant what I said. That I didn’t care. That we really were just mates. It would've hurt so much more to lose him as a mate.

Ironically, that date turned out to be the boyfriend who dumped me suddenly and caused George and I to live together.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, handing me my tea. George. George who doesn’t like me like that but knows exactly how I take my tea—half a sugar, a splash of milk, bag still in. George who wraps an arm around me when I need it, who tells creeps I’m his girlfriend without hesitation. George who offered me his spare room like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything.I take the mug from him, fingers brushing for a second too long.

“Just… everything,” I say, which is mostly true. Jetlag, the move, the job, the fact that I’m sleeping on a cot between a ring light and a box of wigs. But also him. Always him.He nods, like he gets it. He probably thinks I’m overwhelmed. He’s not wrong.I sip the tea. It’s perfect. Of course it is.

“You slept for eighteen hours,” he says, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I was about to check if you still had a pulse.”I laugh, but I don’t say what I’m actually thinking, about that morning.

Instead, I smile back, and say, “Guess I needed it.”He leans against the counter beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and for a second it’s quiet.

Familiar. Easy. Dangerous.

And I think, maybe just for a moment, if he’d said something different that morning, would everything have changed?

[03230]

HELLO I LOVE YOU 🩷 I HAVE A REQUEST

(please take your time, no need to rush or put it at the top of your queue, and you can say no!)

Could I please request a female reader with Will (I love him so much) the reader has an "experiment" that she needs Will's help with. The experiment is that she is looking for a kiss proof lipstick. She thinks he's bored with it because all the ones she's used stick to his face, but he's just smiling dumbly on the sofa.

Thank you in advance 😚🩷🩷

Moaned at the sight of this. I literally love you.

Boyfriend Test

Description: Y/n gets the help of Will to test lipsticks.

"Awe dangit." you groaned as your moved your hand to reveal it smudged the red lipstick. The Crimson colour covering your hand and cheek.

"I better alert the church, your makeup messed up a little." He said looking up from his phone.

He had been sat there watching tik toks. Lounging in his favourite hoodie. Taking a mental note to steal it later.

"Har har." As you said that he scrolled up on a video with the feminine ai voice speaking. It explained the different types of lip stick and their durability.

A lightbulb might as well lit above your head. Turning to him with a devilish grin you walked over slowly.

"Willliamm~" He knew that tone. You were about to ask him for something. Dropping his phone beside him and giving you his full attention. "Would you come here for a moment?"

Without another thought he rose and walked over, his hands finding their way to your hips. Looking down at you.

"What do you need?" Your hand reached beside you to grab a lip stick. The shade was "Drama Kween" and was a dark red shade.

Applying it gently he watched patiently. His eyes closing when you leaned in for a kiss. Kissing back completely unknowing to the plot you had crafted.

Opening your eyes you were met with smudges. Plucking a makeup wipe and removing the lipstick you grabbed the next colour.

It was called "Pink Lemonade" and was a light pink with a citrus scent. Applying it Will went to ask what was happening when you leaned in and he obliged.

Kissing again the colour left a mark, most the lipstick staying on Will and not your lips. He rose an eye brow but remained still.

The next shade was an orange lipstick. You had never worn it, and probably never would but you were getting a kick out of his confused but complicit actions. It didn't smudge much though.

Fourteen colours later and he finally took his hands off you and took a step back. You were satisfied with the results and the state your boyfriend was in.

"So, which colour?" He asked, slightly dizzy and covered in lipstick. You shrugged, picking up the first lipstick you tried and looking at it up close. "So what did you even achieve??" He asked incredulously.

"Getting to kiss my boyfriend, I also found that my dark pink one that I wear the most is the most resistant." You told him picking up said lipstick and applying it.

He watched shaking his head, looking at himself in the mirror he snapped a quick picture. You with the tube pressed against your top lip and him covered in kiss marks.

Posting it to his story with your @ in the corner. He wore a proud smirk and you were too focused on your lipstick to notice.

Later that night at dinner you got a text from James. This wasn't shocking, as he was Wills best Friend.

J 💬 Keep your paws off my man.

With a screenshot of the story. You showed the message to Will who only grimaced. Muttering a small Curse towards James.

"I like that shade of lipstick, it looks good on you." You smiled and nodded. Picking at a piece of chicken on your plate.

"It looked better on you." You joked, him smiling wide before agreeing. The rest of the night was pleasant and you probably would have even forgot about it until two weeks later when a package appeared at your door.

It was from an up and starting cosmetics company, they sent every one of their shades of lipstick with a small note

"Do the boyfriend test and let us know how they hold up!" Holding the card in one hand and a handful of lipsticks in the other you approached Wills filming space.

He was streaming something on one of his friends twitch and had been distracted with the screen until he saw you in the door way.

As his eyes dropped to your hands the excitement was clear. You then spoke quietly, but he was able to read your lips.

"Round two pretty boy." As much as he wanted to drop everything and go be smothered with kisses he knew he had to continue filming, but later.

He gave a thumbs up to you and then explained to his friend that he'd have to go after another few rounds. Something important came up.

Later he would bask in the love of your lips.

[03230]

If you'll let me

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary: A year after the anniversary incident, Will gives the Reader a surprise. Warnings: None! Notes: Part two of October Rain. This is not the original draft, my dumb ass deleted the actual version that was meant to be released. I'm not very happy about it, but enjoy!

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but think back to the year before—the night that unravelled in silence and forgotten promises. Will, flustered and distracted, stood you up on your anniversary. You’d waited at the table alone, a candle burning down like hope on a timer. Thinking about it now, you almost want to cancel. The weight of that memory still presses against your ribs, faint but familiar.

Then you think about the list. The one he keeps tucked in his Notes app, made before everything went sideways. Little things. Things that made you feel seen, before he forgot the one night that really counted.

But something shifted after that.

Maybe guilt, maybe realisation—but he started using that list like a map. Slowly, he’s found his way back to you. He doesn’t flinch at affection any more. His hand finds the dip of your back when you walk, casually now, like muscle memory. He laces his fingers with yours in front of his mates, even when they’d take the piss out of him. When you start to pull away to stop the jeers, he just smirks and tightens his grip, squeezing your hand once in reassurance, then holding it for the rest of the night. Only letting go to eat or when either of you needed the toilet.

He doesn’t seem to mind any more. He used to flinch at sentiment, now he leans into it.

You adjust your dress in the mirror. It’s not the same one from last year, that one was thrown away, waterlogged and hopeless, bunched in the bin like it had been part of the disappointment itself. Tonight, you chose something new. Your favourite colour, a soft hue that brings out the warmth in your skin. The fabric curtains elegantly, light and breathable, slipping off your shoulders with an easy kind of grace. It fits a little differently this year, looser around the waist, more forgiving, but then again, so does the evening ahead.

You slip in a pair of earrings, delicate and gold, just enough to catch the light when you turn your head. A bit of mascara, a swipe of tinted balm—you never need much. You still want to feel like yourself. Just a version of you who believes this night might actually go right.

And it might. He remembered this time. He made the reservation without prompting.

You're smoothing the fabric over your hips, admiring how the colour picks up the warmth in your skin, when you hear him behind you—his footsteps, hesitant at first, like he's been pacing just out of view.

“Hey”, Will calls out from the other room, “Is this,”  He steps into the doorway, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, clearly trying not to look self-conscious. “too much?”

Your breath hitches.

He’s in a suit. Not a stiff, formal one, but something softer—tailored enough to fit him right, the deep, dusky colour perfectly complementing the tone of your dress. No tie, just a crisp white shirt beneath, open at the collar. His hair’s freshly cut, still curling slightly at the edges, and there’s something boyishly nervous in his expression, like he’s not sure if he’s got it right.

“You match me,” you say, smiling.

He glances down at himself, then back up, a slow grin forming. “Yeah? I remembered the colour. ”

You blink. “You did?”

He shrugs, stepping closer. “I figured if I was going to do this properly, I should try not to screw up the basics.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and you watch the tension ease out of his shoulders. That familiar furrow between his brows softens. His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to say more but doesn't know where to begin.

“You look beautiful,” he says quietly. Not just like it’s a compliment, but like it’s the truth. Like he’s seeing you in a way he forgot to, once.

You feel it hit somewhere deep in your ribs. Not because of the words—he's said them before—but because of how he says them now. No teasing lilt. No distracted glance. Just Will, standing there in a suit that matches your dress, eyes steady on yours, like this moment matters to him as much as it does to you.

Something in your chest softens. This year, he’s not just showing up. He’s showing up for you.

He steps closer and tugs gently at the loose edge of your sleeve, smoothing it down with a thumb. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice lower now, unsure. “I didn’t want to overdo it.”

You smile, a real one, and shake your head. “It’s perfect.”

He exhales, relieved, and leans in to press a light kiss to your cheek—close enough that you feel the curve of his smile against your skin. “Good,” he murmurs, a little sheepish. “’Cause I’ve been sweating over this jacket for like an hour.”

You laugh, and the air between you shifts lighter now, easy in a way that feels earned. Then, without thinking, you step closer and smooth your hands down the front of his lapels. The fabric is warm under your fingers, soft but structured. The jacket fits better than anything he’s ever owned no off-the-rack boxiness, just clean lines that follow the slope of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. Like, he actually let someone tailor it. Like he wanted to get it right.

“Shall we?” he says, offering you his arm like he’s not half a head taller and still slightly awkward about it. 

You slide your hand through the crook of his elbow without hesitation. “We shall.”

He grins and pivots toward the door, grabbing the keys from the dish on the side table and jingling them like a prize. “Also,” he says, as if suddenly remembering, “I brought you something.”

You raise an eyebrow, suspicious but amused. “Should I be scared?”

Instead of answering, he picks up your coat from the hook and steps behind you. His hand brushes the back of your neck as he lifts your hair free, slow and careful, and the touch sends a warm shiver down your spine. You can feel his smile before you see it.

“Nah,” he says, tone bright and cocky now. “With me? Never.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips tug upward anyway. 

Once your coat is settled on your shoulders, he shrugs into his own—dark wool, sharp lapels, a quiet kind of effort that matches yours without needing to announce it. He glances at you one last time, then reaches for the door. He holds it open, the hallway outside cool and quiet. 

You both step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.

The restaurant hasn’t changed.

The same gold script above the door, elegant and slightly worn at the corners, still gleams in the low evening light. The same warm flicker of candlelight dances behind the tall windows, casting soft glows across white tablecloths and polished cutlery. Even the air is the same—rich with the scent of roasted garlic, aged balsamic, and something gently herbal that you still can’t name, like time stopped here waiting for you to come back.

Will steps ahead and catches the door before you can reach for it, his hand light on the handle like he’s practised it. “After you, ma’am,” he says with mock formality, offering a slight bow.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile there too as you walk in first. The lighting inside is golden and low, the hum of conversation wrapping around you like a warm scarf. Nothing about this place has tried to be anything other than what it is, just like last time. Only today, there’s no sting in your throat, no dress soaked in the rain. Just soft heels on hardwood and his quiet footsteps behind you.

The maître d’ greets you with a polite nod, his eyes lifting as you approach. “Table for two under Lenney,” Will says smoothly, his hand settling at the small of your back. The maître d’ glances at the list, finds the name, and offers a courteous smile.

“Of course. Right this way. Please follow Daniel.” He turns and gestures to a nearby waiter, young, buzz cut, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, who steps forward to guide you through the softly lit dining room. There’s something familiar about the way the waiter moves. He walks with quiet confidence, menus tucked neatly under one arm, and glances between the two of you as he leads the way. His expression is polite but unreadable.

Then his gaze lands on you.

You see the recognition bloom slowly—first in the slight lift of his brows, then in the subtle straightening of his posture. There’s a flicker of surprise, quickly hidden behind professional calm. His eyes dart briefly to Will, like he’s recalling something not quite pleasant, then settle back on you with a softened edge.

“Nice to see you again miss.” he says evenly. The words are neutral, but there’s a quiet curiosity behind them. His smile, when it comes, is genuine. Just a touch more real than before.

He brings you to a corner table, intimate, slightly tucked away from the main floor. Not the same table from last year, but close enough that you can see it across the room. The previous table you sat at sits untouched, the candle in the centre unlit, the napkins still perfectly folded. You catch it in your periphery as you slow to a stop.

Will steps behind you and gently eases your coat from your shoulders, his touch careful, deliberate. He folds it neatly over his arm before draping it across the back of your chair, then offers a quiet smile as you settle into the booth.

The wood of the table is warm under your fingers, polished smooth and softly lit by a single votive candle. Will takes the seat across from you, shrugging off his own coat and placing it beside him.

The waiter hands over the menus, one to each of you, and his attention lingers slightly longer on Will, measured, not unkind, but definitely cautious.

“Can I start you off with sparkling water or?” he begins.

“She hates sparkling,” Will says quickly, glancing your way with a small smile. “Still’s perfect.”

The waiter raises an eyebrow, like he wasn’t expecting that level of familiarity, then nods. “Very well, still it is. I’ll be back in a moment.” He leaves with the quiet efficiency of someone trained in grace, but you catch the slight look he tosses over his shoulder—still assessing.

Will leans back in his chair and rests his hands loosely on the edge of the table, glancing around. “Place hasn’t changed, huh?”

You shake your head, eyes drifting to the soft flicker of candles on nearby tables. “No. It’s like it’s been frozen in time.”

Before he can continue the conversation, Daniel returns with a chilled pitcher of water and two tall glasses. He sets them down with practised ease, pouring a careful measure into each. “Can I interest you in anything to drink besides water?” he asks, eyes politely on you now.

You glance across at Will. “A glass of the house red?” you say, half-questioning.

Will nods in agreement. “Same for me, thanks.”

Daniel jots it down with a quick nod. “Would you like to order, or need a few more minutes?”

Will flips open the menu, scanning it with furrowed brows like he’s reading in a foreign language. “What’s ‘burrata’? Is that the pasta or the cheese bit?”

“It’s cheese, babe,” you say, amused.

“Right, that’s what I thought.” He nods with mock confidence before leaning in. “I definitely didn’t think it was a type of fish.”

You laugh and scan the menu, pointing at a few things you’re tempted by. Eventually, you both settle on your starters and mains—him, with a proud, “We’ll take the burrata to start, please. And I’ll have the tagliatelle. Extra parmesan if that’s allowed.”

You go for the chicken, mushroom and asparagus risotto, with a shared side of charred broccoli that neither of you will finish, but both of you insist on ordering “to be healthy”.

Daniel takes down the order, his face a polite mask, but his tone softens when he looks at you again. “Good choices. I’ll get these in and bring your wine.”

When he leaves, Will exhales like he’s just finished a performance. “Why is ordering food so intense here? I feel like I just passed a test.”

You smirk. “Because last time you ordered here, you couldn’t pronounce ‘gnocchi’ and got flustered.”

“I stand by that. There’s a silent G. That’s not my fault.”

You swirl your wine, glancing toward the retreating figure of the waiter. “Also that’s the same guy who waited on me last year.”

Will blinks. “Seriously?”

You nod, watching Daniel as he weaves through the tables. “He didn’t say much then either. Just kind of hovered while I sat at that table alone and tried to pretend I wasn’t crying into a glass of merlot.”

Will winces. “Oof. Great start to the evening.”

You offer him a small smile, trying to keep the tone light. “He seems nicer now. Maybe because you actually showed up.”

Will’s expression falters, the humour slipping just slightly. He looks down at his wine glass, thumb tracing the rim. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m really sorry about that. Again.”

You reach across the table, letting your fingers brush his. “I know. You’ve more than made up for it.”

His eyes meet yours then—clear and earnest—and smiles.

The wine arrives with a clink of glasses and a faint floral scent rising as Daniel pours. This time, his nod to Will is a shade warmer, just a hint of approval tucked behind it.

You sip, slow and thoughtful, letting the moment stretch. There’s a hum in the background—soft jazz maybe, or a playlist so well-chosen you don’t notice the songs changing.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you,” Will says, tapping the stem of his glass. “Yesterday on my way home, I saw a guy walking a cat on a leash. Like, full-on harness and a little red bow tie. Just strutting down the pavement like he owned the city.”

Your brow lifts. “You’re kidding.”

“I swear. The cat stopped at every lamppost like it had important business. And the guy? Totally unfazed. Kept telling people, ‘He likes to do his rounds.’”

You laugh, setting your glass down. “Only in London.”

“Right? And then a woman with a Great Dane passed by, and the cat hissed at it like he was ten feet tall. Power move. I genuinely thought there was going to be a turf war on the high street.”

You’re halfway through your glass by the time he finishes the story. You’re smiling—genuinely, without thinking. Across the table, Will is watching you with a look you don’t register at first. Soft. Focused. Like he’s committing you to memory—the curve of your smile, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, how you lean in just a little when you laugh.

You glance up and catch him staring. “What?”

He blinks, like you’ve pulled him out of a trance. “What what?”

Your cheeks warm without warning, a soft flush spreading across your face. You glance down, suddenly shy beneath his steady gaze.

Just then, Daniel returns to clear the plates, stepping in quietly beside the table. He catches the exchange, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly as he looks between you and Will.

“Enjoying your evening?” He asks, voice low but curious.

Will nods quickly, still chewing, then swallows and manages a smile. “Yeah. Perfect. Thank you.”

Daniel lingers for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the faintest shift in his posture softening the usual professional distance he keeps. “Glad to hear it.”

As he takes the empty plates from the table, you notice something new in his eyes, a quiet acceptance. The slight softening in Daniel’s shoulders. The beginning of belief. You meet Will’s eyes again, your blush deepening.

When he leaves, the space feels lighter. You and Will are alone again in that small golden bubble, the candle flickering gently between you.

You reach for your water glass, feeling the wine still warm in your cheeks, the quiet joy of the evening settling in your chest. Will is watching you again—not intense, not overwhelming, just steady. Present.

You smile, then slip your napkin onto the table and stand, smoothing your dress with one hand. “I’m going to nip to the bathroom,” you say, stepping away from your chair. “Order the chocolate torte?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Just the torte?”

You glance back at him over your shoulder. “And the blueberry thing. I want both.”

He smirks. “Greedy.”

You tilt your head, smiling slyly. “You owe me two desserts,” you say—light, teasing, but the echo of last year lingers in the words like a ghost.

His smile falters, just for a breath. But then he nods, slow and certain. “Done.”

You turn, heels clicking softly against the wood as you walk toward the restroom, unaware of the quiet shift in Will’s posture as you go—the way he straightens, reaches into his coat pocket, and fingers the edge of something small, carefully folded, and waiting.

In the restroom, you reapply the tinted balm with practised care, pretending your hands aren’t the slightest bit unsteady. It’s just dessert, you tell your reflection. But the flutter in your stomach doesn’t listen.

When you return, Will is idly spinning his empty wine glass by the stem, the other hand tapping an uneven rhythm on the tablecloth—soft, irregular, like a nervous heartbeat. He stops the moment he sees you.

“They’re out of the torte,” he blurts, too fast to sound casual.

You freeze, halfway into your seat. “You’re joking.”

A beat. Then that grin—wide and unapologetic. “Relax, love. I got both.”

You narrow your eyes and kick his shin under the table, but he’s ready for it. He traps your ankle between both of his, locking it there with a slow, deliberate squeeze. The warmth of him seeps through the thin fabric of your stocking, his smile teasing but his gaze steady.

Then his foot slides away, and a moment later, you feel his hand brush lightly against your knee beneath the table. His fingers rest there, tentative at first, then firmer—reassuring, familiar. Your breath hitches. You don’t look at him, but you feel the heat rising in your cheeks again.

The spell breaks as Daniel approaches with a tray balanced in one hand. Will’s hand slips away just before the waiter sets down two desserts—the torte glistening under a caramel drizzle and the raspberry pavlova piled high with cream. Nestled between them, though, is a third plate: a single star-shaped shortbread, dusted with gold.

You frown. “We didn’t order—”

“Complimentary”, Daniel says, avoiding Will’s gaze. “For frequent customers.”

You blink. “Oh—thank you.” Daniel nods once, tight-lipped, it looks like he's almost fighting a smile, and walks away without another word.

The shortbread is almost too beautiful to touch delicately scalloped edges dusted with gold like early morning sunlight, a faint shimmer catching in the low restaurant lighting. It smells of butter and vanilla and something faintly citrus. You break it in half without thinking, out of habit—the way you’ve always shared desserts—and freeze.

Tucked inside, barely visible through the buttery layers, is a small parcel wrapped in wax paper. You ease it out, your heart beginning to pound.

A key.

Not a new key. The key—the one Will once swore he’d never give anyone, with its chipped blue enamel fob and the tiny, peeling unknown logo he’d glued on after losing a bet.

You glance up from it and freeze.

When you look at him, his jaw is tight, the muscle near his ear ticking with tension. His eyes flick between the key and your face, then back again, never settling long enough to land. His grip on the fork is too tight—tendons straining beneath his skin, knuckles drained of colour.

Oh.

“It’s not,” he says, voice hoarse. He stops, swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs once, sharp.

You wait.

His thumb slides along the handle of the fork, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to steady himself. His shoulders rise with a shallow breath. “I’m not asking you to move in.” The words tumble out too quickly, clipped at the edges. “Just come and go. Whenever.”

His gaze finally holds yours. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the pale green of his irises, and a faint flush creeps up his neck, blooming at the collar.

“No knocking,” he says, quieter now. His throat works again. “No waiting.”

You stare at the key again, then up at him. “You had this made?”

Will’s gaze snaps to yours, startled, as if he’d forgotten you were there. His throat bobs once, twice, before he huffs a fractured laugh. “Had it since April.” His fingers draw random shapes into the table. “After that week you crashed at mine ‘cause your boiler broke. Remember?”

You know. Three days trapped in his flat during the coldest week of winter. His hoodie sleeves perpetually damp from your shared showers, his toothbrush shoved aside to make room for yours. How he’d wake at dawn to mute his alarms in the hallway, creeping back to bed with charred toast and a whispered “Breakfast is served, milady” that always made you snort into the singed crusts.

“Wanted to give it to you then,” he says, voice fraying. His thumb digs into the key’s jagged edge, leaving a moon-white dent in his skin. “But you were stressin’ over that work deadline, and I,” He sighs deeply. “Didn’t want to be that guy. The clingy prick who—”

“Brought me soup every night?” you interject softly. Chicken noodle from that deli he hates, left steaming on your desk without a note.

“—smothered you,” he finishes, louder, as if he hadn’t heard. His knee knocks the table, rattling the empty wine glasses. “Figured you’d bolt. Or laugh. Or.” He shrugs helplessly.

The key trembles in your palm. You close your fist around the key, its teeth biting into your palm. “Why now?”

“Told you, I kept waiting. For the right time.” He shrugs, but it’s a helpless sort of gesture. “Then I realised—there isn’t one. There’s just now. And tomorrow. And all the days after, if you’ll let me.”

His pinky grazes your wrist. A silent plea. You turn your palm up, and his fingers surge into the space between yours, calluses snagging on the softness of your skin. His grip is too tight at first, almost frantic, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. But then he softens, thumb skating the ridge of your knuckle in a slow, grounding arc.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His face splits—completely, joyfully—in half. That crooked grin you love bursts wide across his face, unstoppable, like sunlight after days of rain. His eyes shine, glassy and stunned, like he can’t quite believe he heard you right.

He pulls your joined hands toward him across the tablecloth, the linen rumpling beneath your elbows. The key digs into your palm, its serrated edge a small, anchoring ache. You think he’ll stop there, but he doesn’t—he keeps tugging gently until your arm stretches fully between you, your fingertips nearly grazing his chest.

He pauses. Just for a moment. Staring at the way your thumb settles in the curve beneath his, like it was always meant to be there. At the tiny freckle near your wrist he once memorised during a lazy afternoon on his couch. His smile falters for a second—softens—like the weight of it all is almost too much.

Then, with a shaky breath, he lifts your hand to his mouth. His lips brush your knuckles in a slow, reverent kiss, warm and barely there, like a promise made flesh.

“Thank fuck,” he murmurs into your skin.

When he pulls back, his grin hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s brighter—wild and disbelieving, like he’s just witnessed a miracle. “Still tastes like vanilla,” he murmurs, thumb skating the pulse point he’d kissed.

You flush, remembering the lotion he’d bought you after claiming your hands “smelt like hospitals”. “Vanilla’s classic,” he’d insisted, tossing the bottle into your cart. “Like you.”

He kisses your palm again, quicker this time, before folding your fingers over the key. “Keep that safe, yeah? I’ve only got one spare.”

The old Will would’ve winked here, deflected with a joke about locked bathrooms and bad plumbing. This Will just stares, grinning like he’s won the fucking lottery, his free hand scrubbing at his damp cheeks.

“C’mere,” he mock-growls, half-laughing, and tugs you closer until the table digs into your ribs. His forehead lightly bumps yours, his breath mint-sharp and trembling. “Gonna make you regret this,” he whispers, but the effect is ruined when his nose accidentally brushes yours, cross-eyed and ridiculous.

You snort—a loud, undignified sound—and clap your free hand over your mouth. “Will.”

“What?” He’s already grinning, his thumb sneaking up to poke your cheek. “Too scary for you?”

“You look like a pug trying to sneeze.”

He gasps, faux-offended, and nips your earlobe. “Take it back.”

“Make me,” you shoot back, voice wobbling with suppressed laughter.

He does by blowing a loud, wet raspberry into the crook of your neck.

You shriek, nearly upending your wine glass as you writhe sideways. “You’re disgusting!”

“And you’re stuck with me,” he sing-songs, chasing your squirming with another raspberry. His stubble scrapes your collarbone, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Stop. Stop!” You’re breathless, cheeks aching, one hand fisted in his stupidly perfect hair. “People are staring!”

He pulls back just enough to smirk, his own face flushed. “Let ‘em stare.” His fingers find your sides, tickling mercilessly. “C’mon, thief. Admit I’m terrifying.”

“Okay, okay!” You sag against him, giggling into his shoulder. “You’re a—a menace!”

He freezes. “Menace?”

“Mmmh.” You press a smacking kiss to his jaw. “My menace.”

His grin softens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right.”

[03230]

Cold Brew and Hot Takes

An enemies to lovers WillNE fic. 3077 words.

The bell above the coffee shop door jingled, almost too cheerful for the energy that followed it. As usual, he walked in like he owned the place.

“Morning,” he said, dragging out the word in that deep Geordie accent that had somehow become synonymous with smugness to everyone behind the counter.

She didn’t look up. Not yet. She needed a second to prepare herself, and then;

“I’ll have an iced coffee,” WillNE announced, already taking out his card before she could even blink.

“No please? Shocking,” she muttered under her breath, glancing at the screen as she punched it in.

He heard it. He always did.

“I’d say sorry, but it wouldn’t be very me, would it?” he said, flashing a grin that made two of her colleagues giggle behind the pastry case. Traitors she thought as she tried to avoid eye contact with him at all costs and set about to make his drink.

Undeterred Will leaned casually against the counter, watching as she filled a cup with ice and coffee. “Y’know, if I weren’t loyal to this place, I’d start my own chain. Probably call it, like, Will’s Brews or something. I’d make a fortune. Could probably do it better.”

She shot him a look. “You said that yesterday.”

“I say a lot of things,” he shrugged. “Like how I could make a viral video out of just walking in here and annoying you.”

She handed over the iced coffee without a word, but with the kind of passive-aggressive smile that could kill a man if it came with a straw. He took the drink and sauntered to a corner table, pulling out a laptop covered in Quadrant and YouTube stickers. Always on brand. Always visible.

“Is that him again?” Lia whispered to her once he was out of earshot.

“Of course it is,” she muttered. “Mr. I-Invented-Caffeine. If he says ‘I could do it better’ one more time, I’m going to tip espresso over his MacBook.”

“Careful,” their manager joked. “He’s technically a loyal customer. Comes in almost every day.”

“Yeah, like a cocky ghost that just haunts me at this point.”

Despite herself, she glanced over. Will was already sipping the iced coffee like it had wronged him. He pulled a face.

“Needs more syrup!” he shouted across the room.

“Make your own!” she snapped, and heard Lia try (and fail) to suppress a laugh.

The weirdest part wasn’t how often he came in; it was how often he stayed.

Sometimes, Will would grab the iced coffee and vanish within minutes, probably off to shoot a video or go shout at someone on a podcast. Sometimes he came in with his friend “Jim” she had heard him be called but often he was alone. But more and more lately, he lingered. Laptop open, AirPods in, tapping away at some document or spreadsheet that screamed fake productivity.

And on those days, when the shop was slow, she ended up talking to her co-workers about things. Life. Her friends. Her ridiculous family. And sometimes… her ex.

“I just let it go on for too long,” she’d said one afternoon, while frothing milk. “He’d nitpick everything. Who I texted, what I wore, if I wanted to go out with friends. And the worst part is, I knew. I knew he was controlling. I just… I let it happen.”

Will didn’t look up from his laptop, but he had paused typing.

“And then one day, I just snapped. Threw his crap out, blocked his number. Never felt lighter.”

Lia had said something supportive, and they moved on. But Will didn’t type again for a good ten minutes after that, when she glanced over it his table was sitting there staring out the window while stirring his drink.

It was another Tuesday same as any other really, the group of old women had came in at opening for their tea and cake before their community centre exercise lesson, older kids had come in for their sugar syrup concoctions or hot chocolates and the commuter rush had them off their feet for a while but that was over now it was nine thirty.

Will walked in, sunglasses on indoors like the walking red flag she insisted he was. She braced herself.

“Iced coffee,” he said. “And tell Lia she still makes it better than you.”

“She’s off today,” she replied, already grinding beans. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Shame. Guess I’ll just power through.”

He stayed again that day. Stayed and listened to her talk to the manager about how she’d gone on a Hinge date that was “so catastrophically bad it almost made her miss her ex.”

“Not quite,” she’d added. “But close.”

It was a grey Thursday, drizzly and dull. Will was there typing something or pretending to, when the front door opened and he walked in.

Her stomach dropped.

Tall, broad, leather jacket. That same patronizing smirk that had made her skin crawl in the final months. Her ex. How did he even find out she was working here?

He looked around the shop until he spotted her, then strode up to the counter.

“Didn’t answer my texts,” he said. No hello no pleasantries.

Her spine straightened. “That’s because I blocked you.”

“Then unblock me. We need to talk.”

“I don’t think we do.”

He leaned closer, voice lower now, sharper. “Don’t be like this. You know this thing between us; it’s not over. You’re just in a phase.”

A phase. Like she was a teenage rebellion, like she didn’t know her own mind. She knew the signs now he was trying to get under her skin, trying to manipulate her.

“Back off,” she said, louder than she meant to.

Customers were starting to look. Will had stood up.

“I don’t want to cause a scene,” her ex said, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I just think you’re making a mistake. We both know you can’t cope without me.”

“And I think you should leave,” she said, her voice shaking now, but not with fear. With anger.

“Or what?” he challenged.

Then Will was there. She hadn’t even seen him move. One second he was at the back, the next he was between her and the ex.

“She said to back off,” Will said, arms folded, voice calm but firm.

Her ex sized him up. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone with ears. And zero tolerance for creeps who don’t understand boundaries.”

“Mate, this is none of your business—”

Will stepped forward. “It is when you walk in here and start harassing someone. She doesn’t owe you a conversation. She doesn’t owe you anything. You lost your chance. So maybe walk away before you embarrass yourself further.”

A tense pause.

Her ex scoffed, but the bravado cracked just slightly. “Whatever,” he muttered. “I was just trying to be civil.”

And then he left, the door slamming behind him hard enough to make the bell clang.

Silence fell.

Will turned to her. “You okay?”

She nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. I… thanks.”

“No worries,” he said, scratching the back of his neck like it had just hit him that everyone was watching.

She blinked. “I mean it. That could’ve gone badly.”

“Well,” Will smirked, “what can I say? I might be a pain in the arse, but I don’t like bullies.”

She let out a small laugh, the tension finally beginning to melt from her shoulders.

“Maybe you’re not a complete egomaniac.”

“Careful,” he said, stepping back with a grin. “You say enough nice things, I might think we’re friends.”

She rolled her eyes, but something in her chest had shifted. For the first time, she wasn’t looking at WillNE and seeing arrogance or antics or an overconfident YouTuber with a caffeine problem.

She saw someone who’d actually heard her. Someone who’d stepped up.

And that was new.

It was later on in that day and the adrenaline had long worn off, replaced with a bone-deep tiredness as the sky outside slipped from grey to black. The afternoon rush had died down, and it was closing time, the bell dinged again

“Sorry we’re just about to clo…” she started but smiled a little on seeing Will.

“I know, I was just about to go home but wanted to check in and see how you were doing?”. That was how it started, we watched her clean initially as she tried to convince him she was fine Will then ended up drying mugs, of all things.

“Y’know,” he said, holding one up to the light like it was a precious artifact, “this is dangerously close to real work.”

She raised a brow, sweeping crumbs from the counter. “Didn’t think you were the type to help close up.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, “but figured since I stepped into someone else’s argument like some low-rent superhero, I might as well follow through.”

She gave him a smirk. “Low-rent’s accurate.”

He let out a laugh—loud, genuine, startled. It was the kind of laugh that made her feel slightly proud for pulling it out of him.

They cleaned in a quiet rhythm for a few minutes, the silence companionable for the first time.

Then, Will glanced over. “Can I ask you something, though? Not like... nosey. Proper question.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve been thinking about starting a coffee brand. Been talking with James, you know the massive tall guy I’m sometimes with about it for months. No name yet we’re currently in the research phase.”

She shook her head, amused. “So… what’s the plan? Just slap your face on a bag of beans and go?”

“That was option one, yeah,” he deadpanned. “It’s going to be iced coffee of course but more coffee shop standard but at home. I started thinking, I come in here nearly every day. I see people’s orders, see how they act. There’s patterns. And I thought… you probably know all that stuff better than I ever could. The psychology of coffee drinkers or whatever.”

She gave him a long, slightly surprised look.

“That’s… actually kind of thoughtful.”

He put a hand to his chest. “Please don’t ruin my reputation.”

She laughed. “Alright, well—okay. There are patterns. Not wanting to stereotype at all but some things are mostly true, younger people love their syrups and flavours. Out of the alternatives oat makes the best coffee. Tea people are tea people and can never be converted,”

Will cracked up again.

“And,” she continued, now warming to it, “Americano drinkers are either in finance, in therapy, or need to be. You can tell a lot from someone’s drink. Especially how they treat you while ordering it.”

Will looked oddly thoughtful. “That's… kinda brilliant.”

She shrugged, a little bashful. “It’s just stuff you notice when you make a thousand drinks a week.”

“No, seriously,” he said. “You talk about it like an actual craft. Like it’s not just... pouring things into cups.”

“Well,” she said, quieter now, “it’s kind of the only thing I had to rebuild with.”

He looked at her then—not with that cocky spark he usually had, but with genuine interest.

“I was doing art full-time,” she explained. “Illustration. Freelance gigs, murals. But my ex didn’t exactly encourage that. Said it wasn’t stable, and we couldn’t have two people with unstable careers. So I gave it up.”

Will was silent.

“And when I left him, I had nothing. No savings, no place to live. Started over. Took the first job I could get. It was this place.”

“Damn,” Will said softly. “That’s heavy.”

She gave a small smile. “It’s better now. Slowly getting back into it. Sketched a bit again last month. Felt like remembering a part of me I forgot.”

He paused. “Would you ever want to do something with it again? Like, fully?”

“God, yeah,” she admitted, laughing. “If I could afford it. If I had the time. If I had the confidence again.”

He nodded slowly, then, in a voice that surprised her with its seriousness: “What if you did something for me?”

She blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” he said, setting a mug down carefully. “We need a logo, a website. Something bold and weird. But like… cool weird. Not too weird and off the wall.”

She snorted. “You’re terrible at selling yourself.”

“Yeah, but I’m great at selling other people,” he said, grinning. “I’ll pay you properly, obviously. Could even plug your work in the promo. Get you commissions again.”

She was quiet for a long beat. “…That’s actually really kind of you.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “You’re talented. And you haven’t called me a ‘walking ego problem’ once tonight. Growth.”

She laughed, warm and surprised. “Give it time.”

The next morning, he came in like always.

But instead of barking “iced coffee” like it was a military command, he gave her a lopsided smile and said, “Morning. I’ll get the usual, please.”

She blinked.

“Wow. A please? Did you hit your head on the way in?”

“Shh,” Will whispered. “Don’t let the others know. They expect a certain level of cheek.”

She handed him the iced coffee. “You’re evolving. Like a caffeinated Pokémon.”

He chuckled, stepping aside. “Also, I’ve got a mood board I wanna show you. For the coffee packaging.”

Her eyes widened. “Already?”

“What can I say? I’m a man of impulsive brilliance.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips.

Over the next few weeks, the vibe between them changed.

He’d bring her snacks sometimes. They’d swap memes and jokes and she made his drink. She started showing him sketches during her breaks, and he’d give brutally honest but helpful feedback. (“This one’s sick.” “That one looks great but not really what we’re looking for.”) She appreciated his honesty.

And one quiet afternoon, she caught herself watching him laugh with Lia and thought: Maybe he’s not so bad.

Maybe, in fact, he was something else entirely.

It had rained that morning London rain, soft and annoying and everywhere, the fine rain that soaked you through. She was wiping off the counter near the window when Will came in. Hood up, trainers soaked, coffee order already on his lips.

But instead of the usual cheeky grin, he looked… drained.

“Morning,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “Can I just… get something warm today?”

She blinked. “What, no iced coffee? Who are you and what’ve you done with my most irritating regular?”

That earned the faintest smirk. “I know. The drama.”

She started on a flat white. “You alright?”

He scratched the back of his neck, still dripping a bit. “Didn’t sleep.”

She paused, glanced at him. Something wasn’t right.

He slid onto the stool at the end of the counter as she passed him the coffee.

“I had this shoot last night,” he started, “for some mates content. Long, late, lots of lights, mates kept talking about how I’ve changed.”

She furrowed her brow. “What does that even mean?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. But it got in my head.”

A quiet settled between them, the usual noise of the shop feeling distant.

“I think,” he said slowly, fingers tracing the rim of the cup, “I’ve been a bit depressed lately, I was seeing this girl for five years we broke up, no big drama just grew apart and I think I isolated myself a little. My mates kept banging on about how I kept bringing the mood down all the time, I don’t think I realised just how sad and lonely I became.

She stayed silent. Let him talk.

“And lately… I dunno. I’ve been wondering if I actually like who I am off camera. Or if I’ve spent so long turning everything into a bit that I forgot how to just… exist. Be normal. Whatever that is. Maybe just a bit of an indentity crisis I guess, happens to content creators a lot.”

He laughed, bitterly. “Listen to me. Getting all weirdly philosophical in a coffee shop like some divorced poet.”

She gave him a soft look. “You’re not weird. You’re just being honest.”

“Dangerous game,” he muttered, looking out the rain-smeared window. “Especially in front of you. You used to want to poison my coffee.”

“Still do sometimes,” she teased, and he laughed, more genuinely this time.

“I think…” she said after a moment, “you’re allowed to outgrow who people think you are. Especially if that person was always performing for someone else’s expectations.”

He looked over at her, something softer in his eyes now. “That your therapist voice?”

“No,” she said, suddenly bashful. “That’s just… me. Trying to make sense of stuff too.”

They stayed there for a while.

Later that week, he came in after closing.

“Got you a thank-you gift,” he announced, holding up a bottle of wine and a bag of tortilla chips.

“Classy,” she said, amused.

“I contain multitudes,” he replied, grinning.

They sat on the counter, lights dimmed, wine in mismatched mugs. She kicked off her shoes. He shed his coat.

They talked. Really talked.

About pressure, about art, about how her ex once threw out a sketchbook because he said it was “a waste of energy.” Will swore under his breath and handed her the chips like they were a prize for surviving it.

About Will’s first viral video and how for years, he wondered if that version of him—the loud, sarcastic, shouty guy—was the only thing people wanted.

“You’re different when it’s just us,” she said, eyes on the way he swirled his wine without realizing.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Better or worse?”

“Real,” she said simply. “I like it.”

He looked at her then, eyes steady and searching.

“You know,” he murmured, “you’ve got this way of seeing straight through people. Kind of terrifying.”

“You hide it well. Most people don’t notice.”

“I do,” he said. Quiet. Almost reverent.

The silence bloomed between them again—but this time, it wasn’t awkward.

It was electric.

When he kissed her, it was hesitant at first. Like he was checking she wouldn’t flinch or bolt or make a joke. But she didn’t. She leaned in, let it happen. Let it deepen.

When they pulled away, neither of them said anything for a few seconds.

Then Will whispered, “You still gonna call me a walking ego tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Oh, absolutely. Maybe more now.”

He laughed and rested his forehead against hers.

Outside, the city moved. Inside, for once, they didn’t.

[03230]

oh youre gonna make me feel SICK ugh... i missed ur writing beam this was delicious ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 thank u for always delivering

the exception

eric sohn x reader

0.7k words, eric just wants to be the shoulder you lean on, mention of wanting to punch someone, hurt/comfort/angst?, no pronouns used but reader is said to wear a skirt!

a/n: requests are closed! but this one uses one of the prompt quotes requested by @ericlvr <3 sorry this took so long, but i suddenly picked it up cuz i felt inspired :')

Eric’s been running. It’s the pent-up adrenaline in his veins that keep his legs pumping on the treadmill, his heart rate boosted—all to ensure his mind doesn’t race like he’s in the Grand Prix. He’s been one text message away from losing it completely. If anything, it’s taken everything in him not to look at his phone; he’s been on DND like it’s religion. 

But there’s always an exception to his perfectly, foolproof plans, and it always has to do with you. 

The addicting trap beat in his ears comes to an abrupt pause that nearly makes him skid to a halt. A ringtone—yours, some song you chose and he could no longer live without—replaced what he had been listening to. 

He punches the button on the treadmill as he slows to a comfortable walking pace, simultaneously lifting the bottom of his tank top up to wipe his sweaty face and accepting your call. He’s breathless when he answers, mentally bracing himself for your gushing, squealing, excitement. “Hey, how was it? It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

It only just hit ten o’clock at night and he was sure you and your date would have been out until eleven, at the earliest. 

When you don’t answer and he can only hear the sound of the passing cars on the road, his heart drops clean out of his chest. “Hey,” he says again, this time, infinitely softer. He steps off the treadmill. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You exhale into his ear and he panics when he hears the tremor. “Can you pick me up? Please?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he replies without hesitation. He practically sprints for the locker room, slinging his bag over his shoulders with his helmet under his arm, before making a dash for the parking lot. “Drop a pin and I’ll be there as soon as possible. Just” —he swallows— “hang in there, hon. You somewhere safe?”

The cold air slaps him in the face and he swears his feet go faster when he remembers you went out in a skirt tonight. 

“Yeah, I’m on the curb outside that coffee place we went to the other day. You don’t need to rush or anything; drive safe, Eric.”

Don’t rush? Yeah, right. 

His motorcycle comes into view and he swings his leg over the seat. “Hang tight. I’ll be there in ten.” When the call ends, he’s revving up the engine and racing out of the lot. 

It takes all his willpower to restrain himself from bulldozing past a red light, or maybe even scaring a slow pedestrian. He can’t rationalize your mood change, the swift and steep turnaround of tonight—what did that asshole do to you? There’s a million and one possibilities flicking through his mind, and by the time he’s turning onto his target street, he’s convinced that he could actually bash that bastard's face in. 

But when he spots your figure hunched on the edge of the curbside, your jacket draped over your drooping shoulders, all the fight leaves his body. He thinks he can be the fierce and loyal protector you deserve, but he’s always just wanted to be the shoulder you lean on. 

He carefully directs his bike toward the curb and it draws your attention upward. There are no tears in your eyes, only an expressionlessness that terrifies him. His foot stomps the kickstand down, shucks the helmet off his head; then he’s taking the few steps needed to meet you, and your arms are wrapped around his middle, face pressed into the heat of his neck. 

His own arms tighten around you and he has to cup the back of your shoulders and head to prevent his hands from curling into fists. “Hey,” he murmurs, then coughs, “sorry, I'm a little sweaty.” 

“'s fine. Thanks for coming.”

“Where else would I be?” he chuckles and his hand smoothes over your hair. The words are so natural, the gesture so fond—it’s almost pathetic. Where else would I be? I've never cared for anyone the way I care for you. He swallows again, turning back to his bike. “Let's get you home, hm?”

You nod and pull away. (For a split second, he regrets saying anything. He could have indulged for a moment longer, could have forgotten the entire reason you called.)

He passes you his helmet, flicking the visor over your eyes as you climb onto the bike behind him. 

He doesn't need to tell you to 'Hold tight’ as he speeds off into the night. 

a/n: pls reblog if u enjoyed!

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @lotties-readings @winwintea @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @gluion @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @coffeebymofy @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu

[03230]

Let me in

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader has had a horrible day, hell a horrible week, they push away Will, and say things that they don't mean. Warnings: Workplace harassment, blood/injury, emotional distress, heated arguments, harsh words. Notes: Based on this ask! Sorry this took so long 🔫 anon! I was crying while writing this 😅

Rain blurred the outline of the building across the street, visible through the small window above your kitchen sink. You’d walked in ten minutes ago, shoes kicked off in the entryway, work blouse still damp from the storm you’d sprinted through. The kitchen smelt faintly of yesterday’s dinner and lemon detergent—a familiar, neutral scent you’d sought out instinctively, dumping your bag on the side of the sofa and then walking over to the sink.

You jammed the rubber plug into the sink drain with more force than necessary, twisting it until the suction made your palm ache. The tap squealed as you cranked it to full heat, steam billowing up in a cloud that fogged the window above the counter. A stream of dish soap splattered into the rising water, its sharp lemon scent clashing with the damp wool smell of your sleeves.

You didn’t wait for the sink to fill.

Hands plunged into the scalding suds first, fingers splayed, before the water even covered the stacked plates. The heat hit your skin like a welt—then the soap found the scrape.

It was a small injury, just a ragged line across your left knuckle. You’d barely noticed it at the station. But now, the chemicals seared into the broken skin, a white-hot lance that made your breath hitch. The plate slipped from your grip, clattering against the sink’s stainless steel.

Clack.

The shove came from behind—a sharp, sudden weight slamming into your shoulder blade. You staggered forward, the phone slipping from your grip as your arm swung out instinctively for balance. The momentum sent it skidding across the station floor, vanishing beneath a forest of shuffling shoes. You lunged, knees hitting concrete, fingers clawing for the cracked screen. A briefcase swung low over your head. “Move it,” someone barked, the edge grazing your ear as you ducked.

You grabbed the phone and shoved upright, your palm stinging from the pavement. The crowd surged around you, a blur of suits and raincoats. And there she was—your coworker—already three strides past the turnstile. She glanced back, shoulder angled toward the exit, her smirk sharp under the station’s flickering lights. Of course. Ever since you’d filed the HR report about her “jokes” that weren’t jokes, the printer “malfunctions” that deleted your files, and the coffee cup that mysteriously spilt on your presentation notes, it had all escalated—in petty, deniable ways. More eyes rolled in meetings when you spoke. More documents “lost” from shared drives. And now this: a shove disguised as a commuter’s jostle, her face a mask of plausible innocence if challenged.

She lingered just long enough for your eyes to lock, her smirk deepening. Then she melted into the crowd, her earring glinting once—a tiny silver middle finger. Your throat tightened. HR had warned you about “lack of evidence”. Your phone’s cracked screen bit into your palm, sticky with blood from your split knuckle. The crowd swallowed her, but her laugh seemed to hang in the air, tinny and bright, like the chime of her desk notification alerts that always seemed to drown out your voice.

Now, your hand hung frozen in the sink, suds dripping. A thread of blood unspooled from your knuckle, dissolving in the water. The dish soap’s lemon smell turned cloying, indistinguishable from the station’s sour mix of wet asphalt and pretzel cart grease.

You shut your eyes. The plate lay submerged, forgotten. The water cooled around your wrists, but the scrape kept burning, a live wire threading straight back to the fluorescent glare of the station, the fractured screen, her laugh carried off by the arriving train’s roar.

The flat door clicked open. You didn’t turn, but the draft from the hallway prickled the damp fabric clinging to your arms. Will’s keys jangled into the ceramic bowl by the door, followed by the crinkle of a takeout bag. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft, as if testing the air. “Got the dumplings. Extra chilli oil, like you—”

You plunged your hands back into the water, scrubbing the plate’s edge, where a fleck of dried egg clung stubbornly. The scrape on your knuckle burnt, but you pressed harder, the sponge’s abrasive side scraping your skin raw. The plate hit the dish rack, droplets scattering across the counter.

Will hovered near the kitchen island. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him unbox the containers, steam rising from the dumplings. His reflection wavered in the fogged window—hesitant, shoulders tense. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you said, reaching for the next plate. The water had cooled to lukewarm, but your hands stayed red, trembling faintly as you scrubbed.

He didn’t push. Instead, he leaned against the counter, chopsticks tapping the edge of a container. “They’re going to get cold,” he tried, nodding at the food.

You didn’t answer. The sponge moved mechanically—scrub, rinse, clatter onto the rack. Another plate. Another fork. The rhythm anchored you, even as your mind flickered back to the station: her smirk, the blood on your phone, the HR rep’s tired sigh. Without concrete proof.

Will’s sigh was quiet, almost lost beneath the rush of the tap. He nudged a dumpling with his chopsticks, the chilli oil pooling like liquid rust. You felt his gaze linger on your hands, on the angry red line across your knuckle, but he said nothing.

The last fork clinked onto the rack. You stared at the empty sink, water swirling down the drain, taking the blood and suds with it. Will’s reflection still waited in the window, blurred and patient, as the rain hissed against the glass.

You felt his gaze linger on your hands, on the angry red line across your knuckle. His reflection in the window shifted—a blur of tousled hair and furrowed brows—as he hovered closer.

The last fork clinked onto the dish rack. You stared at the empty sink, water swirling down the drain, taking the blood and suds with it. The scrape on your knuckle throbbed.

“‘Fine,’” he repeated, your own word sharpened by air quotes. His voice frayed, cracking like old leather. “You’re clearly not fine. Let me hel—”

“Stop.” You didn’t turn around, gripping the edge of the sink. “Just stop.”

“Stop what? Asking?” His chair scraped back as he stood. “You’ve been a ghost for days. You won’t eat, you won’t sleep—hell, you’re bleeding—”

“It’s a scratch.”

“Bullshit. Look at me.”

You didn’t. The dish towel in your hands twisted, wringing out phantom water.

“Is this about work again?” He stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the counter. “Did something else happen?”

“No.”

“Then why are you scrubbing the sink raw at midnight? Why’s your hand bleeding?”

Your shoulders stiffened. “I scraped it.”

“On what? A cheese grater?” His laugh frayed at the edges. “You’ve been distracted all week. You won’t even look at me—”

The towel snapped against the counter as you whipped around. “What do you want from me, Will? A play-by-play of how she’s winning? How every time I think I’ve got proof, it’s ‘not enough’? Or maybe you want to hear how I let her shove me today because I’m too fucking tired to fight back?”

He blinked, recoiling. “Let her—? Jesus, that’s not what I—”

“You think I don’t see your face when I vent? That look—like I’m some chore. ‘Here we go again, the broken record.’” Your voice pitched higher, mocking. “I don’t want to be like this. But you don’t get to cherry-pick when to care.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair, I do care. I’ve stayed up every night this week listening, bringing you food, trying—but you’re not here. You’re just shutting me out.”

“Oh, sorry my misery isn’t entertaining enough for you.” You slammed a hand on the counter, the plate rattling in the rack. “Maybe I should’ve faked a smile, huh? Pretended everything’s fine so you don’t have to feel awkward?”

He stared at you, silent for a beat too long. Then his face did something awful—a flicker of raw hurt, his eyes bright with something too close to tears—before he swallowed it down. His voice steadied, but the cracks showed. “I’m going to walk away now. Because I recognise you’re upset and lashing out.” A pause, his gaze dropping to the bloody knuckle you’d tried to hide. “I’ll leave before you say something you don’t mean—something I won’t forget.”

You opened your mouth, a sharp inhale cutting through the silence—'Wait'—but the word died in your throat. He was already turning, shoulders hunched, one hand absently rubbing at his sternum like he could massage the ache out.

“Will—”

He paused at the hallway, his profile haloed by the dim kitchen light. For a heartbeat, you saw it: the way his jaw trembled before he clenched it, the sheen in his eyes he’d blame on exhaustion later. But he didn’t look back.

The bedroom door clicked shut.

You stood there, the cold edge of the counter digging into your hip, your knuckle throbbing in time with your pulse. The dumplings sat untouched—mostly. Will’s chopsticks lay askew on the counter, one dumpling missing from the container. A single bite taken, chilli oil smeared on the corner of the box like a half-hearted attempt to share the meal.

You stared at the lone dumpling he’d left behind, its pleated edge torn raggedly, steam long gone. He’d always eaten slowly, savouring each bite, but tonight he’d barely chewed before the fight erupted. You could picture it—him forcing a swallow, chopsticks hovering over the container as he debated offering you one last olive branch before you shut him down.

Your throat tightened. Even in the middle of this, he’d tried. Always tried. And you’d—

A faint smear of chilli oil glistened on the counter where his sleeve had brushed it. You pressed your palm over the stain, as if you could absorb the ghost of his presence there, but the heat had already faded. The bedroom door loomed at the edge of your vision, shut fast.

Your stomach sank. You’d made sure he wouldn’t try again tonight.

You slid to the floor, knees drawn to your chest. The flat hummed with silence, broken only by rain tapping the window. Back. Off. The words ricocheted in your skull, each repetition punctuated by the memory of Will’s face—the way his smile had died mid-sentence when he’d walked in, the takeout bag still dangling from his hand.

He’d remembered.

A muffled clink came from the bedroom—a drawer closing, perhaps, or a belt buckle dropped onto the dresser. Your throat tightened. He’d left the dumplings here. Uneaten.

The bedroom light flicked off. Shadows swallowed the hallway, inch by inch, until the flat felt hollowed out. Somewhere in that void, he was lying awake. You knew the exact sound of his breath when he fought sleep—the soft, uneven hitch, the way he’d turn his face into the pillow to muffle it. You’d memorised it once, tracing his ribs in the dark, counting each exhale like a prayer. Now, the silence between you was a living thing, gnawing at the walls.

You weren’t just losing the fight with her. And him. You were becoming her—all jagged edges and calculated cruelty. Letting her venom rot the one thing you’d sworn to protect.

The shadows stretched longer.

You didn’t move.

An hour later, you knocked, the sound feather-light. Too quiet. Your bruised knuckle stung as you rapped again, the pain sharpening your focus. “Will?” Your voice wavered. “Can I—” Breathe. “—come in?”

Silence.

You pressed your forehead to the door frame, the wood cool against your flushed skin. The memory of his flinch earlier—your words causing it—flashed behind your eyelids. When you nudged the door open, the hinge groaned like a reproach.

He lay on his side, facing the wall, the blanket pulled taut over his shoulders. The lamp on his nightstand cast a dim halo, illuminating the rigid line of his spine beneath his thin cotton shirt. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps as if physically restraining himself.

You hovered in the doorway, the chill from the kitchen seeping into your socks. Your reflection ghosted in the dresser mirror—hair tangled, eyes swollen, sleeves still damp from dishwater. Pathetic. A stranger.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered.

“Which part?” His voice was gravelly, stripped bare. “The ‘broken record’ bit? Or telling me to back off like I’m some stranger?”

You flinched. The words had tasted rancid even as you’d spat them, but hearing them echoed back—worse. You perched on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning. His scent enveloped you—laundry detergent, faint citrus, and the metallic tang of rain still trapped in his shirt fibres.

“All of it”, you said. “I’m sorry.”

He shifted, finally turning. Shadows pooled under his eyes, deeper than you’d realised. “You scared me,” he said quietly. “Not because you snapped. Because I could see you vanishing. Like you were building a wall brick by brick, and I couldn’t—” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t find the ladder.”

Your fingers brushed his wrist, tentative. He didn’t pull away.

“I kept waiting for you to stop trying,” you admitted, the confession clawing up your throat. “To finally… see me. The messy, angry parts. And walk away.” It was still silent.

“I hate that I did this,” you said, louder now, your voice splintering. “That I turned into her. That I hurt you to make the other pain smaller.”

Your hand hovered over his shoulder, close enough to feel the heat of him, but not daring to touch. The scar on your knuckle throbbed, a fresh bead of blood welling where you’d picked at it.

You stared at the frayed edge of the blanket, your voice raw. “I kept waiting for you to stop trying. To look at me—really look—and see how broken I’ve become. The anger, the paranoia, the way I flinch at Teams notifications. I thought you’d finally realise I’m not worth the fight and walk away.”

His shoulders tensed, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut.

“But you didn’t.” The words tore free, jagged. “You stayed. And now I have to,” Your throat closed. Deserve it. Be better. Fix what I’ve cracked.

Silence thickened.

You pressed your palm to your sternum, as if you could claw the shame out. “And I kept pushing you because—” A tear slid down your nose, splattering onto the blanket. “Because if you saw how deep this rot goes, you’d leave. And I’d deserve that, too.”

His exhale shuddered, uneven. “Try me.”

You hesitated. The admission lodged in your throat, sharp as glass.

His hand found yours, calloused fingers skimming the split skin of your knuckle—a wound you’d reopened earlier, digging at it like a punishment. “Tell me,” he murmured, thumb brushing your pulse point.

The dam cracked. “It’s her. This job. Every day, she—” You choked, your free hand clenching the blanket. "She whittles me down. A comment in meetings. A ‘lost’ file. A laugh when I walk by. And I let her. Because if I react, HR says I’m ‘too emotional’. If I stay quiet, I’m ‘not a team player’. It’s a game she can’t lose, and I” you exhale, “I’m letting her turn me into this.” You gestured wildly at yourself, your reflection in the dresser mirror, a stranger with hollowed eyes and a bloodied fist.

He shifted, turning fully toward you. “Then quit.”

You stiffened. “You think I haven’t tried? I’ve applied to twelve jobs this month. Twelve. And every rejection email feels like proof she’s right, that I’m—”

“No.” His voice sharpened, cutting through yours. “You’re not letting her do anything. You’re surviving. That’s not weakness.”

Your breath hitched.

“But this?” He lifted your injured hand, the blood smeared across your knuckle glinting in the lamplight. “Punishing yourself? Pushing me out? That’s letting her win.”

The truth of it lanced through you. You sagged forward, forehead dropping to his shoulder. His arms encircled you, anchoring you as sobs ripped loose—ugly, gasping things that shook your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you choked into his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” His palm cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “But you don’t get to decide what I can handle. Let me in.” He folded himself around you—all steady hands and murmured shhhs and pressed his lips to your temple. The shirt soaked through, but he didn’t seem to care.

When the storm passed, he nudged you upright. “C’mon. Let’s fix the part where you didn’t eat.”

In the kitchen, he reheated the dumplings, steam curling into the air as chilli oil liquefied back into its glossy crimson. You ate shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter, the silence now a balm.

“Next time”, he said, swiping a stray sesame seed from your lip, “say, ‘Will, I’m breaking.’ I’ll shut up and just be here.”

“Even if I’m mean?”

“Especially then.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone, lingering. “Mean’s just scared with its teeth out.”

The bedroom light stayed off. You fell asleep tangled in his arms, his heartbeat a metronome beneath your ear, the rain softening to a whisper.

[03230]

the alchemy || Will Lenney

“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me”

part two of THE ALCHEMY. part one here

pairing: will lenney x fem!reader

warnings & tags: friends to lovers. idiots with tension. idiots in denial. slowish burn. will pov. more will, less football. chrismd gossip bestie.

summary: after seeing the public’s reaction to your performance, you see how your fellow teammate takes to social media after the fact. causing the two of you to reach a breaking point.

a/n: hello!!! this is a long one, so grab a drink lads. thank you for your patience, im a first year college student and the last month has been hectic. for any clarity, this is the gap between the two charity matches! there are either one or two more parts after this. It’s vital to the story, so you don’t want to miss :)

wc: SO MANY!!!

Recently, you haven’t been able to sleep. The thrill of the match still shocks you awake, every time there are new photos released or a new video, you are quick to engage. Slowly, videos are released from your other mates, and you eagerly tune in to see what they say.

It’s exciting. The feedback has mainly been positive, yet you still feel the uneasy flip in your stomach every time you see someone has released a video. It's all you can think about. And when you weren't thinking about football, you watched it on telly. You missed playing, the competition, the simple act of being active. It's given you a new surge of motivation, pushing you into creating.

The only downside of it all is that your phone has been buzzing with notifications today, especially. Usually, your phone mutes any notifications from social media, allowing you to not get sucked in all day. Truly, you do your best to ignore it, to ignore the increasing number you see every time you open Twitter, Instagram, or TikTok. But you're only human, and humans are quite curious.

You try not to think anything of it, occupying your time in the studio to film your own video about the charity match. You had B-roll shots, stills, and close-ups of players when you were benched. It was becoming a combination of all the things you adored, your friends, film, and football.

Once you begin to sit down to film a portion of the video, you review the brief script you had written until you feel your right pocket vibrate. Getting up to turn off the camera, you pull out your phone to see who's calling. And to your surprise, it's Chris. You slide open your phone and put it to your ear as you click the camera off.

"Do you need to tell me something?" Chris asks immediately, making your heart drop. You hadn't been hiding anything, spoke to him frequently, and were sure you didn't need to tell him anything.

"What? I don't think so, do I?" You wonder aloud. Chris groans loudly, making your phone speaker crackle in your ears. He doesn’t often text, matter of fact, Chris is a god-awful texter— and an even worse mate to call in a time of need. You could text him and he would go at least a week without responding, usually replying with “Sorry I thought I responded!”

Which makes you wonder, what could be so important that he called you first? Usually, like Simon, it was to help film, otherwise Chris would call to gossip. The boys loved gossiping, or catching up, as they would say.

"I've just seen Will's video," He starts, and you wait for him to continue, but it seems he's doing the same. "Came out a few hours ago.."

You walk in circles in the studio, a hand tapping the side of your thigh out of nerves. You knew Will was uploading his pov of the charity match sometime later in the week, but he didn't tell you exactly when. You'd be lying if you hadn't wondered what would be kept in your shared interactions, what Will said about you, and what Mikey would deliberately choose to keep in. It was a thought that had plagued your mind since Will had taken the GoPro off when you two returned to the hotel.

"Right, and what does that mean?" You huff, choking down the unease in your tone.

"Oh my god, have you seen it? You haven't, have you?" Chris exclaimed, and you could hear the small giggle he tried to stifle. "You two really are clueless, aren't you? It's ridiculous that our other mates are on Hinge actively trying to not be single, and you two do it by choice!" he joked hysterically.

“You’re a dickhead,” you cut in between his laughter, choosing to ignore the blatant comment about yours and Wills' peculiar relationship.

While Chris continues to make himself laugh, the curiosity is now starting to gnaw at you, causing you to stride over to your desk. Without another beat, your monitor is turned on, and you pull out the chair to get comfortable. You attempt to ignore his laughter as you open up YouTube, typing in Will's second channel name.

"Take a gander for me, will you? When you get the chance, of course," Chris says, and you can hear the wide grin on his face. You freeze, like you had just been caught, the mouse hovering over the thumbnail of the video. You look around the room, just to make sure you're alone.

"I suppose," you say slowly, sitting up straighter than before. Chris then goes on to talk about his latest endeavors, awful dates, video ideas, and the next time you two will see each other. Under other circumstances, you'd be happy to chat. But right now, all you wanna do is watch Wills latest video.

"Hey Chris, I gotta get back to filming this video, mate," you fib, leaning back into your chair, "I want it up by next week, and I'm the only one editing it."

"Oh yeah, yeah, I'm just chatting. Let me know when you watch that video, text me," he responds politely.

"If you even get back to me-" and the phone call ends before you can even say goodbye. You furrow your eyebrows at your phone before setting it down on the desk. You mumble the title to yourself,

SIDEMEN CHARITY MATCH (First Person POV) a bit more willne • 271k views • 3 hours ago

It can’t be that bad, is what you’re trying to convince yourself. You've existed on the internet for a long time now, and there isn't anything you can't handle. Clicking on the video, your heart starts hammering in your chest. You let a few minutes roll by, holding your breath, and then you see the moment when you tapped on Will's shoulder.

"I think I'm gonna shit myself," you let out, and Will watches it back with a soft smile and a tender chuckle.

“Awh poor y/n/n, she was really nervous the entire time, I felt so awful once we split up,” he says over the video.

There it is. The common burn on your face, the shiver down your spine, and the drumming of your heart against your chest. You hit the space bar, pausing the video, to cover your face in embarrassment.

Is it silly to be so riled up by a singular sentence? Are you crazy for wanting to analyze every little thing in the video? You seem to take note of everything. You notice the upturn on the corner of his lips, the way he plays with the ring on his pinky that you got for him-- a nervous tick he picked up, the shifting of his eyes down to his lap when he gets bashful. It's driving you crazy.

So, instead, you watch in complete silence for the rest of the video. It keeps you from pausing frames, reading comments, and feeling lightheaded. But you notice how the GoPro often faces where you're standing on the field, how Mikey left in the bits and pieces of you two interacting that could've easily been cut out. The small waves, subtle smiles, the hug you two shared after you had missed the goal. Half the time Will wouldn't say anything, he would just grin, reliving the moment, occasionally making small comments.

"She really is something, isn't she? Many good assists for her first match,"

and

"Look at that darlin' smile,"

Yet you didn't pause, you remained still in your seat, keeping your eyes glued to the screen as if blinking would take it away. Even though you could feel the air leave your lungs when you appeared on screen.

But then you reach the point where Will makes his goal.

You nervously bite your fingers as he celebrates, telling the audience the same thing he told you on the field, how he had never been a striker and always stayed in the back. The GoPro shot is now playing as Wills words fade into the background. The next few moments play, and it's where Will was screaming something intangible to you.

You aggressively turn up the volume all the way, turning on closed captions to be sure. Your mouse hovers over the timestamp, “most replayed,” and that's when you hear it.

"For you! I did it for you!"

It plays once, then you replay it, and then replay it again. You feel crazy. Taking in his every word, every move, was this okay? A moment that felt so raw and personal was now published for thousands to observe.

“For you! For you!” that’s what Will continues to shout at you on the pitch. And Will doesn’t say much about it, because just before was the clip of you saying he owes you a goal. But when you watch the video you feel like you’re back on the field. Chest heaving up and down, you can barely breathe, and there’s Will running at you shouting something you couldn’t make out. His skin sticking to yours as he embraces you, his hands gripping the side of your body with the proudest smile. A smile, that now says, that was for you.

Just like before, you pause the video, hands gliding through your hair. You don't finish the video. Instead, you step away from the computer and fall back onto the couch that you originally were going to film on.

Okay. It was pretty bad. You understand why your mentions have been blowing up all day and why Chris gave you a call. But it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen this before. Earlier on, you’d often get paired with any boy you came into contact with. It never got out of hand, and most of the time, you were able to ignore it, and the others would too.

But this time it was a little different. The next few days roll by and you aren't able to dodge it. The tweets, the teasing from friends, the edits, god the edits. When filming with friends you were always ready for a joke about Will to make an appearance.

And once you upload your video on the charity match, the comments are bombarded with curiosity and flood in quickly.

StarvxsmWillLoverforever Starting to see why will and y/n can't beat the dating allegations.. 349 likes 17 replies

marriottxmorgan Literally!!!

Admittedly, you feel a little crazy for reading the comments to see if others are picking up on what’s happening. You don’t need to rely on the audiences validation on what’s going— but it does make you feel a little more sane.

Despite it all, Will doesn't bring it up to you, nor does he make any insinuation that he knows about it when he comes by your flat one afternoon.

“Are you coming tomorrow night?” Will asks over your shoulder, his breath fanning the tips of your ears. You turn your head away from the show you're watching and lean back to create space. A chill is sent down your spine as the hairs on your arm stand. He leans over the couch, the sun casting shadows to create definition in the muscles on his arms. Your cat, calamari, follows him, weaving between his arms and purring. A fortuitous combination that focused all the things you loved in one home.

“To what? Watch you prats drink and make a fool of yourselves?” you bantered, turning your body fully to face him. "I have somewhere to be the next morning,"

Arthur mentioned how the lads were hitting the pubs over the weekend, but it seemed he failed to mention that you were meant to accompany them. Will shrugs, arms crossing over one another to lean closer to you.

“Chris said you would,” he insisted, and you could see the smile he was trying to hide. You roll your eyes and lean back onto the couch as Will picks up the feline, cradling her in his arms.

“Why does everyone keep saying I’ll do things before talking to me?” you wondered aloud.

“Because you always end up doing them darlin,” Will teases, kissing your pet before settling down in the open space next to you with Calamari in his lap. "I think Arthur owes Chris twenty quid if you go,"

The silence stretches, reminding you that you're playing house again with Will. There’s leftover takeout on the table, his coat lazily hanging off a chair, and the worn out ball you both had been passing around. The breeze that comes from the open window cools the burn on your face and clears the air of any tension. Your eyes sweep the room, before landing back on Will whose attention is on Calamari.

You awe silently, Will has a habit of adoring every pet he comes into contact with. And often, they end up loving him just as much. Without hesitation, you grab your phone, snapping a picture to save for later.

“I guess I don’t have anything else going on,” you say simply, tucking your phone back under your thigh.

“You don’t disappoint,”

Will stays for several more hours after that, watching telly with you, playing with mari, he watches as you write formal emails, and listens to your phone calls with your manager.

Between all this, you posted the photo of Will and Mari. No caption, no music, no tags, just the photo. You hadn’t thought much of it, a simple photo that was cute. Yet, Wills face wasn’t in it, just the wave of of his hair and the ring on his pinky finger— you weren’t trying to hide him. Either way, it didn’t stop your audience from finding out who it was.

So the hours before you were finally going to get some sleep, were left with you refreshing your phone.

“Fucks sake,” you mumble under your breath, before turning off your phone frustratedly for the night and going to bed.

The music is loud, but the chatter is more audible. You hesitate, not wanting to leave the solace of the cool air. Bars made you anxious, so did large crowds of people, and the only anecdote to that right now—was to drink.

You push open the door, immediately being met with loud cheers as older couples watch the game on the multiple TVs that are displayed. You take a second look at the location you were sent, and you seemed to be in the right place.

Slipping around groups, and bumping into couples, you eventually end up slamming into a familiar face.

“Y/N! Thought you weren’t coming for a second there, mate!” Chris steadies you, yelling over Queen playing on the big speakers. Fixing the pieces of hair that got caught in your lipgloss, you give a shy smile.

“I got wrapped up in editing,”

“We’ve got to get you an editor,” Chip chimes in, appearing with the rest of the lot. You roll your eyes in response, eyeing him.

"Yeah, yeah,” you say dismissively, crossing your amrs over one another. “Where’s Sabina?”

"She was knackered and didn't know if you were coming or not! I'll text her, tell her you are thinking of her," he responds politely, pulling out his phone to text his girlfriend. Gaze sweeping the group, you count six men, minus Will, and that’s when reality to hits you—

"This is awful! I'm stuck babysitting you blokes all night, again," you express, the palms of your hands pressing against your eyes.

"Oh we're not all bad," a voice comes from behind you, warmth radiating on your back. And without even turning around, you know it's Will. One of his hands leans against the bar, outstretching infront of you, while the other holds a half empty glass. You crane your neck to look over your shoulder, and Will is looking down at you, head slightly tilted with a small grin.

It's suffocating, his eyes on you, yours on his, and everybody elses on the both of you. It feels more intimate than when Will has fallen asleep in your bed after a quiet evening. This is a public display, both of you slotting together like pieces in a puzzle, your back pressing into his chest accidentally.

"And when you end up singing down the street and getting carried by George later, tell me that," He laughs lightly, breath fanning your face with tequila and mint. He still has the same smile that looked at you, and only you, with adoration.

"Another pint, anyone?” Stephen asks.

“Oi! Shots in celebration!” Cal insists instead.

“We could just do both, really,” you offer, and the rest seem to rally at the suggestion.

"Brilliant idea,"

The lot of you kill more time with conversations about formula 1, filming, football, and more importantly, shots. You could feel the music in your feet, sending shock waves to your racing heart. The pub continued to get more crowded as time went on, allowing you to sneak away to use the bathroom for a moment of silence and peace. The liquor you drank burned your throat and sat heavy in your stomach, while it eased your anxiety and loosened your joints, it was making you impulsive.

There’s surprisingly no line, and your out in no time, fixing your smudged mascara in the foggy mirror. You reach for your purse, only to realize you don't have it, and you also don't have your phone. Quickly, or as quickly as you can handle, you move out of the bathroom and into the crowded hall.

You must've left it at the booth, or maybe outside when you needed fresh air, or maybe by the pool table? You strain your neck, going on your tip toes to sweep the room. Once, twice, and then your eyes fall on Will. He's on his phone, and theres a black bag that hangs on his shoulder.

You feel a sense of relief wash over, but also your heart skip a beat.

“William, I think you have something of mine,” You say loudly, drawing his attention away from his phone, down to you.

“What? This? I have one of these myself,” he says jokingly, sliding the purse off his arm and onto the counter next to you both. He then digs in his pant pocket, fishing out your phone and sliding it next to your purse. Under the awful lights, his hair is shinning and freshly washed, the hair near his ears is short meaning that it was newly cut.

“You look better without those hats,” you observe aloud. Your hand reaches and brushes through his hair, ruffling it, “Have you ever considered a mullet? You’d suit one,”

Will tilts his head, like a puppy, his eyes big and bright— “Noted,” and only now, you notice how the rest of the lads had scattered, and Will was by himself. You look over your shoulder, then reaching on your tiptoes to search for the boys.

“Were you waiting for me?” You observe, even though you meant to only think that. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut.

Will shrugs, trying to hide the small smile that dared to creep on his face.

“Kinda,”

"You can't kinda wait for someone,"

"I was going to wait for you anyway, but then you left your bag near the pool table, gave me a good excuse." Will's gaze swept the room— their friends nearing on the edge of being plastered, singing and talking to strangers. He was searching for something, not someone, but something else.

Grabbing your attention, the bartender slings two pints your way, "For the couple," he winks, making your face burn. You both don’t say anything at first, the atmosphere shifting to try to mold to both of your comforts.

The air had changed, suddenly gotten so dry and tight that it made Will's body stiffen. Ignoring the comment, Will grabs the glass and inspects it before taking a small sip.

“Are you.. seeing what people are saying?” Will asks as you grab the glass left unattended. "About us,"

His voice was low, eyes fixed somewhere just passed your shoulder, like looking at you directly might unravel something you both aren't ready for.

You shift uncomfortably, of course you did. How could you not? Every day since Will posted the video, when Ieuans' photos were released of both of you, last night's post— you’d been getting tagged in edits, clips, everything. The question was big, pointed, and unexpected.

“Yeah, I’ve seen a few things,” you lie, hiding your unease by squeezing the class tighter.

The look on Wills face, you’ve seen it before. When editing software crashes, or when an unplanned event happens during a video, this time it’s a little different. There’s tension in his brows, his jaw isn’t clenched, instead theres doubt, uncertainty, that strains him.

“It’s okay, Will, I swear it doesn’t bother me.” you reassure, “Unless it.. it uh, bothers you, of course—“

“No! No, that isn’t, no, it doesn’t bother me at all,” he sputters earnestly. Will's eyes meet yours—guarded but still steady—before clamping his mouth shut. Holding back on the words dancing on his tongue.

"Okay," You slowly nod, as if you’re still processing it as you’re responding. You should leave it at that, finish your drink and head back towards the group— “Then why did you bring it up?”

What did they put in the liquor tonight?

In all the time you've known Will, he's not a good liar. He’s also not good at hiding what he’s feeling on his face. His tongue presses against the inside of his bottom lip, face twisting to avoid an awkward grin.

“I thought it would make you uncomfortable,” he mutters, his eyes darting down to look at the foam in his glass. You shift, hesitantly moving closer to Will to capture his attention.

“What? No, it’s never made me uncomfortable before. Should it?” You ask, hand grazing his forearm. Which makes Will look at you before he shrugs, quiet and shy, similar to when you first met him.

"I've seen what it's done to other people, it could have a horrible ending,"

“Doesn’t have to,”

“But it could,”

“That stuff doesn't change anything, we're still..." You begin defensively, before the weight of your words slowly starts to settle. "..where we are,”

You chew at the inside of your cheek, the adrenaline bleeding out of your system. You don’t pick up on the shock on Wills face at first, but after a beat of silence you realize the depth of what you just said. Slowly, you swallow the sip from your drink, giving you enough time to possibly save yourself.

But you don’t say anything.

You both stare at each other incredulously.

“Well, where are we, y/n?" Will probes. He can see it now, the look on your face, the shock, the stature of your posture, the mistake it was saying that outloud. You know he’s asking because he already has an answer in his head, but he wants you to reaffirm it. You know Will, and Will knows you, it’s inescapable.

The silence is telling, even amongst the loud chatter in the pub. You’re convinced you two are the only ones not talking. The look on his face says he’s waiting for you to say something else, but you don’t. You swallow and lick the dry cast on your lips, being the first to break eye contact. Breaking the string tying you two together at this moment.

“Y/n, be honest with me—”

“Hello! What are we standing around for? We’re doing karaoke in the back, George has already had one too many as you can tell,” Chris comes over, his hands clasp Wills shoulders from behind. Chris looks at you first, and then glances to Will, noting the two of you saying nothing. Chris quirks an eyebrow, mouthing something along the lines of “Bad time?”

“Stop sitting around and flirting, will ya? At least when George flirts with him, he shares,” Stephen says teasingly, comes up to join you lot. He doesn’t note the tension between the two of you, or he totally does and just doesn't care. Both of which are completely plausible answers.

“Right, I’ll come on over,” You affirm quickly, seeing this as your only out of the hole you dug yourself into. You give one last glance to Will, and his face is twisted. His eyebrows furrow together, and his lips are slightly parted, it’s a look that reads we’re not done.

But you give him a pleading look that says not right now. 

…⚽️

Will doesn’t say much for the next two hours. He lingers in the back of the group, occasionally sipping on his drink or checking the time on his phone. And you try your best not to stare, knowing that if you look his way— he’ll already be looking at you. He does eventually join the others for karaoke, obnoxiously singing and joining in on music that is playing while you all walk to the next place.

It’s left a pit in your stomach. Knowing that the next time you and Will are alone, you’ll have to be the rawest form of yourself. The part that you’ve been desperate trying to repress and lock away. You’ve never spoken much about how you really feel, afraid that if you start, you’ll never stop. Your feelings for Will are like an oil spill, a match could be dropped and everything would be caught on fire.

You can feel it, the anxiety, it started at your toes and it’s slowly crept it’s way up your torso. The walls are closing in and time is escaping. All because Will doesn’t speak to you, his fingers tapping the table rhythmically, his leg bouncing up and down causing friction to the table. You needed to talk now, even if it was going to ruin you.

Strategically, you get up from the table with a rather forced smile.

“I think it’s time for me to go home fellas,” you announce just after you all had arrived at a new pub. You had been to three pubs already, downed 4 shots, a tequila soda, a couple pints, and a dirty martini. Your shoes were sticking to the wood floors, phone on the verge of dying, and you were tired of having to hover while using the public restrooms.

“Oh not yet, y/n! The night is still young,” George teasingly pleads, and when he leans over to pull you in for a hug you can smell the liquor on his breath. Your nose wrinkles as you pat his back, giving him a small shove after. Unlike Will, it wasn’t as endearing .

“You are so hammered,” you comment, the interaction making the group laugh.

“You aren’t hammered enough,” Cal counters, leaning over to offer you his drink, to which you decline. His eyes are glossed over, and he has this lopsided grin that reads trouble.

“Take care of him won’t you?” You say, pointing at Stephen who shakes his head in response. Regardless, he grabs Cal, and shakes him.

“You stupid, fuckin idiot,” Stephen mutters to Cal, taking the glass between his hands and smelling it. His nose twitches, yet he still takes a small swig, coughing after the fact.

“Drinkin vodka that tastes and looks like medicine, you’re an odd man,”

“Seriously, I’ve got to get going,” Getting up, you shrug your coat on as you briefly say goodbye to everyone.

“We’ll take care of your husband, don’t worry,” Stephen jokes, forcing Cal to sit down in the process.

“You should really work on taking care of yours,” Chris bites back. You roll your eyes, trying to shrug off the overdone comment.

“No one vomit,”

“Will do miss,”

“Can’t promise anything,”

Telling Arthur to tell Chip you said goodbye, smacking Chris on the head for saying you’d come tonight, and finally, you wave to Will.

He nods at you, lifting his drink as acknowledgment. You pause, giving time for more to happen. You expect Will to join you, you hope he does, because you linger for a moment too long that everyone else notices— but he doesn’t. His body still, leaned back into the chair he sat in. Wills eyes flicker back towards the lads, and he doesn’t take a second glance. He’s letting you walk away.

So you walk away.

And once you’re out of the bar, you convince yourself you’ll hear his footsteps from behind. Ones that are hurried and rushed, maybe he was just taking his time to say his goodbyes. Will never let you leave without him, he always accompanied you, eventually going back to each others flat and falling asleep there. But you glance over your shoulder, once, twice, and before you know it, you’re on the train home. It leaves a hollow feeling in your heart, a cold chill that courses through your bones.

You don't remember the last time you left an event, a hangout, or even a video when Will didn't leave with you. You purposefully left thinking he would follow, but he didn’t, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe you’re reading too much into it, he had a lot to drink and hasn’t been able to get out very much— he was just having a good time!

Looking at your phone, with 5% left, you go to your messages. Waiting for his text seemed desperate, but he always sent you one after a night out, it was normal. Whatever normal means to you both.

With a loud groan, and a frustrated tug on your hair, your phone shuts off and you let it fall onto your lap. No phone, no company, and no alcohol. What a shit way to end the night.

Now you’re left to wonder on the ride home if that was casual, or if you’re an idiot.

Recently, Will hasn't been able to sleep. Ever since he watched you walk out of the pub a few nights ago, he's felt this lingering regret. He hasn’t seen, texted, or called you since that night. And normally, he sends you a text to make sure you got home safe, but he didn’t even do that. Instead he anxiously turned off his phone the rest of the night and has been avoiding the feeling since.

At first, Will thought it best to keep it to himself, until one morning Will gave James a call in the early afternoon.

“Y/n says rubbish all the time, it could mean nothing,” James comments. 

“No! You knobhead! She had this, this look and she said it like she regretted it,”

“Or it could mean everything, and you’ve completely screwed up–” James continues to mumble to himself.

“Why don’t you just make me feel worse about the situation, yeah?” Will huffs.

“This is why I didn’t want to give you my honest opinion because I’m not involved in the situation. How am I supposed to know what look she had?” James points out.

“You’ve known her just as long as I have,” Will says quietly, picking up the dishes left on his bedside table and bringing them out into the kitchen.

“What, you want me to write a song about it?”

“James!” Will whines. 

“Okay, okay, what else happened?” Will sucks in air through his teeth, trying to recall the rest of the night.

“She left after a couple hours, that’s it,”

“What’s the matter with you?! You let her leave?” James yells over the phone, causing Wills eardrums to pop in response.

“What was I supposed to do? Follow her on the chance that she tells me that it was nothing?” Will argues, setting the dishes into the sink. There’s a silence over the phone before another loud yell,“YES!”

A beat of silence goes by, and then a wave of realization washes over. Will loudly groans, his palm banged against the counter sharply then slaps his forehead.

“..I’m a proper idiot, aren’t I?” Will asks, but mainly to himself. Finding himself leaning against his kitchen counter, pressing his phone to his ear with just his shoulder. He lets out another heavy sigh, using the pads of his fingers to rub circles on his temple and forehead.

“Mate, what do I do?” Will asks defeatedly. James shifts over the phone, drawing his attention back to the phone call. He can hear James footsteps stop, settling down to think about the question.

“Realistically, you talk to y/n. You’ve known her since you were twenty-two, If you don’t talk to her now you’ll be dancing around your feelings until you’re sixty, and by then she’ll have grandkids. You and I both know that this isn’t going away anytime soon,” 

“Why are we being nasty?” Will says, a small exhausted smile making its way onto the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not! But I think it's ridiculous that you have any reason to believe that your feelings aren't reciprocated," James explains calmly. His tone was sure, confident, Will doesn’t think he’s ever heard James be so serious before.

"Have you been watching those edits of her and i recently?" Will tries to steer the conversation where it doesn’t put him in a vulnerable spot. Lightening the mood with a small quip, “They’re quite good, I can see how it would get in someone’s head,”

"Maybe. But regardless, I can still see how obvious it is that you two want to be together. Do us all a favor, Will. Make it happen. I don’t know what you're waiting for, really.” James confesses. As much as it was a weight off Wills shoulders, it was a weight off his as well.

So that's what Will does. After the phone call, he writes and deletes, and rewrites the text he's attempting to send you. Before he knows it, the sun is setting and he’s wasted the day away. So, instead, he gives up and heads towards your flat and arrives at seven sharp. No phone call, no text, just him.

With a small knock at your door, and his nerves making his hands twitch, he waits.

Will hears a few meows from inside, and then footsteps, before you slowly open the door.

“Will, hey,” you say softly, your eyes big with surprise. Will cradles a ball between his arms and a black jumper, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Sorry for showing up unannounced, I just..” Will trails off for a moment, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. You observe his nervous nature, and stay still, patient.

“Do you wanna go for a walk, maybe?” he asks carefully, trying to give you space if that’s what you need. You lean against the door frame shrugging,

“It’s cold out,”

“I brought an extra jumper,” he says immediately, and your stature seems to soften. He holds it out for you, an expensive black knitted jumper he always wore in videos. From where you stood, you could smell his cologne, it makes you feel giddy. Even though you were still angry at how he disappeared the last few days.

“Alright, let’s go for a walk then,” you decide finally, knowing that Will wasn’t here for just a walk. He knows you know that, but the look on your face makes him feel a little more hopeful than before.

TAGLIST: @dandelionpixels @ooostarwarsfandom501st @melancholicandmessy @migilini @lyssaluvs @alysbaby @kneelforloki @formulaal @f10pc @i-need-to-be-put-down @blu-cuffie @ellouisa17 @marijas-stuff @pianor481 @flashyourgreeneyesatme @whistlef0rthechoir @edgyficuselastica

a/n: again, ty for all the love and patience. some peoples users i can’t tag but i promise i see u all !!!!

[03230]

The Aftermath

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The reader takes care of Will after the 2025 Charity Match Warnings: None Notes: Based on this request! Part two of Custom Fit. Sorry this was so short 😞this week's been pretty busy.

The stadium lights dimmed to a honey-gold haze, but the chaos was far from over.

Will stood pinned against a concrete pillar by a swarm of cameras and microphones, other YouTubers interviewing him for content, his post-match grin strained at the edges. Sweat dripped from his hairline, carving clean lines through the grime on his face. Someone had tossed him a towel, but it hung limply over his shoulders, forgotten. His voice had gone hoarse but retained its trademark charm.

“Nah, mate, the header wasn’t planned—just saw the ball and thought, Christ, that’s going on YouTube,” he said, grinning crookedly as the people laughed. His eyes flicked to you leaning against the cold concrete wall outside, just for a heartbeat, before darting back to the cameras. The fifth time he’d done that in ten minutes.

You clutched the Allstars kit tighter, its fabric coarse and damp against your fingertips. The acrid bite of sweat clung to the jersey—sharp and sour, layered with the grassy musk of turf ground into every fibre. It should’ve repelled you, but instead, you pressed the fabric to your chest like a relic, thumb tracing the embroidered patch until the threads snagged your skin.

Talia materialised beside you, holding two foam cups of warm stadium drinks in one hand and a grease-stained paper bag of Sides in the other. “He’s like a golden retriever with separation anxiety,” she said, nodding toward Will, then glared at her drink. “And before you ask—yes, this is piss-warm chamomile. Blame this one,” she added, patting her barely-there bump. “Keeps checking you’re still here,” she continued, rolling her eyes at Will’s fifth glance in your direction. “Someone’s gotta be the caffeine-deprived babysitter.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, flushing as you snatched the decaf from her. The chamomile’s floral tang clashed violently with the lingering musk of Will’s jersey still pressed to your side. “Don’t ‘shut up’ me. You’re basically holding his emotional support jersey.” She plucked at the fabric on your arm, wrinkling her nose. “Though, god, it reeks. Love really is blind.”

Freya snorted, materialising behind Talia with Faith and a dozing Olive in tow. The toddler stirred, her Sidemen scarf slipping askew as she sleepily gummed a fist. “And nose-dead, apparently,” Freya said, plucking a fry from Talia’s bag with a joking grin and gesturing at the jersey with it, neon cheese glooping onto her thumb. “You sure you don’t want to burn that?” She pulled a face like she’d licked a battery, playfully rolling her eyes. “You two are worse than my Nana’s telenovelas—and that’s saying something, considering her main character literally died of a paper cut last season.”

With a dramatic sigh, she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, putting on a pretty good aristocratic accent: “Behold! The tragic Victorian widow clings to her scoundrel’s sweat-rag! A tale as old as tiiiiime—”

Talia jabbed Freya’s ribs with her decaf cup, nearly sloshing chamomile over the rim. “Keep the melodrama PG,” she said, though her twitching lips betrayed her. “Olive’s going to start quoting your nonsense at daycare.”

Freya glanced at the toddler, now drooling peacefully on Faith’s jacket, and dropped her tragic widow pose with a snort. “Relax—see? She’s out cold. Besides,” she added, elbowing you with a wink, “we all know you’d dive into a dumpster fire for his crusty socks. No judgement here.”

Will chose that moment to escape the locker room, his smirk sharpening as he caught the tail end of Freya’s jab. “Jealous, Freya?” he called, limping toward you with exaggerated swagger. “I’m sure Josh would get you one too, if you ask nicely.”

“Took you long enough,” you said, stepping forward to shoulder his duffel bag. Grass stains still streaked his neck, the custom #LENNEY 2 jersey clinging to him beneath his unzipped hoodie like a second skin.

Faith shifted Olive’s sleeping weight, nodding toward the exit. “Go. Before this little one wakes up and demands another pretzel the size of her head.”

“Seconded,” Talia said, crumpling her empty nacho bag with a yawn. “Your ‘tragic Victorian widow’ act is killing the vibe. Take your possibly concussed Romeo home.”

Will saluted lazily. “Yes, Mum.” You shot them a mock glare but couldn’t suppress your grin. “Bye, ladies,” you said, throwing a wave over your shoulder as Will slung an arm around your neck, his weight leaning into you like a human limpet.

“Text us when you’re home, preferably not dead in a ditch!” Freya called.

“Or do!” Talia added. “Drama’s good for the group chat.”

“Wouldn’t want to deprive you,” Will muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He raised two fingers in a tired salute as you guided him toward the garage, the girls’ laughter fading behind you.

The walk to the car was quiet, murmured voices echoing through the large open space of the concrete garage. Will’s shoulder bumped yours every third step—less a nudge than a loss of balance—his duffel strap slipping down his arm until you hooked it with two fingers. He didn’t object.

At the Audi, he sagged against the bumper, head thunking back against the rear windscreen. “Let’s go,” he drawled, patting his pockets with sluggish determination. You intercepted the keys mid-air, their fob still warm from his grip.

“C’mon,” he groaned, reaching halfheartedly. “I’m not that knackered—”

You rolled your eyes. ”You just headed a ball. You’re probably still seeing double,” you said, pointing to the faint bruise already blooming on his temple. “And don’t even try to lie.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it with a click, shoulders sagging. “...Could’ve let me pretend I’m still invincible for five more minutes,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

You popped the passenger door open with a smirk. “Boot or seat? Your choice.”

“Seat,” he grumbled, folding himself into the leather with all the grace of a collapsing deck chair. His knee cracked audibly against the glove box as he buckled up. “Christ—fucking—”

“Language”.

“You’re lucky you’re fit,” he added, tilting his head back against the rest. The garage lights cut across his face, sharpening the shadows under his eyes.

“Keep talking”, you said, adjusting the rearview mirror, “and I’ll make you ride in the boot for real.”

The Audi purred onto the rain-slicked road, tyres hissing against wet asphalt as neon signs bled into liquid gold across the windscreen. Will stabbed at the climate control panel with the heel of his hand, cranking the heat until the vents roared like a dragon.

"Christ, that's vile," he groaned as warmth hit his sweat-damp shirt, muscles seizing. The sharp cedarwood of his cologne turned cloying in the sudden humidity.

"Told you to ice your knee." You didn't look up from the road, thumb tapping the rhythm of some pop atrocity oozing from the radio. "But no. Had to be the martyr in head-to-toe Under Armour."

"Frozen peas give me existential dread." He peeled his back from the leather seat with a wet sound, grimacing. "They’re the vegetable equivalent of passive aggression."

"You’re the one who tried to throw the ball like you’re eighteen again. Newsflash, Granddad – your ligaments have a retirement fund now."

He scoffed, rolling his neck until it cracked. "One tactical stumble—"

"—Tactical?" You snort, teasing him more. "You folded like a Poundland lawn chair."

"Fuck’s sake, it was a stumble. It was—" You interrupted him by swerving around a pothole, grinning when the jolt made him suck air through his teeth. "Admit it. You just wanted the stretcher crew to carry you. Again."

"Jealous the med students didn’t swarm your touchline?" His mouth hooked sideways, all mischief and challenge. "I’ve seen the way you eye them. What’s your type – the one with the trauma shears or the guy who looks like a thumb in a fleece?"

"At least they hydrate properly." You flicked the half-empty water bottle in his lap, droplets arcing onto his joggers. "This isn’t a prop, Will. Actual humans need fluid to survive."

"Darling, if you wanted me undressed, you could’ve just—"

"Don’t." You cut him off, heat crawling up your neck as his laugh rolled through the car, low and knowing. The steering wheel creaked under your grip. "I’ll crash us. I mean it."

"Liar." He settled back, victorious, stretching his legs with a groan. "You’d miss the view too much."

You rolled your eyes, but he caught your chin with two fingers, tilting your face toward him. The traffic light bled red across his smirk. “C’mere,” he said, voice gravel-rough. His kiss was all heat and hubris, teeth nipping your lower lip as the light turned green. Horns blared behind you. He pulled back, eyes glinting. “Told you. Best view in London.”

His bravado lasted exactly three seconds.

The adrenaline finally bled out of him in a rush—shoulders slumping, smirk softening into something frayed at the edges. He tried to mask it, drumming restless fingers on his thigh, but the rhythm stuttered as his eyelids dipped. “Keep dreaming,” you said, quieter now. His retort dissolved into a yawn, jaw cracking audibly.

Rain smeared the world beyond the glass, but the car held its own galaxy—the ping of his phone charging, the syncopated drip of his damp hair hitting his collar, the way his knee brushed the gear shift one last time before going still. Always pushing. Always there. Until he wasn’t.

By the second traffic light, his temple met the window with a soft thunk. The city painted him in fleeting strokes—neon blue highlighting the curve of his slack mouth, sodium gold gilding the stubble along his jaw. A bruise bloomed above his eyebrow like storm clouds, yet he looked younger in the quiet, fingers slack around the water bottle. Even his breathing changed, the sharp edges of his banter smoothed into slow, syrupy exhales.

You turned the radio down.

He didn’t stir.

The kitchen fluorescents buzzed like angry wasps. Will collapsed onto a barstool, chin propped in his palm, as you shoved leftover carbonara into the microwave. He watched the plate spin through the greasy glass, eyes glazed. The microwave beeped sharply, and he flinched. “Eat,” you ordered, sliding the steaming plate toward him. “Properly. Or I’ll start spoon-feeding you.”

He smirked, dragging a noodle through the sauce with deliberate slowness. “Promises, promises.” Sauce smudged his thumb, and he licked it off absently, gaze drifting to the fridge plastered with magnets from your trips abroad. “Should’ve ordered Nando’s,” he mumbled around a half-chewed bite.

You flicked a bread roll at his chest.

“Oi.” He caught it mid-air, his grin lopsided. “Trying to maim me further?”

“Trying to keep you alive.” You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Your body’s running on fumes and ego.”

“Ego’s renewable energy, love.” He tore the roll apart, crumbs cascading onto the plate like shrapnel. A fleck of parsley clung stubbornly to the corner of his lip—a bright green against his pallor. You let it linger, watching his gaze drift past you, fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance. His eyelids dipped like weighted curtains, snapping open every thirty seconds with robotic precision.

You hooked your foot around his ankle beneath the counter, jolting him. “Will.”

He blinked, slow and syrupy, as if surfacing from underwater. “Hm?”

“You’re zoning.”

“Am not.” The denial cracked halfway. He shovelled a forkful of carbonara into his mouth, chewing with the enthusiasm of a man gnawing cardboard. The shadows under his eyes weren’t circles anymore—they were craters.

His damp hair coiled in rebellious curls at his nape, the sterile scent of the stadium’s complimentary soap clashing with the sour tang of his abandoned jersey slung over the chair. Your gaze snagged again on that damn parsley, flagrant as a flare. Without thinking, you reached out, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

He froze mid-bite, fork suspended. A crumb fell. You swiped the green fleck away, your nail catching faintly on his chapped lip. His throat worked—a dry, audible click.

“Bed.” You lobbed the ibuprofen bottle at him. It thunked against his palm, his reflexes still sharp even as the rest of him unravelled.

“Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” He rattled the pills like dice, squinting at the label.

“Someone’s gotta be.”

He lurched into the bedroom, shedding his hoodie mid-stumble. The fabric pooled on the floor like a deflated shadow as he collapsed face-first onto the bed, limbs splayed in haphazard surrender. The duvet swallowed his groan, his voice muffled but insistent: “Massage or death. Your choice.”

You followed, floorboards groaning underfoot. Will lay motionless, face buried in the sheets, one arm dangling over the edge. His back rose and fell in shallow waves—the only proof he hadn’t fully dissolved into the mattress. The bed frame creaked as you climbed up, knees sinking into the downy surface on either side of his hips. Heat radiated through his thin t-shirt, seeping into your joggers as you settled over him.

His breath hitched, fingers curling into the duvet. The bed tilted under your weight, rolling his body subtly toward yours. Your palms hovered above his shoulders, the muscles beneath twitching even before contact—a battlefield of tension, coiled like steel springs primed to snap.

“Drama queen”, you muttered, thumbs carving into the rigid terrain of his upper back.

He hissed, spine arching sharply, shoulder blades jutting like fractured wings. “Christ—”

Your thumbs found the knot first—a hard, defiant bulge beneath his left shoulder blade, shaped like a clenched fist. You circled it slowly, testing. Will’s breath stuttered, his spine tensing like a bowstring. “Breathe,” you muttered, pressing down with the heel of your palm.

He didn’t. Not until the pressure forced a ragged exhale from his lungs. “Fuck—”

“You played at Wembley,” you repeated, quieter now, knuckles grinding into the epicentre of the tension. The muscle quivered under your touch, a live wire sparking. “Acted like you were bulletproof. What’d you expect?”

“Sympathy?” He turned his face sideways, cheek smeared against the duvet, words fraying. “A fuckin’ parade?” His laugh was a hollow rasp, muffled by fabric.

“You’ll get a tombstone.” You leaned your weight into the knot, relentless, until it finally surrendered with a sickening pop. His groan vibrated through your knees, low and visceral, as his body sagged into the mattress.

“Knew you’d fuss,” he slurred, voice thick with exhaustion. One hand fisted the sheet, knuckles blanching.

“Shut up.” You traced the curve of his jaw, calluses catching on stubble, before retreating to safer territory—the slope of his neck, the wings of his shoulders. “You love it.”

His breath hitched. Not from pain.

The room softened around you—the storm outside reduced to a whisper, the lamp’s glare dimming as if chastened. You worked in silence now, kneading the remaining knots with methodical precision. His body unravelled by degrees: the iron grip on the sheets loosening, the hitch in his breath smoothing to something shallow and steady.

His breath hitched—a stuttered inhale you recognised instantly. You felt it everywhere: in the twine of his pulse under your wrist, the minute tilt of his head toward your touch. You pressed harder, thumb skating along the ridge of his shoulder. “Well?”

Will turned his face into the pillow, but you caught the grin in his voice. “Well, what?”

“You love it.” You repeated yourself.

He snorted, the sound dampened by cotton. “Of course I do.” Casual as a shrug, but his ear had gone pink at the tip—the tell he’d never managed to hide. “Your hands are witchcraft. Should charge for this.”

“You’d owe me six figures by now.”

“Mmm. Just add it to my tab.” He shifted, wincing as you hit a fresh knot. “Christ—easy, assassin.”

You lightened the pressure, fingers brushing the hair at his nape. He leaned into it like a cat, sighing. “Should’ve subbed out after the header,” you said, quieter now.

“And miss your custom jersey reveal?” His hand fumbled backward, swatting blindly at your thigh. “Worth the possible concussion.”

You caught his wrist, thumb skimming the pulse point. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot.” He twisted just enough to peer up at you with one sleep-silted eye. The bruise looked worse in the lamplight, but his smirk was pure mischief. “C’mon. Tell me you’re not impressed.”

You flicked his earlobe. “By your talent for concussions?”

“By my commitment.” He caught your hand before you could retreat, pressing a lazy kiss to your palm. His lips were chapped, his stubble rough against your skin. A familiar calculus. “Admit it. You’re dazzled.”

“Dazzled,” you deadpanned, freeing your hand to resume the massage. “That’s one word for it.”

He hummed, cheek squashed against the sheets. “Knew it.”

You felt the exact moment. Will tipped over the edge into sleep. His breathing deepened, the rigid line of his shoulders going slack under your palms. His fingers, which had been idly tracing circles on your knee, stilled mid-motion, hand sliding off the bed to dangle limply toward the floor.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Watched the rise and fall of his back, the way his parted lips smudged the duvet with each exhale. The lamp cast his profile in gold—eyelashes fanned dark against cheeks still flushed from the post-match shower, hair curling damp at his temples. Even bruised and battered, he looked younger like this, the day’s tension dissolved into something soft and unguarded.

Careful not to jostle him, you slipped off the bed. The floorboards creaked a protest, but Will didn’t stir. His arm remained outstretched where you’d been, fingers twitching faintly as if chasing your warmth.

You moved through the flat on autopilot: deadbolting the front door, twisting the handle of the back window twice to secure it, and clicking off lights one by one until only the bedroom lamp remained.

When you returned, Will had curled onto his side, knees drawn up like a comma. The duvet pooled at his waist, exposing the twin dimples at the base of his spine, the constellation of freckles he’d gotten from the last boys trip. The lamp’s glow cutting abruptly after you flick it off, plunging the room into darkness.

You slid in beside him, knees slotting behind his like puzzle pieces worn smooth by repetition. His body curled toward you even before the mattress settled—a reflex etched into his bones, as automatic as breathing. His hand found your hip, calloused palm sliding under your shirt to press warm against bare skin, anchoring you in place. Even half-conscious, he knew the map of you: the dip of your waist, the curve of your shoulder, and the way you’d always tuck your cold toes between his calves.

He nuzzled the back of your neck, stubble scraping skin. “Love you,” slurred into your hair, barely audible.

You smiled against the dark. “Love you too, idiot.” You laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach, his grip slackening as sleep pulled him under.

His breathing deepened, slow and syrupy, chest rising against your back in a rhythm older than Wembley, older than YouTube, older than the both of you. The rain had hushed to a murmur, the room holding its breath around you. You closed your eyes, letting the heat of him seep into your marrow.

Somewhere between his thumb stroking your hipbone and the distant trill of a nightingale, sleep crept in. The last thing you registered was his content sigh, warm and damp against your nape, as his hand slid up to cradle your ribs—craving more of you even in dreams.

I hope you like this 🔫 anon! Like I said in the notes, sorry it's short… But I hope that you like what I made nonetheless 😊. Thanks again for requesting it!

[03230]

OFF LIMITS 3 || WILLNE

summary; you — the reserved sister of ChrisMD — find yourself caught in a forbidden yet irresistible romance with WillNE.

part 1 ,, part 2

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

It’s late when it happens.

Not the kind of dramatic late where the stars align or the rain falls perfectly on a city skyline. Just… Tuesday night late. Quiet house. Dim kitchen light. The kettle whining like it’s tired of being needed.

You’re standing at the counter in one of Will’s hoodies— the one that somehow smells like both his cologne and a memory—and dunking a teabag lazily into a chipped mug. You’re barely awake, but you had a craving for something warm, and Will had offered to make it but you waved him off.

He’s watching you from the doorway like he’s memorising something.

“Do I have something on my face?” you mumble, not even looking up.

“No.”

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s smiling. Soft. Sleepy-eyed. In a t-shirt and flannel bottoms, hair messy from where your fingers had run through it on the couch earlier.

“What?” you say, cheeks warming.

Will walks over, leaning against the counter beside you, stealing the spoon from your hand and swirling the tea himself.

“You always make it wrong,” he mutters. “You don’t wait for long enough for the colour to steep.”

“You’re a tea snob.”

“I’m right, though.”

You rolls your eyes, but let him finish making it.

It’s stupid, domestic, ordinary.

And maybe that’s what makes it feel so dam real.

You sit on the sofa, legs tucked under you, the warm mug cradled in your hands. Will’s beside you, one arm thrown lazily across the backrest, close enough to touch but not quite.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” you say quietly.

He turns his head. “What?”

“This. Us. Like… you were literally banned from talking to me a few months ago.”

Will snorts. “Your brother made it sound like I was going to ruin your life with one sarcastic sentence.”

“You do have dangerous levels of sarcasm.”

He grins. “And yet here you are. Still alive. Still drinking bad tea.”

You bump your knee against his. “Still liking you, unfortunately.”

Will’s smile soften.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just watches you.

And then, like it costs him nothing, like it’s just the truth—he says it.

“I love you, y’know.”

The words slip out like he didn’t even plan to say them.

Your breath catches.

You freeze with the mug halfway to your lips.

Wil blinks, like he just heard himself for the first time.

“…Shit,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to—well, I did, I just didn’t mean to drop it like that.”

You set the mug down carefully.

“Say it again.”

He looks at you.”

“I love you,” he says, firmer this time. “Didn’t realise I’d been holding it in. Guess it just… fell out.”

You don’t move for a second. You just stare at him, at the way he’s trying not to look nervous, like he’s unsure what version of you he’s going to get in response.

But you already know your answer.

You’ve known.

You lean in slowly, tucking yourself into his side, hand on his chest, head under his chin.

“I love you too,” you whisper. “Stupid amounts.”

Will lets out a breath—part laugh, part relief—and pulls you tighter, like he’d been holding himself back until he knew you were all in.

“No take-backs,” he murmurs into your hair.

“None needed.”

You feel his smile press against your temple.

The kettle whines in the background. Forgotten tea steeps on the table. Rain starts up softly against the window. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly where it should be.

[03230]

October Rain

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary: Will forgets his two-year anniversary with the Reader Warnings: Sad then cheesy as FUCK Notes: Based on this ask! I got carried away on this one...Kinda has more angst than fluff I think, but I hope the end was fluffy enough. Reader is described to be wearing makeup and have hair that has their orignal roots peeking through (beiefly)

You spend an hour picking out the dress.

It’s ridiculous, really—the closet yawns like a wound afterward, half your wardrobe strewn across the bed. Too formal, you’d hissed at the emerald gown. Too casual, you’d spat at the sundress, though summer died weeks ago. The silk slip you settle on is the colour of champagne, the one Will once said made you look like “a sunrise with legs”. You spin in front of the mirror, fabric swirling, and pretend the heat in your cheeks is from the hairdryer.

The bathroom sink becomes a warzone. Eyeliner wings sharp enough to draw blood. Blush blended to that “just-fucked” glow he’d teased you about last anniversary. You spritz the vanilla perfume he buys you every Christmas—‘So I can find you in a crowd,’ he’d said. Your phone buzzes on the counter.

A text from Will:

Will (7:43 PM): Emergency reshoot. Might be 20 mins late. Don’t eat my breadsticks, thief

You roll your eyes, smiling. Typical Will. You text back:

You (7:43 PM): If you’re late, I’m ordering TWO desserts. And I’ll tell the waiter you stood me up

You leave a note on the fridge in your loopy script—“Gone to claim my free pity cake. Catch up, slowpoke.” — And double-checked the contents of your clutch. Inside rests a small box with a silver ring, its band etched with tiny stars circling a moonstone—a mirror of the one you wear on your right hand. Under the stone was an engraving of the date of your first kiss hidden in tiny numerals.

Rain whispers against the windows as you step outside, but you don’t mind. You imagine his face when he opens the box, the way he’ll fumble trying to slide it onto his finger mid-sentence, his laugh warm and sheepish as he says, ‘Should’ve known you’d out-romance me.’

The cab driver eyes you in the rearview. “Big date?”

“The biggest,” you say, thumb rubbing the moonstone. Two years. Two years of his chaotic schedules and your terrible puns, of long sleepless nights and his hands steadying yours when you cried during sad movies.

The hostess leads you to the corner table, its surface gleaming under a halo of candlelight. Rain ticks softly against the windows, a muted rhythm beneath the murmur of violins and clinking crystal. You smooth your dress as you sit, the silk whispering against your thighs, and immediately reach to straighten the centrepiece—a single tulip, its petals curled at the edges like parchment. Wilted, you note, but it feels fitting. Romantic, in a vintage way.

You tug the tablecloth taut erasing imaginary wrinkles. The waiter materialises, his voice a velvet hum. “A drink to start while you wait?”

“A glass of Maker’s Mark and a Cabernet, please,” you say, fingertips drumming the menu. The waiter’s gaze flicks to the empty chair, then back to you. He nods, vanishing into the amber-lit haze of the restaurant.

When he returns, the whisky glows like molten gold in its glass, the Cabernet a deep ruby beside it. You take a sip of wine, the tannins bitter-sweet, and blurt, “Could we also start with the breadsticks? And—do you have any recommendations for the main course? We’re… celebrating.”

The waiter’s smile softens. “Anniversary?”

You nod, thumb brushing the moonstone on your ring. “Two years.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and you swear his tone dips. “The duck confit is exceptional. Crisp skin, pomegranate glaze. A favourite for… special occasions.”

“Perfect,” you say, voice bright as the candle flame. “And the breadsticks, please.”

They arrive warm, dusted with rosemary and sea salt. You pluck one, the crust crackling under your touch, and set it on Will’s bread plate. His ritual: stealing bites before the meal, grinning with a mouthful of carbs. The butter dish sits unopened—he’d argue it’s “sacrilege” to ruin good bread.

The waiter lingers. “Shall I wait to bring the duck?”

“Please wait a bit more.” You clear your throat. “He’ll be here any minute.”

He nods and walks off.

The couple beside you leans into a kiss, their shadows merging on the wall. You look away, smiling. That’ll be us in ten minutes, you think, adjusting the tulip one more time.

8:03 PM.

The ice cubes crackle in his untouched drink. You text him:

You (8:03 PM): Breadsticks are going quick. Hurry!

Outside, the rain thickens.

The restaurant’s candlelight pools like liquid gold on the tablecloth, but it can’t warm the chill creeping up your spine. Rain blurs the world beyond the glass into a smudge of greys and blues, and you fixate on it to avoid staring at the empty chair. Will’s whisky glints amber under the flickering flame, ice long melted, the glass sweating like your palms.

8:17 PM.

Your phone screen dims again. You tap it awake, thumb hovering over the latest text—sent seven minutes ago, still unanswered. The waiter glides over, his voice a gentle ripple in the silence. “Can I bring you anything else while you wait?”

You force a smile, brittle as the sugar crust on the crème brûlée at the next table. “Just the duck confit, please. And another Cabernet.” The please cracks, but he nods, retreating with a discretion that feels like mercy.

The duck arrives, its pomegranate glaze glistening. You slice into it with surgical precision, the knife barely whispering against the plate. Last year, Will stole a bite off your fork, grinning as juice dripped down his chin. Now, you chew slowly, each swallow a battle. The couple beside you clinks champagne flutes, their laughter a bright, foreign language. You glance at Will’s whisky, then slide it toward yourself, the glass leaving a damp ring on the linen. The first sip burns; the second tastes like regret.

9:03 PM.

The candle drowns in wax, its flame shrinking to a pitiful flame. A tulip petal drifts onto Will’s unused bread plate. You pluck it gently, its edges browning like a forgotten letter, and tuck it into your clutch beside the velvet box. The moonstone ring on your finger feels heavier now.

The waiter hesitates, his polished shoes shifting slightly against the hardwood floor. His fingers, long and graceful from years of balancing trays, hover near the table’s edge as if unsure whether to reach out or retreat. His gaze lingers on the empty glass of whisky.

“Dessert, perhaps?” He offers again, voice low, careful. “The chocolate torte is—”

You press your lips together, forcing a small, polite smile. “No, thank you,” you murmur, softer than you intended. Your fingers, stiff from clutching the sweating wine glass, fumble for your wallet. “Could I just have the receipt, please?”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling the leather folio from his apron. You pretend not to notice the way his brow furrows—the unspoken Are you sure? in the slight tilt of his head.

You open the bill, scanning the numbers without really seeing them. The candlelight flickers, casting wavering shadows over the ink. Duck confit. Cabernet Sauvignon. Breadsticks (2 orders). A bitter laugh threatens to rise in your throat—two orders, because you’d been so sure Will would devour them the second he arrived.

He watches, silent, as you count out the bills. Your hands don’t shake—not visibly, at least—but the edges of the notes crumple slightly under your grip. When you slide them across the table, he takes them with a practised nod, but then hesitates, thumbing through the stack.

“This is too much,” he says gently, extracting a few bills to return.

You shake your head, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder, where the candlelight catches the rain-streaked window. “Keep it. For the… the trouble.” The last word splinters, but you don’t let it crack further.

His mouth opens—maybe to protest, maybe to offer some other kindness—but you’re already standing, smoothing the ruined silk of your dress like it still matters.

At the door, the hostess—her delicate silver name tag glinting, Sophie—catches your arm with a touch so light it’s almost imperceptible. The warmth of her fingers is startling against your chilled skin.

“The rain’s gotten worse,” she says, her voice threaded with something that isn’t pity, but close. “Let me call you a cab.”

You turn your face just enough to meet her eyes, another practiced smile in place. “I’m alright, thank you.” Your voice is steady and pleasant, the same tone you’d use to decline an extra napkin. “Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for her reply. The door swings open, and the storm greets you like an old enemy—immediate, unrelenting. The silk dress, already ruined, clings to your skin as the rain seeps deeper, turning the fabric into a second, heavier skin. The cold is sharp, but you don’t shudder. You walk. One step, then another.

Behind you, the restaurant glows—golden, warm, a world still spinning without you in it. The violins hum on, the clink of glasses muffled by the downpour. Somewhere inside, the waiter is clearing the table, folding the unused napkin, and wiping away the water ring left by what should have been Will’s drink.

You walk faster.

The rain tastes like salt.

The tube station swallows you whole, its fluorescent lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. Rain cascades down the steps, turning the floor into a mirrored maze. Your heels—strappy, delicate, stupid—stab into the tile with every step, blisters gnawing at your skin. The silk dress clings to your legs, its champagne hue now muddied to dishwater grey. You don’t flinch. Let the pain root you. Let it be real.

A digital board flickers: CIRCLE LINE DELAYED – 22 MINUTES. Commuters sigh, their breath fogging the air. You sink onto a cold metal bench, mascara bleeding down your cheeks in charcoal streaks. The moonstone ring on your finger feels like a lie. You twist it off, the silver band catching the light one last time before you bury it in your clutch beside the velvet box.

An old man lowers himself beside you, his trench coat smelling of mothballs and Earl Grey. His face is a map of wrinkles, eyes milky at the edges but kind. His hands, speckled with age spots, grip a weathered umbrella. “Nasty night,” he rasps, nodding at the storm outside.

You nod back, silent.

He thrusts a weathered umbrella toward you, its handle carved with faded floral patterns. “Take it, lass. You’ll catch your death.”

“I’m alright, thank you,” you say, voice fraying at the edges. Polite. Always polite.

He hesitates, squinting at your trembling hands. “Sure?”

“Yes.” The word cracks. You turn away, staring at the tracks until his shuffling footsteps fade.

The train arrives fifty minutes late, its doors wheezing open. You board, heels slipping on the grimy floor. A toddler points at your drowned-rat elegance, giggling. Rain drips from your hem, forming a puddle at your feet.

At your stop, you limp up the stairs. The storm hasn’t relented—it thrives, needling your skin, soaking through the clutch pressed to your chest. Let the rain scald. Let it strip you raw. Your heels click defiantly, blisters splitting open, blood mingling with rainwater. You don’t slow. The pain is an anchor. The pain is true. 

Let it drown out the memory of Will’s empty chair.

The automatic doors shudder open with a sound like a dying breath, spilling you into the lobby’s arctic chill. Air conditioning razors down your rain-raw skin, and your dress—once liquid silk, now a translucent shroud—clings to every curve, the fabric plastered to your thighs like wet tissue paper. Water sluices from your hem, squelching against polished marble as you walk.

Dave, the night guard, freezes mid-yawn. His eyes dart from your bare shoulders to the puddle spreading at your feet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if swallowing a scream. “Ev-evening, miss,” he stammers, fingers spasming over his keyboard like he’s forgotten how to type.

You smile. Polished. Automatic. The kind you’d give a stranger. “Evening, Dave.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “Enjoy your shift.”

Mascara bleeds down your cheeks in Rorschach trails, each swipe of your hand hours ago having smeared it into abstract art. Your hair, once sleek, hangs in Medusa tendrils, rainwater still glazing the strands. Your right hand drifts to your ring finger, bare now, the moonstone’s absence a phantom itch. 

The elevator dings. You step in, shoulders grazing cold steel. Your reflection splinters across the mirrored walls—a dozen shattered versions of yourself, each more unrecognisable than the last. One version trembles. Another sneers. A third presses a fist to her mouth, stifling something raw.

You fixate on the numbers lighting up: 4… 5… 6… Each floor hums, the sound vibrating in your molars. The doors open to your hallway, its geometric carpet clashing violently with your waterlogged heels. You fumble the key, metal scraping the lock until it gives, your trembling hands betraying you.

When the door finally gives, the flat smells of vanilla and Thai food. Light spills from the kitchen, where Will’s voice rings out, bright and buoyant over the clatter of dishes.

“Welcome home! You’ll never believe the day I—”

You step inside, rainwater pattering onto the entryway tiles.

“—had to reshoot the entire bridge sequence because the damn drone malfunctioned. Nearly brained James when he suggested cutting the tracking shot, but then—”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. You place your clutch on the coffee table, a dark stain spreading beneath it. The sound of his voice - usually so comforting - feels like radio static now, all meaningless noise.

"Anyway, I've got this banger idea for the next main channel vid—"

A cabinet slams. Silverware jingles. He’s pouring wine, you realize—the clink of two glasses meeting.

“Hungry? I grabbed that Thai place you like on the way back. The Penang curry’s still…”

He trails off as he rounds the corner, two glasses of Malbec in hand, hair messy and shirtsleeves rolled up. His grin fades when he sees you—a drowned spectre in ruined silk, mascara bleeding down your cheeks.

“Jesus, why’re you soaked?” He sets the glasses down too hard, crimson sloshing onto the counter. “Didn’t you check the weather? I texted you about the storm before I left this morning—”

Your voice cuts through his, quiet and lethally calm. “What’s today’s date, Will?”

“What?”

“The. Date.”

His eyes dart reflexively to the fridge—to the takeout calendar stuck beneath a Star Wars magnet, October 12th circled in your lavender gel pen. A Post-it note hangs half-peeled beneath it: “Dress fancy. 7:00. Il Girasole. Don’t be late!!! ”

The blood drains from his face. “Fuck. The shoot ran late, and then the producer ambushed me with notes, and I—”

“Two years.” Your whisper fractures. “You forgot two years.”

A beat. Rain lashes the window above the sink.

He reaches for you, wine-stained fingers trembling. “Let me fix this. I’ll call the restaurant—we can go now, I’ll—”

You sidestep his touch, the motion sending water droplets arcing onto the plush rug. The bathroom door slams shut behind you.

The bathroom tiles bite into your soles as you peel the dress from your skin. The silk clings, resisting until it finally slaps wetly against the floor. You ball it up, shove it into the rubbish bin beside the toilet. The champagne fabric wilts over the near empty bin.

The shower handle creaks as you crank it. Water hammers your hand before the heater catches up, icy needles sharpening to a scalding sheet. You step in, skin flushing red. Steam clots your lungs.

For a beat you stand there, staring blankly at the showerhead.

Then your breath hitches—sharp, shallow gulps that shudder through your ribs. You clamp a hand over your mouth, teeth sinking into the meat of your palm to stifle the sob climbing your throat. It works, but only briefly. A high, keening noise escapes through your nose, and you press your face into the crook of your elbow, smothering the sound against wet skin.

Tears come in silent, relentless waves. Your shoulders jerk forward with each suppressed gasp, muscles coiled so tight your back aches. Water streams down your face, mingling with snot and salt, but you keep your eyes screwed shut. When another sob threatens, you bite down harder on your hand, the pressure dull and grounding, but not enough to break skin.

Your free hand braces against the shower wall, fingers splayed white-knuckled on the tile. The urge to scream pulses in your throat, but you choke it back, swallowing until it burns. Your body rebels anyway: chest heaving, knees trembling, a strangled whimper slipping free. You slump against the wall, forehead pressed to cold ceramic, and let the water hammer the nape of your neck.

It’s messy. Uncontrolled. Snot drips onto your collarbone; tears pool in the divot of your pressed lips. You swipe at your face with a trembling fist, smearing rather than wiping, and suck in a ragged breath that catches like a hook in your windpipe. For a moment, you’re silent—then a fractured cry escapes, sharp as glass. You muffle it with both hands this time, breath hot and trapped against your palms, until the worst of the wave passes.

By the time the water runs cold, you’re hollowed out. Your breaths still hitch, but softer now—wet, exhausted sighs. You swipe your nose with the back of your wrist, eyes swollen to slits, and lean heavily on the wall to stand. Every muscle feels wrung-out, tender.

You reach for the soap with trembling hands. The bar slips twice before you manage to grip it, lathering mechanically between your palms. You scrub your arms again—not violently now, but with the dull precision of someone completing a chore. Bubbles slide over goose-bumped skin, your movements slow and leaden, like your bones are filled with wet sand.

Shampoo this time—squeezed directly onto your crown without measuring. You work it in with limp fingers, nails grazing your scalp without intent. Suds slither down your temples, stinging the corners of your bloodshot eyes. You don’t flinch. Just tilt your head back, let the spray rinse it away, your throat working silently as you swallow the last vestiges of tears.

A conditioner bottle clicks open. You apply too much, the excess dripping down your calves in pearlescent streaks. The scent—coconut, his favourite—makes your jaw clench. You rinse until the water runs clear, until your fingers prune and your skin feels scraped raw by nothing but time.

Beyond the door, Will’s breath hitches. He presses a palm to the wood, then balls up his hand, knuckles whitening, but doesn’t knock. “Fuck,” he mouths silently, raking a hand through his hair. 

He counts each shuddering breath you take, his own syncing unevenly with yours. When the shower shuts off with a metallic squeal, he staggers back, suddenly aware he’s been holding his breath.

Silence.

Will hesitates, arm half-raised as if to knock. Then the rasp of a towel against skin sends him retreating down the hall, socked feet silent on hardwood. By the time you crack the door, he’s slumped on the living room sofa, staring blankly at his abandoned wine glass.

You dress in the sweatpants and shirt he left on the hook—his sweatpants, the ones he’d draped there this morning while whistling off-key, already late, already forgetting—and don’t look at the bin where your dress lies balled in the dark. 

You crack open the door and step out, spotting Will with his back to the door, staring at something on the coffee table. You swallow and shuffle to the spare bedroom, closing the door softly and curling under the warm duvet, curling up and stare at the wall.

Rain ticks its fingernails against the windowpane. The hoodie you claimed for yourself from Will at the start of your relationship drowns you in its fabric, the cuffs frayed from his restless worrying and your attempted messy repairs at stitching them back together. The elbows are thin from wear. It smells like him still—

The door creaks. 

A sliver of hallway light fractures the darkness, then vanishes as Will slips inside. He’s haloed in the dim glow of your alarm clock, shadows pooling beneath bloodshot eyes. His socked feet whisper across the floorboards until he kneels beside the bed, a supplicant at an altar.

“You once said…” His voice splinters, raw as the blisters on your heels. He tries again, softer. “‘We should’t go to bed if we’re angry at each other’ Even if it’s 2 AM. And you’re rightfully angry at me.”

You curl tighter, hoodie fabric muffling your reply. “You remembered that?”

A beat. His exhale unravels, frayed and uneven, as if the truth weighs more than his lungs can hold. “I remember everything.” The mattress groans as he leans closer, his knuckle catching a damp strand of hair from your cheek—the touch featherlight, like he’s handling glass. “How you take your coffee. Your weird fear of pigeons.” His thumb skims your jaw, lingering where your pulse thrums. "The way your smile lingered after our first kiss, like you were still tasting it when I walked you to your door." A ragged inhale. "I remember us. Every moment. Just...not the date on the calendar.”

Your breath hitches, betrayal and hope warring in your ribs. But then his palm cups your cheek, calluses catching on tear-salted skin, and you feel it—the tremor in his touch, the way his gaze maps your face like he’s memorising it anew. This is the man who once spent an hour untangling your necklace with a paperclip, who still flushes peony-pink when you mimic the way he murmurs your name between snores—lips parted, brow smooth, utterly, infuriatingly beautiful.

The fist around your lungs unclenches finger by finger—air flooding in, sweet and sharp as the first gasp after drowning.

He removes his hand from your face and unlocks his phone, the screen’s blue glare sharpening the hollows of his face, and hands it to you. A reservation confirmation glows: Il Girasole. Tomorrow, 7:00 PM. Table for two. “They’re holding the same corner booth. The duck’s still on the menu. And—” His throat bobs. “—I’ll eat every fucking breadstick this time. Even if they’re cold.”

A teary laugh escapes you, brittle but real. “Your memory’s awful.”

“But yours isn’t. I may be pants at dates, but I remember the proper things.” He swipes open his notes' app, revealing a list titled THINGS TO NEVER FORGET (OR ELSE) in all caps. And in bullet points: 

Hates cilantro

Hates roses (cliché)

Hums when she cooks (buy a home speaker)

Secretly loves my terrible puns (look up more)

Saves fortune cookie slips (Saves it in a cute box, give her yours too)

Order at the dodgy kebab shop near the station: lamb, extra garlic sauce, no onions (but she’ll steal sone of mine anyway, so get a large)

Loves the centre of sandwiches (make sure to offer it to her before you finish it all)

Keeps the foil from chocolate bars (folds them into tiny stars when she’s stressed, found 17 in her coat pocket last winter)

Her ring size (6.25)

You sit up, moonlight catching the tear tracks on your face. “You made a list?” Your thumb keeps swiping, the entries endless—tiny, obsessive details you hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.

Your breath hitches. “How long…?”

“Since our first date.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “You told me you hated cilantro. I wrote it down so I’d never put it in your food. Then… it sort of grew.”

His phone screen flickers—a photo of you, mid-laugh at a pub, tucked between reminders: Buy more of her weird sour cherry tea and She bites her lip when concentrating (don’t distract her, no matter how cute it is).

"I updated it at the studio during the reshoot." His smile flickers, vulnerable at the edges. "James caught me and said I'm 'whipped.'" He huffs a laugh, thumb brushing your knuckles. "Told him he's just jealous because his girlfriend's never looked at him the way you look at me when I'm half-asleep and making coffee in my pants."

The tension unravels like a frayed knot, leaving only the quiet pulse of rain against glass. You reach for him, and he surges forward—foreheads colliding, noses brushing, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile. His thumbs sweep beneath your eyes, smudging tears into the salt-stained hollows of your cheeks.

“I’ll set alarms,” he rasps, lips skating your temple. His breath hitches, warm and uneven. “A thousand of them. Buy a calendar that takes up the whole fucking kitchen wall. Tattoo the date—”

“Don’t.” You press two fingers to his mouth, trembling.

He kisses them anyway, teeth grazing your knuckles. “—on my ribs,” he finishes, voice rough. “I’ll hire a skywriter. Carve it into every birthday cake we ever eat. Make our future kids recite it before—”

“Will.”

“—school. Every. Morning.” He’s grinning now, wild and desperate, eyes glittering in the dark. “I’ll be the embarrassing dad with anniversary-themed socks. The one who—”

You kiss him quiet. He tastes of mint toothpaste, of apologies swallowed too late. When you pull back, his smile has softened—not a promise, but a plea.

“Just,” you breathed in, “be here,” ending in a whisper.

His forehead drops to yours. “Always.”

You hook two fingers into the waist of his joggers—a gesture from your early days, when you’d drag him into dive bar bathrooms for reckless, laughing kisses. He follows without resistance, knees bumping the mattress as you fall back onto sheets still smelling of rain and your abandoned perfume.

He folds around you like a prayer, all trembling hands and murmured sorrys into your hair. His stubble scrapes your temple as he nuzzles closer, one arm banded tight around your ribs, the other cradling the nape of your neck—possessive, penitent.

“Still stealing my hoodies,” he rasps, thumb brushing the frayed cuff around your wrist.

“Still leaving them where I can find them,” you counter, voice muffled against his collarbone.

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and wounded. You map the familiar landscape of his face-the faint constellation of freckles on his cheekbone, the delicate lines that etch the corners of his eyes and his eyes—god, his eyes—blue flecked with moss-green, his iris fractured by a sliver of grey hold yours like a vow.

The rain softens to a hushed patter as Will shifts, his chest becoming a pillow beneath your cheek. You trace the hem of his shirt where it rides up, fingertips skating over the warm plane of his stomach. He shivers, not from cold, but from the featherlight drag of your nails.

“Still ticklish?” you murmur, pressing a smile into his collarbone.

He huffs a laugh, catching your wandering hand. “Still a menace.” But he laces his fingers through yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. His breath ghosts over them—a silent apology, a promise—before he kisses each ridge of bone.

You lift your head, finding his gaze. Moonlight spills through the blinds, striping his face in silver. His eyes are raw, red-rimmed, but soft as he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Your roots are growing in,” he whispers, thumb brushing the faint line at your temple. “Like autumn creeping into summer.”

Your breath hitches. He notices. He always notices.

“I was going to dye it tomorrow,” you admit, voice still thick from tears.

“Don’t.” His palm cradles your jaw, calluses catching on salt-dried skin. “I want to watch the seasons change.”

You swallow, throat tight. He leans in, so close his lashes brush your cheek, and for a heartbeat, you think he’ll kiss you. Instead, he noses along your hairline, inhaling deeply.

“Vanilla,” he murmurs, lips grazing your earlobe. “And that shampoo you pretend to hate.”

You snort, swatting his shoulder. “It dries my scalp.”

“Liar. You keep buying it.” His smile curves against your neck. “Just like you ‘hate’ my puns, but laughed at the one about the scared pasta.”

“It was shell-shocked.” You groan, even as laughter bubbles up, bright and healing. “That’s not even a pun, it’s a crime—”

His lips meet yours not as an ending, but a beginning—slow, syrup-sweet, a confession pressed into flesh. The first brush is tentative, a question mark curved against your mouth. His thumb finds the frantic pulse at your wrist, a callused pad circling gently, as if polishing a relic. I’m here, it whispers. I’m not leaving.

You sigh into him, and the kiss deepens—no longer an apology, but a promise. His free hand cradles the nape of your neck, fingers threading through damp hair still chilled from the storm. His touch is summer-warm, grounding you as he tilts your head, lips parting yours with a reverence that makes your ribs ache. There’s a hitch in his breath when your teeth graze his bottom lip, a stuttered oh swallowed by your mouth as he pulls you closer. When you whimper, he gentles, tongue sweeping soft as a paintbrush over the seam of your lips. Let me in, it pleads. Let me fix this.

You open, and he moans low in his throat—a sound that vibrates through your sternum. His hands skate down your spine, bunching the stolen hoodie at your waist, kneading the tender hollows above your hips. You arch into him, fingers fisting in his shirt as he nips your jaw, then soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue.

His lips linger against yours, breath mingling in the scant centimetres between you. When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to let his thumb brush the fringe of your lashes. His own eyes are glassy, the joke hovering on his tongue not yet ready to land—not until he’s sure you’re both still here, still real.

You feel it—the tremor in his hands where they cradle your face, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your palm. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles, before managing a shaky grin.

“Still got it,” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges. His attempt at levity cracks mid-syllable, revealing the raw fear beneath—the terror that this might’ve broken you.

You huff a damp laugh into the hollow of his throat. “Got what?”

He nuzzles your temple, stubble catching on tender skin. “The magic touch.” A pause. His nose traces your temple, breath warm and uneven. “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

It’s not the joke that undoes you, but the desperation in it—the way his arms tighten around your ribs like he’s clinging to driftwood. You press closer, lips brushing the frantic thrum at his jugular.

“Terrible puns aren’t a ‘magic touch,’” you mutter, teeth grazing his collarbone in reprimand.

He shivers, fingers skating up your spine. “Admit it.” His palm splays between your shoulder blades, pressing you flush against him until there’s no space for doubt, for anger, for anything but his next whispered plea: “You married a comedic genius.”

“We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

The word hangs, delicate as the cobwebs glinting in the window’s moonlit corners. Your heartbeat thrums against his, syncing as his hands slide beneath the stolen hoodie, palms searing trails up your spine.

“Will—”

“Not asking,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Just… storing the idea. Somewhere between your sandwich centres and chocolate foil stars.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, anchoring yourself as he shifts, rolling until you’re cocooned beneath him. His weight is a comfort, familiar as your own breath.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “The quiet version. The one you only show at 3 AM.”

So you do—lips brushing his throat as you confess the ache of waiting, the terror of feeling forgotten. He listens, fingers combing through your hair, until your whispers dissolve into yawns.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, tugging the duvet over your tangled legs. “I’ll be here when you wake, I promise. Even if morning you is a sight.”

You snort, but curl closer, nose buried in the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat drums a lullaby against your lips—steady, alive, yours.

I hope this was okay! It took longer than expected, so sorry about that! And I hope you don't mind that I made it a female reader. Also, I'm thinking of possibly making a part two where they go on the date that Will booked...thoughts?

[03230]

Custom Fit

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader supports Will at the 2025 Sidemen Charity Match Warnings: None Notes: Sorry it took so long! This request was so hard, writing football stressed me tf out 😅 Watching the highlights were cool too, but I had no idea what was happening most of the time. I'm a rugby gyal

The roar of the crowd at Wembley Stadium buzzed in your ears like a live wire, a relentless hum that seemed to vibrate through your bones. The sea of red-and-white scarves and kits blurred into a kaleidoscope of motion, a living, breathing entity pulsating with anticipation. You stood slightly apart from the others, your fingers absently tugging at the hem of your custom #LENNEY 2 jersey. Beneath it, the long-sleeved shirt you’d layered clung to your skin, its fabric thin and breathable but still trapping a faint warmth against your arms. The jersey itself was softer than you’d expected, the material sliding easily over the shirt’s sleeves, but the combination did little to settle the restless flutter in your chest.

The VIP box was a sensory overload—popcorn kernels scattered on the floor, their buttery scent mingling with the sharp tang of expensive perfume wafting from the women nearby. The mix was as chaotic as your nerves, a strange cocktail of comfort and unease. Below, the YouTube Allstars were a whirl of pre-match energy, their movements sharp and purposeful. Some stretched, their muscles rippling under their kits, while others laughed, tossing balls in casual arcs that belied the tension building in the stadium. But your eyes tracked only one person.

Will stood near the sideline, his back to the stands as he jogged on the spot, his own red-and-white kit clinging to his frame. Even from here, you could see the way his shoulders shook with a laugh at something Harry said, his easy confidence radiating like sunlight. You’d memorised that posture—the way he rolled his neck before big moments, the habit of tugging his sleeves over his knuckles. But today, every detail felt magnified. Would he spot you before the match? Would he even look up?

“Stop fidgeting,” Talia hissed, swatting your hand away from the jersey’s hem. Her smirk was all mischief, her gold hoops catching the stadium lights as she leaned in. “If you crease it, he’ll think you nicked it off a mannequin.”

“Or that you’ve been stress-cuddling it in secret all week,” Freya added, arching a perfectly groomed brow. She’d swapped her usual designer dresses for Sidemen merch today, though hers was artfully cropped and paired with heeled boots. “Which, let’s be honest, you probably did.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “I did not. I’m not the one who still sleeps in Josh’s sixth-form hoodie.”

Freya gasped, clutching her chest in mock offence, as Faith snorted, adjusting Olive on her hip. The toddler reached chubby fists towards the colourful crowd, babbling excitedly. “Don’t drag me into this,” Faith said, bouncing Olive gently. “But for the record, Ethan still has the first note I ever wrote him tucked in his phone case. Lads are sentimental creatures. Prepare for waterworks.”

You smiled at Faith, your oldest mate. The two of you had been inseparable since her family moved next door when you were kids. You’d spent countless afternoons in her back garden, dreaming about the future and giggling over crushes. When she started dating Ethan, you’d been sceptical at first—what if he didn’t like you? What if things got weird? But Ethan had welcomed you into their world with open arms, and it wasn’t long before you were hanging about with the Sidemen crew.

That’s how you met Will.

You remembered the first time Faith dragged you to one of their group outings. You’d been nervous, feeling like an outsider among the tight-knit group, but Will had noticed you sitting quietly in the corner. He’d plonked down next to you with a grin, handing you a drink and launching into a story about the time he and Simon got lost in Amsterdam. By the end of the night, your cheeks hurt from laughing, and you’d forgotten all about being nervous.

Talia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that somehow carried over the growing buzz of the crowd. “Or other reactions,” she said, her eyebrows waggling like she was sharing the juiciest of secrets. Her grin was sharp, knowing, and it made your stomach flip.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, spreading like wildfire. “It’s just a kit,” you lied, your voice pitching higher than you intended. The words sounded weak even to your own ears, and the way Talia’s smirk widened told you she wasn’t buying it.

“Just a kit?” Freya echoed, incredulous. “You had it custom-stitched in two days when the online shop sold out. Travelled to Manchester to beg the kit manager in person. That’s not ‘just’ anything, love. That’s a declaration of war.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but no words came out. Instead, you shot a nervous glance towards the pitch, where Will was still turned away, his focus on Chris as they mock-tackled each other. The sight of him—carefree, grinning, utterly in his element—made your stomach swoop in a way that was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

Talia followed your gaze, her teasing expression softening just a fraction. “He’s going to love it,” she said, her voice sincere for once. “And when he scores today, he’ll point straight at this box. You’ll see.”

“He’d better,” Faith chimed in, her tone dry as she dug through her bag for Olive’s snack. The toddler was perched on her hip, gnawing on the ear of her stuffed bear, completely oblivious to the conversation. “Or I’m revoking his uncle privileges.”

A sudden cheer erupted from the crowd as the Allstars began dispersing to their positions. Your eyes snapped back to the pitch, where Will was now walking backwards towards the centre circle, his head tilted as he squinted up at the stands. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. Could he see you? You froze, torn between waving like a prat and ducking behind Freya to hide.

But then Ethan called his name, tossing him a water bottle, and Will turned away, laughing as he fumbled the catch. The moment passed, and you exhaled sharply, unaware you’d been holding your breath.

“Heart attack avoided,” Talia teased, fanning you with a match programme she’d nicked from somewhere. Her grin was back, full force, and you rolled your eyes, though your cheeks were still burning.

“Give it time,” Freya said, her tone light but her eyes glinting with mischief. “The match hasn’t even started.”

You groaned, leaning back against the railing as the players took their positions. The tension in the air was palpable, the crowd’s energy building to a fever pitch. But even as the referee blew the whistle and the game began, your mind kept drifting back to the kit, to the way Will had laughed as he caught the water bottle, to the promise of what might come next.

The match hung on a knife-edge. 88th minute. 8-8. The Allstars surged forward, their attacks sharp and desperate, every pass and tackle charged with the kind of urgency that made your chest tighten. Your nails dug into the railing of the VIP box as you watched Will track back, his movements slower now, his legs heavy but still pushing. The Sidemen FC’s defence was in shambles—xQc stranded halfway up the pitch after a botched clearance, the goal gaping wide and vulnerable.

Your breath caught in your throat as George Clark pounced.

The ball rocketed off his foot, a thunderous strike from the edge of the box, screaming towards the open net. The crowd rose as one, a collective gasp tearing through Wembley, the sound raw and primal. Your heart stopped. The world narrowed to that ball, arcing through the air.

Then Will moved.

He lunged, a full-stretch dive from inside the goal line, his body parallel to the grass as he hurled himself headfirst towards the ball. Time slowed—or maybe it was just your mind, struggling to process what you were seeing. The blur of the stadium lights, the deafening roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of his forehead connecting with the shot. The ball ricocheted skyward, spinning harmlessly out of play.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

Then chaos.

“UNBELIEVABLE! WILL LENNEY WITH A GOAL-LINE HEADER—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” the commentator bellowed.

You were on your feet before your brain could even process it. Your arms shot out wide, fingers splayed, as if you could somehow reach down and touch the chaos unfolding on the pitch. A scream tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, joining the tidal wave of noise crashing around you. “YES! YES! YES!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. The world had narrowed to one thing: Will.

Spinning on your heel, you nearly lost your balance, but you didn’t care. Your hands flew out, pointing wildly towards the pitch, your eyes wide and frantic as they locked onto the girls. “DID YOU SEE THAT?! DID YOU SEE HIM?!” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible over the roar of the crowd, but your expression said it all.

Freya was bent double, her laughter ringing out like a bell. She clutched her sides, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gasped for air. “We saw it, love! The whole stadium saw it!” Her words were punctuated by another peal of laughter, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Talia’s hands were on you in an instant, gripping your shoulders with a force that made you stumble. She shook you like a ragdoll, her dark curls bouncing wildly as she screamed in your face, “HE’S MENTAL! ABSOLUTELY MENTAL!” Her eyes were wide, her grin manic, and for a moment, you thought she might actually shake you apart.

Faith stood a little apart, holding Olive in her arms. She just shook her head, her lips curving into a wry smile. “That man’s going to give you a heart attack one day,” she said, her voice dry but her eyes sparkling with amusement.

And then the jumbotron flickered.

There you were, frozen in time—arms outstretched, your #LENNEY 2 kit blazing across your shoulders, your face alight with a joy so pure it was almost blinding. The crowd’s roar shifted, morphing into a collective “AWWWW” as the screen split. On one side, Will lay sprawled on the pitch, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and grass stains. On the other, you stood, your eyes glistening with pride, your smile so wide it hurt.

Will squinted up at the screen, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. For a heartbeat, he just stared, his lips parting in surprise. Then, with a sudden burst of laughter, he slapped the grass, his shoulders shaking as he rolled onto his back. “OH MY DAYS!” he mouthed, his grin widening as he blew you an exaggerated kiss. The Allstars swarmed him, yanking him upright, their laughter mingling with the commentators’ cackles.

“Someone’s got a fan,” one of them teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Fan? That’s his girlfriend,” the other corrected, his tone smug. “Rumour has it she’s the reason he’s playing like a man possessed!”

“Possessed? Nah, mate—that’s love.”

Freya’s whistle cut through the noise, sharp and piercing, right in your ear. “If he dies tonight, at least he’ll die famous,” she said, her tone light but her eyes dancing with mischief.

“He’s already famous,” you shot back, your cheeks flaming as you tried to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Not for football,” Talia snorted, her lips quirking into a smirk.

The pitch was alive with motion, players shifting into position like pieces on a chessboard, their movements sharp and deliberate. Will jogged backward, his boots digging into the turf with each step, his eyes darting up to the jumbotron every few seconds. The massive screen still flashed the split image—him, sprawled on the grass moments ago, and you, frozen in mid-celebration, your joy radiating even through the pixels. His grin, once wide and cocky, softened at the edges, the bravado melting into something quieter, more personal.

He tapped two fingers to his lips, a quick, almost unconscious gesture, before pressing them to his chest—right over the name on his kit. LENNEY. His eyes flicked to the VIP box, locking onto yours for a heartbeat. Yours, he mouthed, the word silent but unmistakable. Then he turned away, his focus snapping back to the game, but the ghost of that private smile lingered.

“Gross,” Talia said, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. She swatted your arm, the sharp smack making you yelp and jerk away. “Save the eye sex for after we win,” she added, her tone dripping with mock disdain, though the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Freya, never one to miss an opportunity, let out an exaggerated gasp and fake-swooned into Faith’s shoulder. Her hand flew to her forehead, her fingers splayed dramatically as she tilted her head back. “He’s peacocking,” she declared, her voice lilting with theatrical flair. “Look at him. Absolute showman. Can’t help himself.”

Faith adjusted Olive on her hip, “He’s concussed,” Faith said flatly, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her. “That’s the only explanation for… whatever that was.” She gestured vaguely towards the pitch, where Will was now crouched slightly, his eyes scanning the field as the Allstars began to huddle.

But before he joined them, Will glanced up at the VIP box one last time. You couldn’t help yourself—you mimed blowing him a kiss, your fingers brushing your lips before flicking them towards him with a playful smirk. His reaction was immediate and absurd. He clutched his heart, staggering back as if you’d physically struck him, his face contorted in mock agony. The exaggerated drama of it made you laugh, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably despite the tension in the air.

Faith rolled her eyes, but the effort to keep her expression neutral was clearly a struggle. Her lips twitched, and she shook her head, muttering under her breath, “You two are disgusting.”

“Disgustingly sweet,” you shot back, your voice sing-song and teasing, though your grin was genuine. The tension of the shoot-out was building, the crowd’s energy shifting to a low, anticipatory hum. The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, snapping the stadium back into focus. Will straightened, his expression shifting from playful to intense in an instant.

The game was on.

The final whistle blew, and the Allstars erupted—a tangle of sweat-drenched hugs and victory chants. Will collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving, before Chris yanked him upright to join the team’s lap of honour. His eyes scanned the stands, lingering on the VIP box as he jogged, waving half-heartedly at the crowd.

“He’s coming up here, isn’t he?” Talia said, watching Will duck out of the team huddle and bolt for the tunnel.

“Twenty quid says he face-plants on the stairs,” Faith replied, shielding Olive’s eyes playfully.

You barely heard them. Your pulse thundered in your ears as the stadium doors swung open—

And there he was.

Will, still in his grass-stained kit, hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the game. He skidded to a halt in front of you, breathless and grinning like he’d scored a last-minute winner. The VIP section fell silent, phones snapping photos as he vaulted the barrier.

“You,” he said, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at your jersey, “are a menace.”

“Me?” You arched a brow, fighting a smile. “You’re the one who blew a kiss to 90,000 people.”

“Had to claim my territory,” he shot back, stepping closer until the scent of turf and citrus sweat wrapped around you. “Everyone’s gonna want a Lenney kit now.”

“Doubt it,” you said, tapping the #2 on your chest. “This one’s custom.”

Will’s gaze softened. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing the embroidered name on your shoulder. “You’re a proper ride-or-die, you know that?”

“Someone’s got to be,” you teased, though your voice wavered.

He huffed a laugh, then hooked a finger under the jersey’s collar, tugging you forward until your foreheads pressed together. The crowd’s cheers faded to static. “Wanna know why I kept looking at the screen?” he murmured.

“To admire your own cheekbones?”

“Nah.” His thumb swept over your jaw. “Every time I saw you in my name, I remembered… this is real. We’re real. Even when I’m out here acting like a prat for the cameras.”

Freya fake-gagged behind you. “Get a room!”

Will flipped her off without breaking eye contact. “Swap kits with me,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t wait for an explanation. Before you could even process what was happening, Will yanked at his own sweat-soaked Allstars kit, peeling it off in one swift motion. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar of cheers, whistles, and laughter as he stood there, bare-chested and unbothered, his grin wide and unapologetic.

For a moment, you froze, your brain short-circuiting. His skin glistened under the stadium lights, the faint sheen of sweat catching the glow as his chest rose and fell with each breath. The muscles in his shoulders and arms—usually hidden under layers of fabric—were on full display, defined and taut from the game. A faint trail of grass stains smudged his collarbone, and your eyes involuntarily dipped lower, catching the faint line of his happy trail, a subtle but undeniable detail that made your throat go dry.

“Your kit,” he repeated, snapping you out of your daze. He waved a hand in front of your face, his grin turning smug. “Earth to," he said your name "Give it. Now.”

“You’re mental,” you managed, your voice coming out higher than intended. Your cheeks burned as you tore your gaze away, but not before catching the way his smirk deepened, clearly pleased with himself.

“Oi, eyes up here,” he teased, tapping your chin with a finger. “Unless you’re enjoying the view?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, swatting his hand away, though the heat in your face betrayed you.

The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium. Will, ever the showman, turned to them briefly, flexing with an exaggerated wink that sent another wave of cheers through the stands.

“You’re such a prat,” you groaned, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

“And you’re stalling,” he shot back, shoving his crumpled match kit into your hands. The fabric was still warm from his body, and you could feel the faint dampness of sweat as you clutched it to your chest.

“You’re never living this down,” you groaned, reluctantly tugging your #LENNEY 2 over your head.

Will took the kit from you with a grin, holding it up like it was some kind of trophy. He shook it out, the fabric snapping in the air, before slipping it on properly. He adjusted the shoulders, smoothed the front, and tapped the #2 on his chest with a smirk.

“Looking good,” you said dryly, though your cheeks burned as you clutched his discarded kit to your chest, the fabric still warm from his body.

“Damn right,” he shot back, his grin widening as he raised an arm, flexing dramatically. The crowd around the VIP box had started to notice the commotion, a few fans snapping photos on their phones, their laughter mingling with the noise of the stadium.

“You’re such a show-off,” you muttered, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.

He spun back to you, his eyes bright and wild, the kind of look that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “And I’m yours.”

The kiss wasn’t dramatic or cinematic—it wasn’t the kind of moment you’d see in a film, with sweeping music and perfectly timed lighting. It was messy, real, and inevitable. His lips met yours with a kind of urgency that spoke of relief, of triumph, of something deeper that had been simmering all day. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, his grip firm but not possessive. The taste of salt lingered on his lips, a mix of sweat and the faint, sugary tang of Haribo from his half-time snack. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was him, and that was enough.

At first, it was almost hesitant, as if he was reminding himself that this was real, that you were here, that the chaos of the game was over and this moment was his to claim. But then his fingers tightened slightly on your waist, and the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache. His breath was warm and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as if he needed the anchor, the connection, to ground him.

The surrounding chaos didn’t disappear, exactly—it just faded into the background, like static on a radio. The roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the distant shouts of his teammates—it all became a blur, muffled and distant. All you could focus on was the warmth of his body against yours, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm, the way your kit clung to his shoulders, still damp with sweat.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the tremble in his fingers, the faintest hint of exhaustion and adrenaline still coursing through him. His lips were soft but insistent, and when you let out a small, involuntary sigh, he smiled against your mouth, the curve of his lips breaking the kiss for just a moment before he leaned back in, slower this time, more deliberate.

The second kiss was different—less urgent, more lingering, as if he was savouring the moment, memorising the feel of you. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and you could feel the way his breath hitched when your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He tasted like victory and exhaustion, like the faint citrus of his energy drink and the salt of his sweat, and you couldn’t get enough.

Someone below shouted, “GET A ROOM, LADS!”—probably Ethan, judging by the tone—but Will didn’t pull away. He just laughed, the sound low and breathless, his lips still brushing yours as he murmured, “Ignore them.”

And you did. For a few more seconds, at least, the world narrowed to the two of you—his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, the way your kit clung to his shoulders like a second skin. It wasn’t perfect or polished, but it was real.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the noise.

“Was there ever any doubt?” you shot back, your voice trembling despite your attempt at levity.

He huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and gentle all at once, and for a moment, it felt like the two of you were the only people in the stadium.

The moment didn’t last long—it couldn’t, not with the cameras still flashing and the crowd still roaring—but it didn’t need to.

Gang, let me know what you think of this! I don’t usually watch football, so I had to slowly go through the live stream to get a feel for the game. Eventually, I gave up and just watched the highlights and pick out the goal block scene.

I hope it’s okay.

I tried my best, I've went back and forth quite a bit, I’m definitely out of my depth here. Let me know if anything feels off or needs tweaking!

[03230]

the alchemy || Will Lenney

“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me”

part one of THE ALCHEMY.

pairing: will lenney x fem!reader

warnings & tags: friends to lovers. idiots with tension. idiots in denial. slowish burn. lots of nerdy football talk + a side of Willne.

summary: The two times you were recruited to play in a Sidemen charity match, and the one time you score.

a/n: hello!!! this is based on the 2022 sidemen charity match, but for convenience purposes, it's set in 2023. for the plot, of course.

also, i’m tired of looking at this so this is being posted without review! i promise part two will have more will, i’m just setting us up for success in part one. you’ll absolutely love it.

please enjoy <3

wc: idek at this point

The buzz that interrupted your sleep wasn’t what concerned you, it’s the fact that after you had hung up the first and second time, there was a third call. Begrudgingly, you toss your sheets aside and sit up, eyeing the phone on the bedside table. To no surprise, it was Simon.

You were no stranger when it came to working with the Sidemen. Starting off as a crew member who was good with a camera, slowly you were incorporated into videos, and eventually had the confidence to create your own platform. After leaving the Sidemen to focus on building your solo career, most of your audience didn't know where you gained your footing, becoming a bigger public figure outside of their work.

Getting a phone call from Simon wasn't uncommon, needless to say. You were always ready to film, to bring in new ideas for them, to be on set. After all, you had been friends with the lads for years.

"Hello?" you croak, trying to smooth down the hair that was knotted in the back of your head.

"Y/n! How are you, mate?" Simon's voice was overly chipper and sweet, too sweet. You eye your phone for a moment before pressing it back up to your ear. It was too early in the morning for either of you to be awake.

"Christ, Simon, I know you aren't just calling me at seven in the morning to ask how I am," you replied. Simon sighs briefly before letting out an airy chuckle.

"Alright, I need to ask you for a favor." That's what you were expecting. His voice hesitant and low, it made you wonder what this could really be about.

"Okay, go on then," you yawn. You weren't sure why Simon was being so ominous; you had done the lad loads of favors in the past. Bringing in extra camera crew, reaching out to other influencers, helping plan out events-

"Would you sub in for Andres for the charity match next week? I know it's last minute, but he had other conflicts, and you're one of my best mates. You-" Simon rambles before you swiftly interject.

"Simon, what are you waffling on about? You can't be serious," you say seriously. The grogginess from waking up immediately disappears, and you begin to regret picking up the phone.

"I know it's mad, but we've tossed around a ball quite a bit before-"

"I haven't seriously played footy since I was in high school! I can't imagine the shit I'd get if I were to even step foot into that stadium."

"I know-"

"And I'm the only girl! That's like a misogynist's nightmare, a woman who can think and compete!" Getting on your feet, you pace around your room like a madman. Your free hand finds its way into your hair, coarsing through it multiple times, stressfully.

"Would you let me finish? Then you can decide if it's bollocks or not," Simon asked finally. You heave out a breath of air and then hum in response. The least you could do is give him time to try to convince you.

"Look, it's the first time a lot of them have played football, and some of them play like it's the first time. It's really about having a good time, " he explains, which admittedly puts some of your worries at ease- and gets a small laugh out of you.

"Also.." he says hesitantly, hitching his breath as he trails off. You roll your eyes and groan. Of course, there's more to it; there always is. You sit back onto the edge of the bed, foot impatiently tapping on the wood floor.

"I may have called Will, and he may have told me to ask you; he promised me that with enough begging.. you'd say yes," he says, almost like a question. There's a small hint of teasing when he says it, and you can practically see the prat smiling through the screen.

Your end of the call goes silent. A flush starting at the tips of your ears and growing at the bulbs of your cheeks.

..

In 2018, the day before the charity match, you met Will in person for the first time. You knew of him through brief passing and mentions of him from Cal and the other Sidemen. Yet you never spoke to him until you were messing around with your camera during practice, getting ready to film the match the next day.

"This is who I was telling you about, Will," Cal smiles, grabbing your attention from the camera. You peer over your shoulder to see a younger lad with dark hair standing beside him. You politely set the camera down on the bench and extend your hand out to him.

"Hi, I'm y/n, I've heard good things about you!" you smile, and he leans down, weakly taking your hand and shaking it.

"Hello," he responds, his once loud chatter with Cal made you assume he'd be much more talkative. But now he is quiet and fidgety, and it makes you wonder if you've already made a bad first impression.

"Y/n is our best camerawomen. I ought to get you familiar with her; maybe you can get some good screen time." Cal smirked. Will shoves him lightly with a chuckle.

"I'm not all bad, I reckon," he insists, and you put your hands up defensively.

"Hey, we'll just have to see on the field, won't we?" you express, grabbing the large equipment and getting ready to move it inside. You stand up, getting a better look at his face. He's tall, his hair short and freshly cut, his jawline is carved out sharply, making it hard to go unnoticed.

"Cheeky," Will commented, crossing his arms over each other. And unknowingly, a grin had worked its way onto your face, your tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek. You shrug,

"I gotta get going, it was nice meeting you Will,"

..

Since then, you and Will have kept in contact frequently. He interacted with you on social media, had you come to feature in his videos, and texted you almost every day. Seeing one another once every few months had become every weekend when you moved closer to London. And you can bet that this didn't go unnoticed by anyone. Sharing clothes, traveling together, posting each other, seeing each other more than your own family— you can only assume why everyone has their presumptions.

Yet, you were great at denying, avoiding, and more importantly ignoring these blistering questions on if they or won’t they.

"So.. you called Will first, before calling me?" you ask slowly, processing it yourself. The pads of your fingers rub against your temple, then smoothing your palm across your cheek hoping it would brush away the pink that dusted your face.

"Yeah," Simon says quickly. "Is it more convincing now? "

"Fuck off,"

"I know it is," he insists. You mutter profanities under your breath before letting it go silent.

Because it is much more convincing knowing that Will had that kind of faith and trust in you. It's more convincing knowing the person closest to you would be right by your side. You weigh out the options in your head. If you do play, you'll get to say you played in front of 30,000 people, raised money for charity, and more importantly, were able to help out some of your closest friends.

"Simon, I don't know.." You mutter hesitantly, biting the nail on your thumb. Sure, you had played footy competitively in high school and tossed a ball around here and there with the lads, but other than that, you hadn't really played in a few years now.

"C'mon, you don't have to be any good, it's for charity y/n! You have to! There will be loads of fans happy that you're playing!" Simon coaxed. You shake your head instantly, knowing that half the boys lived and breathed football.

“You can’t say I don’t have to be any good when you’re probably one of the best players out there.” Countering his argument, you can tell you're at the breaking point. He's cracked you down efficiently, being nice, complimenting you, bringing Will into it- It's working so well you almost hate him for it.

“I’ve exhausted my options, y/n, please, this one time, and I’ll never ask again.” Simon protests. You huff, exasperated, and without letting another beat pass,

"Alright,"

"Alright?" he repeats, the surprise evident in his tone. You gnaw at your bottom lip, adn squeezed your eyes shut before speaking again.

"Yeah, okay, put me in." You decide finally. You can hear movement on the other end and a few other voices shout in delight. Of course, he couldn't be alone when he made the phone call.

"Oh my god, this will be legendary, thank you, thank you, thank you," Simon begins excitedly, which brings a smile to your face. Simon, even though he always was teetering on the edge of your limit, was charming and kind and that's what makes it hard to deny him.

"You're playing center, by the way. See you in a week mate!" and the phone call clicks. There, you're left to stare at your phone screen, watching as you get added to a group chat and texts start to roll in.

One week, seven days, to magically get good at football again. Right, well, it’s much too late to turn back now.

"Cheers," muttering to yourself. You fall back onto the bed, checking your messages to see a new one from Will.

"wanna show this novice the ropes?"

Word obviously spreads fast, is the first thing you think. And then you snort, with a quick eye roll, the pads of your fingers drumming against the screen.

"fuck off" you begin to type but instead you text back,

“pitch at 6 sharp"

And almost immediately Will texts back,

“wouldn’t miss it :)”

⚽️...

You arrive to the pitch first, bringing an old ball covered in dirt from when you had last dribbled with Chris. Will arrives shortly after, a wide smile and an excited pep to his jog.

“Six sharp!” he says, checking his watch to show you it's exactly 6pm. Will is very timely; he’s considerate of people's time and even makes an extra effort to arrive early. He never wants to be the wanker who shows up late and wastes others time and efforts.

"That ball is just filthy, innit?" he comments, his true Geordie accent making a clear appearance. You roll your eyes quickly.

“I don't see yours anywhere,” you respond, finishing up tying the laces of your shoes. You rock on your feet a few times, creasing the shoe and getting it to warp around your feet snugly.

"Fair enough." Immediately, Will picks the ball up and twirls it between his fingers. "What should we do first?"

You both practice dribbling, passing, and shooting. Eventually, moving on to striking and stealing, which gets aggressive, causing you to have bruises all along your legs. Will thinks that after a while, it's a good idea to mess around so you both don't end up hating each other. The time passes by swiftly, the sun setting behind you both before you realize it.

The sky is highlighted with hues of orange, yellow, and a deep red in the horizon. You turn to look at Will; his shoulder grazes your side, and as if on cue, he looks at you, too.

He silently smiles, and for a second it’s all it is, but then his hand comes up and brushes the cool of your cheekbone. He brushes the stray hair that fell, tucking it behind your ear. Smoothing down any hairs that stuck out on the back of your head with his palm.

Will always find an excuse to touch you, to be physically closer. He’s an affectionate person, you’ve always riddled it as. Oh, there’s a stray hair on your face, oh a piece of fuzz on your sweater, don’t worry if you’re nervous— his hand crawls its way onto the small of your back. And every time he did something like this, your feelings soared and free-fall in the air. You don’t know how much longer you can swallow down the shyness you feel when it happens.

Instead, you give him a small shove.

“Stop it,”

“I was just helpin’ ya,” his voice squeaks.

“Just like how you helped get Simon to convince me to play in the match next week?” You shove the ball into his chest, backing up, motioning him to play. He lets out an airy chuckle, rolling the ball onto the field and dribbling it between his feet.

“Heard about that didn’t you?”

He kicks it toward you.

“Mhmm. “

And you kick it, hard, right back.

“I didn’t help him; all I did was suggest that he ask you because you’re reliable.” Will tried to dribble around you, but it rolled just far away enough for you to steal it.

Will runs towards the goal post, attempting to block you or maybe even tackle you, you aren’t sure. From the times you’ve watched Will play, his limbs tend to fly around and it’s like he’s just experienced walking for the first time.

“And not because you know I wouldn’t say no to the prat?”

“Look, to make it up to you I’ll score you a goal at the game,” Will offers, making you raise your eyebrows. He says semiseriously, but you have a feeling it’s more joking than anything. He was always good with banter anyway.

“Yeah right,” You walk back, running up to the ball and kicking it with the side of your foot— flying into the right corner of the net.

Wills eyes widen as he watches you jog over to grab the ball again.

“And you’re the one who needs practice?” he pipes, forgetting about the conversation. You smile shyly and shake your head, grabbing the ball and handing it to Will.

"You think too highly of me, Will." His hands cup yours, causing you to look up at him. The eye contact is soft, yet his eyes squint, and you notice the small clench of his jaw.

"I don't think so. I reckon others think the world of you as well, " Will retorted seriously.

There it is again. What is so small and meaningless to him is the grandest gesture you could ever receive. Whatever way you feel is growing, and you're letting it kill you. You can hear it in the silence, see it with the lights off, and feel it when he steps into a room. It has never been clearer to you than now.

Will notes the silence on your end, reeling back his hands and letting the ball drop to the ground. He scratches the back of his neck before sweeping the ball between his feet and turning around.

"We should focus, shouldn't we? Keep practicing," he mutters absentmindedly. The words are caught in your throat, itching on the tip of your tongue. It takes every atom of your being not to blurt out your every thought. You try to ground yourself by moving your fingers, shaking off the tingling feeling Will left. Your mouth opens to say something, anything, but it snaps shut at the sight of the geordie man looking back at you.

So, instead, you ignore the interaction completely.

"Yeah, let's do that, practice."

And that’s what you did. Every day for a week, you both played until your fingers were numb and noses pink from the chill. The sun would be long gone, the stars visible in the dark, the dim lights that lit the field flickering during the times when they were ready to turn off.

And every night, when Will offered to take you home, you said yes. Will would walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, his shoulder would bump into yours, and you would listen quietly to anything he had to say. He would go on and on and on the entire way home, and you still would ask if he wanted to come inside your flat for a few.

A few minutes would be you showing him your next video, and then you would cook together, and he would sit on your couch and scroll through his phone. The time moved quicker than it did on the field, causing you both to stay up late into the night.

“Where are you going?” You question from the couch, eyeing the way he begins to walk over to the door. He stands up straighter than before, looking at his phone, and then back up at you.

“Home, it’s late,” he reminded.

“Exactly. Stay, don’t act like you haven’t before,” you insist, already going to grab a few blankets and pillows for Will on the couch.

Some nights weren’t always like this. Sometimes, you’d watch something on the telly, and he’d scroll through his phone. Your body would press against his casually, like you two have done for months. Except you're more weary and hesitant, feeling like your every move was a gesture of something more.

For a week it felt like you two were playing house. It was odd, and you knew it. Everyone knew it. When James would call Will there would be quiet snickering, loud teasing. Faith and Sabina would ask for updates after seeing both of your story posts. When Simon called Will to see if he was coming to training day, he asked to speak to you knowing you’d be around.

Yet this didn’t stop the overnights at your flat, it didn’t stop Will from doing his work from your room, it didn’t prevent you from doing loads of laundry together, and it definitely didn’t stop you both from taking the train together to the hotel the day before the match.

⚽️…

The ground below you rumbles from the audience in the stadium. As the time passes you know it’s getting closer and closer to the start of the match. Your leg bounces up and down as you stretch in your own locker room, your hands shake putting on the red uniform, there’s a dryness in your throat that not even all the water in the world could wash away.

“You alright?” Wills asks quietly as his hand slips onto your shoulder. He’d been asking if you were okay ever since you lot left the hotel. And everytime you responded,

“Yeah, yeah,” except your eyebrows were knitted together, your hands picked at the beds of your nails, and you could barely interact with anyone without feeling like passing out.

“Don’t psyche yourself out, darlin. I make a fool of myself every year, all you have to do is show up and you’ve done your part!” he says delicately. You inhale through your nose at the nickname, jaw clenching to focus on breathing. All you do is nod, giving him a small smile.

You aren’t sure what will kill you first, the charity match, or the yearning in your heart. And hopefully, it’ll be the charity match.

Once everyone begins to stand, it’s three o’clock, and just like that the world begins to move incredibly fast. The lads begin two straight lines, moving through the tunnel swiftly. They all seem so confident and excited and you don’t think you even remember how to run. With Will standing infront of you, he’s the only thing that is blocking you and your vision from the roaring crowd outside.

Forgetting his gopro is on, you tap on Wills shoulder

“I’m literally shitting myself right now Will,” he laughs and he takes your hand in to his for a moment with a small squeeze,

“We’ll be all right, swear,” and by the time he turns around, you’re out in the field and the roar of the audience is jarring. You’re convinced your head whips an entire 360 to get a good look at how big the crowd was.

Once you’re down the field, you’re shaking hands with the opposing team. You nod politely and greet your friends, making polite, quick, small talks with JJ, Vik, Josh, Harry, and then Simon. You brief him with a handshake and shove at him lightly,

“God if this goes to shit, i’m blaming it all on you, ya know that?” you joke and he laughs loudly.

“I’ll keep that in mind, y/n”

You greet Chris, Tobi, and Jimmy finally before jogging your way to center to get ready for the kick off. You look back and squint your eyes to see Will as right wing, he can see you and he shows you a thumbs up. And for a moment, it washes away your nerves, until the whistle blows and the game has begun.

..

The first half of the match goes by incredibly fast. Chunkz and Niko make the first goals of the match, allowing for the teams spirits to remain high. You’re able to say that you helped assist Niko with his goal, tackling the ball under four large men. The next goal was made by Vik, and as a good sport, and friend, you made your way over to congratulate him properly.

You stay close to Hp and Chunkz during this time, the only two you feel like trust you enough with the ball. The banter is great but the encouragement they give you is better.

As the sweat beads on your forehead, your chest rises and falls quickly. Everytime you manage to catch your breath, you’re off running again. Your eyes squint looking towards Danny, seeing him get ready for the throw-in. You look around at your team and you eyes are quickly looking for Will, to see he’s already looking at you.

There’s a small smile followed by a little wave. You feel your chest tighten again, this overwhelming feeling is all so sudden and new. The sweaty palms, the overthinking, the flush on your neck. Hopefully it’s all from nerves, and not just from the Geordie man.

The moment ended as quick as the moment came, because Danny Aaron’s then throws the ball into the field. Luckily for you, you were on the edge of the box. The ball comes rolling toward you fast, you’re able to dribble it between your feet, swiftly moving past Callux. You decide to create space between the two of you, but with the other team circling in on you, the only thing to do was shoot.

So, you shoot.

The ball is headed straight towards the net and looks like it could make it past the post, but to your disappointment, the ball bounces off the post and goes right back onto the field.

“Shit,” you mutter out, a hand wracking through your hair ready to run after the ball again. But, Theo is quick to take the ball from under one of the lads on the opposing team, making a quick recovery by striking and making the goal.

A breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally came out. While you smile and clap for Theo, your energy is low and you are so tired.

“Y/n!” a familiar voice yells from behind you, and you’re quick to turn around. Wills hair is pushed back and sweaty, yet he doesn’t think twice before engulfing you into a bone crushing hug.

“Not making a fool of myself am I?” you ask, pulling away to look at him. Will chuckles and shakes his head immediately,

“That’s a joke, right? You’re ridiculous,” he says sincerely and breathlessly. You thank him briefly before substitutions start to happen, allowing there to be some down time.

Which give you the time to remember what he said to you the first time you had practiced together.

“You still promised me a goal,” You mention, before looking into the gopro on his chest, “Will owes me a goal today, and I better get it,”

“I didn’t promise anything,” he counters quickly. Your head tilts at this, with wide eyes, and he nervously laughs and rubs his neck. Even though he knows you’re joking, he still feels the need to fulfill it.

“You know what, I’ll.. do my best to. I can promise you that, y/n.” And without warning, the lot of you are off again.

…

4 - 3

After the first half of the match, it’s looking promising for your team. Theo scored another goal, and spirits were still high. You were able to switch out and take a needed breather. But after the second half of the match started, that’s when your team started to take a tumble.

You were off the pitch until Pinero got injured, and needed a substitute. So with half a bottle of gatorade and an electrolyte packet in your system, you hopped to your feet and ran back on the field. Once you hear that Simon is getting switched out with Chris, you sigh.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter under your breath, knowing that Chris is a force to be reckoned with. Speed also gets switched off the field, and you’re not sure without him you guys could win. You look around hoping to find a familiar face, but for some reason you can’t find him. Where is the left wing player?

Your thoughts are interrupted by the blow of the whistle, allowing the match to continue. You see the ball fly in the air, and you’re on your feet, going wide incase someone needs to pass. But the ball goes farther and faster than you could run, that’s when you see Will.

Will runs from left back and goes towards the net like he’s a striker. He runs right past Ethan and Harry, getting a close range of the ball. Once Chunkz taps it down, Will slides toward the ball, knocking it into the net.

In the 80’ minute, Will scores what could be the final goal of the match.

“Oh my god,” you say aloud, mouth agape.

In the moment you got tunnel vision. All you could see is Will getting on his feet and spin on his heels looking for something, someone. Everyone starts to run towards Will, to congratulate him, to dogpile on him. But when his eyes land on you, he bolts toward you with all his might.

As he’s running, he’s yelling something, pointing at you. He says it multiple times, too quick for you to make out.

“What!?” You yell breathlessly, leaning forward like you were going to be able to magically tell what he said. But without warning Will comes crashing into you, the impact causing you to stumble backwards, almost losing your footing.

Guess you’ll have to find out what he said later.

When you pull away, you grab onto his shoulders firmly, bouncing with delight.

“Did you see that? I haven’t scored a goal like that ever, i’ve always been in the back—“

“I know! I know!” you cut in between his excitement.

“I’m so glad you were here to see that—“ He’s quickly cut off by the rest of the team congratulating him. Patting him on the shoulder, squeezing him into a brief hug, Chris even comes over and says he’s done well.

You begin to back off to get back into the center field, watching as the smile on Wills face takes over him completely. He radiates warmth, sunshine, and complexities. The ache with quiet yearning, watching him celebrate. There was nothing in the world like it, and if it meant having Will this way rather than not at all- you’ll live with this ache forever.

8 - 7

The match finishes briefly after Will scores. Manny scoring at the 86’ minute tying up the two teams. And Simon, of course, gets the last goal of the match putting his team first. Your team is able to score another point, Theo ends up stepping up to kick the ball and Pie face blocks it from the net. Meaning, the Sidemen have won. Regardless, everyone is in a good mood no matter the turnout. All the players rush towards the field, congratulating each other, briefing the match that just ended.

You thank Hp and Chunkz for a good game, and shake Theos hand for being another good defensive player with you.

Simon makes his way over to you and he puts his hands on the tops of your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“See! It wasn’t so bad was it?” he teased. You roll your eyes and lick the dryness off your lips, admittedly, it wasn’t so bad. After you got over the burning in your chest, the ache in your sides, and the soreness in your thighs.

“Uh no, no, wasn’t too bad. I stayed with Hp and Chunkz a lot of the time, we were all playing really well,” you say before asking how Simon think he did.

“I got a hat trick and three assist, what more could I have asked for?”

“That’s fair,” is all you can respond with. All you can think of is the times you could’ve tried to score, the times you weren’t able to make a good pass, or interfere a pass. Simon reads your mind as he sees the conflict on your face, quick to bring you back to reality.

“I mean you were really great. A few assists, you and Theo on defense was a nightmare, there is no complaints on my end. I hope you consider coming back and playing again, Y/n, seriously.” Simon squeezes your shoulder one last time before he sees Harry, the two rushing towards one another excitedly.

You turn around to see Elz and Munga coming up to you with their mics, a cameraman following. They pull you away from the group of lads whilst everyone gets ready to clap around the stadium. Taking a step back upon seeing the camera, a lopsided smile creeps up on your face.

"Y/n, what an incredible match. You were all over the pitch this game! Can you give us some words about your first time playing in a Sidemen charity match and how it felt?" The mic comes in your face, and you let out an airy chuckle.

"Yeah..um, I haven't played footy since high school, really. When Simon asked for me to play, I was.. reluctant at first, you know, but now I'm really glad I said yes." You rattled on.

"We saw some great strikes on the pitch. How do you feel about barely missing the goal during the first half?" Munya asks.

Licking your lips, you let a beat go by for a moment so you can think. The question poses room for scrutiny from the audience; you can feel your stomach churn, anxiety creeping up on the hairs on the back of the neck. You knew if you seemed too confident, people would not like that, but if you seemed too humble, people would condemn you too.

"Uhm... That's a great question," you begin to say, craning your neck to look for comfort. Your eyes try to find someone in the swarm of people, desperate to get away from the hosts.

"It was my first time! I definitely could've made it if I had been a bit closer or wasn’t getting closed in on,” you finish honestly. There, you see Will is staying back to wait for you. His eyes are wide, and his head is slightly tilted; it's a tender look that was being reserved for you.

"We are thrilled to have you here, and we hope you come back next year,” Elz says and you thank them both quickly before jogging over to Will.

He doesn’t say anything, instead all he does is wrap his arm around your shoulder and guides you to where everyone else is doing their claps around the stadium. You’re curious to see if this moment will make the video, or any of the other ones between the two of you, after all it is up to Mikey.

You find yourself smiling at the crowd, the people, the cameras. In that moment, you truly felt like you belonged and deserved to be there. Saying hello to fans, signing papers, and receiving handmade items. Although, you knew that once this was over, you'd be under mass criticism. You'd go on Twitter and see everyone criticizing how you played, but getting the validation from your mates was all the resignation you needed to tune those other voices out.

“Why the sour face?” Will leans down to whisper to you, amongst the ruckus the lot is making as they leave the pitch.

“Nothing gets past you,” commenting, crossing your arms over on another. He rolls his eyes and groans at this.

“I know you,”

For a second you debate sucking it up, going to the pubs to celebrate with everyone after. Or, going back to the hotel room for the night, and getting ready to leave as soon as possible to see your cats back at home.

“All I want to do is go home, really,” you sigh. Wills face doesn’t change, all he does is hum in response before looking at his phone to see the time.

“Yeah? Why don’t we go back to the hotel and get going,” he suggests simply. You quirk an eyebrow, knowing that prior he was more than willing to go to the pubs with everyone.

“Is.. that what you want?” asking hesitantly. Giving him time to think, and change his mind. But without another beat passing he nods his head.

“Not what about what I want, let’s get home,”

He flashes you a soft, genuine smile that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle. Will smooths your hair done with his palm like always, before silently walking to the locker room to change.

You’re left to stand there, cheeks flushing. Home. Insinuating that home is with you. All of this feels so natural, the soft touches, the quiet intimacy, the longing stares. You wonder how long it’s going to take for you to crack, to risk it all and reveal the raw truth. But, for another day, you can hold on to the pieces of Will that you already have.

TAGLIST:

@mosviqu @ivvees-blog @ooostarwarsfandom501st

( if you would like to be on future tag lists please ask!)

[03230]

PUMPKIN SPICE & EVERYTHING NICE

s. jaeyun x reader

0.95k

love, rosie au...-esque! original request here

light streams through the shutters, evening sun warming your room in a slow, steady drawl of golden hour. jake lays precariously balanced over the edge of your twin bed, crammed alongside you as he balances precariously near the edge of the mattress.

it smells like you—the pillow, the blanket, the room. all warm and familiar and so full of home he just wants to close his eyes and fall asleep like when you were kids. the scent of cinnamon drifts into the room, and jake knows your mom is probably making her pumpkin spice cookies downstairs, the way she always does when the weather starts getting chilly. jake wonders if he can steal a freshly baked one before he goes home tonight, just like he used to.

but he supposes it's not like how it was before. maybe it can never be the same.

"i broke up with minju."

the word strikes a fracture in the air, your body stiffening slightly beside his before you relax, voice taking on a casual lilt he can tell is masking something beneath. “oh, really? why?”

"it just..." jake pauses. "didn't work."

"oh." short, concise, maybe a little hurt. and then, timidly, "sorry to hear that."

he shakes his head, pillow rustling. "don't be. not your fault."

"you just really seemed to like her a lot."

he shrugs, biting back his words. "yeah."

"you know," you start, almost timidly. "i almost thought you hated me, or something."

"what?" jake's head turns to you on instinct, swift motion that leads his nose to almost brush against yours. his breath hitches, a split second of smelling the leftover peppermint on your breath, before he turns back again, ironing out his cracking voice. "what makes you say that?"

"i don't know, you just..." you trail off. "we just stopped hanging out. like you were avoiding me."

you try to make it lighthearted, but the hurt peeks through enough for the pang in jake's chest to shoot into his throat. he swallows hard, eyes pinned on the leftover glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck on the ceiling.

“that’s not…” jake manages, but the rest of words lump up and lodge in his throat. he can’t lie to you. “it’s complicated.”

a pause. "is it?"

he hesitates, blinking. the peppermint still lingers. "yeah."

jake hopes you'll just leave it at that and not press him further, because if he were being honest then he'd say yes, he has been avoiding you. that's the partial truth, at least.

the whole truth is that he can't look at you the same after the night of your 18th birthday, not after you had three tequila shots too many and blacked out for the rest of the night. not after he can still taste the feeling of your lips on his, even months since that night has passed.

jake likes you—he's admitted that to himself for a while now. in fact, he may even be in love with you, but that seems way too big and scary of a concept for a guy his age to even wrap his head around. at the very least, like or not, in love or not, jake knows he loves you. he has for as long as he can remember, as his twin flame, as his best friend, as just who you are wholly, as a person.

but he knows you best, which means that there's no way in hell he can tell you that he started dating minju to distract himself from a kiss you don't even remember and feelings he's fairly sure you don't even return. jake can't even tell you that minju is the one that dumped him, because the truth would come tumbling out that the reason she did was because she was sick and tired of him never being able to shut up about you.

(when minju broke it off, she said she was setting him free. "untethered to follow his heart," or whatever that means. she probably thought she was doing a good deed, considering the wise look she gave him when she left his house, but it really just set him back to square one. without anyone stopping him, jake would always find himself coming back to you.)

it's not like he's proud of his bout of ghosting, but at the time, it was the only thing he felt like he could do to get his newfound feelings under control. he's better at it now, more practiced. jake is happy to shove his feelings underneath the rug and continue like everything is normal if it means things will continue like they always have been.

it's fine. it'll all be fine. as long as he doesn't lose you, it'll all be okay.

jake peers to his side, catching a glimpse of your face. brows scrunched, lips set in a slight frown, body slightly turned away from him. his fault, admittedly. jake pushes aside the slight guilt and pokes your side, watching you squirm and yelp.

the best solution to avoidance is distraction—jake's tried and true method.

"do you think your mom will let us have a cookie before dinner?"

you drag yourself up, hair mussed from the pillow as you look down at him. "when has she ever?"

sunlight tinges your hair warm, the dust particles floating between the streams of light through the window. there's a pillow mark on your face that draws the corners of his lips up before he can stop himself.

tried and true, jake repeats to himself. tried and true.

"how long do you think it'll take her to notice two are missing?"

you hum, tilting your head. "only one way to find out."

he grins, sitting up beside you. "then let's find out."

[03230]

babydoll || ji changmin || act ii

↳ Changmin isn’t popular nor is he rich, whereas you run on the other end of the spectrum, spoilt and living on your dads credit card. when you’re tasked with kicking him out of the biggest party of your year, you come to realise he’s not all that bad. unfortunately, falling in love with the ji changmin is your one way ticket to social suicide.

↳ pairing: ji changmin x female reader + ex lee juyeon x female reader

!!! this is not a love triangle !!!

~ rating: NC-17 minors please do not interact with this work

↳ genre: enemies to acquaintances to reluctant friends to lovers, slowburn, drama, angst, happy end but it takes a long ass time, rich girl broke ass uni boy

~ warnings: everyone still kinda sucks, juyeon is toxic and a red flag, manipulation, emotional abuse, toxic relationships, family abuse (implied, vaguely shown), bullying, reader is still a pain to deal with, alcohol, drug use, the classism is strong in this one still, implications of an eating disorder, body issues, body modifications (tongue and nipple piercings), changmin is basically a chainsmoker but we love him, minnie teaching ya'll and reader how to roll a cigarette, cocaine is common, so is imported wine, swearing, pet names (little doll, doll, darling, princess), whore and bitch, suicidal ideation, mild violence, first degree burns, taller reader with long hair, is anyone redeemable?

everyone is an adult in their 20s

!!! if I missed anything or I remember something else I will add it !!!

↳ words: 28,172

a/n: this is late. I apologise this shit is long as hell to edit and it broke tumblr and my computer.

I have said this previously but I will be stating this every chapter. There are some specific physical attributes to this reader which I usually avoid doing but for the story itself it was necessary.

Also, please note that the warnings are applicable to the chapter in question, not necessarily the whole story. You can find all the general warnings on the masterlist to babydoll. I also take no responsibility if you take issue with the topics and characters at hand once proceeding as I would hope you have read the warnings beforehand. If there is something I did genuinely miss in the warnings you are more than welcome to tell me though, since there is a lot and some might get overlooked.

let me know if you wanna be on the taglist and please I beg love up on this changmin he's taking all the strength I have and possess.

babydoll playlist || act i

You could go without hearing Changmin’s voice for the rest of your life. It’s not that it was an unattractive tone or that it was harsh, but it was the person behind it that immediately brought you to a halt. There was a very big part of you that almost knew what this was going to about, and you were set on avoiding it. 

It was the very first time you didn’t stay to catch his attention. You walked away, heading down the stairs to the first floor in an attempt to shake him off. But Changmin was stubborn in his pursuit of you, especially today, and he persisted in running after you until he caught up and stood right in front of you to block your path. 

“Why am I wrapped up in a rumour that you want to fuck me?” 

It’s painfully embarrassing to hear those words from him. You’d expected it, given that in the past few days, the looks you’d received were ones that made you feel cornered, like prey being chased. Chanhee had even asked you, in a tone that sounded so judgemental that for a moment you thought he’d slipped into the opposing side. Juyeon’s side. 

Hyunjae had been worse. You’d deemed him a maybe friend, especially considering how he’d been standing up for you recently, but his tone, like he was amused and laughing at your massive fuck up and that it was somehow funny to him, had made you cold towards him. 

Younghoon was a nightmare. He’d grabbed your long hair by the roots and dragged you into an empty hallway to shame you. You’d embarrassed Juyeon and everyone knew about it. You fucked your ex boyfriend, used him for his money like a whore and then had the audacity to think about someone else.

It’s not like you had wanted to. 

It had been an honest mistake, a thought that fell away from you. 

Your social status had fallen to a new low. To a degree that had even Chanhee wary of speaking to you around others. You didn’t blame him, as you knew if it had been him, you’d likely cast him out much the same. See, that was the thing in both your circles, when it was all wealth and appearance and nothing of substance. Looks mattered, behaviour mattered, how awful you were to keep it perfect didn’t matter at all. 

You missed Chanhee but you didn’t beg for him. He spoke to you when he desired, asked if you were okay, even apologised once when you were alone, but the damage was done. 

Chanhee couldn’t fully understand it either. He knew you so well, he knew you’d never jeopardise yourself to this extent, so how were you possibly so stupid?

You straighten your posture but you’re more nervous than usual, hiding your palms underneath your hoodie as you fiddle with the sleeves. 

Yes, the same hoodie the man before you had returned perfectly new, wearing it like an oversized dress with heels that once again made you just a little taller, and right now, it reassured you. You were above him, both physically and in status, and that still remained true. He would never be better than you. 

“Says who?” 

You’re stoic and nonchalant in your behaviour, even ice cold as you try to keep all your expressions away from his prying eyes, but Changmin only raises his brows and leans against the wall in disbelief because he doesn’t believe it. You’re not sure why he doesn’t, anyone usually would, but he looks at you like you’re see through, like everything is laid out in front of him, like he knows you down to the bone and it makes you extremely uncomfortable to know that he’s analysing you for more than just your body. 

“Half the school is asking me why you moan my fucking name when some asshole fucks you and your concern is who?”

To be perfectly fair, both were of your concern. The fact that so many people approached a social outcast to ask him what the fuck you were doing, what you had done, all because Juyeon ran his mouth, just as much as who specifically had been the one to bring this to Changmin’s attention. 

“Juyeon?”

“No, though I hear he’s been riding out the emotionally torn up victim perfectly,” you almost laugh because you can imagine it so well. Juyeon’s ego had been bruised and he had to run around so that everyone would know about it, but you caught yourself by hiding the slight smile behind your hand. 

It wasn’t funny. 

“I really don’t care, you know? You can fantasise about me all you want. Is that why you kept my hoodie?”

He’d been so close. So close to making you take a step back, if even just for a minute to tell him it was okay. Because the reality, as much as you hated it, was that none of this was really Changmin’s fault, even if you wanted it to be. 

And then he went and ruined it, and it made you snap.

“You think I fucking like Juyeon going around telling people that I said someone else’s name when I fucked him?! Like you so graciously told me to?! 

“I didn’t-”

“Don’t you think I’m humiliated enough?! It’s so fucking embarassing that it had to be you,” and that’s when you break. The cruelty of your words aren’t lost on you, but the emotional torment and humiliation you feel is even worse. You don’t let yourself, but it happens almost on its own when you start to cry, and you never cry. 

Not like this, but the tears fall so freely that you couldn’t catch the droplets between your fingers even if you tried, and Changmin just stands there like an idiot. He stands there and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s amused in watching your vulnerability or because he genuinely feels bad, but either feel equally as bad at this point. 

You run away as a result, and this time it proves successful as Changmin doesn’t seem to be following you, so you keep going. You run all the way to your car and when the door closes you allow yourself to really break, because you feel like your life is ruined. You feel like everything you worked for, and everything that was so unbearably painful to work towards, was for nothing. People looked at you now and saw one thing. You were the one who hurt Juyeon, someone well loved, in a manner that is so utterly humiliating that anyone would say he deserved better. 

Juyeon was never the bad guy, and you just had no idea how to possibly spin it so that he could look to be the one who’d caused you more pain than you’d caused him. For the truth to your relationship had ran deep behind closed doors and you’d never let anyone in on it, and yet you slip up once and he lets the mask fall on who you are. 

At least, who you are in his eyes. 

You were sure now more than ever before that you and Juyeon were over, and it was like experiencing a break up all over again. It hurt, a lot, because there was once a time in which you would’ve said you maybe loved him. And the reality of him at the very least never caring to preserve your dignity and appearances when he knew how hard you worked for it and what you did to attain it, was a brutal reality that you simply did not want to face. 

Weeks go by and you’re sure your life has hit a wall that you’ll never get over. You felt dramatic, sure, but you were certain you could simply cease to exist and it wouldn’t really matter anymore. It wasn’t that you’d made any plans at your life. It was more so a feeling of if you faded away, would it even make a difference? 

You didn’t think it would. You’d let yourself sink to the status that Juyeon had asked for. You crashed, horrifically, falling so depressed that getting to class was a challenge, much less looking presentable. Your endless pairs of heels were replaced with trainers, ones you liked from dior but not nearly as graceful and elegant as what you usually had on, and you practically lived in hoodies that posed as dresses because they were just about long enough. 

You still wore make up, but it was far less intricate than before, and your hair was usually up in a high ponytail because you just wanted it out of your face, and you wanted to hide the fact that you barely had the energy to brush through it. 

Everything was tiring. Having everyone stare at you, treat you so far beneath yourself for something that had been no one's business was an awful, terrifyingly isolating feeling. You’d never been more aware of your appearance ever before as you were now, and yet you’d also never been as unenthused to fix it in your life. What was the point when the looks were the same. You were judged, beneath them. 

You’d sunk to Changmin’s status, and for the first time you wondered how he could do it. How was he able to brush almost anything off, to seem so unbothered, when he was being torn apart from all directions. You’d done it to him, but you’d seen others do it far worse, and yet he acted just the same. It was something you wished you knew how to mirror, for maybe then it would at least earn you some respect back where he couldn’t, because he lacked the privilege you had. 

Chanhee had brought you a coffee in the morning, your absolute favourite order and therefore you knew how expensive it was. A mix of extra shots of coffee and syrup, but it was refreshing and made you smile as he kissed the top of your head. You appreciated it more than he probably knew, because Chanhee hadn’t been around you much in recent weeks. Ever since it happened, you wouldn’t call it distance, but more missed chances to cross each other and neither of you made an effort to fix it. 

Normally, Chanhee loved to pry. He wanted all the dirt and tea he could get out of you, but it’s like he knew to not cross this line, and the end result was distance. It was ironic, really, because you could’ve really used someone to talk to. For someone to ask with a non judgemental tone what the actual fuck had happened. 

Even if in truth you didn’t fully know either where the hell you had gone wrong. 

Changmin had tried to talk to you one more time but you’d turned him away. It’s like he’d chosen the worst moment, exactly when Hyunjae and Juyeon turned the hallway towards you both, and if you had even considered staying for a bit to hear what he had to say, it all went out the window as they showed up. You turned so fast to run that the three of them would likely fail to catch you. 

Juyeon had somehow managed to spread more rumours, because the kicked little kitten had seen you with the very man you’d thought of. It felt ridiculous, even pathetic, the way he was dragging it, and yet the way you knew to stand up for yourself was entirely lost on you. You forgot to speak, forgot how to be firmly yourself with your thoughts to tell them all to go to hell. You forgot how to exist in yourself.

You went home that day and saw Changmin’s dark hoodie laying on the edge of your bed where you’d left it in the morning, and you decided you’d had enough. You weren’t a weak person, and you were letting yourself be walked over and dragged with the name of someone you didn’t even like. Why the hell would you stand for it, like he was worth more than you? 

It was five in the morning when you got ready for your lecture three hours away. You dragged yourself into your shower, your little cat watching you with peculiar eyes because you were never up this early. She knew that, so she found it rather odd and just sat there perched curiously on the counter where all your makeup was messily strewn about for someone else to clean. 

Changmin might’ve forgotten about the hoodie entirely, accepting defeat and transferring ownership, but you wanted to cut any and all strings with him. You wanted to have no part of you be intertwined with him, no association or ties that meant you even knew each other. 

And you would do it looking absolutely stunning. 

Your dress sits so tight it threatens to hurt you, but it forms around your body well and the length is just enough to be acceptable if you tape it to your thigh before it rises above your ass. Not class appropriate, but its never bothered you before. 

You decide to wear one of your three red bottom heels, the highest ones you own, the colour black to go with the same coloured dress, paired with your silver jewellery. The ridiculous hoodie in your hand ruins the entire aesthetic, but at least you’d be rid of it soon. 

When your driver drops you off at school, you make the not so unusual albeit stupid decision to cut a line of cocaine on a small piece of decorated glass that you keep in the car to break and distribute the powder into lines, because you’re tired as hell and have to withstand a lot of stares today. That, and you would willingly go looking for Changmin, his piece of clothing hidden away, folded neatly and delicately in a discarded designer shopping bag from one of your many expensive trips on your exes dime. 

Maybe you needed a cigarette. A bottle of wine wouldn’t hurt either.

“You look very nice today,” it was a careful voice, Hyunjae, but you frowned when you turned to look at him. He was alone, well dressed with a cologne you couldn’t recognise, rare in your case, but nice. It wasn’t overbearing, and it mirrored the man in front of you quite well. 

“Since when do you take the time to give me a compliment?”

“I just think you look nice,” he sounds honest and sincere, which in truth you do believe he means. You don’t think he’s carelessly choosing to say words to make you feel better, but it still doesn’t sit well with you, so you smile at him gently and touch his shoulder to squeeze it and ask for his attention.

“Well don’t, Jae,” he lets you leave, and you’re determined more than anything to find the man you wish to blame everything on. There’s a bounce to your step, wide awake now as the drug infiltrates your bloodstream, and you’re almost a little excited to get it all over with. 

You’re even more excited at the prospect of dragging Juyeon down beneath you, but that was for later.

You’d just about given up on finding Changmin when after your final class, the library proved successful in your search. However, it also proved to be a mistake. You’re not sure what the reason is, but seeing Changmin makes you stop. You hit that familiar wall, except now it's a dam and it’s threatening to break. And if it breaks, so do you. 

You’re emotionally charged in a way you don’t want to be, simply because you see him standing there, reaching for a book dressed in a simple t-shirt with his glasses perched over his nose that looks almost crafted from the side at which you're standing. It hits you suddenly, that you find Changmin to be physically beautiful. Even when he isn’t well dressed, there is a simplicity to him that is welcoming, and it makes you want to turn away. 

He notices you, probably because a shadow loomed to his side and he was notified of your presence because you simply stood there. He’s carrying three books, and you wonder what they are, but then he moves towards you with a confused stare that has you thinking you couldn’t do this. 

“Is there something on my face?”

His voice breaks you free from your mind in which you are a prisoner, or at least feel like one with your overwhelming thoughts that you simply never wish to have. Everything seems so easy for him, talking to you seems simple, and you’re wondering why you can’t formulate words to return it when it shouldn’t require any effort at all. 

“I have your hoodie,” you keep your voice low just in case, but he hears it and seems to curiously perk up at the prospect of getting his clothes back. 

“Oh? I figured you were keeping that,” honestly, so did you. You’d really wanted to, because it was still insanely comfortable to you. You loved it, in truth, for the way it wrapped around you felt soft, like you were nestled up in something that wouldn’t hurt your skin and never sat too tight just to form your body a certain way. 

“I don’t want anything that ties me to you,” you wonder if it stings, when you insult him like this, but he makes no face that tells you it does. He’s perfect at hiding how he feels, and you nearly wish to ask him how he does it. How does he remain so okay, when things so cruel and hurtful are thrown his way? 

You wish to emulate it, even in this moment, but you can’t. 

It’s the one part of him you wished you could learn to take for yourself.

“Are you okay?” 

Those three words hit you like a knife straight through your chest, reverberating deep in your bones as your entire resolve breaks. Your walls fall apart yet again and he’s the one to do it, because in truth you aren’t and he’s the only one to even ask the questions in weeks apart from Chanhee. People you consider your friends, or would consider anything at this point that Changmin isn’t, haven’t even asked, and yet he stands before you and doesn’t even seem to stumble over the words to pose the question. 

And it makes you cry. 

It’s absolutely humiliating to cry like this and the mascara burns your eyes in an instant, and yet every effort to stop forsakes you because it all makes it worse. Changmin stands there so awkwardly, like he might have ways to comfort someone but no ways of knowing how to comfort you, and you’re fairly certain he wishes to turn away because he finds it uncomfortable to simply stand here with you, in a corner, far from others yet not far enough that no one could see if they didn’t go to look

“I… listen… I really didn’t mean to make you cry,” you can tell he doesn’t like it. Maybe because it’s you or he’s uneasy by it in general, but it fills you up with even more embarrassment as you try to will your body to walk away. Yet you’ve turned to stone, accepting your humiliation because how much lower could you go before his eyes? You’ve broken entirely and he’s witnessed almost every second of your demise as you became nothing of value to absolutely everyone around you. You really were like a whore.

“Can you just t-take it?” 

Forcing the bag into his fingers doesn’t work, and you note for the first time the silver rings he wears. You’re surprised you missed it before, or maybe he wasn’t always wearing them, but they’re intricate in their simplicity and you wish to have a closer look, though you wouldn’t be the one to ask. 

“Listen… I know you have some pathetically unjustified hatred towards me-” you scoff, only to prove his point that has him rolling his dark brown eyes because he’s exasperated that you simply can’t let him finish, “I also find you incredibly fucking annoying and a raging bitch-”

“Hey!” 

You want to hit him, yet you’re not going to disagree with him. You know how to hurt people well, how to manipulate a situation and how to come out on top above everyone else and so it earned you occasionally negative titles that were sometimes deserved. 

Nevertheless you weren’t quite sure what he was getting at. 

“Do you want to get some ice cream?”

Whatever it was, it hadn’t been that. You hadn’t expected to be asked to go anywhere with him, and yet here you both were, in a position of vulnerability for him and one even more for you. You were conflicted and uncertain in what you’re answer should be, because even if your first thought was to say no and reject him, it wasn’t what you truly wanted. 

“What?”

“Ice cream makes anything better. Don’t you think?” 

Well, no, you didn’t think so, for it added weight where you didn’t need it, and yet you didn’t want to turn him away. You were upset, evidently, and he was trying to do something to bring a smile to your lips and you hated that it felt like it was working. It shouldn’t be working, and yet you were heavily considering it. 

“Fine, but I don’t need us to leave together.”

“I have another class, anyway,” but the way he spoke made you wonder if he’d been willing to skip it, if you’d immediately said yes to something you’d never thought you’d hear him ask. He almost seemed bitter but you weren’t quite able to feel bad. 

But you wouldn’t mind ice cream, if you were honest.

“I can meet you there,” Changmin seems surprised, perking up in a way that is strangely endearing yet you refuse a smile, waiting for him to tell you where to go. 

“It's just a ten minute walk from here. Amorino, I think.”

You’d heard of it, but in truth you’d never been, but it was meant to be good for the little it cost, so maybe it was worth a try. 

“Fine. I’ll be there,” you’d get some of your assignments done, maybe, but first you’d need to spend the next hour in front of a mirror so that you didn’t look like an absolute mess, even when you felt like one. Changmin looked like he wanted to say something else, but he bit his tongue and walked away from you with your hands still firmly latched around the strap of your shopping bag. You wondered if he’d intentionally left it in your grasp, if there was a reason he was no longer so hellbent on getting it back, but you weren’t going to dwell on it. 

And you were not keeping it any longer either. If anything, you’d blame your willingness and brief vulnerability to say yes on the fact that you simply just wanted to be rid of him, and that included the item you were holding. 

You almost wished the rain had put him off from walking through the glass doors that led inside a sickly sweet smelling cafe, slightly cool because of the various ice cream needing the lower temperature. Sadly, it hadn’t, and Changmin walked in just a little over an hour after you had taken a seat in a corner far inside the shop, hoping that if anyone you knew would walk past, they wouldn’t recognise you. When he spots you, he seems almost as apprehensive as you to approach, brushing through his matted down wet strands of dark hair to move them away from his forehead. 

“I’m surprised you’re here,” it seems true. Like he hadn’t expected you to really show up and in truth it seemed like the most reasonable assumption to make, because you really had no idea either. 

“Me too,” he smiles at you and it makes you uncomfortable, for the shift in the way he treated you seemed disingenuous, yet nothing about it told you that his kindness in looking at you wasn’t real. It’s like you’d genuinely managed to amuse him with little to no effort, after the countless times in which you were a pain in his ass. 

“Do you know which flavour you’d like?”

“I… honestly can’t decide,” it all sounded heavenly. You couldn’t remember when you’d last indulged in a sweet treat like this, even if it hadn’t been intentional to go so long without. It just never came to be for a very long time and suddenly you were overwhelmed with flavours that you wanted to try. You could’ve eaten half the menu, and yet you barely desired one in terms of calories.

“I think you can choose up to three for one cone,” three seemed absurd. It seemed excessive and yet the temptation to try three was so overbearing that you wanted to give in.

“Are you having three?”

“Probably,” you nod, falling silent because you really don’t know how to talk to him normally. Changmin was a stranger to you, and you fully realise it when you sit across from him and realise that you don’t know him at all. You don’t know who he is, how he thinks, aside from what he tells you, and the only other thing you know is what he looks like, and that he often adjusts his glasses as if they sit just a little too big. 

“I can order for us both,” he offers, breaking you out of your trance to once again be reminded of how strange this is. You don’t like Changmin, yet sitting with him like this is simple. It’s weird, but it’s easier than expected. It’s very awkward, but it’s simple. 

“You don’t have to order for me.”

���It was an offer, not a demand,” you roll your eyes, though his kindness isn’t lost on you and you’re once again sat here wondering what you’re really doing, and wondering why Changmin’s shift in personality was so sudden but genuine. 

“Stracciatella, dulce de leche and coffee.”

“I can tell you’re rich,” you wonder if it’s an insult, but if it is he’s smiling and that almost makes it worse. You know how to do it best, smile through something you didn’t mean, or something that was an insult but you wanted the other person to maybe have hope that it wasn’t meant that way. Or maybe he was joking, and the slight tease just went way over your head. 

“What’re you think?” 

“Vanilla, lemon and amarena,” you nod, as if to just tell him you were listening but have nothing to say. 

“But I’m the rich one,” it’s your way of figuring out if he was teasing too, by doing so back and seeing what his reaction will be. Changmin seems amused and you relax in knowing that he wasn’t mocking you. 

“What’s wrong with those flavours?”

“Nothing,” you draw out, staring back at the menu to decide on a coffee, “I’ll get a drink.”

Changmin seems to hesitate just briefly and realisation dawns on you. You’ve always looked down on him for having less money, for not affording things, but it didn’t cross your mind that he might not even be able to afford this. The issue then became that you had no idea how to delicately approach it. 

“I’ll pay for it,” you tell him, but there’s surprise on his face and a hint of frustration, and you wonder if you read it all wrong. 

“I’m not in poverty, you do know that, right?”

Honestly, you didn’t. It might’ve been embarrassing to admit but you weren’t quite sure at what point someone was considered within poverty because very often, your parents had shown you that even the most common ordinary people lacked money and therefore weren’t content in life. You had no real way of measuring what was really considered little. Hell, you barely knew what your family had in regards to wealth, because you rarely looked at the money you spent. You knew you always had it, so you spent it, without having to think about it. 

In your mind, anyone that had to consider their spending was poor. 

Sat here now with Changmin was probably the first moment in which you briefly think that might’ve been wrong. That maybe he was cautious with money but not without it. If he was without it, he would likely not be as inviting to sit with and dressed the way he was, even if you’d never buy clothes like the ones he wore. 

“I’d still like to pay,” you offer, and you’re not really sure why. You’re here to give him this stupid bag that’s been weighing down on your mind all day as you chased after him, and maybe you’re also hoping to buy his silence on the fact that you cried before him and have done so twice now. 

“I invited you here,” he was right. Usually, at least how you were raised, the one inviting the other is the one to pay unless otherwise agreed, which had never been the case for you before, yet it was now. 

“And I’m telling you to let me pay.”

“You’re really demanding you know?”

You knew. It’s how you got what you wanted, to make demands rather than ask questions. Changmin seems displeased but he doesn’t argue with you, shrugging his jacket off to drape it over the chair before he gets up and waits. 

“What?” 

“You’re not coming with?”

“Just take my card. Three, five, seven, two,” you hold it out to him between your long manicured nails and he looks at you like you’re insane. It’s another reminder of how different you two are, of how giving him access to sums he’s never even seen or hoped to dream of meant absolutely nothing to you, because it really didn’t.

“Thanks?”

Changmin walks away, but it’s only brief before he’s turned back around to approach you, “which coffee did you want?”

“A latte macchiato,” he nods, leaving you alone with your thoughts again as you watch his back. The weather has since gotten worse, but it’s quite cosy from here, to simply watch the rain fall, the droplets chasing after one another from top to bottom, only to repeat over and over again in different patterns. The heating was on too, and it was quite comfortable to simply sit here. 

The girl at the counter smiles at Changmin in a way that makes you want to turn away, not because someone flirting with him bothers you, but because you can’t believe how ridiculous she’s being in doing so. He’s here with you, and she’s practically begging for it. 

Whatever she says, he seems polite but distant enough for her to straighten her posture and adjust her smile to a more professional one, and so you take that as a rejection on his part. You’re not sure why you find that so satisfying, that she didn’t get her way, but you’re happy about it regardless as he’s handed two ice cream cones that seem far more intricate than you’d expected. 

It’s only when he comes closer that you realise that the ice cream has been layered together to form the shape of multiple rose petals and ultimately a flower, three separately assorted colours that make up the flavours you asked for, “they’re still making the coffees.”

“Thanks,” you take the ice cream from him carefully, admiring its shape and look. It’s beautiful, really, and it does put a gentle smile on your face as you manage a little laugh in amusement, “it’s pretty.”

You wonder if Changmin knew how they put the ice cream together. If maybe he suggested this place because he figured something as simple as an ice cream shaped like beautiful petals belonging to a rose would cheer you up or make you feel better for the absolute mess that had become your life. For the emotional turmoil you felt as you fell in importance and high regard in others’ eyes. 

You mattered less to almost everyone you knew and it bothered you greatly.

Both of you fall silent, likely because neither of you have anything to say. There’s nothing to talk about, not between the two of you, and there’s no attempt at changing it either. Neither of you want to become friends, and yet here you both sit being friendly. 

How strange the world worked sometimes.

“I’m sorry Juyeon’s such a dick to you,” it takes you by complete surprise to hear him speak, and whilst normally you’d find yourself frustrated to hear him even bring it up again, it’s oddly comforting to hear an opinion you agree with, albeit planned to have kept from Changmin. You want him to believe that things are perfect, that you and Juyeon are perfect, because you hold on to the false belief that maybe it would be. 

“Juyeon’s just… a guy, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you wonder why he says it. If he’s trying to tell you he’s better than Juyeon and if so, why it would matter. You have no interest in him and never would, so there was no need for Changmin to make himself better than the man you somehow spent still loving, despite all his horrifying flaws.

And there were many of them, and yet you still saw it with rose tinted glasses. Whilst aware of it, it mattered less to you. 

“I don’t plan to ever have sex with you if-“

“That wasn’t an invitation,” again, your eyes roll almost instantly. He’s too good at being frustrating, and he sits there with his body leaned forward like he’s engaged in you while he takes a bite of his ice cream. 

A bite.

“You’re insane. Why do you bite it?”

“It’s food?”

“It’s cold.”

“Why would I want to just lick it? I barely get any ice cream and then it melts.”

You watch as he bites into another petal and you push your body up a little to see what flavour it might’ve been. 

“Vanilla,” he answers and you nod, sitting back with your one leg crossed over the other.

“Isn’t vanilla a little plain?”

“Is that a double entendre?”

It’s so easy to give up when the conversation is so static, so forced because you truly have nothing to talk about. What the hell do you both even have in common?

“I have a cat,” Changmin laughs and it’s a little unexpected, his smile so light and his dimples set deep in his cheeks. It’s an inviting smile, warm, and his tone of laughter is unique and suits him. There’s a childlike amusement to his features as he looks down at the table. 

“I also have a cat,” you were curious to see her, or him, but you didn’t really want to ask. Both of you sharing photos of your pets over ice cream and coffee was a little bit too friendly, but you supposed there was now something you had in common, “but I don’t really like cats.”

Nevermind.

“Then why do you have one?”

He thinks, just for a minute as he drinks some of his coffee that had been brought over just a few short minutes before, and you must say now you really want to know why he has a pet he doesn’t even like. 

“I found him on the streets. He was put in a box and it was raining. Wasn’t going to take him first because I didn’t want one. But when I went to call someone in the shop nearby, he’d somehow jumped out of the box and started to follow me. He just wouldn’t leave.”

It was unexpectedly sweet and very much something you would’ve never considered. Of course your cat was store bought, expensive and from a litter from a breeder that had done this for the past decade or two. Getting a cat of the streets, even if unintentionally was so out of your character, but you knew when to admit you found it to be kind of Changmin to have done so. 

“You kept him?”

“I did. He’s very sweet.”

“Chanhee says my cat is a diva.”

“So she takes after you. Figures,” you could hit him, but you bite your tongue and try a new flavour of the ice cream petals. Coffee. Definitely. 

The conversation dies again when it would be so easy to keep it going, but it’s like neither of you have any desire to do so. And yet, you find yourself far more at ease sitting here than you would’ve thought when you first agreed to it. You didn’t feel like you had to make up the silence that you both shared.

He seemed to share the same thoughts, though he didn’t often share eye contact with you. You weren’t sure if he was hesitant to or maybe he just didn’t want to look at you, but previous times you’d met him, he’d always been good at looking you in the eye. It was a little strange that he seemed to look everywhere else but at you now, unless you spoke. 

“You smoke, right?” Painful. These occasional conversations littered into being sat here were just simply weird, but you watch as he grabs a bag of loose tobacco out of his jacket as well as some rolling paper and a filter. 

“Didn’t you smoke straights last time?”

“You remember?”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t forget you offering me one,” he shrugs and you watch as he distributes the tobacco onto the paper carefully between his jewellery adorned fingers. It was distracting and you could curse again for it, because he was doing it all effortlessly with one hand. 

“You want one now?” 

“I can do it…” he seems to hesitate though ultimately pushes the bag of tobacco over to your end of the table, and you fiddle with the cone of your ice cream between your one hand whilst figuring out how to do this with the other. Actually, how the fuck had Changmin done this? 

“How did you-”

“Put it on the table first. You can roll with one hand,” he was definitely more confident in your abilities than you were, and maybe that was sweet but it was also giving you far more credit than you deserved. 

You didn’t even want to admit that you couldn’t roll a cigarette at all. You always bought straights, the times you bought any at all. Doing it yourself seemed like extra effort for not much pay off. 

You try to mirror Changmin, seeing how much tobacco he used and loosening up the dried leaves between your fingers the way he had done as they all clung together in the bag, then adding a generous amount to the paper you’d taken out of its flat packaging. 

“Do you always smoke American spirit?”

“I tend to. Or marlboro. Why?”

You shrug, going back to what you’re doing but you very quickly realise you’ll need both hands. Watching him do it, pushing and pinching the thin paper together to tighten the tobacco with two fingers, maybe three at best, was ridiculous. 

“Do you want me to hold your ice cream?”

At this point, you’re determined to prove both him and you that you can do this, when you know the reality is you can’t. Changmin doesn’t know that though, and how hard could it be to roll a cigarette, really?

“You can have it.”

“You have more than half left,” he frowns, putting his nearly rolled cigarette down on the table as he holds your ice cream, watching you and the way your fingers take both ends of the paper to pinch it together, “is it not good?”

“It’s nice. It’s not the flavour,” hopefully, he knows to drop the conversation. Though you look up and can tell by his expression that he likely wants to keep asking but you don’t see why you should need to justify it. 

“You need to… no… you have too much,” he sighs, wanting to reach over but both his hands are occupied with both of your ice cream cones and so he can only sit trapped wishing to intervene as you try to make adjustments when he complains with no real instructions as to how you can do it better, “you’ve never done this before.”

“So I’ve been caught,” as if one of the cafe staff had noticed him struggling, they bring over a holder for two ice cream cones that are scattered on a few tables, yours not having been one of them. 

“Thank you,” he redirects his attention to you, hands free, “look, I’ll teach you,” you scoff, crossing your arms as you’ve let go of the damaged bundle of tobacco in a scrunched up paper, looking between its state and back up at Changmin. You didn’t want him to teach you anything, because you didn’t think he had anything worth showing you. Yet at the same time, you didn’t enjoy not knowing how to do something, and if he was willingly prepared to show you how to actually do it, maybe you shouldn’t deny him. 

“I don’t really smoke…” 

“I won’t encourage you to,” he grabs another rolling paper, holding it out to you and you hesitate but ultimately take it between your fingers as he does the same, ignoring his near finished cigarette to start over, “but I smoke a lot, so I’ll take it off your hands if you don’t want it.”

“You’ll get cancer,” you’re disgusted but you don’t have much of a right to be. You smoke too and do far worse things. Every party could bring you to the brink of death if you aren’t careful enough with what you’re using, and yet you’re telling him he’s risking his life. 

“Thanks, the packaging hadn’t told me,” you recognise Changmin’s sarcastic tone well by now, given that it’s the tone he mostly spoke to you in, but you also don’t retaliate this time. You had nothing to say, nothing to add that wouldn’t be another circular back and forth of neither of you ever getting to the point or settling a fight. 

“The tobacco is quite tight, so you’ll have to loosen it with your fingers a little before you put it on the paper.”

“What about the filter?”

“It’s harder to roll with a filter. Try without first,” but you’re stubborn, and you grab a filter and bring it to one edge of the rolling paper before he can take it away from you. Sighing, he relents and grabs one too to demonstrate more accurately. 

“You’re ridiculous,”

“And I won’t be caught dead smoking a non filtered cigarette.”

“You should try it. The nicotine high is amazing,” okay, so maybe you’d reconsider. You’d never thought of it, even if it was obvious, “you’re curious now.”

“I might be,” Changmin smiles and your cheeks feel a little warmer, but surely it’s the warm coffee and the indoor heating and not the fact that he looked at you with eyes that were gentle, like his happiness in showing you something wasn’t structured into an act of false behaviour.

Then you wonder why it makes any difference. If he wasn’t being genuine, did it matter?

He leans back over and slips the filter away from your paper, then adjusts and sits up a little straighter before his body moves back into your space to be a little closer to demonstrate. 

“So, you loosen some of the tobacco between your fingers. This one is quite dry- and then you bring it onto the paper like so,” you follow his lead, though you could’ve managed this part on your own. This was the one part you’d done correctly without his help, “you want it to be pretty even but don’t worry about it not being perfect.”

“It has to be perfect,” he sighs, his head rolling down in defeat before he slowly looks back up at you. 

“Perfection is an unattainable fantasy. Now take your fingers and move them to either edge and pinch while rolling it like so.”

You follow his lead though if you’re entirely honest, you have no idea how he makes it look so easy and effortless. His tobacco bunches together into a beautiful neat line perfectly, whilst yours is a disaster in which it falls or thins out too much on one end. It feels awkward and incorrect, the way you do it, and yet you’re following his exact instructions. 

“You’re terrible at this.”

“Or you suck at teaching,” giving up was tempting, but showing Changmin defeat wasn’t an option. You wanted to get this, no matter how awful the end outcome would be. 

“You have the ends. Move your fingers more into the middle to roll.”

“It doesn’t work like that!”

He looks exasperated, his glasses moving slightly as he raises his brows and huffs out in annoyance at your inability to do something he deemed simple, “you’re just bad at this. That’s okay.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not bad at things.”

“Just roll the paper over once you have the right shape. Wet the end and seal it and then you can tap the end against the table,” he shows you how, but he does it so quickly you barely manage to follow his movements. He’s amazing at it, you do have to admit, but you hate him for it because you want to be better. It’s irrational, because how realistic is it for you to be better at rolling a cigarette when you’d never done it before, when Changmin had probably done it for years?

“It’s not tight like yours though.”

“Just try. You have the movement right,” but it doesn’t feel right. It feels awkward and you might just blame it on your acrylics for not managing, but the end result is so pathetic that you’re surprise the cigarette even holds. 

“It’s… a cigarette.”

“I’m not smoking that,” Changmin doesn’t seem surprised, but he does surprise you when he places his perfectly rolled cigarette right before you and takes yours instead, placing it behind his ear before retrieving his jacket and taking his melting ice cream, “you coming?”

Well, you suppose you were now. 

You grab the bag with his hoodie in one hand, Changmin’s cigarette in the other as you follow him outside, leaving your ice cream to melt before it’s thrown away. It’s not unnoticed by him either, and he turns around to grab it between his fingers, “if you won’t have it, I will. You’re wasting money and good ice cream.”

“I’m watching my figure.”

“Why?”

He holds both cones in one hand with their remnants of sweet gelato, placing his cigarette between his lips and lighting it with one hand turned away from the storm and rain. The shop has an overhang to shield you both from direct downpour, but lighters are stubborn with wind and he seems to know it well. 

His one worded question seems strange. It’s not worried, nor is it judgemental. At least you don’t perceive it to be. It’s simply confused, like he’s genuinely surprised that you would even bother at all. 

“Because I want to be thin.”

Changmin wants to say something. You can tell he does, that there’s something right on his lips yet he doesn’t speak it. He resists words he probably knows you really don’t want to hear. He would be right, because any comments about your body aren’t welcomed unless they’re compliments that remind you of what you’ve worked for. All the times you don’t eat are rewarded with the acknowledgement of it. 

“Here,” he holds out his lighter, the flame igniting right by your lips in which the cigarette is perched carefully, and you lean in enough and inhale so that it burns. 

“Thanks.”

“You really are peculiar,” you don’t see how you are. From your point of view, he’s the abnormal one. He dresses cheap despite the school he attends, he doesn’t socialise, and he seems so ignorant to his surroundings and the importance of appearance, “I have to go.”

It takes you by surprise. Your thoughts had been so tangled and convoluted that you hadn’t seen him take his phone out, much less fumble with the ice cream, his cigarette and the device to answer whoever it was. 

You wondered who it was. 

“Who is it?”

You can’t help it. Call it morbid curiosity, even in regards to Changmin of all people, “I completely forgot I have a date.”

The thought of anyone going out with Changmin was a concept you weren’t ready to wrap your head around, but maybe if it was a girl he’d met online, she’d based it merely on appearance and even you wouldn’t fully be able to say that he was ugly. You knew he wasn’t, as much as it pained you to admit he was actually rather beautiful when he didn’t open his mouth. 

“Is she cute?”

“She’s cute, yeah,” but he doesn’t seem excited. It almost feels like an insult to hear how he speaks about the prospect of his date. Were all men like this?

Had Juyeon been so disinterested when he first dated you?

“You’re going dressed like this?”

“What’s wrong with it?” 

Boy, he really wasn’t trying. It felt near cruel, because you were almost certain that the girl would be beautiful, and even if her physical appearance wasn’t as gorgeous, she would make up for it in every way with the way she chose to dress. 

And Changmin was in casual attire, his hair had fallen to his face and he seemed tired. 

“Poor girl.”

“It’s really not your business,” and then he discards his cigarette and grabs the bag you’d been holding without warning, practically ripping it out of your hand and the movement feels more aggressive than you’re used to from him. His tone could be harsh but his actions never were, and so it surprised you when he didn’t even ask to take it. 

“Thank you for the hoodie.”

He doesn’t sound thankful at all. Changmin sounds annoyed, as he throws the little remnants of ice cream cone with next to no ice cream left, in the trash he passes as he walks away from you. You stand there, empty handed aside from the cigarette that was burning but barely smoked, and you honestly feel lost. You’re strangely confused and unsure, and you really don’t quite know why.

You felt like maybe you’d managed to really get under his skin, and if that were the case, you were sure it was the first time you’d ever managed it. Yet you’d expected it to feel different, to frustrate him enough to show true emotion in his anger and discontent towards you. 

Instead it just felt like nothing.

You’re not sure what to make of Changmin. But you had bought a packet of loose tobacco and pink rolling paper to fiddle with in the comfort of your large bedroom. You were near naked, just out of your shower and only in underwear whilst you fiddled around with the cigarette in your hand. It was fucking difficult, and you’d probably gone through ten different videos on youtube teaching you how to do it. At least trying to, and each time you just failed to fully do it right. 

Juyeon had called you and while you’d originally wanted to pick up and even thought to, by the time you made any attempt to move your hands, he’d already hung up.

Chanhee had also called though and you had picked up, asking how he was though he pushed for you to answer first, and you hadn’t known what to say. You felt fine yet simultaneously you felt strangely numb. It wasn’t that you didn’t care, it’s that Juyeon had worn you down. He’d broken something in you and collecting the pieces wasn’t possible because not all parts still existed. 

Convincing yourself that it was over was difficult when Juyeon was right there to call back. 

You wanted to. 

It takes about ten failed attempts at rolling a cigarette before you manage one that’s just decent enough to smoke, and in your mind you wish to share your success with Changmin, since he was the one that had witnessed your inability to do it in the first place. You wanted to prove a point, as petty and unimportant as it was. You could roll a damn cigarette. 

But you’d rather roll over in your grave than ask anyone for his phone number. If anyone even had it. He’d said he was supervising a friend the night you first really spoke to him but you’d yet to see him talking with anyone at all. Who was Changmin friends with, if anyone at all?

The question dwelled on you curiously. You didn’t think he’d lied to you that night, you had to at least give him the benefit of his annoying ability to always speak what you assumed to be his truth. He didn’t care of the consequence or if it hurt, and you supposed maybe that was where your one similarity lay. 

If you hurt someone, it didn’t really matter as long as it made you look good.

“Dear? Could I come in?” 

Your mother being home was unexpected. Her knocking on your bedroom door to ask if she could come in was even stranger. It made you worry, and you quickly discarded all your rolled cigarettes in a drawer as well as any other damning evidence aside from the one now considered a masterpiece to show off. You placed it behind your ear and straightened your posture, “yeah?”

“You need to draw the curtains,” she criticised, walking over to the massive window to give you far more than you bargained for with the natural sunlight despite the depressing clouds, “and we do not smoke indoors.”

“I’m not smoking it!”

“Attitude,” you want to sigh but you’re sure that runs in the same category as what she’d just warned you about in your tone, so you bite your tongue and just wait to hear what she wants. 

“I’ve been told you’ve missed a lot of your classes.” 

“By who?” 

“We had dinner with the Lee’s. Juyeon expressed his concern over you. Why you ever broke up with that handsome young man is beyond me, Y/N,” yeah, it was beyond you too, at this point. Clearly you were the fucking idiot, as everyone so rightfully had begun to assume. Juyeon was the perfect man, one most girls would probably dream of and you had him. You had him, and you wasted the opportunity to be happy with him. 

And what for? 

“I know, mother.”

“You should come with this time. Maybe you can both make up before we go on that lovely vacation together.”

“What…?”

She stands by the edge of your bed with condescending eyes that look down on you and make you feel small, which was ironic because your mother was about a head shorter than you and incredibly petite, but her personality was so in your face, her stare so cold that it made you feel like nothing. She made you feel insignificant and she did so perfectly. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten? You’ve always been forgetful,” you cast your eyes down to your lap, listening to her berate you and having no real way of defending yourself without it earning you a slap or worse. 

“I’m sorry. Just have a lot on my mind.”

“Go on a walk. You could go to the docks on one of the boats. I don’t care. But stop missing classes because I will not have a failure of a child when she gets everything handed to her,” it stings. It really stings to be insulted so genuinely. Your grades were by no means terrible and your mother rarely cared before about any of your stupid behaviour, but you supposed as soon as your mask slipped and you fell towards lower status, she could sense it like a blood hound and she was intent on destroying you to a point in which you’d need to remodel yourself to be perfect again. 

You were grateful for her, because she knew how to shape you into someone you wanted to be. 

“And invite Juyeon if you’re taking the boat out!”

She leaves without another glance your way and you feel like nothing, but you also call Juyeon, so you suppose her harsh words and loveless demeanour worked. They worked at beating you down and you listened to her, but you couldn’t say you weren’t at least a little relieved when Juyeon didn’t pick up at first.

“What?”

Damn it. 

“You called me first.”

“And now you’re calling me back,” it felt like a game. It was constant at this point and it never felt healthy and yet you knew no better. You weren’t dumb but Juyeon had an incredible way of making you appear to be the greatest idiot. 

“My mother wants us to take the boat out,” you wait for a response, not hearing one first until there’s shuffling on the other line. 

“Just us?”

“Well, she likes you,” you add, which you knew would work well for his bruised ego. Juyeon loved being told he was liked and you knew how to feed into it well. You’d spent years learning the intricacies that made up Lee Juyeon, and you doubted that would ever fully go away. You weren’t sure if you wanted it to go at all. 

“Have you told her why I haven’t been around?”

“You could always tell her yourself. She hates me enough, you can’t make it worse,” you hear him on the other end and you hope he feels bad for you. You want him to, even if it’s just for a little moment. 

“That’s just not as fun,” he breaks your illusioned disbelief that he could be sympathetic towards you and you wish yet again for your remaining feelings to go away. 

Instead, you decide to be stupid and slip up. 

“I really loved you.”

The silence is so painfully long you could honestly throw yourself out the two story window of the view your mother had just revealed to you moments before. 

“You don’t love me anymore?”

The way you fell into his traps was so effortless. Juyeon wasn’t having to really try and yet you fell right into his hand every time without fail. You were so drawn to him and you couldn't tell for what reason. Because in truth you didn’t really see yourself as wanting a relationship with him, he was an asshole and yet you ran in circles because you somehow still liked him despite it all. 

“Juyeon…”

“Do you love me?”

He asks it again and the question is a demand for you to answer and yet it doesn’t come naturally to you the way you want it to. It feels false, maybe because you know you’re walking yourself into a trap. Yet the trap being laid out for you to see doesn’t hinder you any less from falling into it because of the reward you see in the midst of it. 

“I love you.”

“Then why don’t we celebrate?”

A yacht party was not at all what you had in mind when celebrating your pathetic attempt at clearing your image by being back on Juyeon’s side. But Juyeon had insisted and your mother had somehow overheard at some point and was practically beaming just at the prospect of Juyeon being back on one of your family boats. Her timing was masterful and you hated everything about it. 

You also hated the looks you were getting, judgement, whilst Juyeon was on the opposite end of the yacht gleaming and taking in every ounce of sympathy like it fed him. He’d so graciously forgiven you, told everyone that it was an honest mistake and that he understood you both were over, and now everyone stood at his feet as if ready to do any and all of his bidding.

It was insufferable.

“I think he likes attention more than you,” Chanhee mumbles, standing next to you now with a champagne flute between his delicate fingers and you turn to him with a frown on your face. 

“I think it’s pathetic.”

“I’d agree,” your best friend leans back a little, staring into the dark water as night time beams above you in the shape of a crescent moon, “but you go for it every time.”

“I’m not here for a lecture,” you have a sip of your drink, grimacing at the strength of it. You’d been a little too generous on the rum, even for your standards, but you need the alcohol if you’re going to get through this night out on open water. 

“Have you seen the new kids?”

Chanhee nudges you towards another direction, one that has two younger men downing a glass of something each, and being urged on to do so by Younghoon and Hyunjae. Juyeon was now talking to a girl you didn’t care to know the name of, but he occasionally glanced over too. 

“Freshmen?” 

“Mhmm, one of them is kinda cute, no?”

You give your best friend an odd look before glancing back over. They both look young, not older than twenty, playful and energetic and so full of life that you wonder when that’ll go away. You wonder when both of them will realise the world is dark and being so carefree was simply being naive. 

“Which one?”

Chanhee gestures to the one on the left, with dark hair and full lips that you’re sure has made girls jealous in the past, and if not jealous, at least more than willing to kiss him. He seemed to know it too, because something about him felt cocky and maybe even arrogant, despite his sweet playful smile and loud laugh that you could hear from this far away. 

The other, a striking blonde colour of hair that he’d definitely bleached with a sharp pointed nose that seemed surgical, making you wonder if he’d invested in a nose job as soon as he’d turned eighteen. It wouldn’t surprise you if he had, for if it was real it was almost absurdly perfect. 

“Juyeon invited them?” Chanhee shrugs, though given that neither you nor your best friend seemed to have any clue on who they were and had no influence on them showing up, you were almost certain it was Juyeon. It was near confirmed when your recent lover approached the blonde and wrapped an arm over his shoulder, ruffling through his hair playfully though you could see the roughness in his grip. 

It’d surely be blamed on boys being boys.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you say, and you can see Juyeon’s eyes meet yours as you do. He detaches from the blonde and approaches you, and god do you wish it wasn’t noticeable to everyone that he was doing so. 

“Little princess,” he leans against the railing, watching as you pour yourself more rum but in truth you are ready to down the whole bottle when he talks to you, “why’re you frowning?”

“Did you invite freshmen?”

“Who? Oh- you mean Sunwoo and Eric? I did, yeah. They’re cute, right?” 

There had to be a motive. You didn’t trust Juyeon to have pure intentions and simply so graciously bring a pair of freshmen onto a party such as this. There was no way in hell Juyeon would introduce someone into his social circle without gaining something out of it. Especially someone younger than him. 

“What’re you doing with them?”

“I’m thinking a sex party?” you laugh because it’s absurd, but Juyeon laughs too because he’s managed to humour you and it’s nice. It’s nice to laugh with someone you consider close, someone that is similar to you and that understands the importance of status and appearance. 

“Now what is it actually?”

Juyeon looks over, seeing his friends and the two in question playing around with a lighter and the not lit outdoor fireplace. At least not lit yet, given that they were clearly trying. Hyunjae was sat on the circular couch, Younghoon lying next to him, Sunwoo standing and berating Eric who was hunched over trying to light the coal, “he needs ignition.”

“I’ll go grab it for him.”

Juyeon leaves you standing there with a bad feeling. Drunk people around a fire, intoxicated people in general around live flames was a recipe for disaster. Yet you weren’t stopping it. Maybe because you knew it wouldn’t be you to fall into it. 

Chanhee had joined them, sat next to Hyunjae with his legs curled under his thighs as he held a new glass in hand, looking so delicate and regal he felt most like royalty out of all of you. He was so beautiful, it made you jealous again. It was worse, too, to know that he had naturally just formed to be this way, whilst your parents had discretely paid for your nose to be fixed, your breasts to be augmented and to have some leftover fat dissolved to appear even smaller. 

Not that you’d outright admitted it to anyone, though you were sure those who’d known you long enough, knew that a part of you simply wasn’t real anymore, because reality wasn’t pretty and you wanted to be.

Juyeon joined them a few seconds after with lighter fluid, thankfully not being too generous with how much he coated the charcoal in. At least he seemed sober, more than anyone else that was sat there, and you watched Eric attempting to light the flames again, this time successful in sparking a fire that jumped high enough to nearly hit his face, making him jump back in surprise and panic at the thought of getting burned. 

Unbelievable. 

You walked over to them and sat down at the very edge, Eric turning his attention to you with a bright smile that surprised even you. He seemed energetic and sweet, but why he was so open to you simply coming over was a strange feeling. Juyeon noticed it too, and before you realised, he’d moved to sit between you both.

“Are you jealous?” Juyeon looks at you with a forced smile, shaking his head before having more of his drink and turning his attention to you. 

“I have no reason to be,” he answers, and you suppose he’s right though just the same you wish for him to be, “I’m not the jealous type.”

It felt like a lie. Juyeon’s characteristics that made up who he was were all fairly negative and jealousy was one of them. But then he’d have ways in which he showed kindness with gentle touches and you fell into it because those touches were warm and those words were sweet. 

“Not like me, right?” 

You attempt a joke you both know to be true. You could easily get jealous, because the prospect of having romantic competition made you feel worthless, like you weren’t good enough, and so anger came naturally whenever your worth was threatened. 

“Not like you,” he has more of his drink and you drown out the conversation, watching the way your best friend cuts up two lines of cocaine with Sunwoo now, as if he’d made a quick natural friend and you’re just at the very edge being forgotten. It’s the feeling of unimportance and being replaced that bothers you, and instead you focus on the fire right in front of you. It’s enchanting and beautiful, tempting enough to fall into because it’s warm and inviting. 

It’s dangerous too and that isn’t lost on you, but you still lean a little closer, being careful to push your hair back whilst you watch the flames. You’re in a little world, one none of them are in and you honestly don’t think they ever really noticed how close you’d gotten to the fire, which ends up being the big mistake. 

You’re not sure what happens, but the flames make a crackling sound and the fire rises so incredibly close to your face, you feel the heat sting at your skin. It sends you into high alert and panic, causing you to scream and turn around just quick enough to avoid it burning your face. Unfortunately, the wind and your hair among the flames causes the strands to start burning.

“What the fuck, Eric!”

“We need to put it out!” Chanhee. That’s his voice and the only one you can make out. The others barely seem to move and you’re not sure if it’s shock or because they don’t care, but Chanhee is genuinely the only one moving at first.

You can feel the way it hurts your skin, but it all happens so fast that the pain barely registers with the way the back fabric of your dress singes. 

“Are you fucking stupid?” Chanhee, again, but then you feel another force that sends you falling forward and the sound of a fire extinguisher. 

“YOU’RE NOT MEANT TO USE THAT ON A PERSON!”

So many voices, complete panic and you barely register any of it. You feel dazed, nearly unresponsive and it’s likely the shock settling in that just leaves you numb to it. At least the fire seems to be out, given the darkness that had cast over all of you. Your skin feels cold at first, until you feel a heavy blanket over your shoulder and Juyeon crouches in front of you. 

He’s speaking to you, but you really have no idea what he’s saying. Even when he cups your cheeks, it’s completely lost on you. Nothing he says is audible and for just a brief second you wonder if maybe you’d entirely lost your hearing, though you don’t see why you would and you’d heard voices just seconds before. 

You feel him touch your hair and you’re relieved more than anything to know it’s still there at first. The very relief of knowing that makes you want to cry, but you refuse to show any of them that you were scared. 

“She needs a hospital. Turn the boat around,” you hate attention like this. When you’re vulnerable, it’s not what you want. 

“How bad is it…?” 

You sound hoarse, but Juyeon doesn’t get time to answer because Eric intervenes with panicked eyes. He looks so genuinely guilty, like a kicked puppy and you know almost immediately that deep down it was likely a genuine mistake. Though it didn’t really matter as the damage was done either way, “I’m so, so sorry. I’m really sorry.”

You don’t think you forgive him. Even if he looks sorry, you’re more than a little upset, rightfully so, “I can’t believe you’re so fucking stupid. Who’re you trying to impress, anyway?”

It cuts him, you can tell. That childlike energy that had been there before dies the second you speak to him like he means nothing. Eric looks like he could cry and you’re certain you don’t really care but something about his eyes make you feel guilty. And you don’t do well with guilt. 

You force yourself up and away from everyone, pushing past Younghoon harshly because you can see him trying to bite down laughter. You’re near close to slapping him, but you don’t want even more unwanted attention. 

You hide away in the bathroom and no one seems to follow you first, locking the door after yourself  before stripping down to your underwear, discarding your heels and letting your feet rest bare against the tiled interior. Every bit of sound is slowly coming back, and you seem to be returning to your senses as you cast your eyes outside through the small circular window, seeing the distant city and the water break into aggressive ripples of small waves. 

You run your hands through your hair, trying to adjust the mess that it probably was before you realise that certain strands come to an abrupt harsh stop. It feels uneven, shortened and burned and that’s when you first notice the smell that becomes so sharp so suddenly that it overwhelms you. 

You open your palm up to be met with charcoals of black burnt hair that you’d broken trying to brush through it with your fingers and now you’re completely certain that you fucking hate Eric. He’d ruined your appearance, and it’s only confirmed when you look in the mirror and are met with something so ugly, you could break the glass in front of you. 

So you do. You break down and shatter the mirror because what you see disgusts you. A part of what had made you so feminine and pretty was scorched unevenly, in parts up to your shoulder, and it was so ugly and heart wrenching you could’ve thrown up just remembering what it looked like. 

It was so ugly and unattractive and the worst was knowing that everyone else had seen it before you. They had seen it, and said nothing. Juyeon had touched your strands of hair near the root and yet said nothing to indicate that a part of it was missing by the ends of where your hair usually fell.

You can’t take seeing it, and in your slightly intoxicated mind it makes you sink enough that you throw up into the toilet, hating yourself more than you ever had. It would take years to grow back the hair you’d lost, and worst was that you’d have to let go of the length that some strands still held. The ones that went unscathed and were still perfect would be lost just the same. 

It was so embarrassing. 

Your hand was bleeding, shards of broken glass between the knuckles but you made no attempt to get rid of them. You could’ve been dying and it would’ve meant nothing to you. 

A knock on the door snaps you out of your dazed mind but you don’t respond. You hope maybe they’ll go away, but then there’s another knock followed by a third in quick succession, “want a line?”

Chanhee. You laugh at the way he speaks and then you soften because he’s there, standing on the other side and looking for you. So with the little strength you can bother to conjure up, you unlock the door for him. 

“Holy shit,” it’s not you being naked that really surprises him, but rather the utter damaged state this room was in, “your parents are gonna kill you.”

“Fuck, I didn’t even think about that,” you groan, watching your best friend lock the door once more before grabbing a towel and turning on the faucet, the water presumably cold. 

“I hear Juyeon’s pissed,” Chanhee starts, and it manages a smile out of you just briefly as he comes over, “Eric feels horrible, though.”

“He should,” you snarl, watching the way Chanhee grabs a pair of tweezers from his purse, disinfecting it with a wipe before grabbing your hand. 

“Should I book you a hairdresser?”

You know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but you don’t find it funny. You don’t say anything as he starts to remove some of the glass from your skin, carefully and precise as to not cause you more injury. He seems to get the hint, that you’re not in the mood for anything lighthearted, so he stops and falls silent that only you break after a few minutes. 

“I’m ugly, Chanhee.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll get a cute haircut and you’ll be perfect again.”

Even if that were to be true, you’d never be Chanhee. You felt so jealous, the more you thought of it. So much so, that you wanted to hate him. You wanted to tell him how unfair it was, that he didn’t deserve it when you did, but you would never dare to break what made you two so close. You loved him.

“I don’t want a haircut. I want my hair.”

“I know,” but he says it like you should know that it’s not an option. You do know, and it makes you want to die inside. 

Another knock and a voice you make out to be Juyeon’s, so you let Chanhee reach over and unlock the door as a familiar figure leans in with a smirk on his face. Maybe it’s seeing you sat here naked, but you turn your head away to avoid looking at him, “ambulance is here. We’ve docked.”

Chanhee finishes getting one more piece of glass out and helps you up, Juyeon handing you your dress and helping you with your shoes, touching your bare legs so carefully that it makes you feel a little shaky. He smiles, looking up at you with sweet gentle eyes that are so unlike him and once again bring in the idea of a motive to your mind, “your mothers gonna kill you for that glass, by the way.”

Everything else after the boat docked had become a blur. You had some mild burns but your now ruined dress had protected most of the flames before they were put out, so most of the marks were faint angry red shades on your back that would likely fade over time if you kept it well treated and applied an ointment to avoid scarring. You’d been grateful that it hadn’t been worse but the state you were in didn’t quite feel better.

Your hand wasn’t broken, but one of the gashes had been pretty bad unbeknownst to you and it had needed five stitches, everything being wrapped up in a bandage as you were told to rest a couple of days. 

You’d wanted to rest, but the following morning, your mother had other ideas.

“Juyeon tells me you had an accide- my god, what happened to your hair?”

“I burned it off,” came your response, feeling your blanket being ripped away from you, your bare legs being met with the cold air as you tried to adjust your shirt. 

“Why in heaven's name would you ever do that?” God, you could laugh. She clearly didn’t know you, if she ever thought you’d do such a stupid thing intentionally. 

“I’ll get it sorted,” though you’d made no attempt at making an appointment. As long as the outside world didn’t see you, you could be as ugly as you wanted. 

“You, young lady, are headed to class,” she slaps the bottom of your leg before running over to your beloved curtains, tearing them open and letting the offensive light blind you, “you’ve missed far too much already.”

“I’d rather die than go looking like this,” you mutter, earning you another slap to your skin that makes you sit up sharply and glare at her with such discontent, she must know that you hate her. 

“Should’ve made an appointment in the morning then. You can fix it later, but you’re going, now.”

There was no point in arguing. Even with a valid doctor's note, it was pointless. She’d make you go to uni and whatever you said would be entirely without point because it wasn’t valid. It didn’t matter. The best you could do was attempt to look presentable despite your singed hair and then run to your family's go to salon for help right after.

You made sure to wear something revealing. Something hopefully distracting enough so that the hair you’d tied up in a bun, wouldn’t be very noticeable. You actually thought you managed to hide it with fair success, but you had to pull out nearly every trick you knew about a tight ballerina bun to hide most of the damage. The biggest issue was the damaged strands being so short in length sometimes, that they kept falling back out and refusing to lay the way you wanted them to. 

Your mother had already left the house by the time you were ready, in a tight mini skirt and a shirt kept together by string in the middle, showing plenty of skin all the way down to your pierced navel. It was just enough to grab attention away from everything else that needed fixing. 

Getting to class made you realise just how much people talk. As if the vitriol from Juyeon humiliating you with Changmin’s name hadn’t been bad enough, now everyone seemed to know about your burns and the bandage on your hand didn’t help either. You’d overheard someone say that they thought you’d gone off the rails, making you shove your shoulder against theirs so that they fell off balance. 

But that girl hadn’t been the only one to say it. It felt like everyone was looking at you again, like this was high school and your dirty little secrets were all exposed to be mocked and tormented until you well and truly became the off the rails mess that they already claimed for you to be. The looks were horrific, but the fake sympathy in trying to speak to you was worse. 

Though you’d truly wanted to lose it when you overheard the sympathy Eric was getting. How sorry he’d been and how it had been such a horrible accident. How bad he felt, that you’d rejected his apology and been so cruel to him. That you were truly a horrible person. Even if it might’ve been true that Eric felt bad, he had hurt you, and yet no one spared any real empathy for you. No one cared. 

You had one more class for the day but a long gap in between where you’d need to find something to do, and so you settled on the park nearby with a small lunch and a coffee, having a sip before you reached for the tobacco in your bag. 

You still wouldn’t call yourself a smoker, but you could use one now and it was still practice and improvement from the absolute travesty you had rolled before. Besides, you found it peaceful, to sit there and roll a cigarette to then smoke or save for later. 

“It’s getting better,” you look up and see Changmin already with a cigarette between his lips, placing it between his fingers to move it down and away from his mouth as he exhales. He’s dressed warm, in a dark sweater and jeans with a coat over both, his eyes staring at your own as he takes you in, “you want help?”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I didn’t ask if you needed it. I asked if you wanted it,” you were struggling and he could tell. Your hand still hurt from injuring it and it made rolling even more awkward, so eventually you relented and just shoved the bag of tobacco out for him to take. He sighs and sits next to you, turning his body a bit towards you as he discards his own cigarette entirely in favour of starting over. 

“Why’d you waste it?”

“Well, I figured if I offered it to you, you’d refuse it,” he was right, “I’ll roll two.”

Normally you’d be tempted to argue and fight with him using your stuff, but you have no energy and he was kind enough to share with you last time. You watch him, the way his fingers work together to roll the first cigarette, and you can’t say you’re not entranced because you are. The way he does it makes it all seem so easy. 

He seals the first cigarette with his tongue before placing it behind his ear, and you swear for the first time you saw a hint of jewellery, “do you have a piercing?”

“I have more than one,” he gets to work on the next one, looking over at you briefly as you try not to stare too obviously. You’d seen the ones on his ear but the one on his tongue had been new to you. 

“I never noticed.”

“We don’t really talk,” he hands you your cigarette and you nod in thanks, twisting it between your fingers once to inspect it before placing it between your lips. You end up fiddling with your lighter, huffing in frustration each time it refuses to light. The wind worked against you and it seemed low on lighter fluid already, but still you persisted. 

“Here,” his cigarette is lit, and he places the burning side against yours, “just inhale.”

You listen to him and the flames transfer to your cigarette when you do, thanking him again, though you’re not sure why he didn’t just offer you his lighter instead, “I had it.”

“Sure,” you both fall silent again and you must admit it’s getting a little bit annoying to have nothing to really talk about. It seems so pointless, like it holds no real purpose and yet there’s a comfort in just being sat here and clearing your head. 

“What did you do with your hand?”

“You’re telling me you haven’t heard?” you don’t believe it. Changmin might not socialise but he does hear about things. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been so wrapped up in the last one. Or maybe that one only reached him because it directly involved him. 

“Isn’t it better to hear the truth from you?” he surprises you again. You hadn’t really thought of it that way. In your eyes, people were always quick to believe what they were told from others whether or not it was the truth. Especially from those whose words held more weight simply because of who they were. And if someone like Younghoon, who you suspected, was running around telling people you were insane, they were bound to believe it without fact checking his claims at all.

“I broke a mirror,” he laughs, as if it’s amusing to hear about your screw up and you wonder if it would be worth hitting him again. 

“You really are something else, even for a rich person,” you want to know if that surprises him. If he’s as confused by you as you are by him and his strange behaviour. He seems to bite back less in sarcasm today, but he still speaks like he’s unimpressed, unphased by your violent outburst and rather finding it amusing. 

You stare at him for a long time, taking in his side profile up close. The way his glasses frame his face, how his dimples aren’t as deep but still there because he’s trying to bite back his amusement in a smile that you find pretty, even if you won’t say it. He takes another drag of his cigarette, then turns his attention back to you, though it quickly falls from your face to your hair as he gestures to it, “and this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair up.”

“You pay attention to things like that?”

 “Unintentionally, yes.”

“But you don’t notice it’s burnt?”

“Oh, no, I noticed it,” of course he did. He was probably waiting for the opportunity to tug your hairpins out so he could see the disaster that is your hair. It probably didn’t matter, really, if he saw it, but you liked the belief that you could remain beautiful, at least in someone's eyes, regardless of who they were. 

Then again, Changmin might not find you pretty at all. 

“I wasn’t meant to come today but my mother told me to. I haven’t been able to fix it,” you’re not sure why you’re honest, especially to him, but he doesn’t really say anything at first while he continues smoking, “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.”

“Neither do I,” god, what an asshole. He simply couldn’t keep his mouth shut and accept it, “is it true a freshmen burned it off?”

“So you did hear about it?”

“I saw him getting coddled in the hallway. I think a girl brought him flowers,” of course she did. He gets flowers and you get to drop a couple of hundred at the hairdresser to salvage what’s left. You’re not even sure you want to go at all and be faced with the vitriol. 

“I really don’t need our family hairdresser to tell the whole community about my hair being charcoal black because of a drunk night out.” 

“You have a family hairdresser?” it’s like it’s the most absurd thing you’ve said, stranger than your hair being burnt by an open flame, or the fact that you smashed a mirror and your mother dragged you out anyway, or the countless other things, actually, that you’d said and he hadn’t really cared to comment on. 

“You focus on the wrong things.”

“And all you focus on is superficial at best,” you wonder what he considers the worst, “so you’re not going to get it fixed?”

No, you are going to get it fixed. That’s what you want to tell him, that of course you’re going to drag your ass there right after your final lesson is over. That it’ll be perfect again tomorrow and you will be perfect and you can forget all about it. Maybe you can even forgive Eric if you’re feeling extra generous, although you don’t think you will be. 

“I will. I just… have to find another hairdresser. I don’t really know how to do that.”

“Google it?” you grimace, eyeing him strangely yet he looks at you like you have three heads. Like something is seriously wrong with you and you wonder if he’s right or if he just has no concept of the real world.

“I don’t want them to say something.”

“I doubt they care,” Changmin offends you, but he says it nonchalantly and casually as he puts out his cigarette and discards the filtered end, “let me do it.”

“I’d rather die than let you touch me,” it’s a quick answer, snapping back at him with determination because you really would rather sign an early death than let him any closer than he already is just sitting here next to you. 

“But I don’t care about how ridiculous you might look,” so he admits you probably look insane. You know better than to believe that he wouldn’t laugh at you, yet you also wonder if maybe that was better than it being spoken around your closed community and bringing embarrassment to your parents for your drunk failings. They didn’t care what you did if it didn’t affect them, yet this might and therefore it became a bigger problem. 

“Do you even know how to cut hair?”

“How hard can it be?”

“Absolutely not,” you think that’s the end of it, but you hadn’t known Changmin to be so determined with something such as this, for he seems persistent in making a case for himself as he turns to you fully. 

“I think you should think about it.”

“You could make it worse. You have no idea what you’re doing and you hate me too,” he doesn’t disagree with it, though he does seem to think. Perhaps another way of making his case though you really don’t know what could convince you when you had money at your fingertips to even fly halfway across the globe for someone to fix it for you. 

Which, actually, might’ve not been a bad idea. No one would know you abroad.

“I wouldn’t cut it any more than where the strands are burnt.”

“No.”

“Fine, at least let me see it.”

“Absolutely not,” he huffs like a child, watching the clouds pass while the sky dims to a depressing grey, indicating rainfall. You don’t need to be laughed at, especially by someone lesser than you.

“I have to go,” you want to ask him how his date went. You remember it now that he goes to leave. Yet you also know not to ask him. The last thing you wanted was his assumption that you might be interested in him, “you can think about it.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Suit yourself, little doll,” he leaves you alone and you simply stay sat with a frown on your face until the raindrops start falling and you’re forced to go inside. 

They had all been right. You’d lost your mind, completely, because the hairdresser you had found completely destroyed your ends even more and you refused to let yourself be seen by anyone until it was fixed. Like a dog with his tail between his legs, you drove to university without the intent of actually going to class, but rather waited like a stalker for Changmin to appear at some point, because he had to, right?

It took far longer than you’d hoped, because the first time he had appeared, there were far too many people around for you to give in to his suggestion of doing it himself, but turns out paying for it to have it done professionally hadn’t done much of a difference and had been far from worth it. 

The second time he came out, he had his nose in a book and was barely watching where he was going, and you figured it would be the perfect time to step out and talk to him. You’d still dressed up, albeit not as much as you usually might to avoid detection, when you approach him and stand right before him. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his head not moving up to look at you as he keeps walking. You felt ridiculous chasing him, but you grabbed his shoulder and stopped him in his steps, finally looking up to face you, “oh, it’s you.”

“What do you mean, oh?” 

“Exactly what it sounds like. What the fuck happened to your hair?” Changmin asks, seeing that you kept it out but hidden under the hood of your jacket, and he could still see the damaged parts as you’d eventually gotten up mid hair appointment to leave before she could finish and do any worse.

“Someone fucked it up, obviously. Are you stupid?”

“No, but your insults when you want something from me are a poor choice,” you cross your arms, standing straighter to look down on him, heels just tall enough to do so while he adjusts and closes his book, “so, what is it?”

“I… need your help,” fuck, that pains you. It really kicks your ego and confidence to have to ask something of him. Well, not that you had to, but you were refusing the family hairdresser even more now and if Changmin fucked up too, at least his services were free. 

“You want my help?”

“You offered it,” you bite back, but he doesn’t seem pleased. If he was taking his offer back, you felt like he should just say so, but instead he was smiling as he lit a cigarette. 

“That I did,” he was so cocky, it reminded you of Juyeon, “I guess I could give it a try.”

“You said you would.”

“I said I can do it if you’d like me to try.”

“And I’m telling you to.”

“But you should be asking me.”

“Changmin, you think I haven’t been through enough embarrassing shit because of you? You owe me this fucking favour before I break your neck with my heel.”

He stops entirely, eyeing you up and down briefly before he finally settles on your eyes again. It’s a little intimidating to have him stare at you so intently, but you refuse to show discomfort and stand your ground. He fucking owed you this and you knew that he did. He did owe it to you, at the very least for the rumour involving you and Juyeon.

“Okay, sure. But I’m driving.”

He discards his cigarette and holds out his hand for the key, and you really think he’s joking before he gives you another look telling you to hurry up. 

“Are you serious?”

“Think of it as payment,” it’s crazy to you but you ultimately agree. Curse you for not using your driver for one day, but why should you when you weren’t even planning to attend classes. It just left another witness to tell your parents that you had been faltering in the one thing they expected you to do well on. 

“I hate you,” his hands hold the key to your Mercedes and he seems content, and you watch as he steps up inside your car so carelessly that it makes you nearly cry out to tell him off.

When you get in, he leans over and places his bag down by your feet and you note that same cologne that had sat on his hoodie that you took so long ago. A creature of habit, whereas you went through various perfumes depending on the type of outfit you were wearing. 

“Can you be more careful? The interior is custom.”

“Of course it is,” he adjusts the seat and you realise what a bad idea this really was because everything he changes now, you’ll have to change back, but it was too late. He settled and reversed the car far faster than you would’ve liked, barely looking in his rearview mirror to see if he’d hit someone. 

“Do you even know how to drive?”

“It’s an automatic. Even an idiot can drive one. Exhibit A,” he looks at you and you ignore it by looking ahead before he abruptly hits the breaks because someone crosses the parking lot completely unexpectedly, “god, some people just want to die.”

“Do you even have a licence?”

The silence confirms your expected fear and you cannot believe you just put your life in his hands. You wish you could hit the brakes, but he’s turned into the main road and now you’re wondering if you’ve well and truly lost your mind. You can practically hear Chanhee’s voice berating you for the insanity that you’re currently in. 

“Where am I going, by the way?”

“I guess my house,” he sighs, and your hand instinctively falls to the wheel to pull him more to the right to avoid the left lane.

“Yeah, and where is that?”

“Oh, right. I’ll write it in the nav,” he scoffs like it’s absurd, but you’re not really in the mood to give instructions and honestly you didn’t think you’d be very good at it. You knew the way well and your mind would naturally think where to turn without saying it outloud. 

“You’re driving too fast,” at this point you’d fully accepted your potential demise, because making him pull over seemed like an almost worse idea at this point. 

“I thought it was sixty.”

“It’s fifty,” you answer him, and at least he listens and slows down, maybe because being caught meant you’d both be in horrific trouble. 

There’s no music and the silence in such close proximity isn’t exactly your idea of fun, but it’s becoming a little more familiar than you’d like to be like this with Changmin. It wasn’t that you liked him or enjoyed his company, but the way you both sat together without speaking had become a little common, at least enough that you found it to be okay. 

“This cannot be real,” he mumbles, the gates to your community closed before you hand him the keycard. He looks at it like it’s alien, but he opens the window and reaches for the keypad to open the gate, “I actually hate rich people.”

He doesn’t sound genuine, more baffled if anything as he drives in and over to your house. His eyes just widen more as he parks outside the front steps leading to the massive entrance door, but you’re more relieved that you survived driving as a passenger with someone that had no right to even take you anywhere with a car, “I was gonna say park in the garage but I suppose you can leave it.”

“I think I’m good, yeah.” 

You step out with him, taking the key back as soon as he lets it dangle between his fingers for you to take, and you walk in with him and greet one of your cleaners that seems more than a little surprised to see you with someone. Normally you might make an attempt to hide who you were with, but she was nice and didn’t speak often, especially to your parents unless it was work related, so you knew her to not be the type to say something. 

You really hoped, anyway, or you were definitely fucked. 

“Do you have scissors for cutting hair?”

“I think we do somewhere. I’ll ask someone,” though Changmin doesn’t seem to be listening, because his eyes are cast elsewhere and you notice your little ragdoll perched on the railing and looking at him with curious eyes. 

“Oh, look at this little cutie,” he approaches her carefully, holding his hand out gently but she seems more than a little excited, which you find unusual, though maybe she sensed his compliment to stroke her little ego. 

“Thought you didn’t like cats?”

“How can I not when I see this little dear, hmm?” 

She purrs in response, pushing her head up into his palm as he scratches her ear, and you nearly roll your eyes at seeing her unusual affection. She liked Chanhee, sure, but even that had taken some time, but with Changmin she’s practically on his lap within the first minute. 

“Do you have any treats for her?”

“Sure, they’re in my room. Or the kitchen.”

He follows after you, the little lady prancing after him like she’s straight out of the aristocats, elegant in how she moves and so confident in her step. Lady really is a diva.

“They’re on the desk,” you gesture over to the corner and Changmin moves over to find them, but he’s slow and looking around like he’s taking it all in. It leaves you a little vulnerable, only because the way you’ve decorated is a look inside who you are, feminine and expensive, with simple colours and beautiful plants and endless books that are overflowing on your shelf. 

“I didn’t know you read.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re a pain in my ass. Here you go, darling,” he crouches down, holding out a treat for your cat while you open a window. She seems pleased, tapping his hand for more with her little paw and even you admit it’s a cute display of affection from her. 

“I’ll look for the scissors.”

Changmin doesn’t answer, busy being loved by a cat and so you leave them both while on the hunt for some scissors. In the end, you ask one of the cleaners if he’d seen any around while finishing up your parents’ bathroom and to your surprise the search is successful when you go through one of the drawers. 

You pass the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, one for Changmin too because you hadn’t asked and you were not prepared to walk back downstairs again in case he wanted some. That, and you brought a packet of gummy bears, not for you but him, and then came back upstairs to see Changmin still on the floor waving a string with a little tiger on the end that Lady was chasing relentlessly. 

“I found them,” he looks up at you and she takes the opportunity to pounce on the toy, dragging it between her claws as he tries to push against her, “I also have water.”

“Voss?”

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t that overpriced tap water?”

“Tap water tastes like blood. This is citrusy,” you hold it out to him, and he takes it despite his apprehension.

“Put a lemon in it,” he says, before adding, “and why do you know what blood tastes like?”

“Why do you not?”

He gets up while you rummage around your room, moving your chair right in front of your mirror to give you a view of what he’s doing, “I might need wine, on second thought.”

“I’m not going to ruin your hair any more than it already is,” at least he acknowledges the horrific state it was in, but you knew that, “did the hairdresser cut it that weirdly?” 

“I didn’t let her finish. Look at this,” you show him one of the butchered strands and even Changmin looks more than a little shocked that a professional had done such a horrific job.

“I’ll have to cut quite a lot. You realise that, right?”

You did. Of course you knew your once beautiful long hair would be no longer than right by your shoulder and that fucking shattered your heart and confidence, but you could not keep it like this either and magically having longer hair again wasn’t happening without a wig or extensions. 

“I won’t cut before you tell me it’s fine but a lot of it is still burnt up to about… here,” he gestures to your collarbone, though he’s careful not to touch you. Maybe he knows you won’t like it and he’s right, you wouldn’t like it, but you were surprised by his way of keeping boundaries. 

“If you manage to do this well I’ll buy your groceries for a week,” Changmin perks up, like he hadn’t expected it but they were words he was happy to hear. Almost like he needed it. 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” and now your mind wandered again, because he’d insisted he had at least some money and yet he made it sound like he was struggling just to buy some food. Though you try not to dwell on it as you grab your hairbrush to gently get the knots out of your hair.

“I really don’t want you to cut more than you need to.”

“I already told you I won't,” he’s getting frustrated, you can tell, but you want to make sure he gets it. If he didn’t listen to you, it would be so much worse and you’d be absolutely destroyed, and Changmin likely wouldn’t care because it didn’t affect him. 

“Okay, so I have a plan,” he says, and even those words cause you worry but you’re willing to hear him out before you both commit, “I’ll just cut all the long hair that’s left up until slightly above your chest and then I’ll actually be neater and more precise with what’s left to work with that’ll get rid of all the burnt hair.”

Not a terrible plan, actually. It’s not like he’d have to be neat cutting up to a certain point if it wasn’t going to stay. It would be a waste of both your time if he did it that way, “okay, we’ll try that.”

“Do you want any music?” Changmin asks you, your cat jumping up onto the bed to perch herself on the edge and watch the way you both move and speak. You wonder if she can tell you both dislike each other, or if she thinks maybe that’s a friend. It makes you curious to know how cats think, but that was a whole other thought process that you were honestly too sober to consider really having. 

“I can turn some on,” you connect your phone to your speakers, pressing the shuffle button and leaving it on one of the coffee tables you had next to the mirror full of perfumes and some accessories. 

You take a seat and place a towel that you’d gotten around your back and a little towards the front of your body, adjusting your back so it’s straight as Changmin stands behind you. You watch him in the mirror, the way he studies your hair and seems to be contemplating on how to best approach it. It makes you nervous, and once again you’re wondering when you became this insane. 

“Okay, I’ll just start cutting.”

“Okay.”

You both fall silent, though you’re left still staring at him in the way you both reflect before you amongst a few polaroids stuck on your mirror. Your heart picks up when you feel his fingers brush the back of your neck as he takes some of your hair between his fingers, but you push it away and try to focus on something else. Anything else. 

The first strands of hair fall and you feel like crying. You see the way they end up on the floor, how they lay there and you feel terrible. It feels like you’re ripping away a big piece of yourself and you didn’t wish for it to ever happen. 

“I can’t believe Eric did this to me.”

“Wasn’t it an accident?”

“I don’t care,” you snarl, crossing your arms and watching him cut away more and more pieces. For a second you wonder if he’s cut too much but he seems to know how to read your mind because he brings what’s left of it to the front of your body so that you can see its length, most of it the promised length he’d agreed on with you aside from the bit of hair that was already ruined or made shorter before he ever got to it. 

“If it helps, I think short hair might suit you,” might. Not that it would, that it might, and that really doesn’t sit well with you, because what if it doesn’t?

“Short hair isn’t pretty on women,” you tell him, but he looks entirely perplexed at your statement, as if he finds it to be absurd.

“According to who? You?”

“Everyone,” a lot of men, mostly, and some women. Juyeon didn’t like it either, you knew that. He’d told you once when one of your female acquaintances had cut her hair and he looked at her like she’d grown two heads. 

“I think some women look better with short hair,” he tells you but you don’t really buy it. Then again, you don’t really know Changmin’s type, and once again you’re reminded of his date. Maybe you could ask now, right? 

“Did your date have short hair?”

Subtle. You could laugh at yourself, laugh at how pathetic you’d become and how Changmin was often the reason for your downfall. Of course he was, and you cursed yourself for ever agreeing to kick him out of that forsaken party months ago. 

“She did not, no. Unless you consider a little over the shoulder short.”

“I do,” he sighs again and maybe you want to smile because honestly, it is a little funny at this point, how quick he is to be annoyed and how quick you are to be the same, “did it go well?”

“Do you really want to know about my dating life?”

“I’m just trying to make conversation,” you lie, because honestly you were really curious to know. You wanted to know what she looked like, if she was beautiful, more so than you. 

“It was fine. Didn’t really have much chemistry,” he tells you, adjusting his glasses briefly as he dusts off some of your cut hair from your back. 

“You mean like sexually?”

“What? No. I mean in general. Chemistry isn’t just sex,” to you, it was most of it. At least you believed it to be. Good chemistry came from desire and lust, which is why you and Juyeon had worked so great when you were in love. You wanted to answer, maybe even defend yourself where he didn’t know you had to, but instead you kept your mouth shut, “I’m going to cut more now.”

“A lot?”

“I think if I play my cards right, it’ll just about be touching your shoulder,” he answers you and you agree, sighing as you adjust the way you sit again and watch him in the mirror. 

You watched the way he concentrated, how he bit his lower lip and occasionally adjusted his glasses if he leaned forward too much. He seemed so intent on doing well that it calmed you just a little. At least he would try, you assumed, and all you’d have to do in return was get his groceries. 

You were both silent for a long time, simply watching his hands move between strands of hair, trying not to tug too much or break off more hair with what was burnt. The music wasn’t overbearingly loud, and your cat was soft asleep now, sprawled out comfortably in your duvet. It was all very peaceful, strangely so. 

You came to realise even more in such silence that Changmin really was just so pretty. 

“You’re staring at me,” he tells you, not once making eye contact with you and yet he’d caught you. 

“What am I meant to look at?”

“I was only telling you.”

“Does it bother you?”

He stops, meeting your eyes in the mirror and suddenly you look away, “no, I don’t really care.”

You both fall silent again and you watch as he fixes the broken ends and frowns when it doesn’t seem to be going how he wants it to. Seeing him concentrate is a little amusing, because his nose occasionally scrunches and he lets out a little breath of air in annoyance when it just doesn’t work. 

“Did you ruin it?”

“Do you really want the truth?”

“Changmin, what the fuck did you do?” 

He laughs, and it sounds so happy and amused you turn around and hit his arm, making him jump back and hunch over even more to clutch his stomach while he chuckles. You want to know what the hell is so funny when he’s potentially done worse to you, but he doesn’t say a single word. 

“Changmin!”

“It’s nothing. I just find your lack of faith in me hilarious,” your arms cross and some of your hair falls to your face, but to your surprise it seems shockingly neat. 

“I was just going to say that I was right. Short hair suits you,” you heart lurches forward again and you’re stunned on what to say. It’s clear to you that it’s a compliment and maybe an attempt at making you feel far better, but all it manages to do at first is make you feel more vulnerable. He’s the first to see you like this and he’s not turning away from it or insulting you the way you would’ve insulted yourself. He’s kinder to yourself at this moment than you would ever be, and it doesn’t even feel forced. 

You don’t know what to say. 

“You don’t need to say that. We’re not friends,” he looks exasperated, like he’s near given up on ever being kind to you and you hope he truly stops trying. You don’t want to be friends, and while you’ll admit he’s not been as bad as you might’ve initially presumed, you would never want to speak of this after. 

“I think it’s nearly done.”

“Are you sure?” Changmin looks at you through the mirror, his eyes finding yours so quickly it makes you stop and stare back at him with strange interest. 

“Mhmm, where’s your hairbrush?” you hand it to him and he thanks you, brushing through the strands with a gentle touch you’ve never even given yourself. He’s so careful, like he truly doesn’t want to hurt you, and you’re not really sure when that became important to you but it makes you smile, “I think I should change majors.”

You know he’s teasing though his confidence leaves you curious. From what you can see, it isn’t terrible, but you have yet to see the full result and it’s scary to realise that your hair no longer reaches very far. You’re not even sure how the hell you’re going to style it when you have to have it up, or want to. In the end, maybe you would need extensions. 

“Do you have any hair oil?”

“I can’t believe you know what that is,” you get up, intentionally ignoring the mirror to stare back as you move to your bathroom, rummaging through one of the drawers before you find the serum you’re looking for, bringing it over to him, “here.”

He nods, standing in front of you and you don’t make an attempt to move. You let him reach for your hair behind your ear, bringing it forward between his delicate fingers with the oil you’d brought him, bringing it to your short ends and you simply let him. He’s never been this close to you, you don’t think, but it surprises you how it doesn’t make you grimace and want to turn away. Changmin’s in your space, but he isn’t invasive with it either, so very careful with his movements like he’s wondering when you’ll actually shrink away. 

“Done,” okay, fuck, now you’d have to look. It would either make you want to curl in on yourself or you’d be content to deal with it, even if you hated the short hair either way. You were already prepared to not like it, but you turn around and it hits you again. 

“I hate it,” Changmin’s face briefly falls, maybe with worry or just genuine upset because it sounds like an insult towards him. It’s the very first time where your heart sinks because you feel bad for making him believe he’d done something horrific when he’d helped you. He looks so genuinely pained, almost like he’s afraid that you’ll turn violent for what he’d done, and how truly sorry he looks makes you feel awful. 

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, turning back to him so you can avoid the mirror, and you make an effort to look into his dark brown eyes framed by his glasses, the softness in them not going unnoticed by you. The way he looks like he’s ready to walk out with a knife in his back. 

“No, I just… I hate having my hair short,” you attempt, awkwardly reaching for his arm in an attempt to make it better, but it’s awkward for you both and so you remove your touch and look back at him instead, “I think you did great, Changmin.”

“You can be honest.”

“I am. I think it’s really neat,” which was true. He’d cut it precise and straight just along your shoulder and nothing seemed out of place. It was hard to believe he’d never done this before.

“I should get going,” there’s a voice in the back of your mind offering him to stay a little longer, but your mother could be home at any point and you knew very well that she wouldn’t like Changmin at all, even if he’d done you a favour. 

“Wait…” he stops, his jacket just pulled over one of his sleeves as he looks at you, “what about your groceries?”

“Forget it, it’s fine,” he’s upset. Something is on his mind and you want to know what it is. You don’t really believe him to be the type to be so hung up on one of your insults. He’d never been before, and some had been far worse than this, and yet he’d never been so quiet towards you. 

“No, I think I should,” you reach for your purse and while you can tell he wants to leave, he doesn’t walk out. He waits for you to gather your things and then stares at you. 

“I really don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity. You cut my hair,” he looks like he wants to agree with you. Like he knows that he did and yet he doesn’t really want to acknowledge it. 

“Fine.”

It was already late in the evening when you got to the store, not realising how time had slipped away from you both while you were at home. You’d thought Changmin had been quick, but reality had been different and time had simply flown away from you. 

“This place is expensive.”

“Is it?” you shrug, never having thought of it as you step out of the car, waiting for him to follow suit though he hesitates for far longer before he finally comes out of the car, approaching you with apprehension, “does it matter? You’re not paying for it.”

Changmin huffs, nails digging into his knuckles while he stares ahead at the store in front of you. You weren’t ready to admit to him that you hadn’t done groceries in years because it was always done for you, and you were not going to admit that the corner store when you were missing some snacks was as far as shopping for food went for you. 

“I don’t need you to spend money on me.”

“I doubt I’ll notice it’s gone,” he scoffs, clearly unimpressed as he walks with you. You don’t like it, because it feels like he’s looking down at you again, like you’re lesser than him when that has never been the case. You don’t understand the issue or why it should even concern him if you’re spending your allowance on him, but for some reason it does. 

“You realise the problem with that, right?”

“What problem?”

His kind eyes are gone, replaced with the ones you know far better. The eyes that judge you, that see you as frustrating and annoying, the ones that hate you and think you’re unimportant. You hate that gaze, the way he looks at you, and yet it doesn’t go away, nor does it fade in intensity, even while you watch him grab a shopping cart and step inside because you simply refuse to do it yourself.

“What would you like?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he starts, clearly in thought before he adds, “I need cat food.”

It catches you off guard. Changmin feels selfless, in that regard. How his first thought for what he needs isn’t for him at all but rather his pet. It makes you look at him differently, even just for a moment.

“That’s at the back.”

He follows you, completely silent and now it feels awkward again. It’s almost amazing how quickly you both revert back to this. 

“What does he eat?”

“He likes tuna,” he reaches for something, a packaged box of cat food with an assortment of different flavours and you grimace. 

“Is that good for him?”

“It’s all I can afford,” he snaps back, putting it in the cart but you don’t seem pleased. If he had a cat, he should at least put in the effort to feed him well. You’d never understand pet owners who practically fed Mcdonald’s to them in jelly form. 

“I’m paying for it.”

“And I’m not changing his diet for a week or two just because it’s not on my dime,” well, you lost that argument, albeit begrudgingly because you didn’t agree with it. 

“Can I at least choose some treats for him?”

“Do whatever you want, princess,” you freeze up, briefly reminded of Juyeon and his voice and the way he calls you princess. How that’s his thing to do, not Changmin’s, nor anyone else’s. You didn’t want anyone else to call you that, yet you were so frozen in place by surprise that you couldn’t tell him to stop. Instead, you fall silent and pick something out for him that you hope he’ll like, placing it in the cart before you follow Changmin to another aisle. 

You don’t speak to him for a while, and it’s so awkward to watch him find random things, and even worse when he finds something only to put it back because the price makes him do a double take. And each time you make an attempt to offer to get it anyway or tell him it really doesn’t make a difference to you, he gives you a look of such discontent, like he wants you to keep your mouth shut and it surprises even you that you do. 

You were stubborn and weren’t one to back down, and yet you would find it so embarrassing if an argument ensued between you both in public. It was bad enough that you were both together with the potential risk of someone you knew seeing it, but even worse if you brought on that attention through your disagreements when you could’ve avoided it. 

“I think I’m done,” you look down at all the items and frown, wondering how the hell that’s meant to last a week. It makes you think again, if he really could make this last for a while or maybe he just really didn’t want to live off your dime and you’re not so sure what bothered you more. 

“Do you not eat?”

“Coming from you?”

Another insult and it leaves you angry, but you also wonder if he’d noticed. If he had, you wondered how. If he was simply attentive or watching you constantly when you weren’t looking like some creep, “I eat.”

“I’d hope so,” you want this evening to be over. It would be nice to go home and curl up in your bed, to maybe call Chanhee and hear your best friend’s voice, to maybe text Juyeon to get a goodnight that was kind and sweet, to maybe ask Hyunjae if he was planning a party any time soon so that you’d have something new to look forward to and redeem yourself and your reputation. 

“There’s nothing else you want?”

“Nope,” you look down at all he’d chosen again and it just doesn’t sit right with you, but you don’t say anything else. It’s none of your business, how he chooses to consume his meals or what his motive or intentions are in not taking advantage of you buying everything for him, but it feels like an insult to you and your money that he’s not using it properly. 

It also bothers you, how he’d seemed enthused earlier at the prospect of you getting groceries for him, how he’d even laughed while doing your hair and how when he'd smiled it even reached his eyes, only to stand here with him now and see the way his eyes seem lifeless, how his smile has faded and he seems so miserable and over being around you. 

“Fine,” is your answer, cold just like him as you both go to the check out, paying for all his things whilst he packs them up. You’re both so silent, the woman scanning all his items gives you both a look, as if she knows you’re both fighting and can feel the tension between you both. 

You don’t end up spending much at all, far less than you’d expected, and yet when you try to pay, Changmin steps up to you, “I’ll just get it.”

“No, I want to get it,” you push him away from you, but he surprises you in his strength and resistance, barely moving an inch while you try to tap your watch against the card machine. 

“I don’t want you to.”

“I said I would!” you snap and he finally stops fighting you, maybe in his shock because you’ve raised your voice publicly, but you manage to pay and the woman gives him a sympathetic look with kind eyes as if to tell him she’s sorry for your behaviour. 

It’s silent as you both go to the car but you can feel his anger radiate off him. You already know he might snap, the question is what his anger will look like. You’re not afraid of it or Changmin, because while you don’t know him well, you don’t believe he’d hurt you in frustration. But you do wonder what he’ll say, if anything at all. 

You try to ignore him by drowning it all out with music, occasionally glancing over at him though he’s on his phone not paying attention to you. It was like having a random strange man in your car, one that wouldn’t take any time to get to know who he was even with, but you supposed that was better than the alternative. 

“I don’t know your address,” you tell him eventually, realising you were just heading back to your place when you should very likely be going a whole other direction.

“Drop me anywhere. I’ll take the bus.”

“I’m already driving,” he sighs, but he doesn’t fight you either, reaching over to the touch screen in the centre of your car to find the navigational system so that he can type in his address. You knew the area by name, though you’d never done more than pass it by. When you were younger, your parents had insisted on avoiding places such as the one you were now going to, for it was full of criminal activity and rather dangerous at night. At least so they said. 

“Thank you for helping me,” it takes a lot for you to say it, so you hope at the very least he’ll realise how difficult it is for you and to appreciate that you managed to say it anyway. He doesn’t react at first, looking outside into the dark, up at the city lights and the way everything reflects, but eventually he pays attention to you again when the trees get boring and a droplet of rain falls onto the window. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Yeah but… you didn’t laugh at me.”

“There was nothing to laugh at,” he made things difficult. It was hard to speak to him, sometimes moreso, because he just seemed so indifferent when you didn’t want him to be. You also knew him to be different, just sometimes, because you’d had little glimpses of it, and you wondered where they went when he stopped smiling. 

“Juyeon would’ve found it hilarious.”

“I’m not Juyeon,” he interrupts angrily, this time turning his head to look at you properly and it distracts you. You were near certain though you’d gotten no real confirmation that they didn’t like each other at all, and yet his instant protest made it far more evident than you’d presumed it to be. 

“You make him sound like a bad person.”

“If he would’ve laughed at you, then isn’t he?”

No. You want to say no. Juyeon was flawed but not bad. He was always so kind to you, until the moments in which he wasn’t but you knew how to ignore those for the good things you got. But then you wondered why you’d broken up at all if he was what you wanted. It was hurting your head to think about it, to think about Juyeon was always so complicated and painful, yet here you were again wondering if you could ever have him back. 

“He’s not that bad.”

“Right,” you’re not sure why you wanted him to fight with you. To tell you you’re wrong, that Juyeon was fucking terrible and destroyed every little bit of confidence within you so that he could mold it back together into the perceived beauty that he wanted. Until you were created to be only his. 

You’re not sure why you want Changmin to say it, because you know you’ll resist him anyway. 

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t, really. I just don’t get it. I’ll never understand wanting to be hurt by someone you think should love you,” you fall silent first. You want to defend Juyeon but you’re not sure how to do it without sounding pathetic. 

“He does love me,” Changmin doesn’t say anything else. He rolls down your car window and lights a cigarette without even asking if he can though you say nothing about it. Maybe you might normally, but you stop yourself this time because your thoughts are muddled and you’re not sure you can even really think. 

“It’s just here,” he breaks you out of your thoughts and you park just a bit down the road where there’s space, watching him get out of the car but you stay put at first. You feel a little numb, frozen even, though when he opens the trunk of the car, you finally snap out of it and follow after him. 

“You don’t need to help me,” you don’t listen to him, grabbing one of the bags before shutting the back of your car and looking at him expectantly, “you’re not coming inside.”

“Fine.”

You’re a little disappointed. Mostly because your curiosity has grown and you really want to meet his stray cat, but Changmin seems determined to keep you away from the little furball, “next time then.”

He seems as surprised as you by your words, although deep down you think you both know they’re not meant. You likely won’t ever be here again, and so the final steps to the front door of the apartment complex is all you’ll ever get a glimpse of into his life. You wonder how he lives, what it looks like, if it’s neat or cluttered, dark or bright.

You wonder if his interior reveals his interests and hobbies, or if it’s monotone and hard to decipher. You realise you wonder so much in this moment, about Changmin and who he is, what he’s really like away from what you see. But maybe what’s inside is too vulnerable for him to reveal, that he keeps it to himself because it feels safer. 

You wonder even if just for a moment, what it would be like to get to know him beyond you both standing here in the light rain.  

“Well, thank you for the groceries,” you hold the last bag out to him for him to take and he does, leaving you to stand there with no real purpose other than to look at him. 

“Yeah… of course,” you don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve forgotten how to formulate a sentence and it feels suffocating to stand here with him. You really want to leave, though not because you detest Changmin in the way you might sometimes believe, but rather because it feels so strange to just stand there with him, with no real purpose or gain out of it, “goodnight Changmin.”

He nods, reaching for his key rather awkwardly and you’d help if it didn’t mean reaching into the pocket of his jacket. You watch him struggle though he manages eventually, turning only briefly before he ultimately sighs, “I should walk you to the car.”

You want to ask why until you remember what your parents had said. Maybe they were right, that it really was unsafe and Changmin knew it too, “I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t care,” he puts his bags down in the hall right next to the door, letting it fall shut after him as he comes back down the steps to where you stand to begin the short journey back to your car. It’s so awkward between you both, so painfully silent and you think back to the woman at the grocery store again, the way she’d stared at you both. 

“Well, I survived the walk to my car,” you think you see a faint smile on his face, but you don’t want to comment on it in case he notices and lets it fade away again, “goodnight Changmin. For real this time.”

Changmin smiles. He genuinely smiles and his dimples show on his cheeks enough to make you want to mirror a similar upturn of your lips. It’s contagious, and he stands there as you shut the door though let your window down just a little in case he wants to say anything else to you. 

At first, you don’t think he’s going to. You think he’s going to let you leave but when you start the car, he leans his arms against the opened window and looks up at you again, carefully, as if his eyes are searching for something within your own and you wonder if your cheeks look as warm as they suddenly feel. 

“Get home safe, little doll,” you want to answer but you’re left completely stunned by him. The wave of emotions you go through in his company can’t be quite good for you. It makes you feel vulnerable and a little confused and you can do nothing to help it. It’s simply there, every single feeling is right at the surface and you can’t hide it. 

It makes you feel so exposed, enough that your words get caught in your throat and you have to simply drive away, seeing him in your rearview mirror, and you hope he gets inside and off the street if it really is as bad as you’d been told here. 

You don’t mean to do it, but after a few minutes you turn around just to check that he’d gone inside, slowing down when you don’t see him anymore, nor do you see the groceries he’d placed down just inside when he’d chosen to walk you back to your car. 

Which meant he was okay, and you could go home. 

You’re at another one of Juyeon’s parties and you’ve had a little too much to drink. You don’t know what time it is, nor are you sure on where you’re even going. It’s disorienting for you to even walk, dizzying in hallways you’re familiar with and yet you can’t make out where you are. Eventually you give up and try to roll a cigarette, but you swear you’re seeing double and can’t even imagine the state you’re in. 

Wondering if you look like a disaster, you try to see if you recognise anyone, though you’re alone aside from a couple making out not too far away from you. It bothers you a little, but you don’t want to bring their attention towards you and instead remain silently sat on the hardwood floor, beautifully dark and expensive. The music is still loud so you figure you must still be close to the main living room but you can’t be sure. 

“Little princess, I’ve been trying to find you,” Juyeon’s worried voice breaks you out of whatever daze you’re in, looking up to see him stand there in his dress shirt that clings tight to his thin waist. He’s beautiful, of course, and you become aware of the state you must look like, now that something so gorgeous is in front of you. 

What is happening to you?

“Am fine,” you mumble, wanting to close your eyes as much as you want to go outside to have a cigarette. 

“You look awful,” you know. He doesn’t need to tell you, and yet when he does it stings deep and makes you wish he hadn’t said anything at all. You wish for just a moment that he’d lie to you and tell you otherwise, in a way that makes you think that the opposite might be true. 

You want Juyeon to tell you that you’re pretty. 

“I know,” he stares at you, silently first before he crouches down to your level. Your eyes meet and his are dark but pretty, a certain glazed spark that makes you want to kiss him, but you don’t. 

“I can take you to my room,” you nod, holding your hand out to him so he can help you to your feet, and you stumble into his chest when gravity decides to not be in your favour, “when did you turn into such a drinker?”

You’re not sure, really, what had made you drink so excessively tonight, but Juyeon knew that you drank and could drink a lot so the question still takes you aback. Does he think you’ve gone off the rails? 

“Am not…” though your lack of coordination and the fact that you feel increasingly ill from being intoxicated seems to suggest otherwise. Remembering how much you’ve had would be impossible to decipher so you wouldn’t even attempt it. 

“Here… you should shower first.”

“Don’t wanna…” as if you’d trust yourself to even stand upright in the shower, but Juyeon seems just as persistent as you. 

“I’m not letting you in my bed in this state,” you scoff, thinking it’s unbelievable that his first concern would be his silken bed sheets though simultaneously you know you’d be just the same. No way you’d ever let someone this drunk on your mattress with the chance that they’d be sick. You understood perfectly, and yet it still made you angry. 

“Why’d you care so little about me?”

Juyeon doesn’t say anything first, leading you to the bathroom and you sit against the door, watching him move around without his attention ever going to you. It almost confirms the question, that he’s so indifferent and careless because you’re not worth even worrying about. 

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?”

You’re getting angry and it shows, pushing your body up with all the strength you can possibly find in your body, Juyeon catching you the moment you threaten to fall back to the floor. Even if he caught you, he seems to push your body away from him, like he doesn’t want you any closer and it kills something in you to have him act this way towards you when he’d been so sweet before. 

“Why’re you doing this?”

“You should go home. I’ll get Chanhee,” normally, he would've let you stay. Juyeon would let you stay in his bed and the fact that he isn’t even offering it makes your heart sink deep, a heavy weighted feeling in your chest that’s just equally as hollow. Your heart is breaking and he doesn’t seem to care at all, nor does he seem to care for the consequences. 

You stand completely alone, looking around the bathroom before you get a burst of energy that has you looking for any remnants of cocaine in any of his drawers. Juyeon hid it well, just in case the cleaners rummaged more than he’d requested, because he did not need anything to get back to his parents in regards to some of his more worrying behaviour. Unfortunately, you come up entirely empty and the door opens to you surrounded by a mess of his things. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Juyeon is so angry, you truly want to fear him with how he looks at you, but Chanhee and Hyunjae both stand there too, with Hyunjae even moving to block Juyeon’s body from you. You’re not sure why he does it, but to know he seems more concerned for you than the man you loved brought a new pain to your chest that really made you want to cry. He was so careless and it hurt. 

“I’ll just take her home- don’t,” Chanhee glares at Juyeon when he makes an attempt to move towards you, and you’re grateful for your best friend when he helps you back up, albeit you have no way of really focusing in on him, your vision blurry and tired. 

“Did she take anything?” Hyunjae. You think it’s Hyunjae, his voice soft and gentle, sounding entirely sober and you wonder if he’d had anything to drink at all. Usually he did, a bottle always famously in hand yet he seemed so okay now, you couldn’t imagine it. 

“Don’t know,” cold. His voice sounds so cold and careless, it’s the only thing you can focus on. You can’t pay attention to Chanhee holding your body up or the fact that Hyunjae is right in front of you. You don’t even notice.

“It’s like she’s been drugged,” Chanhee. It’s Chanhee, and he sounds more angry than Juyeon, though for an entirely different reason. He’s concerned for you, but in a tone you’re not familiar with. 

“Just get her out then.”

“She’s about to pass out, Juyeon.”

“I don’t care, Chanhee.”

Your vision is spotted and you start to think that maybe Hyunjae’s question has merit. You’d had plenty to drink but in your mind it hadn’t been enough to act like this. Yet you were so out of it, so unaware and so ready to sink back to the floor where your heart already lay in pieces. 

“I’ll carry her. Let’s just go,” you can’t make out the voice anymore. You can barely make anything out as you feel yourself being lifted up onto someone’s back. He’s warm and strong, a cologne you recognise but not familiar enough with for it to belong to Chanhee. If it’s not your best friend and it isn’t Juyeon, it had to have been Hyunjae. 

You hope it’s Hyunjae. He’s the one you’d trust the most after the two other men in the room with you. 

You don’t remember falling asleep nor do you remember waking up, but there’s a sharp cold breeze and wind blowing through your short cut hair, earrings swaying with every step of the man who’s carrying you. 

“Should we take her to the hospital?”

“I think she just needs to sleep,” you think that’s Hyunjae. You hope it is. He’s so comfortable to hold and so warm if that’s the case. 

“I can’t believe Juyeon’s such an ass he can’t even let her crash in his bed.”

“I’m gonna talk to him about that,” the voice closest to you tells your best friend. At least you presume it to be. Eventually you let your eyes reopen, nuzzling deeper against Hyunjae’s shoulder once you confirm it really is him.

“You’re awake,” your best friend looks at you with a concerned gaze that has you wanting to turn away. You don’t like that look of pity and concern for your state. You’d much rather ignore the mess you are in favour of pretending it never happened. 

“Hi pretty,” Hyunjae says, turning his head slightly to look back at you. You have to admit it’s incredibly nice to walk with them like this though you’re not sure why they didn’t just get your driver or one of their own, “we’re nearly at my place”

“Mhmm, why didn’t we uber?”

“Figured you could use the fresh air. It’s not much further,” Hyunjae answers, Chanhee walking in silence with you both. 

“You’re really sweet Hyunjae,” you feel him laugh, the vibrations in his chest reaching you and it makes you smile against him. It’s nice, the way he laughs, the way it reaches deep in his chest and sounds so low and carefree. 

“That I am, darling.”

You make it to Hyunjae’s place not long after and you’re not really sure what happens beyond that. You think you remember Chanhee asking if he could stay in the bathroom with you while you shower, just in case you fall or hurt yourself, and you do remember agreeing and even telling him to leave the door open in case Hyunjae had to come in to help. 

After that, it becomes a little more muddled, though you do get a change of clothes from Hyunjae that swallow you whole because he’d already warned you ahead of time that it was too large for him too, and then you’re curled up in the centre of his bed with both your friends on either side of you. 

You’re turned facing Chanhee, far less space between you and your best friend than you and Hyunjae, though Hyunjae had insisted on keeping a larger distance because he didn’t want you to feel weird about sharing a bed with him. He was right, it was a little weird at first to be in bed with him, but you got used to it quickly because you think he made a joke and you know you laughed and then you must’ve fallen asleep before they followed suit. 

And suddenly you didn’t mind it at all.

You swear you’d been hungover for two days after that cursed party at Juyeon’s house. When you had first woken up in Hyunjae’s bed, you’d still felt drunk, and that drunk feeling turned into being hungover with a throbbing headache and the following day it still persisted. It had persisted but you needed to catch up on a lot of studying, having put it on the back burner long enough that soon your parents would notice and say something, or worse, take your allowance from you. 

So you found yourself back at the library, overdressed to compensate and hide how absolutely shit you felt from the amount you’d had to drink, trying to find somewhere to sit. You decided to sit on a table far in the corner, away from everyone yet still within sight of the main area, opening your laptop up and grabbing one of your many notebooks and one of your textbooks. 

You think an hour goes by when you briefly leave to grab a coffee from the cafe just down the street, coming back with a warm drink and another painkiller down your throat because the headache persisted and you had at least a few more hours to study before you could tell yourself it was enough. 

It hadn’t even been a minute since you’d sat when a shadow of a person stood across from you, completely still first as if debating before he speaks, presumably towards you, “you don’t mind, right?”

You raise your head to see Changmin with a coffee from the same place you’d just been to, his hair wet from rain and his glasses a little slanted, his hoodie too large for his body and covering even his palms to imitate little paws. 

“I guess it’s fine,” he sits diagonally to you, adjusting his glasses and you just stare as he gets his books and a notebook out, full of coloured little tabs and sticky notes. It was colourful, unexpectedly so, and very messy in a way. You wondered how he learned anything like that, but maybe he had a method.

“You got home okay last week?”

It’s a question directed towards you but it takes a minute for you to process it while you were in a daze, blinking out of it and focusing on him properly again, the way his hands rest under his chin, two of his fingers twisting one of his rings. 

“Well, I’m here, right?”

He nods, having some of his coffee before he starts to write something. You think that’s all he’ll say, so you turn back to what you’re doing and try to focus on literally anything but him. He was such an easy distraction, and yet he did nothing to be that. 

“Are you hungover?” Shit.

Were you really that obvious, or was Changmin just that good at guessing? You honestly couldn’t tell, and you weren’t sure what you favoured less. 

“I look like shit, don’t I?” Changmin surprises you when he smiles, not in a way that tells you he agrees but in a way that tells you he’s amused. Like he genuinely finds it funny that that was your conclusion to his question. 

“Is that what I said?” Well, no, you supposed not, but it surely felt like it first when he’d posed the question, “you just look a little out of it.”

You were. God, you were so fucking over everything and you couldn’t fully describe or explain what was happening to you. Something was, but you couldn't control it nor did you control your feelings or outcomes of the situations you put yourself in when you didn’t need to be in them. 

“I am, yeah,” he opens the lid of his coffee, as if trying to reach the foam that normally clings to the lid of the cup like glue. You stare at him again like a bad habit, only realising after a while that neither of you are attempting to argue with the other and maybe you don’t detest him so much. 

Just maybe. 

“Juyeon’s, right? I heard about it,” you look away from him in favour of finding your coffee and having some of it before it gets too cold and bitter to taste. You’re not sure what to answer to that, not more than a nod because it feels weird to know that he wouldn’t even have been invited yet he knows that it happened and that you were there. 

“Yeah,” it sounds weak and you try to clear your throat, coughing instead as a result and turning your eyes back to the words in front of you, the mathematical equations that make you want to die the longer you look at them and the scribbles you’re trying to decipher even though you were the one to put them there. 

“You look confused.”

“I am confused,” you tell him, and he surprises you by getting up and coming over to you, hovering into your personal space before you can ask him what the hell he’s doing. He’s close but never too close, and you hope no one is watching you both or peering in to the fact that you’re being friendly. “I can solve it for you if you want,” now it’s your turn to be amused and laugh, because no way in hell is Changmin able to look at your notes with anything other than a giant question mark over his head, “What? You think I don’t know how to do mathematical analysis?”

“Honestly, no,” you confess, and he looks at you strangely before reaching over for one of his pens. 

“I can do the first one. It’ll help you figure out the second question,” you’re not sure why you agree or why you let him so easily take control of your notebook, but he does and you don’t say anything first, watching the way he writes out the equation. His motions are so fluid, the way his fingers grip the pen with confidence in what he writes. There doesn’t seem to be a single mistake as he writes, like he knows exactly how to get the answer and it amazes you. 

“I didn’t know you were smart,” you’d meant it as a genuine compliment and genuine amazement but it’s clear to you that it sounds quite backhanded, which you suppose mirrors your personality towards him more. He doesn’t flinch, ignoring you entirely before he pushes your notes back to you.

“There you go,” he gets up before you can even say thank you, and it’s the sudden absence of his presence beside you that makes you realise you didn’t mind him in your space at all. You feel like you should, that you did just recently, but his closeness to you had felt like a safe presence, not a familiarity yet and not foreign enough to make you alert to it. 

It was just sort of there. He just sort of existed with you. 

“Thank you,” you’ve never sounded so sincere with him before, not that you had ever wanted to be nor meant it, but even when he’d been kind enough to cut your hair and not fuck it up, even then you hadn’t thanked him the way you did now, even if you’d argue that that gesture was far more important to you than this.

“You really don’t need to thank me. I find it weird,” what a way to ruin it. You roll your eyes and turn back to your work instead, using his method of solving the equation to help you figure out the rest. His handwriting was a little sloppy but you could read it fairly well, though the few times you struggle you still refused to ask him to tell you outright what it meant.

“How’s your cat?”

“You don’t have to make conversation either,” he adds, but it doesn’t sound troubled or annoyed, rather a statement that you don’t have to put in effort where you don’t want to. And then you wonder why you’re putting in any effort at all so suddenly, “he’s fine. How’s yours?”

“She’s fine.” “That’s good,” he never once looks up at you and it’s starting to bother you. Are you that ugly, that he simply didn’t want to see you at all? Was there something about you that was so easy to detest that even someone like Changmin couldn’t find it in himself to be decent and meet your eyes?

It’s like he could sense your thoughts and your bitterness of his refusal to meet your eyes, because suddenly his deep brown ones were staring into your own and you found it almost overwhelming to meet his gaze. His eye contact lingered and he didn’t falter with it, and eventually the way he stared back at you became too intense and you had to look away. 

“You’re terrible with eye contact,” you were, he was right. It wasn’t very comfortable for you, and the longer someone lingered on you, the worse it got unless you were angry and intimidating someone. 

“It’s weird to stare at someone.”

“You stared at me first,” fuck, so he’d noticed it. Of course he had. You knew what it was like, to feel that stare of someone enough so that you tried to find where it was coming from. In this case, Changmin had felt it yet there hadn’t been enough people around to hide that it was you. He knew instantly, because it had been obvious. 

“I daydream.”

“How cute,” it sounds sarcastic coming from his lips. You don’t think he genuinely finds you cute. Honestly, you’d take it as an insult if he did. Cute was for animals, not for a grown woman, and so you were glad to know that for once he was mocking you.

There’s no words said between either of you for a while. You finish your coffee and he finishes his, and after a while he gets up and grabs both empty cups once he’s sure there’s nothing left in yours, “where’re you going?”

“Bin,” he leaves you alone and you’re left staring at him dumbly, watching his figure disappear behind rows of books and shelves. But then he doesn’t come back, and a few minutes turn into a quarter of an hour and you want to start looking for him. His things were still with you, including his phone, and you wonder why or when he became so trusting of you. Surely you could take it all or worse, you could ruin it, and he just had faith that you apparently wouldn’t. 

Eventually he reappears, but you only notice because another cup of coffee is suddenly right in front of your eyes, held by hands you recognise because of the jewellery adorned, and it’s only further confirmed when you look up again to see him standing there. 

“You got me a coffee?”

“Why’re you so surprised?”

Many reasons. You don’t like each other very much. His money was tight, that you knew. Or just the fact that it was the last thing you naturally expected when he’d disappeared for so long.

“How do you know what I drink?”

“Guesswork. It’s skimmed milk, too.”

Even Juyeon messed that up. He’d mess it up nearly every time and you could always taste the difference, you swore it, and yet he’d lie and say he’d gotten it right just enough for you to want to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe it wasn’t him that screwed up.

Surely it was always you. 

“I really don’t want to keep thanking you today.”

“Then just get the next one in a few hours,” you’re rendered a little speechless on the silent assumption that you’d both be here for most of the day, but you suppose he’s being fair and that it’s very likely you’ll be here for a while, still. 

“I guess,” you mumble, bringing the coffee closer to you to warm your fingers. You hold it for a while, fingers laced together before you bring the liquid to your lips to drink. It tastes exactly like you would’ve wanted it to, and briefly it makes your mind wander on how he could’ve known it so well. 

You’re back to sitting in complete silence and after a few hours go by like that, Changmin seems disinterested in his work and instead wanders off before returning with a book to read. It brings amusement to your lips, an upwards smile that you try to hide under your hand because you don’t want him to comment on it. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he ignores it. 

“Well… I suppose it’s my turn,” you mutter, reaching over for his empty cup before taking your own. He looks up at you with warm eyes, adjusting his glasses again and you start to think that it might be a habit given the repetition in which you see him do so. 

“I’ll have a cappuccino.” 

“Do you want it with the chocolate powder?”

“Yeah, just as it comes is fine,” you leave your things aside from your wallet and phone, as well as the two empty to-go cups and make your way out. It’s a strange feeling, running an errand of sorts you suppose for the both of you. And yet studying with Changmin across from you isn’t bad at all. Actually, you find it strangely peaceful, because he doesn’t bother you at all but his presence makes you feel less isolated. 

You like that he doesn’t really make an attempt at a conversation where there isn’t one to be had. 

“Here you go,” he mumbles something similar to a thank you, at least you think, his hand reaching out for you to place his coffee into. You do so, watching as he doesn’t once look up but his fingers dust over your own and it makes your heart jump to your throat because the feeling is foreign and strange but you want to welcome it. 

You don’t like that you do, huffing in frustration at yourself and your stupid mess of emotions that have been scattered ever since that forsaken incident weeks ago. Maybe you’d have to consider therapy at this point, if the mess that was your mind persisted and the results were hangovers spread over multiple days and heart palpitations because someone simply touched you. 

“Thanks,” you nod but he doesn’t seem to notice, so deeply caught up in his work that you think it might be something important, or at least incredibly interesting. He’d put the book he’d found earlier down and held his pen between his lips, fingers running through his now dry hair as he gripped the ends when he seemed frustrated.

Again, you were staring, but it was far too easy to do when he was right there and practically the only source of entertainment for your mind when your work was boring you to death. 

“Struggling?”

“I suppose,” he draws out, pen no longer between his lips so he could answer you. You want to ask him what he’s doing, what exactly he’s even majoring in because you realise you have no idea. Then again, it had never interested you enough to ask and you’re not so sure if you ever will. 

“Biochemistry,” he says outloud, presumably spoken to you. When you don’t answer, he looks up and stares right at you, “that’s what I’m studying.”

Wow, so he really was smart. 

“Willingly?”

“Surprised?”

“Maybe,” the back and forth felt a little like flirting, and yet you knew it wasn’t that. It was a back and forth simply because the conversation never really went deeper. It was quick because there was nothing else to say. 

It’s early in the evening when you decide that you've had enough. Changmin had left a few times for a cigarette, always rolling one at the table with you right there, making lazy conversation before he’d leave for a few minutes and then return. You debated asking if you could come with him just once before you remembered where you were and who you were with, so instead you sat and accepted the nicotine withdrawal. 

“I think I’m done for the day,” he looks up at you briefly before he stretches his limbs, turning his shoulder either direction to warm his muscles and rid them of the tension from being mostly sat all day. 

“That’s fair,” you start to pack up and there’s something in your mind wondering if you’d end up doing this again. You wouldn’t entirely mind it, as annoying as he is, when you simply sit with each other it’s rather nice and easy. It’s when the two of you start to speak to one another that problems arise. It’s when you realise again who he is that the calmness in your veins turns into something else. 

“You’ll take a break at some point, right?” 

“I plan to, doll,” his eyes meet yours again and you’re left staring, unsure what to make of that nickname anymore. It still bothers you and yet you perceive it as a compliment just the same, for if he calls you a doll, surely you’re delicate enough to be one?

“Don’t forget dinner,” he adds when you start to walk away from the table, and it brings you to a halt. Changmin doesn’t look up from his work, although you know that he’s aware that you’ve stopped, that you’re probably frustrated and that you want to tell him to go to hell when you let out a frustrated sigh. He has no right to tell you that, and yet the very fact that he’d brought it up at all with such casual nonchalance yet clear determined voice makes you think he might say it because he’s worried but doesn’t want to push a boundary further than he thinks he needs to. 

He wants to remind you without pressuring you into a corner.

First you think of saying something, to maybe make a comment back but for the longest time you’re left standing there with nothing coming out of your lips. You simply can’t find anything to say. 

“I’ll remember dinner when you forget to smoke,” he looks up from his textbook but you’ve already turned away from him, disappearing behind the shelfs and he’s left staring after you, a little lost before a faint smile falls back to his lips and his dimples become prominent despite just the faintness in which his lips curve. 

You’d never know that he didn’t smoke for the rest of the night, but you did have dinner before you curled up in your bed with a book and your cat sat lazily beside you. 

Changmin was starting to interest you. Not because you liked him but rather because he left you curious and a little stunned because of how strange he was. You were also wondering how or why he always managed to read you so well, it was all guess work and yet it was simply always correct just the same and you had no idea how he did it. Aside from the thought that he might be stalking you but you were always more than certain that he’d claim to have better things to do than follow you. 

You hadn’t studied with Changmin since the hours spent in the library together but you had used the few notes and solutions he gave you the next few days as you revised. It was incredibly helpful, annoyingly so and you were beginning to feel a little dumb because why couldn't you have just written this out yourself? It wasn’t difficult now that you saw the answer.

Sunday night comes around and you’re lazily hanging around in bed listening to the rain outside. You’re so bored, but there was no party to attend and nothing else to really do. Chanhee said he was too busy and you weren’t going to ask Hyunjae, even though you had his number. You considered it truly, but ultimately didn’t want to give him the wrong idea of you nor were you sure how that would look if Juyeon found out. 

Juyeon. A thorn in your side that pinched and twisted. He wouldn’t go away and you were conflicted on whether or not you wanted him to. You cared for Juyeon deeply and yet he seemed to prove the opposite in return, that you were worth the minimum if nothing at all. The final bit of evidence wasn’t even too long ago, when he left Hyunjae and Chanhee to carry you home instead of simply letting you stay in his bed to recover. 

It was starting to feel, just a little, like Changmin might be right. Maybe the bad did outweigh the good though you weren’t ready to face the consequences of that being true. You weren’t ready for any of it. You didn’t want it to be true, because if it was you would have to grieve something only you seemed to love and you really didn’t want to be faced with that reality. 

The doorbell rings and it breaks you away. It takes you a minute to realise that you’ll have to be the one to answer, as your parents are out and none of the staff remained given the late hour. You wondered why your parents still didn’t invest their money on a live-in butler, but they insisted he would attempt to steal with all the extra time given to him in which he simply stayed here. 

When you come downstairs you’re already a little annoyed. The ringing persisted and whoever it was was incredibly impatient with you getting there, so you’re already ready to yell at whoever it is but when you finally meet the gaze of who it is, you stop in your step and stare.

Juyeon. 

act iii

this chapter was meant to be longer but tumblr said no so I apologise for the cliffhanger it's not my fault and also apologise that this won't be three acts only pfff

taglist: @sanaxo-o @mosviqu @sunramzi @tbzhubrecs @caratsmatic @synnocence

again, let me know if you wanna be on the taglist 💜 comments are always appreciated

series masterlist || tbz masterlist

©️strayed-quokka, please do not steal, translate, reuse or rewrite as your own

[03230]

BF! Texts with Eric Sohn

Genre/warnings: fluff, reader is sick but still goes to work

Sana: I am back (sort of) hopefully I write something for Halloween. Enjoy. Also a request from my dearest @bella-feed.

POV: you’re sick and he just wants to take care of you

Tagging: @cloverdaisies @mosviqu @kimsohn @bella-feed @a-dream-bookmark @deoboyznet @k-films

[03230]

Drive me crazy | Octoberfest Day 3

Pairing - boyfriend!Eric x fem!reader

Drink - Martini with a side of whiskey (aka Established relationship & Bondage)

Summary - Eric has always been the kind of boyfriend who loves to spoil you, indulging your desires without hesitation. Tonight, he proves once again that he knew exactly how to keep things exciting.

Word Count - 2.7K

Warnings - SMUT (Minors 18+ DNI!!!), use of restraints, orgasm denial, oral (m and f receiving), spanking, fingering, unprotected sex, backshots, daddy kink, creampie, cockwarming, petnames (baby and darling)

Author’s note - Proofread this once help. My first entry for OctoberFest with friends! I had the pic of the bracelets on standby for 2 years and I finally get to use them for a fic hahasdks.

Taglist - @daisyvisions @midnightfantasiez @snowflakewhispers @kitschun @nyu-topia

⇀ OctoberFest Masterlist

Eric’s thoughts were anything but formal.

His gaze drifted more often than it should, not to the grand chandeliers or the sea of glamorous people—but to you. Specifically, the bracelets adorning your wrists. They seemed innocent enough to anyone else, but all that was missing was the chain linking them together.

He remembered the story behind them, the reason you’d been drawn to those delicate chains from Bijoux Indiscrets the first time you saw them. He could practically hear your teasing voice telling him: “They’re more than just accessories, babe.”

You moved closer to him, your arm brushing his. The sultry cut of your dress revealed just enough to send his mind racing, but it was those bracelets, softly jingling with your movements, that truly got under his skin tonight.

You felt his eyes on you, knowing full well you were the cause of his distraction. A coy smile tugged at your lips as you continued to mingle, pretending not to notice the way his fingers twitched, as if he were already imagining slipping them under the satin fabric of your gown.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he leaned down to whisper in your ear, his voice a low rumble. “We need to go.” The words were edged with desire, making your heart skip a beat.

You looked up at him, feigning innocence. “It’s too early to leave...” But the knowing glint in your eyes was pretty clear to Eric what game you were playing.

He didn’t answer. He simply took your hand and guided you toward the elevator. As the doors closed behind you both, the air between you became thick with tension. The moment you were alone, his restraint crumbled. Eric pressed you against the mirrored wall, his hands finding their way to your waist, your bracelets jingling as your arms circled his neck.

“Naughty girl, you did this on purpose,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough with want. “You know what those bracelets do to me.”

A soft laugh escaped you as you nipped playfully at his bottom lip. “I had no idea,” you teased, eyes sparkling with mischief. “They matched the dress.”

He growled softly, gripping your neck in a way that was rough yet with a hint of gentleness. His teeth grazed your skin before he peppered hungry kisses along your sensitive flesh.

When the elevator dinged at your floor, he reluctantly pulled away, his breath ragged. But then he flashed that charming, devilish smile you adored. “I've got something to show you.”

He laced his fingers with yours, leading you down the hallway, until he stopped in front of your hotel suite. With a flourish, he unlocks the door, revealing your hotel suite, except the sight of which left you speechless. The room was now bathed in soft candlelight, rose petals scattered across the plush bed, and a bottle of champagne chilling on ice.

You turned to him, stunned. “Eric…”

He grinned, pulling you into his arms. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

Your heart swelled as you looked around the room, then back at him. “This is…” you break off, overwhelmed with emotion.

“You didn’t think I would forget did you?” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “How could I forget the best day of my life?”

Your eyes shimmered as you smiled up at him. He leaned in, pressing his lips softly to yours.

“Now I feel bad, my outfit is nothing compared to this” you murmured against his lips.

He laughed softly, you nervously fiddled with the collar of his silk shirt. “The outfit was amazing, sweetheart. But you’ll be needing something stronger than these,” he holds your wrists up touching the cool gold accessories.

Before you can say anything further, your boyfriend leads you towards the bed. A box sits waiting for you.

“Go on. Open it” Eric whispers in your ear.

As you unwrap the bow, you uncover a familiar choker that you came across online.

A soft gasp escapes your lips as you run your fingers over the cool metal. You take the choker out of the box, the chains that droop elegantly around the hoops send a ripple of arousal through you.

“You didn’t. This can’t be…” Your voice falters, filled with disbelief and excitement.

“There are bracelets to match” Eric just says behind you.

The words barely have time to settle before you turn, heart racing, and capture his lips in a kiss that is as desperate as it is tender. Your fingers cling to him, pulling him closer, the weight of the choker in your hand forgotten for a moment. His lips respond eagerly, meeting yours with the kind of hunger that says he's been waiting for this.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless. Your chest rises and falls, but it's his eyes that hold you in place, dark and intense, filled with something possessive and unrelenting.

Eric’s hand rises slowly, cradling your face with such tenderness that it sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and you lean into the warmth of his touch. The weight of the choker, the symbolic gesture of ownership, and the thought of him using it on you makes your knees feel weak.

“Tell me….how do you want to start?”

“I want…” You know he was going to give you anything you desired yet there you were, pleading with your eyes “I want to wear them tonight.”

You remove your dress and the bracelets, leaving you bare, save for the lacy thong. Tugging on his shirt collar, you pull him down gently until he’s lying on top of you. His weight is warm and grounding against your body. Your hands rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingers, matching your own racing pulse.

“Claim every part of me, Eric…Until I can’t think of anything else. I trust you.” You spread your arms on either side of the bed, inviting him to cuff your hands with the restraints attached to the bedpost.

His lips curved into a slow smile, but his eyes never left yours, searching, reading every emotion that flickered across your face. “Just tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “I’ll stop the moment you want me to.”

You nodded, heart thudding in your chest, as he took the cuffs from the box. His fingers brush your wrist as he takes your hand, lifting it gently, his touch reverent as if he’s handling something fragile.

The soft clink of metal fills the quiet room as he fastens the first cuff around your wrist, the leather smooth and snug against your skin. The sensation is strange, unfamiliar, but it doesn’t frighten you. Instead, it makes your pulse quicken with a heady mix of trust and desire. You watch him as he moves with deliberate slowness, ensuring that the leather isn’t too tight, that you’re still comfortable.

With the first cuff in place, he stretches your arm carefully toward the bedpost, securing it there. You feel the tension in your body, not from discomfort, but from the raw vulnerability of it. Your breath hitches as he moves to the other wrist, repeating the process, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that contrasts with the tension in the room.

You then sit up a little as Eric gently lifts the choker, bringing it up to your throat. His hands are steady as he clasps it behind your neck, but you feel the tremor of his breath, betraying the desire simmering beneath his calm exterior.

The chains brush your skin, and you gasp softly, your body reacting to the subtle sensation. His fingers linger at your neck, tracing the line of the chain with a deliberate slowness that sends a wave of heat rolling through you, before he twirls the material around his finger.

“Does baby want to be choked?”

“Yes, please” you gasp. Eager to test the choker, Eric tugs on the chain, causing it to tighten around your neck. The sudden pressure catches you off guard, momentarily stealing your breath. Yet, a moan escapes your lips, surprising even you. Your reaction—both the sound and the look on your face—sends Eric's pulse racing. A wicked grin spreads across his face; he was going to relish having you at his mercy.

“Do you think you deserve my cock?” he gets off the bed momentarily to strip down the rest of his clothes, without taking his eyes off of you. Once he pulls his briefs down, the delicious monster cock you love so much slaps against his abs. You gulp at how turned on he was.

He hasn’t even touched you but it was also the way his eyes roamed over the sight of you lying ready for him. God you looked beautiful and perfect to him.

“I want…very much, daddy. I need your cock in my mouth, please” You beg.

Eric crawls over you, until he was straddling you enough that he slowly rubbed his member over your stomach. He kisses your lips, fueled by the hunger that’s been building between you all night, as his hands roam down to grope your breast.

He breaks the kiss, cradling your face once more. You roll out your tongue, licking his palm mischievously. That was it for him to push himself into your mouth. Satisfied groans leave your mouth and his. With Eric, it was the feeling of being inside your warm mouth, while for you it was the need to taste every inch of him like a quiet ache that would never go away. You pride yourself in making Eric feel desired, you love every aspect of his body. You loved his dick so much, and you would give him everything regardless of what position he had you in.

Eric then began to thrust in you, testing your limits by pushing a little further. You didn’t let him down as you lifted your head, trying to take all of him, alternating from sucking him slow, to hard and fast. Eric’s head started to feel heavy, he gripped the headboard rails as he continued to push himself in and out of your mouth. The effect you had on him was slowly pushing him to the edge, but he didn’t want this to end so soon. He pulls out from your mouth and you whine.

“Sorry darling but it’s my turn. I want to taste you now” he leaves a quick kiss on your chest before flipping you over, so you were in an all fours position, with your ass up.

You didn’t realize how wet you’ve gotten the whole time, because once Eric rips your lace panties off of you and presses a soft kiss on your folds, you cry upon hearing the sounds of your soaked core mixed with Eric’s groans. From finally feeling touched from where you needed him most.

“Fuck, sucking me off turned you on this much, huh?” Eric mutters, and all you can do is moan as he goes back to licking and ravishing your sweet pussy. As if it wasn’t enough, Eric slaps your ass, the sting makes you arch your back. You were dripping with so much need that your knees threatened to buckle, but it felt so good that you just pushed your butt into the air. 

“More, daddy please” you whimper, gripping a fistful of the bedsheet.

He slaps your ass once more, it’s harder this time, earning another cry from you. Eric returns to licking your clit while shoving two fingers in your cunt incessantly, the squelching noises turning him on so hard. He needed you like this, he could make you come apart multiple times, but there was something he enjoyed about playing with your pussy so much before entering you.

Once he felt you tighten around his two digits, he knew you were close. He pulls his fingers out of you completely, sucking them as you whine again from the loss of contact.

“You think you’re ready for my cock now?” He asks.

“Y-yes!” you attempt in the daze he put you in. “I’m daddy’s good girl. I’m ready for anything daddy wants!”

With that he smirks, aligning his cock teasingly on your folds and he groans with how wet you are, it’s so much to coat him. Just as he wanted. You whine from the teasing and Eric spanks you to behave.

“Be patient, darling,” he warns.

He enters you with ease, you were soaking so much, honestly both of you could come here and now. Instead Eric holds his breath, pushing in and out of you slowly. He holds you by the waist, pulling you closer to him that your back is against his chest. His breath warm against your neck sends shivers all over you. Your eyes lock, and you can’t help but smile at the expression in his gaze, as he loosens the chain of the choker; adjusting its position so the string of chains is resting on the back of your neck.

“This just like what you imagined, yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and rough. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you of the strength he holds.

You nod at him “Everything and more.”

Eric presses a soft kiss on your forehead, before he presses one hand on your back for you to bend down for him again. He smooths his hand over your back before spanking you once more, all while snapping his cock back in, you could swear his balls slapped against your pussy.

His thrusts start to grow rough and animalistic. You’re practically burying your face into the soft mattress, which muffles your cries. If only you could see how you both looked right now, your mind would go haywire.

“Don’t muffle your sounds now, baby,” he leans, reaching down, sweeping your hair over your shoulder, exposing the nape of your neck. “I want to hear how good I make you feel.”

He pulls on the chain, causing you to arch your back. You felt your heart race, the intensity of the moment leaving you lightheaded with desire. Eric swears he’s heard your cries of pleasure so many times, it’s music to his ears. But the moan you let out just now was something else. It’s beautiful and sexy. All this from the choker clasping tight on your neck, mixed with the feeling of his steady thrusts in your pussy.

All this for him. It drove him so mad with desire his eyes rolled back as he continued rolling his hips, while holding on to the chain.

“Is this too much for my girl?” he grunted.

“No! It's perfect! P-please…don’t stop! Not until I’ve cum hard on your cock” you manage through strained breaths, the choker was squeezing your throat but it was just the right amount that added to your arousal.

Eric fucks his cock relentlessly into you until you’re screaming when your climax shatters you hard. You drop yourself on the mattress, gripping the sheets as Eric continues fucking you through it; your soaked cunt helping him chase his own release. You were so dazed from your climax yet the way he roughly pounded himself into you, your eyes widened as you began to feel a second climax threatening to snap.

You come a second time, and your cries meld with his in an erotic symphony, filling the room.

“Fuck…” his breath ragged, as he leans down pulling you to his embrace. Eric held you close, peppering soft kisses from your neck to your shoulder. His cock still inside you. You could feel the mix of your juices with his spilling a little on the bed, but it didn’t matter. You were high on cloud nine to even care.

“Baby, are you still with me?” he whispers in your ear, while caressing your stomach.

“Fuck me like that again, okay,” you whimpered. Eric chuckles in response. Of course you wanted more, you always did. Even though you were clearly out of strength and needed a break, you’d always ask for more.

“As long as you want, baby, as long as you want” he reassures you.